Chapter Text
His husband noticed something was wrong when they were… You know — when they were engaged in certain adult activities which Shen Qingqiu did not need to spell out for you, you bunch of degenerates.
They were in bed, tangled together, naked as the day they were born. Under normal circumstances, this would not be an issue. They would kiss and cry together, moaning to the moon like worshipers of a new dawn. Except… Shen Qingqiu was not feeling it.
It had been several days since the last time they had done anything reserved exclusively for lovers, and Luo Binghe had already begun to grow restless. Although he didn't say anything outright, Shen Qingqiu could tell. He always could. Binghe would make heart eyes and lick his own lower lip while drooling, like a starving man in front of a banquet, being forbidden to devour. Typical.
Today was no different from ever. Binghe held his waist, kneading it with a possessive hum. There was greed on his breath.
So, like the good shizun he was, Shen Qingqiu was trying to get into the proper mood. He had kissed and was kissed. He moaned and bit. Yet, it was just… difficult.
Of course, Luo Binghe was not one of those crude, troglodyte alphas who believed their spouses were obligated to satisfy them. He would never force, never demand. But. But. As the protagonist’s only wife, wasn’t it Shen Qingqiu’s responsibility to love him properly? Is he loving his Binghe less than he deserved?
That was how it always worked in these kinds of stories, after all. The main character gets one (1) anxious yet doting spouse, and then the plot expects said spouse to fall obediently into bed whenever summoned—genre law, apparently. Someone out there in the comments would probably be arguing about his marital duties right now. And wasn’t there always some debate on the forums about how much "loving devotion" a certified Love Interest was supposed to provide, anyway?
He wanted to. That was the problem. He just… didn’t feel anything.
And it wasn’t even because it was bad.
After a few years of… trial and error, Luo Binghe had finally learned how to love his shizun properly. He kissed like something out of a dream, all soft devotion and quiet hunger, and his hands — well. He handled Shen Qingqiu like a guqin, coaxing out reactions with careful, knowing touches.
Under normal circumstances, Shen Qingqiu would have melted, would have groaned and cried.
Yet — It had been a while since he’d felt any real enthusiasm for it. Don’t misunderstand. Shen Qingqiu loved his Binghe; his warmth, his closeness, the way he held him as if he were something precious and irreplaceable.
He used to like this: being drawn in, held close, losing track of time in the quiet, intimate hours they shared. He still wanted to, he repeated to himself. Because no matter what Luo Binghe did, no matter how gentle, how attentive —
Shen Qingqiu’s body simply refused to respond.
The point was, Luo Binghe noticed. Of course he did. At first, it was subtle; a pause, barely there, in the middle of a kiss that should have deepened instead of faltered. His hands, which had been moving with quiet confidence, stilled just slightly, as if recalibrating.
“Shizun…?” he murmured softly against his lips.
Too soft. Too careful. Shen Qingqiu immediately knew he’d been found out. Damn it. He didn´t even need to finish the phrase; his question was in his eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong,” he answered, far too quickly for an implied inquiry, turning his face just enough to break the rhythm of the moment. A mistake. Luo Binghe followed him instinctively, unwilling to let the distance remain, but slower now. Watching like a hound dog with prey. Shen Qingqiu could feel it, that sharp, perceptive gaze tracing over him, picking apart every missed breath, every lack of response.
He tried to recover. He leaned back in, let Luo Binghe kiss him again, let those familiar hands settle at his waist, his shoulders, or anywhere, everywhere they had always worked before.
This should be enough. It had always been enough. So why — Nothing. No spark. No pull. No warmth is building under his skin. Just the growing, horrible awareness of it. Shen Qingqiu’s fingers tightened in the fabric beneath him. Not now.
Luo Binghe shifted again, even slower this time, searching rather than leading. The kiss softened, turned tentative, as if he was afraid of pushing too far.
“Shizun,” he said again, quieter, something uneasy threading through his voice now, “are you… Uncomfortable with this Binghe?” Uncomfortable? Shen Qingqiu almost laughed. If only it were that simple. “Should we stop? We can live it to another day.”
“This master already had said it’s nothing,” he insisted, sharper than intended. A lie. They both knew it.
And the more Luo Binghe hesitated, the more careful he became, as if Shen Qingqiu might break under his hands, the tighter something twisted in Shen Qingqiu’s chest.
Because this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Because Luo Binghe was doing everything right. Because Shen Qingqiu wanted — and his body was betraying him anyway.
Luo Binghe exhaled softly, the sound almost a sigh, and leaned in closer instead of pulling away. His cock got limp, and they both cringed from the cold wind. “This Binghe has noticed,” he said, voice low, careful in that way that meant he was choosing every word, “that Shizun’s heat is late.”
Ah. So that was the conclusion he’d reached. Shen Qingqiu rolled his eyes, turning his face away as if the matter were beneath discussion. “This master uses suppressants,” he said flatly. “Binghe knows that.”
A pause.
Then, quieter: “…regularly?” Luo Binghe asked with doubt.
Shen Qingqiu stiffened. Of all the questions! “Of course,” he snapped, a fraction too fast. “What kind of irresponsible person do you take me for?”
Another pause. He could feel it; Luo Binghe’s gaze, heavy and searching, lingering on him like he was trying to peel back layers. Shen Qingqiu had no intention of surrendering. Because if the problem wasn’t his heat, and if Luo Binghe kept looking like that, Shen Qingqiu might actually start to panic.
(And nobody liked it when Shen Qingqiu panicked, since he often made stupid decisions — like self-destructing to save a loved one or such.)
Binghe didn’t argue. If anything, he went quieter. “…I see,” he said softly. But he didn’t move away. Instead, his hand came to rest more at Shen Qingqiu’s side; his grip was gentle. It was not restraining or demanding. Just… there. Grounding. After a moment, he spoke again, voice gentle, almost hesitant. “But… even with suppressants,” Luo Binghe murmured, “Shizun’s body shouldn’t react like this.”
Shen Qingqiu’s stomach dropped. “What is that supposed to mean?” he deflected immediately.
Luo Binghe’s thumb shifted slightly, a small, careful motion, like he was testing something he didn’t fully understand. “Shizun isn’t avoiding heat consciously,” he said quietly, clearly searching for a line of logic. “It’s more like… There is no response at all.” Each word landed with uncomfortable precision. Then, he sniffed Shen Qingqiu´s neck. “No fluctuation in scent... I didn´t notice before,” he continued, slower now, as if piecing it together in real time. “No change in pulse. Even just now —”
He stopped at that. That was worse.
Shen Qingqiu’s chest tightened. “Just now what?”
Luo Binghe hesitated, and that hesitation made something cold crawl up Shen Qingqiu’s spine. “…Shizun didn’t react,” he finished softly.
It was not an accusation, and he was not being his dramatic self. And somehow, that was far more damning. Silence stretched between them. Shen Qingqiu could feel it closing in, feel the careful way Luo Binghe was watching him now with real concern. That was unacceptable.
“There’s nothing wrong,” Shen Qingqiu insisted again, sharper this time.
But even to his own ears, it sounded thin. Because Luo Binghe wasn’t wrong. And if suppressants couldn’t explain it — Then what could?
“Shizun has also gained weight,” Luo Binghe murmured. He sounded thoughtful, like he was piecing together a puzzle he didn’t like the shape of. His brows drew together slightly, expression intent. “Lately his head hurts a lot, too. And… Shizun has seemed more anxious lately. Melancholic, maybe.”
Shen Qingqiu scoffed immediately. “That’s not true.”
The denial came too fast. He stopped. …Was it? The thought slipped in before he could block it, unwelcome and sharp. Had he been? He opened his mouth to dismiss it again, to brush it off like everything else, but the words caught somewhere in his throat.
