Archive of Our Own

It was nothing but fitting, in a way, that the man responsible for their condition, Shen Qingqiu thought, fairly disgruntled with his current predicament, would also be the one to have them tossed into catnip, of all things.

Granted, it could be argued that such a scenario would fall under the cover of the curse they’d already been hit with months ago, so no big deal about it. And yet, as Shen Qingqiu found himself pinned to the ground—quite literally eating dirt—he was certain said objection would be overruled. It wasn’t the mighty protagonist and his fanservice, catgirl wife who were now buried in catnip; but his humble master, and catboy shishu, instead!

Struggling against the mushy, earthy chill of the snow that seeped through his clothes, he willed his body to roll over, displacing Liu Qingge from his back in consequence. The man fell promptly to Shen Qingqiu’s side, landing on his back with a heavy thud, only a grunt to indicate his sentiment in the matter.

Shen Qingqiu winced, terribly sorry for such rough treatment. It’s not like he meant to rid himself of his shidi like that! Any other day, the weight of his body would be well received, a comfort brought forth from the many nights spent in heaps of pillows and blankets; but for a second there, he almost couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand any more stimuli coming for his overloaded senses either.

Where his limbs were like feathers, light and slow in their descent, his bones were just as candles, with melted wax fanning out and settling to dry at his joints, fixing him in place. A nascent sense of euphoria had taken root in his chest, branching throughout the length of his lungs and leaning thorns against their walls.

The frigid breeze of dawn whispered through the swaying grass and diving leaves, adding an ethereal touch to a meadow that was grappling with the aftermath of their tumble. But while there was chaos unfolding around him still, Shen Qingqiu could no longer care, no longer see why he should be bothered by it. How could he, when every ounce of reason had already been set adrift?

It might’ve been hours, it might’ve been seconds before he remembered to breathe; yet each gulp of air, he soon discovered, was nothing short of heavenly. While his heart was set ablaze, stoked by embers that wouldn’t, couldn’t cease to burn, his veins had been seared by scorching flames. Now, they were soothed by the balm of winter wind, a welcomed numbness running along his coursing blood.

Much like flying too close to the sun, but unafraid of melting wings.

Shen Qingqiu allowed himself to fall.

Pulled under crashing waves of bliss, he was no different than a thrown stone and its ripples; intruding upon the quiet and the sea, endless darkness in sight. Letting it unfold, with howling tides giving him nothing to hold, he dropped the fight and had it follow through, going gentle into that good night. To keep him from drowning, it could only be his hand, could only be the circling of his feeble wrist, Liu Qingge’s fingers holding it with such force it was made obvious he wouldn’t let go.

A lover’s touch, meant to pull him ashore.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes searched for him, then, wishing to gaze upon his guardian angel.

He was struck by the rosy blush that sat high on his cheeks, once he did; fetching in its raw, vivid tint. It was intense, fiery, much like a crimson lantern that had cast light on his face. Lovely as it was, though, it certainly couldn’t compare to his eyes and their beauty; for the grey that Shen Qingqiu had long grown to adore had been paired over with an assortment of wide, different shades—all of them gorgeous.

He shifted his weight, needing to face Liu Qingge; to take him in fully.

Blown as they were, his pupils resembled the low end of a prism toy; catching the dimmest of light, mirroring it in turn. At even the faintest of movements, arrays of colour washed over them, breaking down and coming together once more. With each set more alluring than the one before it, how could he not be drawn in?

Fine tendrils of hair draped over the ridge of his nose, having unraveled from his ribbon by the roughness of their landing. As they fanned out over the snow in dark, flowing waves, they made him look even more divine, as if he would be summoned by the heavens any minute now, since he’d fulfilled his mission already. Shen Qingqiu was helpless, utterly charmed by his beauty as he raked his nail along a soft, stray lock, the tip of it a delicate curve that’d set across his mouth. Having followed its trail, his finger then came to rest upon it, ivory skin against stark red lips.

Shen Qingqiu couldn’t say for sure, but there was no doubt in his heart that his own stare was much the same as Liu Qingge’s.

Full of affection, soaked in devotion.