Because — There had been a restlessness he couldn’t explain. A tension sits just under his skin, turning small things irritating, making his thoughts feel heavier than usual. And the past few days…
Shen Qingqiu’s fingers curled slightly at his side. No. That didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t.
“It’s nothing,” he said again, more quietly this time.
Luo Binghe didn’t respond right away. Suddenly, he gasped. “…Maybe Shizun is pregnant,” Luo Binghe hummed. He even smiled a little when he said it. It was soft, pleased, like he’d arrived at a conclusion he didn’t entirely dislike.
Shen Qingqiu stared at him. For a moment, his mind went completely, utterly blank. Then —
“What?” The word came out sharper than intended. He sat in the bed and twisted his body to take the fan, which snapped open in a reflexive attempt to regain some semblance of composure. “On what basis did you arrive at that conclusion?”
Luo Binghe tilted his head slightly, as if the answer were obvious. “The symptoms match,” he said gently. “Weight changes, mood fluctuations… and Shizun’s body has been —” He hesitated, just briefly, gaze flickering with something softer. “— different.”
Different. Shen Qingqiu felt something in his chest drop.
“That is absurd,” he said flatly. “Utterly absurd.”
Even as he said it, his grip on the fan tightened. Pregnant? That was — That was impossible. He´s been drinking that awful tea and counting the moon cycles regularly.
Right?
“…Shizun,” Luo Binghe continued, still calm, still watching him far too closely, “it would explain why suppressants are not working as expected.”
Oh, fuck —
“No, it wouldn’t,” Shen Qingqiu cut in quickly. “Because I am not —”
He stopped.
Because the words wouldn’t come out cleanly. Because, suddenly, with Luo Binghe looking at him like that, Certain small, inconvenient details began to rearrange themselves in his mind. The strange changes. The lack of response. His body was behaving in ways he couldn’t quite explain.
Shen Qingqiu’s expression stiffened. No. Absolutely not.
“That is not what this is,” he said, more to himself than to Luo Binghe.
Luo Binghe’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it grew. Slowly at first, just the faintest curve of his lips, but then wider, brighter, until it was almost blinding in the soft spill of moonlight. His teeth flashed white as he let out a quiet laugh, low and breathless, like he couldn’t quite contain it.
“Shizun…” he murmured, something warm and wonder-struck threading through his voice. He looked absurdly like the happiest man in the world.
Oh no. No, no, no, no. Shen Qingqiu’s entire body went rigid. This is bad. This was very bad. Because Luo Binghe was not the type to casually entertain an idea. If he latched onto something — if he liked an idea — He would nurture it. Encourage it. Build entire futures around it.
Absolutely not.
“Don’t smile like that,” Shen Qingqiu snapped, immediately on edge. “Wipe that expression off your face.”
Unfortunately, Luo Binghe did not. If anything, his gaze softened further, dropping before returning to Shen Qingqiu’s face with unmistakable fondness. He’s already imagining it. He’s already named it. He’s already planning twelve different childhood education paths and which sect techniques the hypothetical child will inherit —
This is how it starts.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe said softly, sticky like he was afraid any sudden movement might disturb something fragile, “if that is the case, then these past few days must have been difficult for you…”
Oh, for the love of —
“I am not pregnant,” Shen Qingqiu said flatly. Too flatly, maybe. Was that too fast? That sounded defensive. Why did that sound defensive? Stop sounding defensive.
Luo Binghe hummed, unconvinced.
Shen Qingqiu’s mind immediately spiraled.
Think. Alright. Logically. Rationally.
Pregnancy.
Step one: conditions required. He paused. …Actually, given the world he lived in, the exact mechanics were already questionable. Ass babies? How the fuck would it come out? He was a man! He could not give birth! No. No, focus.
Step two: symptoms. Weight gain. Mood swings. Hormonal imbalance.
Shen Qingqiu’s grip tightened on his fan. That means nothing. Those were broad. Extremely broad. Entirely nonspecific. Any number of conditions could cause —
Wait.
Mood swings?
He froze.
Have I been moody?
No. Impossible. He was the picture of composure. A model of restraint. …Except for earlier. And yesterday. And —
That is irrelevant.
Weight gain?
That could be explained. Easily explained. He had been… less active recently. Slightly. Marginally. Barely noticeable. … And Binghe´s food was so fucking good. So good that he could not stop himself. It was noticeable, wasn’t it? No. No, that was still within normal variation. Perfectly normal. Completely —
Luo Binghe’s hand hovered near him again, hesitant, almost reverent. “Shizun should rest more,” he said gently. “And avoid unnecessary stress. This Binghe will take care of everything. This way we will stay forever together, like a family. Shizun wouldn't leave his Binghe alone with his child.”
He’s already accepted it. This was a disaster.
“Stop,” Shen Qingqiu said, sharper now. “Stop deciding things on your own.”
“But—”
“I said I’m not pregnant.”
Probably. The thought slipped in, traitorous and immediate. Shen Qingqiu’s eye twitched. No. Absolutely not. That was absurd. Completely absurd.
“No,” Shen Qingqiu said again, with the kind of finality that should have ended the discussion three sentences ago. “I will demonstrate it to you.”
Luo Binghe blinked. “Shizun?”
Before he could respond further, Shen Qingqiu had already pulled himself upright, gathering what remained of his dignity like a tattered cloak.
“Pregnancy,” he began coolly, “has clear indicators. It is not something one simply guesses at based on vague, generalized symptoms.” Good. Strong start. Authoritative. Convincing, he could even be a lawyer like that. He almost believed himself. “Therefore,” Shen Qingqiu continued, snapping his fan open with unnecessary force, “it can be disproven just as easily.”
Luo Binghe’s eyes lit up. Why did his eyes light up? “This disciple will assist—”
“You will do no such thing.”
Shen Qingqiu stood. Immediately, a wave of dizziness hit him strong enough to make the room tilt for half a second before settling again. He froze.
Luo Binghe did not miss it.
“Shizun,” he said softly, getting concerned.
“I am fine,” Shen Qingqiu cut in, far too quickly. He took another step, slower this time, willing his balance to cooperate. “As I was saying — perfectly fine.”
That means nothing.
Dizziness was common. Entirely common. It could be caused by—by— Not eating enough? No, he had not eaten even an hour before. Standing up too fast? He's not that old, was he? Existing?
Yes. Exactly. Completely normal.
He straightened.
“There. You see?” he said, gesturing vaguely, as if not nearly losing his balance had proven something. “A pregnant person would not —”
He stopped. Because that sounded wrong.
“…would not what?” Luo Binghe prompted gently.
Shen Qingqiu’s mind went blank. Think. What did pregnant people not do? Walk? No, they walked. Stand? Obviously they stood.
“This is irrelevant,” he said stiffly. Abort that line of reasoning. New strategy. “Furthermore,” he continued, pivoting with forced confidence, “there are other, more definitive signs.”
Such as—
Such as…
Shen Qingqiu’s thoughts derailed completely.
Because, unfortunately, his knowledge of pregnancy,particularly in a cultivation world with questionable biological rules, was limited at best.
Why did I start this argument.
Behind him, Luo Binghe had gone very still. Which was never a good sign. “…Shizun has been more sensitive lately,” Luo Binghe offered carefully.
Sensitive, as if he were a white lotus blooming in the mud.
Shen Qingqiu’s entire body tensed. “That proves nothing,” he snapped.
Does it? No. No, it did not. That could be explained. Easily explained. Perfectly —
Luo Binghe stepped closer.
“Earlier,” he said, voice softer now, almost hesitant, “Shizun seemed uncomfortable here.” His hand hovered, not touching, but close enough to indicate.
Shen Qingqiu felt his face heat. “That is — irrelevant,” he said, immediately defensive. “That could be attributed to any number of factors.”
Stop talking. Why are you still talking?