Alight, then, with a passion unwilling to quell, it was almost with a tremor that he tucked the strands behind his ear, fixing on the points of contact that’d arisen between them and their bodies.

It was a well-known path, the one he chased after; a pattern which he always seemed to be taken by.

Starting out from his lobe, his thumb kneaded circles upon the tender skin, inching along the shell and its ridges. Liu Qingge’s eyelids dropped at his touch, falling closer still in contentment with every other stroke that Shen Qingqiu was set on giving.

Doting the same care upon his cat ears—tilted forward and begging for attention—his nails slid across the white fur, lightly scratching at it as he delighted in its vastly softness.

The gesture brought about a torrent of sensations that overran his whole being; becoming amplified, at that, by the subtle vibrations that Liu Qingge’s rumbling purr brought.

What first was a gentle caress, drawing out the most delicate of sighs, soon took on a mind of its own; his fingers ranging over then whatever skin was on display. Shen Qingqiu’s entire body had come alive, shutting down in the ecstasy that came from sharing one’s heart with another.

Every single touch was answered by Liu Qingge, his calloused fingers running along the slope of his nose, his dewy, parted lips, then the arch of his. They finally came to find rest in the warmth of his nape, his thumb settling right on the low dip of his collarbones.

While words had escaped him before, unfit to settle into solid thoughts, he was now unable to utter them; rendered speechless by his hand, pinned to the ground once again not by the weight of his body, but by that of his gaze. Early on, it’d been full of colour, a clear rainbow sustained by the moisture of his eyes; but as of that moment, it had been nearly consumed by darkness, murky with the same gloom of pitch-black clouds.

Though Shen Qingqiu wasn’t yet sure what he wanted from this—the deep-seated need within him ready to take on many shapes—he was certain that there was nowhere else where he’d rather be than here; lost in Liu Qingge’s arms, cradled in the calm before the storm.

•─────⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅─────•

As the first hints of light washed out the fabric of night, dimming the shine of stars both bright and dull, a lone sword sliced through the birth of dawn, its rippling song carried within the southern wind. There was nothing to see but the thickness of clouds, a perfect blanket to tuck in the world at resting hours, its missing patches letting the wildlife below them be known. On such a thin, long blade, stood a pair, their billowing cloaks like feathered tails of two birds that’d joined in flight, facing the currents of the air.

They dived, then, swift as a dropping pin. The sword cut down the clouds, hugged by a mist cool and damp that wouldn’t let them go, only willing to release them when they’d already been soaked through. With droplets of both ice and water clinging to their clothes, they were rendered heavy and cold to the touch; not quite useless, but incredibly uncomfortable to wear instead.

A valley now stretched out in sight, white as silk, embroidered with threads of winter; a stark contrast against the shadowed underbrush of trees that hugged the mountainside. Frozen grass shimmered faintly, each blade catching the vibrant hues that came with morning’s promise—fading violets, forget-me-not blues.

Much like an arrow set loose, they shot straight through the sky, soaring under low-hanging clouds that were bursting with snow. Falling in a clear, steady drizzle, the ice crystals were no different than a needle, truly, each with a slender body and a prickling sharpness.

Even when Shen Qingqiu’s hood was drawn tight, with not a single strand of hair in sight, the hefty fabric did nothing to conceal the flick of his cat ears tucked beneath it. They fluttered in reflex, responding to the whistling cries of the wind; as if trying to catch a sound beyond their strict confinement.

Despite his efforts to shield himself from the weather and its harshness, the biting cold was relentless, snaking under his robes just so. No matter how little of his features were exposed, it still nipped at him, both coiling around his legs and wrists and leaving its mark on his sensitive skin. His tail, hidden by the rich folds of his clothes, twitched irritably, as though it too shared in his discomfort.

Another particularly aggressive gust of wind barreled through, ruffling his cloak and nearly pulling the hood from his head. His ears flicked more insistently now, a visible testament to a budding frustration that could only grow as he tugged the fabric close; albeit the gesture felt more like a battle lost than a victory hard won.