“And the changes over the past few days,” Luo Binghe continued, thinking out loud now, “and Shizun’s lack of appetite, and —”
“I have been eating normally,” Shen Qingqiu interrupted.
Pause.
“…You skipped dinner yesterday,” Luo Binghe said gently.
“…I was busy.”
“And this morning.”
“I was not hungry.”
“And—”
“That proves nothing!”
Silence.
Shen Qingqiu’s grip tightened on his fan. This was going poorly. Very poorly. Regain control. “Listen,” he said, forcing calm back into his voice, “even if — hypothetically — those symptoms aligned, there are still fundamental biological—”
He stopped.
Because Luo Binghe was smiling again. Hopeful and bright. Completely, utterly convinced.
“Shizun doesn’t need to explain,” Luo Binghe said gently. “This disciple understands.”
He does not understand. He understands the wrong thing. Completely the wrong thing.
Shen Qingqiu felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Because the more he tried to disprove it—
The more it sounded plausible.
Without wasting any more time, Luo Binghe moved. Shen Qingqiu barely had time to register the shift before everything descended into swift, terrifying efficiency.
Clothes were gathered (his clothes, Shen Qingqiu noted with a jolt of indignation) and then his own, hastily but carefully arranged. Layers straightened, ties secured, all with the kind of practiced ease that suggested Luo Binghe had done this far too many times before.
“Wait,” Shen Qingqiu said. Luo Binghe did not wait. “Binghe,” he tried again, sharper now, “what are you—”
He was lifted. Just... picked up, as if he weighed nothing at all, cradled securely against Luo Binghe’s chest before he could so much as brace himself.
“Put me down,” Shen Qingqiu said immediately.
“This disciple will take Shizun to Qian Cao Peak,” Luo Binghe replied, already moving.
“No, you will not.”
“Yes, I will.”
And then — They were in the air.
Wind rushed past them as Luo Binghe took off without a second thought, robes snapping sharply in the night. Shen Qingqiu’s fan was still in his hand, utterly useless, his dignity trailing somewhere far behind them.
“Luo Binghe —!” he snapped, gripping onto him despite himself as the ground dropped away.
“Shizun should not be exerting himself in this condition,” Luo Binghe said calmly, tightening his hold ever so slightly, as if to emphasize the point.
This condition.
Motherfucker.
“I am not pregnant!” Shen Qingqiu hissed, voice nearly lost to the wind.
Luo Binghe only hummed. “Qian Cao Peak specializes in these matters,” he continued, entirely reasonable in a way that made it impossible to argue against without sounding deranged. “Shizun will be properly examined. If there is nothing wrong, then this disciple will be at ease.”
“If,” Shen Qingqiu repeated, incredulous. “There is nothing wrong? There is nothing wrong!”
Luo Binghe glanced down at him then, expression soft—too soft, too fond, threaded with unmistakable concern.
“Mn,” he said gently. He did not sound convinced.
Shen Qingqiu felt something in his chest tighten.
Because this had gotten completely out of hand. He was being transported, against his will, in the middle of the night, to be medically evaluated for a pregnancy that did not exist.
Because of a theory. A wrong theory.
“…Put me down,” Shen Qingqiu tried again, weaker this time.
“No,” Luo Binghe said, just as gently.
And that was that.
Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes briefly. This is how rumors start. By morning, the entire sect would know. By afternoon, they would be speculating.
By evening —
No.
Absolutely not.
This could still be salvaged. All he had to do was arrive, be examined, and be proven right. Quick and efficient.
Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly.
Yes.
That was all.
…
Then why did a small, unwelcome thread of unease curl tighter in his chest with every passing second?
Shen Qingqiu was getting angrier and angrier as they flew. And just like that... They arrived.
Qian Cao Peak, at this hour, was very much awake.
Lanterns still burned bright across the courtyards, illuminating clusters of exhausted disciples hunched over texts and notes, studying like raccoons rifling through knowledge instead of trash. Healers and physicians moved briskly through the halls, sleeves rolled, voices low but urgent. Somewhere to the side, a Bai Zhan disciple groaned dramatically, sprawled on the floor as he bled onto pristine tiles while two overworked disciples argued about how much blood was “too much blood.”
In short, completely normal.
And then —
Luo Binghe descended.
Every head turned.
And before a single person could even process what they were seeing —
“I AM NOT PREGNANT!”
Shen Qingqiu’s voice rang out across the entire peak.
Loud and furious, echoing throughout all the mess. Instantly, silence fell; even the Bai Zhan disciple stopped moaning.
Shen Qingqiu froze.
…Ah.
He shouldn’t have said that.
Very, very slowly, like a man approaching his own execution, he became aware of every single pair of eyes now fixed on him. On them. On Luo Binghe, standing there calmly, holding him in his arms. On him, disheveled, flustered, and, most damning of all, having just loudly denied a situation no one had even suggested out loud.
The entire peak had gone so quiet it might as well have been a tomb. Shen Qingqiu felt his soul attempt to leave his body.
Luo Binghe, meanwhile, smiled, completely at peace and smug. Which somehow made it worse.
“…Peak Lord Shen?” someone whispered.
“Oh,” another voice murmured, faintly awed, “oh—”
No. No “oh.”
Absolutely no “oh” in italics. This was not the kind of fanfiction, you fucker.
“Put me down,” Shen Qingqiu hissed under his breath.
Luo Binghe did not.
Instead, he began walking forward as if nothing at all were amiss, as if he were not currently carrying his shizun through a corridor full of witnesses who would absolutely never forget this moment for the rest of their lives.
The crowd parted for him in stunned silence.
A teacher off to the side who was mid-lecture not moments ago, pinched the bridge of their nose and sighed deeply before closing their book with a soft thump.
“Class dismissed,” they said, already sounding tired of whatever this situation was.
No one moved. No one dared to move. Because Luo Binghe passed through them like a storm wrapped in silk, smiling faintly, eyes bright with quiet purpose—
—and Shen Qingqiu, trapped in his arms, could only sit there and realize, with mounting horror, that by morning—
Everyone.
Absolutely everyone—
Was going to think he was pregnant.
The hallmaster of Qian Cao Peak was an omega. They were also, unfortunately, for the dignity of the situation, very short, which only made the current scene more absurd, considering Luo Binghe was still holding Shen Qingqiu like he had no intention of ever setting him down again, towering over the poor hallmaster like an overprotective catastrophe.
“Luo-shixiong,” the hallmaster said, voice flat, eyes completely dead. Not even a hint of surprise on their face; not even a flicker. “Would you mind putting Shen-shibo down?”
Luo Binghe hummed softly. Then he smiled. It was a pleasant smile. A gentle smile. A deeply threatening smile.
“No,” he said mildly. “I don’t think I will.”
A pause. The hallmaster did not so much as blink. They simply nodded, as if this response had been entirely expected. “I see.” Another pause. Then, in the exact same tone: “Would you prefer to schedule a meeting with my shizun instead?”
Shen Qingqiu felt his soul leave his body for the second time that night. No. Absolutely not.
Because there were only two options here:
Either he got put down and examined like a normal person, or this escalated further. (Somehow.)
“…Put me down,” Shen Qingqiu said through gritted teeth, very quietly.
Luo Binghe’s hold tightened, almost imperceptibly. “Shizun should not be standing for long periods,” he replied, just as softly.
The hallmaster watched this exchange with the air of someone who had seen far worse and would, inevitably, see worse again. “…Very well,” they said at last, already turning on their heels. “Follow me.”
They didn’t wait. Because of course they didn’t.
Luo Binghe followed immediately, still carrying him. Of course. Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes. This is a nightmare.
The walk to Mu Qingfang’s private clinic was, unfortunately, a long one. Long enough for Shen Qingqiu to notice that the hallmaster’s short legs were working overtime to keep up with Luo Binghe’s unreasonably long strides.
“Luo-shixiong,” they said at last, voice still perfectly flat despite the clear effort, “Shizun is sleeping. Today is not his night shift.” A beat. “This one will have to wake him.”
“Then please do so quickly,” Luo Binghe replied, smiling sharply, all white teeth. “It’s an emergency.”
The hallmaster glanced up at him. Then, slowly, they smirked. “Oh,” they said dryly, “I’m sure it is.”
Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth. Because really, this had gone too far. He needed to correct this immediately, reestablish control, salvage what little dignity remained before this turned into a full sect-wide incident, and then a dull ache bloomed behind his eyes.
He paused. The words stalled. …Since when did his head hurt? The pressure built, subtle at first, then insistent, like something tightening just beneath the surface. Shen Qingqiu frowned slightly, his grip loosening on his fan as the thought slipped, annoyingly out of reach.
“…Tch.”
Instead of speaking, he leaned slightly into Luo Binghe’s chest, exhaling under his breath. Just for a moment, until the discomfort passed.
(It would pass. Of course it would pass.)
He still wanted to complain.
So, in the end, Shen Qingqiu settled for clicking his tongue in irritation and letting out a quiet, indignant “hmph.”
It was, naturally, ignored.
Luo Binghe’s hold did not loosen. If anything, it tightened.
Shen Qingqiu dd not even notice when they arrived at Mu Qingfang’s private clinic. It was tucked behind the main halls of Qian Cao Peak, set slightly apart from the busier wards as if even the architecture understood the need for quiet precision.
The moment the doors slid open, the atmosphere shifted.
It was… orderly. Everything had its place, and everything was in that place.
Shelves of dark wood lined the walls from floor to ceiling, each one filled with neatly arranged drawers labeled in careful, elegant calligraphy; roots, barks, dried flowers, mineral powders. Some were stored in ceramic jars sealed with wax, others in folded paper packets tied with string. The faint, layered scent of herbs lingered in the air: bitter, earthy, sharp, and clean all at once.
A long preparation table stood at the center of the room, its surface spotless despite clear signs of constant use. Mortars and pestles rested nearby, along with fine scales, slender needles, and small porcelain dishes arranged with almost ceremonial care. Nothing was left out of place; nothing was left unattended.
To one side, a low couch draped in pale cloth served as an examination bed, positioned near a lattice window that let in soft moonlight. The light filtered through the carved wood in delicate patterns, casting shifting shadows across the floor.
A folding screen painted with ink-wash landscapes divided the space further in, offering privacy without fully closing anything off. Behind it, more shelves, more instruments.
Even the inkstone and brushes on Mu Qingfang’s desk were aligned perfectly, as though documentation was as much a discipline as healing.
It was the kind of place that suggested its owner believed that if every external detail was managed perfectly, then perhaps the unpredictable nature of the human body could be understood, if not controlled, then at least approached with dignity.
This made Shen Qingqiu’s current situation, being carried inside like a particularly troublesome patient, feel all the more out of place. Luo Binghe stepped in without hesitation, his presence was a disruption in an otherwise carefully balanced space.
Somewhere, distantly, a kettle let out a soft, steady hiss.
“Shizun, why are you awake,” the hallmaster sighed, entirely unsurprised.
From behind the folding screen, there was the soft rustle of fabric, the faint sound of someone setting something aside.
Mu Qingfang stepped out a moment later.
His robes were loosely arranged, hair only half-tied, as though he had indeed been dragged from sleep, but his posture was still straight, his expression composed, the picture of a healer who had long since accepted that rest was a temporary illusion.
He looked at them. At Luo Binghe. At Shen Qingqiu, still very much in Luo Binghe’s arms. At the general situation.
He smiled. It was a wan smile.
“This master was sleeping,” Mu Qingfang said mildly, voice still carrying the softness of interrupted rest, “but he happened to dream of a solution to his current problem.” A pause. Then, just a touch drier: “So, in a way, this is good timing.”
The hallmaster nodded without missing a beat. “Of course.”
Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes. Qian Cao Peak is full of lunatics.
“I see we’re starting the night shift early,” Mu Qingfang sighed, rubbing at his eyes as if he could physically wipe the last traces of sleep away. “Should I ask for a written report, or will the rumors suffice?”
“Have you heard about that?” Shen Qingqiu whispered, utterly mortified.
“Shen-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang replied, not even bothering to lower his voice, “This master possesses functional ears and more than ten active wards in this clinic.” A beat. “I am, unfortunately, aware of how much nonsense you involve yourself in.”
First of all — ouch.
Second, Shen Qingqiu found, to his deep irritation, that he did not currently possess the mental capacity to argue against that statement.
Because it was, in fact, regrettably, true.
This was, after all, exactly the kind of situation he ended up in. Wife-plots. He was trapped in one. Again.
“Now,” Mu Qingfang said, folding his sleeves with unhurried precision, “would someone like to explain why Peak Lord Shen believes he is not pregnant?”
That was it. Shen Qingqiu was done. Finished. Finito. There were battles one could win, and there were battles one wisely chose to abandon. This was the latter.
Strategic retreat, he told himself. Yes. That was what this was. Not cowardice. Absolutely not. With that in mind, Shen Qingqiu took a slow, controlled breath… and then let his body go slack.
Gracefully and convincingly or so he intended.
Unfortunately, he miscalculated one critical factor: Luo Binghe.
“Shizun?” Luo Binghe’s voice sharpened instantly, all warmth vanishing into something tight with alarm.
Ah.
Too fast.
That reaction was too fast.
Before Shen Qingqiu could even commit properly to the act, Luo Binghe had already adjusted his hold, one hand coming up to support the back of his neck, fingers pressing lightly as if checking for something.
His pulse.
Of course he was checking his pulse.
Stop being so competent.
“This disciple knew something was wrong,” Luo Binghe said, voice dropping, darkening, panic threading beneath the control. “Shizun’s condition has been worsening—”
“I am not—” Shen Qingqiu started, then caught himself.
Where! Is! The! Commit!
So, he went limp again. (Fully this time.)
Silence.
Mu Qingfang stepped closer, and there was a brief pause.
“…Shen-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang said mildly, “your breathing just changed on command.” A beat. “And you are frowning.” Another beat. “Also, your hand is still holding your fan.”
Shen Qingqiu froze. Damn it. Slowly, he opened one eye. Mu Qingfang looked down at him, utterly unimpressed. Luo Binghe looked significantly worse.
“Shizun,” he said, voice tight, “please do not frighten this disciple like that.”
Shen Qingqiu closed his eye again. This is a nightmare. “…It was worth a try,” he muttered.
“It was not,” Mu Qingfang replied. Then, he smiled faintly and gestured toward the examination couch. “Luo-shizhi,” he said gently, “please.”
Luo Binghe hesitated for a moment. Then, with visible reluctance, he stepped forward and set Shen Qingqiu down with far more care than strictly necessary, as if the world itself might crack if he misjudged the distance.
The moment Shen Qingqiu was no longer in his arms, the space felt… different. Colder.
The hallmaster gave a short nod, already turning to leave. “This one will handle the mess on the peak,” they said, tone as flat as ever.
No one stopped them. The door slid shut behind them with a soft click. Silence settled.
Mu Qingfang’s smile faded, not completely, but enough. “Shen-shixiong,” he said, stepping closer, sleeves already tied back with practiced ease, “this one will ask a few questions.” His voice was calm and professional; not a trace of earlier humor remained.
Shen Qingqiu felt something tighten in his chest. “…Ask,” he said, forcing his usual composure back into place.
Mu Qingfang nodded once. “When did the symptoms begin?”
Shen Qingqiu hesitated. “…A few weeks ago, this master hadn´t been counting.”
“What symptoms?”
A pause.