Through and through, it was a terribly unbecoming situation, and Shen Qingqiu was about ready to kick up a fuss if this dragged on any longer. As of now, though, he resolved to tighten his hold on Liu Qingge’s waist, leaning forward until his forehead pressed against the solid expanse of his back. Not without grievances, he let himself draw on whatever warmth he could from his body. Even so, it did little to soothe over his souring mood—or his pride, at that.

“This is all your fault,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the deafening speed at which they were flying at.

As always, his shidi went along with his whim, affording him an over indulgent “What is” in response to his whining. It was a careful choice, Shen Qingqiu knew, since shutting him down with a mindless “yes, dear” sort of answer would’ve only incensed him further.

“This ridiculous idea of dragging me out so early,” he complained still, though it had come with the effort of pulling his frozen lips apart. Words, he decided, were wasted in this miserable cold. "Couldn’t we have waited until it was somewhat warmer?"

“You heard Mu Qingfang,” was Liu Qingge’s only reply, his tone so forthright it felt like a personal affront. “The flower’s qi is richest at dawn.”

Shen Qingqiu huffed, more out of resignation than true irritation. There really wasn’t more to say, was there? Not when Liu Qingge, of all people, had become the voice of reason, patiently dragging him out of his high horse and reminding him that the man had said as much.

His latest project, a variant of the tonic meant to counter the curse that afflicted them all, had been in the making for many weeks, since it strayed from the regular treatment. Leaving the usual brew and assisted circulation aside, this one had been designed to better address the root of the issue, flushing out the specific blockages in their meridians that disrupted the harmony of yin and yang energy; effectively aiding in the flowing of stagnant qi. And so, in hopes of restoring said balance without needing to cultivate with a partner, he’d been working himself to the bone.

It was no surprise, then, when Mu Qingfang had knocked on the Bamboo House seeking their aid; the sun a fading memory in the sky by the time he’d arrived. Unexpected as he’d come, it was with a dressed down set of robes that Shen Qingqiu greeted him, having already withdrawn for the day after attending to his duties. He really couldn’t fault the man for his dedication, honestly, since his bleeding heart may very well be the reason that many in Cang Qiong would be able to cure their ailment—and as such, transform at will—without the need for dual cultivation; but he most certainly could fault his timing.

He’d been nearly naked, for fuck’s sake!

Whatever.

It was no matter if he didn’t get to try out their new, wider bathtub, filled already with the scented oils he favored. Much less the talisman he’d personally requested to be carved on it so the water could be kept nice and warm for however long he wished. Let Liu Qingge, who couldn’t give a damn about such a thing, use it first. See if he cared.

At any rate, he’d treated Mu Qingfang to a cup of tea, the man stepping inside with the easy familiarity of someone who had since stopped standing in ceremony with him. Even when carrying on the pleasantries required of proper manners, they were mercifully brief; with no more than a minute passing before he got straight to the point. Shen Qingqiu couldn’t be more grateful, if not a little awkward still by how their closeness had come to be.

He set his satchel at his side, worn but well-kept, unlacing it full so that he could offer him a series of sketches of the plant that he’d need; though the brush strokes weren’t overly thorough in their details. As it was, the Zeal Windflower, rare and notoriously temperamental, happened to be essential to the refinement of the formula, its leaves possessing the capacity to act as a stimulant of the circulatory system. Raising the deficient amounts of vital energy, it allowed the tonic to bring the body’s cycling qi to a natural alignment without any further interventions, ridding the body of its external symptoms while also retaining the faculty to bend said traits as they pleased.

“Is it almost finished, then?” Shen Qingqiu had asked, his tone measured even when his tail twitched in curiosity behind him.

“Mostly so.” While the man’s voice was unmistakably tinged with exhaustion, it’d also been full of excitement; a show of hope, to see the fruits of his labor come through at last. “This final trial will determine whether or not it’s safe for widespread distribution.”

“That’s good,” he’d said, fanning himself with feigned indifference. Much like his even voice, that too was a calculated move, meant to distract from the faint flick of his ears. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but he had the feeling there was something more he wished to say, making him restless. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Mu Qingfang nodded, sharing in the sentiment. His next words, however, only came out after a small pause; one that seemed to be intentional, if the slight tilt of his head was anything to go by.