Shen Qingqiu opened his mouth, then stopped. Because suddenly, listing them out loud felt… different. Real.
“…Irregular heat,” he said finally. “Or lack of it.”
Mu Qingfang’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Continue.”
“…Lack of response,” Shen Qingqiu added, more quietly. “In that sense...”
Behind him, Luo Binghe went very still.
Mu Qingfang did not react. “Appetite?”
“Inconsistent.”
“Sleep?”
“…Disturbed.”
“Emotional state?”
Shen Qingqiu frowned. “Normal.”
A pause.
Mu Qingfang looked at him.
“…More anxious,” Shen Qingqiu amended stiffly.
“Physical discomfort?”
There it was again; that dull pressure, blooming faintly behind his eyes.
Shen Qingqiu hesitated. “…Headaches,” he admitted. “Sometimes my vision gets dim and confusing.”
Mu Qingfang’s hand stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he continued, tone unchanged. “Frequency?”
“…Increasing.”
Silence stretched, thin and quiet. Mu Qingfang reached out then, fingers light as they brushed Shen Qingqiu’s wrist, checking his pulse with careful, deliberate attention.
The room felt smaller. Quieter. Behind him, Luo Binghe did not speak or move. Shen Qingqiu stared at the ceiling, suddenly very aware of his own breathing, of his heartbeat, of the way Mu Qingfang’s expression had gone no longer indifferent.
“Shen-shixiong,” Mu Qingfang murmured, voice low and steady, “this mu daifu will need you to remove your outer robes. Are you comfortable with Luo Binghe remaining, or would you prefer he step away?”
The words lodged in Shen Qingqiu’s throat like a dry piece of mantou. For a moment, he couldn’t swallow or couldn’t breathe properly. It was like something got stuck in his throat, as if there was a mantou blocking the air.
Something felt wrong, and the edges of his vision dimmed, shadows creeping inward.
He blinked once. Twice, to make sure. The darkness didn’t fully recede. …That hadn’t been happening before.
Or... no.
It had.
Just… not this often and not this long.
Shen Qingqiu’s gaze shifted, unfocused, toward where Luo Binghe stood. He couldn’t quite make him out clearly, but he could hear him; the steady, controlled sound of his breathing, just a little too heavy, just a little too close.
Grounding.
“Will it hurt?” Shen Qingqiu asked quietly. The question slipped out before he could stop it. It sounded... wrong. Small.
Mu Qingfang did not comment on it. “It will not,” he said gently. “Only this one’s hands, and a circulation of qi. Nothing will harm you.” A pause. “You need not be afraid, shixiong.”
Afraid. Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly. He hadn’t thought of it like that. But — His fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of his robes.
“…Mn.”
He drew in a deeper breath, steadying himself, and forced his hands to move, undoing the layers that suddenly felt far heavier than they should. Something was wrong.
And for the first time since this bullshit started, Shen Qingqiu did not argue.
For years, Shen Qingqiu had navigated this world by treating it like a script, dismissing every oddity as a quirk of "genre law" or a mandatory "wife-plot" trope designed to keep the protagonist’s spouse doting and available. He had almost convinced himself that his lethargy and his husband’s newfound domestic fervor were just the opening acts of a cliché pregnancy arc. But as Mu Qingfang’s fingers pressed against his skin with a clinical, heavy stillness, the comforting layer of meta-commentary began to peel away. There was no narrative logic here, only the terrifyingly silent mechanics of a body failing to respond to light and a pressure building behind his eyes that no "plot armor" could protect him from.
Mu Qingfang worked with quiet efficiency. He took Shen Qingqiu’s wrist, fingers resting lightly over his pulse, expression unreadable as he counted; slow, precise, attentive to something far beyond the surface. His qi passed through all his systems, and Mu Qingfan frowned.
“Open your mouth.” Shen Qingqiu complied. “Lift your tongue.” He did. A brief pause. Then Mu Qingfang leaned closer, lifting a small candle and bringing the flame near Shen Qingqiu’s eyes. The light flickered, reflected dimly, too dimly, against his pupils.
“…Look forward.” Shen Qingqiu tried. Mu Qingfang’s hand shifted, thumb pressing gently beneath his eye, pulling the lower lid down just enough to examine. A thoughtful hum. Not good, his brain whispered, that's not a good hum. “You are dehydrated,” Mu Qingfang said at last, as if it was an afterthought, an offhanded comment. “And your pupils are not responding properly to light.”
A pause. Then, more directly: “Are you experiencing loss of vision right now?”
Shen Qingqiu licked his lower lip, the motion slow, distracted. “…Yes,” he admitted. “And headaches.”
“Mn.” Another hum. Mu Qingfang stepped back slightly, already thinking, already moving on. “Perhaps Si Zhu…”
The words were half to himself. From within his sleeve, he drew a fine needle. They were thin as hair, gleaming faintly in the candlelight. And, with careful precision, inserted it at the outer edge of Shen Qingqiu’s brow, far from the eye.
A controlled push. A pause.
“Is it improved?” he asked.
Shen Qingqiu exhaled. “…Not much.”
“Mn.” The needle was removed just as smoothly and put away next to a pile of papers. Mu Qingfang nodded once, as if crossing something off an internal list. “Then it is not the eye.”
Just like that. Hypothesis discarded. He straightened slightly, gaze sharpening in a way that felt decisive. “…Then we consider the brain.” A beat. “Not good,” Mu Qingfang murmured. “Not good at all.”
Silence fell.
Luo Binghe stopped breathing for just a second. Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes.
Well. That was that, then. It had been a good run. Respectable, even.
He had transmigrated, survived a protagonist, maintained his dignity (mostly), avoided catastrophic plotlines (debatable) and now he was going to die because his brain had decided to… what, exactly? Malfunction? Expand? Revolt?
Tragic.
Truly tragic.
It was good knowing you, Binghe, he thought solemnly.
A pity about the whole “pregnancy” misunderstanding. Please do not name any future children after this incident.
Luo Binghe’s voice dropped, quieter now. “Shishu… may I hold Shizun’s hand?”
Mu Qingfang’s expression softened, just slightly. “Yes, shizhi.” He turned back to Shen Qingqiu, tone returning to calm professionalism. “This one will need to examine your chest,” he said. “It may be uncomfortable, but it is necessary.” A brief pause. “Do I have your permission?”
Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly, dragging himself back from the brink of his own very premature funeral. “…Yes, Mu-shidi,” he said, voice steadier than he felt. “Do what you must.”
Luo Binghe’s hand found his immediately. Warm. Their fingers intertwined, and Luo Binghe’s thumb began to move in slow, repetitive strokes across the back of his hand, as if anchoring him in place.
Mu Qingfang stepped closer. Then, did something deeply undignified. Shen Qingqiu’s brain stalled for a full second as Mu Qingfang placed his hand against his chest, fingers pressing and testing with clinical precision.
This was —
This was —
Highly inappropriate.
Except... No one commented. Not even Luo Binghe. Which, frankly, was more alarming than anything else that had happened so far. Luo Binghe didn’t tense or glare or react at all. He just kept holding Shen Qingqiu’s hand, grip tightening slightly.
That was when Shen Qingqiu felt it.
A strange pressure on his nipple. Then warmth. Something unfamiliar, unsettling, and deeply wrong. He stiffened.
“…What—”
Mu Qingfang’s movements grew more deliberate, careful but firm, as if confirming something he had already begun to suspect.
And then... A thin, pale liquid dripped at the surface.
Shen Qingqiu’s breath caught. Luo Binghe inhaled sharply beside him. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Mu Qingfang, however, grimaced. “Ah,” he said quietly. “As I feared.” A pause. “…Milk.”
Silence.
“Milk?” Luo Binghe echoed, voice hushed, almost awed. “Is it because of the pregnancy?” His grip tightened. “But —Shishu mentioned the brain…” he continued, words beginning to rush now, uneven, “is it affecting Shizun’s health? Is it dangerous? If it is —” He swallowed hard. “We can terminate the pregnancy if necessary.”
Mu Qingfang did not answer immediately. And that hesitation was far worse than anything he could have said. “There is no pregnancy,” he said quietly.
The words fell into the room without force.
And yet, they silenced everything.
Luo Binghe stilled. Shen Qingqiu’s breath caught.
Mu Qingfang's gaze remained on Shen Qingqiu, sharp and focused, already moving past the misconception as if it had never mattered. “The symptoms resemble it superficially,” he said, calm and measured, “but they do not withstand examination.”
He lifted his hand slightly, counting them off; not for their benefit, but as if organizing his own thoughts. “Your heat is absent, not suppressed. Your body shows hormonal disruption, but without the corresponding cyclical patterns.”
A pause. “If this were a meridian blockage, the needle would have relieved it.” His fingers stilled briefly. “It did not. “Yet... the flow of qi is blocked behind the eyes and at the crown of the head.”
Silence.
Mu Qingfang’s gaze lingered on Shen Qingqiu’s face, as though weighing something unseen. “Shen-shixiong,” he said, voice quieter now, “when you look forward… do you still see clearly at the edges?”
Shen Qingqiu frowned slightly. “…No.” The answer came slower this time. More uncertain.
Mu Qingfang’s expression did not change, but something in the room did. “The visual disturbance, the headaches, the hormonal imbalance…” he continued, each word precise, deliberate, “these do not originate from the body’s outer systems.”
A beat.
“They originate from within. Something softer on the inside.” Another pause. And then, more plainly: “The brain.”
Luo Binghe’s grip tightened. Shen Qingqiu did not open his eyes; he knew that it would be useless.
Mu Qingfang exhaled softly through his nose. “This one suspects a growth,” he said. “Near a vital point at the base of the brain... one that governs the body’s internal balance. If disrupted, it can cause widespread changes… including those Shen-shixiong is experiencing.” He did not soften the next part. “It is not a benign development to ignore.”
Silence followed.
The last traces of misunderstanding had nowhere left to hide.
With that diagnosis on the air, nobody spoke anymore.
Luo Binghe did not even cry at first. His hand was still wrapped around Shen Qingqiu’s, fingers tight, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“The brain.” The words echoed. Again. And again. Like, they refused to settle into anything understandable. “…No,” Luo Binghe said finally with a quiet breath. Mu Qingfang did not respond. “There must be a mistake,” Luo Binghe continued, a little faster now. “Shizun was fine. Just a few days ago — he was fine.”
His grip tightened further. Shen Qingqiu could feel it now and it was not grounding to him anymore.
“We can make more tests,” Mu Qingfang said calmly. “But the signs do not fail.”
Luo Binghe shook his head once. Twice. Sharp, almost jerky. “No,” he repeated. “No, this… this does not make sense.” His voice was still low, but something inside it had started to fray. “If it were something serious, this Binghe would have noticed,” he said, more urgently now. “Shizun is always with me. I would have—”
He stopped. Because that line of thought led somewhere he did not want to go. Too late. His expression shifted. The denial cracked.
“…I didn’t notice,” he said. Barely audible. The room felt smaller. Luo Binghe’s gaze dropped to their joined hands, like he was seeing them for the first time. “I thought…” he started, then faltered.
Thought it was a pregnancy.
Thought it was normal.
Thought—
His fingers trembled.
“I thought Shizun was just… tired,” he said hoarsely. “Or avoiding me.” A breath hitched. “I thought I did something wrong.”
Shen Qingqiu’s chest tightened.
Luo Binghe laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. “So it was my fault,” he said, almost to himself. “I should have realized sooner. I should have—”
“That is not—” Mu Qingfang began.
But Luo Binghe wasn’t listening anymore. His head snapped up, eyes sharp now, something dark and frantic rising beneath the surface. “How long?” he demanded.
Mu Qingfang met his gaze evenly. “That cannot be determined without—”
“How long has it been there?” Luo Binghe pressed, voice tightening. “Days? Weeks? Longer?”
Silence.
Wrong question. Wrong direction.
Luo Binghe’s breathing grew uneven. “And it is growing,” he continued, words starting to rush, tripping over each other. “It is affecting his vision, his body— if it continues—”
He stopped again. Because he could finish that thought. Too easily. His grip on Shen Qingqiu’s hand became almost painful.
“No,” he said again.
But this time it wasn’t denial. It was refusal. It was anger. Sharp and sudden and directionless.
“Then we remove it,” Luo Binghe said. Certain and violent in its simplicity.
Mu Qingfang’s gaze sharpened slightly. “It is not so simple.”
“It is,” Luo Binghe snapped. The air in the room shifted. Dark qi stirred faintly at the edges, barely contained. “Tell me where it is,” he said, voice low, dangerous now. “I will remove it.”
“Binghe—” Shen Qingqiu started.
“No,” Luo Binghe cut in, turning to him immediately, expression softening and breaking all at once. “Shizun doesn’t need to worry. This disciple will fix it.” His thumb resumed its movement against Shen Qingqiu’s hand, faster now, almost frantic.
“It doesn’t matter what it is. I will fix it.” His voice dropped, terrifyingly steady. “Even if I have to tear it out myself.”
Silence fell again.
Heavy.
Mu Qingfang did not react immediately.
When he spoke, his tone was still calm, but firmer, now. “If you act without understanding, you will harm him. The brain is a delicate organ; you can´t just poke it with your brute strength.”
That landed.
Luo Binghe froze for a second. His expression flickered; rage, fear, helplessness, all fighting for space. “…Then tell me what to do,” he said. “But don’t tell me to do nothing.”
Meanwhile, Shen Qingqiu was also panicking. internally, of course. He wouldn´t be so uncouth as to panic out loud. Because outwardly, he was still Shen Qingqiu: composed, controlled, above the situation.
Inside, however—
Brain. Growth. Not good. Not good at all. Is it a tumor? Oh, god he had a brain tumor. That stuff kills, no? This was not a manageable problem. This was not something he could deflect with a fan and a sarcastic remark. This was —
He stopped.
Because Luo Binghe was getting worse.
Shen Qingqiu could feel it in the way his hand tightened, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing, in the way his voice had shifted; sharp, fraying, on the verge of something far more dangerous than panic.
Ah. Right. This again. Silly Binghe.
Shen Qingqiu inhaled. Then, smacked himself. A sharp, decisive sound in the quiet room.
Luo Binghe froze. Mu Qingfang blinked.
Shen Qingqiu lowered his hand slowly, as if nothing at all had happened. Enough. If this continued, Luo Binghe was going to spiral, and then Mu Qingfang would have two patients instead of one, and that would be even more undignified than the current situation.
Priorities.
“Luo Binghe.” His voice was calm. Shizun Voice™. Just like that. “Look at me.” A pause. Then, softer, but no less firm: “Now.”
Luo Binghe’s gaze snapped to him immediately. Good. Still responsive and anchored.
Shen Qingqiu held that gaze, ignoring the dull throb behind his eyes, ignoring the lingering unease crawling under his skin.
“This is not your fault,” he said. “You did not cause this, and you could not have prevented it.” Luo Binghe’s grip tightened again, like he wanted to argue, but Shen Qingqiu didn’t let him. “Do not interrupt.” There it was: Authority. “We will listen to Mu-shidi,” Shen Qingqiu continued, tone even. “We will understand the situation properly, and then we will decide what to do.”
A beat.
Then, quieter: “Panicking will not help.”
Hypocritical? Yes. Deeply. But that was irrelevant. Because Luo Binghe’s breathing slowed. Shen Qingqiu exhaled, almost imperceptibly. Good enough. (For now.)
In the midst of all emotions, Mu Qingfan clicked his tongue. He seemed to be weighing something carefully before finally exhaling. “It is… treatable, I think,” he said. “But not without risk.”
Luo Binghe stilled. Shen Qingqiu’s fingers tightened slightly against the couch.
“The growth is located near a vital control point,” Mu Qingfang continued, tone even. “Too aggressive an approach may damage it. Too passive, and the condition will worsen.” He glanced briefly at Shen Qingqiu’s eyes. “We do not have the luxury of time.”
Silence stretched.
Then —
“…There is a method that I thought of... not that you´ve said it,” Mu Qingfang said. Luo Binghe’s head snapped up. “It is not one this master would ordinarily suggest,” he added calmly. “But given the circumstances…” His gaze shifted. Settling, pointedly, on Luo Binghe. “…it may be possible.”
Something in the air changed.
“What method?” Luo Binghe asked immediately.
Mu Qingfang turned his head to the side. “Heavenly Demons possess a degree of control over blood and internal flow,” he said. “ If refined further, it may be possible to target the growth directly.” A beat. “To reduce it.”
Silence.
Luo Binghe did not hesitate. “This disciple will do it.”
“Do not be hasty,” Mu Qingfang said, sharper now. That actually stopped him. “For this to succeed, several conditions must be met.”
He raised a hand, counting them off.
“First: control. You will need to practice on living tissue. Animals, at minimum. You must learn to manipulate without destroying.”
Luo Binghe’s jaw tightened. He nodded.
“Second: understanding. You will study the structure of the human head — its pathways, its vulnerabilities. Guesswork will kill him.”
A pause.
“Third: restraint.” Mu Qingfang’s gaze hardened slightly. “You will need patience. Precision. You cannot allow your emotions to guide your hand.”
That one landed.
Hard.
“And finally — time.” A quieter note. “We do not know how long Shen-shixiong has before the condition worsens. His vision is already affected. That alone suggests pressure is increasing.”
Silence fell again.
He did not soften the conclusion. “This is not a guaranteed method.” Another pause. “It is an uncertain one.”
Luo Binghe’s hands curled slightly. Then stilled. “…It will work,” he said, absolute and firm.
Mu Qingfang did not contradict him. Instead, he turned back to Shen Qingqiu. “In the meantime, this master will attempt to stabilize the condition.” He stepped closer, fingers already moving with practiced precision. “There are pressure points that may help regulate the affected system.”
His hand hovered briefly at Shen Qingqiu’s forehead. “Here. Between the brows. A point that calms and influences internal balance.” A light press. “Also along the ear, areas connected to systemic regulation.” His fingers shifted, tracing just behind the curve with careful intent. “And the extremities.”
A glance downward.
“The body reflects itself. Even the smallest points may influence the whole.” He withdrew his hand. “But understand this,” he said quietly. “These methods will not remove the cause.” Only manage it. Only delay. His gaze moved between them.
“From this point forward, every action matters.”
Silence settled.
Heavy as the truth and real as death.
After that, things… happened.
Shen Qingqiu knew they did.
He knew they had discussed plans as if speaking them aloud might make everything manageable. As if they were not standing at the edge of something uncertain, but merely arranging a schedule.
He knew Luo Binghe had agreed too quickly. He knew Mu Qingfang had added conditions, steps, and precautions. Classes were rearranged. Time was carved out. Animals would be used for practice. Texts would be studied. Everything was decided. Everything was moving forward.
Shen Qingqiu knew this.
He knew.
And yet his head felt strange.
Light as if he were drunk. Distant. As though he were slightly removed from himself, watching events unfold from somewhere just out of reach.
He remembered Mu Qingfang pulling him aside. A hand on his shoulder. Firm, trying to ground him in the moment and saying nothing. Just looking at him long enough that Shen Qingqiu had to look away first.
He remembered leaving the peak well after morning had begun: Disciples whispering, laughing, grinning behind their sleeves, saying something about ‘babies’.
Of course.
Shen Qingqiu knew all of this. He knew it clearly. Step by step. And yet, none of it felt entirely real.
It was only later that something pulled him back. Warmth on his back, a caress on his skin. Close to his heart, a solid presence on his soul.
Shen Qingqiu blinked slowly.
Luo Binghe was there, pressed close, arms wrapped around him, firm, as if afraid he might disappear if he loosened his grip.
Ah. Right. They had come back at some point. He must have walked, spoken, and undressed. He must have done all of that.
Shen Qingqiu did not remember. He exhaled quietly, the sound barely there, and let his eyes close again for just a moment, just to steady himself.
Something was wrong, not just with his body. But with the way the world seemed to… slip.
And for once, Shen Qingqiu did not have a clever thought to cover it.
“Shizun,” Luo Binghe murmured against his neck, voice low, unsteady. “This Binghe is afraid.” The words were soft, almost swallowed. As if saying them out loud made them more real.
Shen Qingqiu stilled. For a moment, he said nothing. Because what exactly was he supposed to do with that?
Luo Binghe’s arms tightened slightly around him, not enough to hurt, but enough to make the fear unmistakable. It wasn’t just worry. It was something deeper. Clinging like a sticky disciple, he is.
Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly. “…Of what?” he asked, quieter than before.
A pause.
Luo Binghe did not answer immediately. When he did, his voice was even softer. “That Shizun will be in pain,” he said. “That I will not be fast enough. That —” He stopped. His grip tightened again. “That I will fail.”
Ah. There it was. Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes briefly. “…Binghe,” he said, tone steady, slipping easily into something familiar, something structured. “Look at this, master.”
It took a moment, but Luo Binghe obeyed. He always did. Shen Qingqiu turned slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. Even in the dim light, he could see it; the fear, poorly contained, threatening to spill into something worse.
Troublesome.
“…You will not fail,” Shen Qingqiu said. He was, after all, the protagonist. And the protagonist was infallible. “There is a risky plan, yes. But Mu Qingfang would not propose it carelessly.” He paused. “And you are not incompetent.”
That, at least, was undeniably true.
Luo Binghe’s expression shifted, just slightly, still afraid and tense, but at least listening.
Shen Qingqiu hesitated for the briefest moment, then, awkwardly, lifted a hand and rested it against Luo Binghe’s arm, not quite comforting.
“…Fear is useless if it controls you,” he added, quieter now. “If you insist on being afraid, then be afraid and act correctly anyway.”
A very Shen Qingqiu solution.
Silence settled between them.
Luo Binghe’s grip loosened. “…Yes, Shizun,” he whispered. But he didn’t let go. And Shen Qingqiu did not tell him to.
Luo Binghe did not speak again. Instead, he moved closer. A soft press of lips against Shen Qingqiu’s cheek. Then his shoulder, carefully like he was mending porcelain. Almost reverent. Another at his chin. His temple. His brow.
Light, scattered touches, as if he needed to confirm, again and again, that Shen Qingqiu was still there, still real, still within reach.
Shen Qingqiu stilled, yet he did not pull away. Luo Binghe’s hands trembled slightly where they held him, his breath uneven now, warm against his skin.
Another kiss. At the corner of his eye. At the bridge of his nose. And only then did Shen Qingqiu realize that Luo Binghe was crying silently. The faint hitch in his breath, the subtle tremor he was trying, and failing, to suppress.
Ah.
Shen Qingqiu exhaled slowly, and he did not tell him to stop. “You know I can’t give you what you want,” he murmured. “My body… It’s incapable of doing so.”
Luo Binghe did not respond with words. Instead, he sank his teeth lightly into Shen Qingqiu’s bare skin; more instinct than aggression, more desperate than angry. It was like a dog with a toy, biting and releasing, seeking some physical anchor in the chaos of his own fear.
Shen Qingqiu flinched, but did not push him away. His hand moved to Luo Binghe’s hair, threading through it with a slow, grounding patience.
“Breathe,” he murmured softly. “I’m here.”
Luo Binghe’s hands tightened around him, trembling, as if letting go even for a second might make everything fall apart.
Shen Qingqiu closed his eyes, steadying his own breath, letting the chaos exist between them without trying to fix it.
Luo Binghe's kiss went on and on. He licked and slopped. His cock was hard, yet neither of them was concerned by that, since Shen Qingqiu´s was neither wet nor in the mood. “Shizun.” He murmured with a sniff.
“Hm?”
Luo Binghe’s trembling hands clung to him, his teeth sinking again lightly, just shy of pain, as though the world could only be real if it left marks. Shen Qingqiu exhaled through his nose, letting his body mold to Binghe’s grip.
He bent slightly, pressing his lips to the crown of Luo Binghe’s head. Soft as a feather. A kiss that said I see you without words.
“Shh,” he murmured, trailing another kiss down the curve of Binghe’s jaw, onto his temple. His own voice was gentle, coaxing, almost feminine; an echo of some deeper, hidden self he rarely allowed to emerge. “Breathe. It’s alright.”
Luo Binghe shuddered, silent tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Shen Qingqiu pressed closer, letting his own warmth envelop him. He kissed the tip of his nose, the corner of his mouth, the curve of his shoulder — each touch a quiet reminder: he was here. Present. Safe.
Inside, Shen Qingqiu’s thoughts were a storm. I can’t serve him. I can’t give myself to him. I can’t perform my duty as his Shizun. I’m failing… failing… The words repeated like a mantra, bitter and sharp. Yet he let himself hold him, let himself breathe him in.
“Shh… you don’t have to speak. You don’t have to fight,” he murmured, voice soft, low. Fingers threaded through Binghe’s hair, cradling the back of his head. “This is enough. You being here, being you… That’s enough. My Binghe is strong and smart. My Binghe can fight everything, even this master´s stupid brain.”
Luo Binghe’s grip loosened fractionally, a shaky exhale leaving him. His forehead pressed against Shen Qingqiu’s chest, muffling quiet sobs. Shen Qingqiu’s lips pressed gently to the crown of his head again, humming softly, a sound almost like a lullaby.
Every instinct screamed that he should apologize for his weakness, for his body, for the failures he could not prevent. But instead, he kissed him again, anchoring. He whispered, “I’m here. I’m yours. I won’t let go.”
And in the quiet aftermath of shaking hands and tremulous breaths, the tension in the room softened.
Studiously, Luo Binghe made a sound as his warm lips touched his left nipple. Shen Qingqiu sighed, already knowing where this was going. Well, if he can´t give his body to his husband, then he could give comfort to his disciple. Right?
“Drink it, Binghe,” Shen Qingqiu whispered, “It is yours to take, no?”
That made Luo Binghe sniff again, and so he put his mouth around the areola. They both closed their eyes, too afraid to look at each other. Luo Binghe, of course, started to chew the nipple as if it were his first time drinking milk from a warm body. Well, considering his sad backstory, it might.
“Not like this, Binghe.” Shen Qingqiu laughed in a breathy sound.
“This Binghe doesn't know how to. He is too stupid.”
With a click of a tongue, Shen Qignqiu cradled Luo Binghe's head. “Don´t say it like that. My Binghe only needs a bit of practice.”
After a few failed attempts, Luo Binghe moaned as he finally drank the milk. His cock dribbled on the bed. Those strong hands squeezed the softness of Shen Qingqiu´s body. All the weight he had gained was now evident, mapped by his coveting touch.
“Shizun,” he mumbled with his hot breath into Shen Qingqiu´s skin. Well, what Binghe wanted, he would get; he drank it all until he was drunk and warm. “Mommy... Don´t go... don´t leave me alone in the cold.”
Ah, Shen Qingqiu scoffed inside his mind. It is about time, he thought. He sure took his time to say what he wanted.
Luo Binghe’s grip gradually loosened, but his body still trembled against him. Shen Qingqiu felt every shudder, every heartbeat hammering like it could break apart the fragile calm. He shifted slightly, careful not to startle him, and pressed a soft kiss to the top of Binghe’s head.
“Shh… it’s alright,” he whispered again, almost a mantra. “You’re safe. I’m here. Nothing will hurt you now.”
Binghe didn’t respond immediately. His face buried in Shen Qingqiu’s chest, breath hitching in uneven rhythms. Shen Qingqiu allowed himself a brief exhale, hiding it behind another gentle press of lips to Luo Binghe’s temple. He needed to anchor him, to be steady, to be the one strong enough for both of them, even if he felt anything but.
I’m the wife of this relationship, he thought bitterly, a pang of self-hatred twisting through him. And yet… my body betrays me. My body fails me. I can’t serve him the way he deserves. I’m weak. Pathetic. A Shizun who cannot even perform his duty.
He pressed another kiss to the top of Luo Binghe’s head. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “Let go. Breathe. I won’t let go.”
Binghe shivered, letting a few quiet tears escape, and Shen Qingqiu held him closer, fingers threading into his hair, hand resting against the small of his back, stroking gently. Each movement slow, measured, careful.
“I… I can’t fix it all,” he whispered, barely audible, letting the words spill in confession. “But I will stay. I will… I will be here.”
Luo Binghe’s body softened slightly. Shen Qingqiu pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his forehead, murmuring over and over, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.”
And little by little, the tremors slowed. The tension in his muscles faded just enough for the panic to release, for him to nestle closer and rest. Shen Qingqiu stayed alert, every sense tuned to him, aware that Binghe’s peace was fragile.
He allowed himself a small, bitter thought: I am weak. I am soft. I am failing. And yet… he trusts me. He lets me hold him. Perhaps that is enough.
As Binghe’s breathing evened and his grip relaxed into something calmer, Shen Qingqiu exhaled, pressing a final, lingering kiss to his temple. He rested his own cheek against the crown of Binghe’s head, silently vowing to carry both of their fears until they could face the world again.
Luo Binghe’s grip loosened slightly, though tremors still ran through him. Shen Qingqiu pressed a kiss to the crown of his head, careful, deliberate.
“Shh,” he murmured, voice soft, almost like a lullaby. “You can leave the storm outside for a while. This one is here.”
Binghe didn’t reply, only exhaled shakily into his chest. Shen Qingqiu allowed his fingers to trail along the curve of his shoulder, then down his back, slow and measured. Anchor. Anchor. Anchor, he thought, repeating the word like a mantra.
I am nothing but a cushion for his storm, he reflected quietly, hidden in the folds of thought. A soft pillow pressed to the cheek of some furious wind. He needs strength… and this one is only… cotton, maybe silk. Fragile. Unsure. Likely to crumble if pressed too hard.
He leaned down, brushing a kiss across the temple, then the tip of the nose. “You can rest,” he murmured again, letting the words float between them. “This one will not drift away. Not while you are still trembling.”
Binghe shivered, letting a few tears slip unguarded. Shen Qingqiu pressed a hand to the small of his back, stroking in circles. He could feel every tremor, every silent plea, and quietly folded it into himself. I cannot carry the weight of all the skies he imagines falling on him, he thought. But I can be the quilt he buries himself in, even if I am too thin, too soft to hold much.
He kissed the corner of Binghe’s mouth lightly, then his forehead. “It is… enough, isn’t it?” he whispered. Not enough to fix, not enough to save, not enough to satisfy, only enough to be there, the soft shadow beneath the storm.
Binghe’s fingers relaxed fractionally, the trembling ebbing just enough for him to rest against Shen Qingqiu. Shen Qingqiu allowed himself a small exhale, careful not to disturb him, and pressed his own cheek lightly to the crown of Binghe’s head.
Softness, this one knows, is what binds the world together, he thought, almost like a joke. If I am the softest thing here, then perhaps… it will not all collapse.