“Once confirmed, we’ll first be handing it to the peak lords interested in an alternative cure.”

He didn’t ask outright whether they would be one of them, but the knowing look in his eyes was enough by itself. Shen Qingqiu’s tail fluffed in what could only be described as embarrassment. He’d thought himself to be immune to it, after he’d asked for his guidance in cultivation matters. Who would’ve thought he could be flustered still?

The more you know.

“I see,” he muttered, his voice no louder than the cracking coal of the brazier, his fan snapping shut. Though his gaze lingered for a moment longer, Mu Qingfang readily let the matter drop, busying himself with retrieving a small parchment instead; the outline of a map, he believed, of the southern territory.

Just as Shen Qingqiu thought he could compose himself, his blush now a softened heat that’d risen to his face, Liu Qingge made his presence known, his steps firm and deliberate as he entered the room. He’d lowered himself onto the cushion beside him, not even an inch of distance between them as he disregarded propriety; his body a warm, solid presence that did nothing to quiet the pounding of his heart. As his hair had yet to dry, small droplets of water flowed down his skin, sliding over the jut of his collarbone and dipping right under his loose, casually belted robe. Liu Qingge carried the rich smell of orange blossoms on him, with subtle notes of vanilla and honeyed milk underneath; at such close proximity, there was nothing left for Shen Qingqiu to do than to drink in it, dizzying himself from his sweet scent.

“How can we help,” Liu Qingge had said; not a question, but a statement. Straightforward as ever, he’d cut through the lingering awkwardness in seconds, with nowhere else to look at but him. Though his eyes had strayed briefly to Shen Qingqiu, who was then fanning himself with renewed purpose, neither had the courage for them to meet; his blush ignited again from its ashes. Just how much had he heard?

Mu Qingfang’s response had been immediate, his instructions detailed but spoken plainly, with Liu Qingge actually listening to them for once. Someone had to, after all, since Shen Qingqiu couldn’t bring himself to focus, too preoccupied of tucking his earlier self-consciousness away.

Later on, once they’d finally gone to bed, it was as if nothing of consequence had happened, his shidi draping himself over him with the same carelessness he’d grown used to having before sleep. His breath was hot on his neck, damp, his mouth giving Shen Qingqiu no small agony as his leg had slotted between his, fixing him in place and cutting off any way of reprieve. The thin fabric between them did little to dull the sensation of Liu Qingge’s skin, his thigh pressed firmly against his, raying heat that only seemed to grow with every time he shifted closer, his arm tightening instinctively around his waist. He may not have thought much of it before, but Shen Qingqiu had reached a point where he was now intimately aware of his body’s reaction to intimacy.

Admittedly, he’d already been mulling over the topic of sex. Particularly, of having sex with Liu Qingge. His body tingled at the very notion, the memory of fleeting touches—be it the burning, solid of their hips when he’d been pinned during a spar, or the phantom feel of his tongue, licking his fingers off the tea he’d spilled over them—and the idea of making sweet, sweet love stirring something deep within him. More than once, he’d felt his restrained enthusiasm, the way his gaze lingered when they were alone, rumpled robes and wrinkled sheets fresh in the morning; but they’d yet to have a talk on the matter.

And so he’d thought about it.

About dual cultivation, and what it might mean for them. For their relationship.

Then thought some more, the warmth of his embrace lulling him into a contemplative haze, until he hadn’t realized he’d dozed off. It couldn’t have been many hours before Shen Qingqiu had been roused from sleep, unceremoniously dragged away from their bed to set on an early flight. Going through the motions of donning his clothes, he slipped into heavy layers to stave off the biting cold, hair tied back into a simple ponytail.

It was as he’d been putting on his boots, ready to leave for that forsaken place, that Liu Qingge stopped him. Fully dressed, the man was wearing a black, fur-lined cloak that beautifully framed his porcelain features; a white, matching one in hand. Shen Qingqiu blinked at him, still bleary-eyed as he shortly closed the distance between them. Dutiful as he was, his shidi had helped slide his arms into the thick sleeves, his movements steady and familiar. Once it was settled, Liu Qingge drew up the hood with care, his gloved fingers finally clasping the garment shut for him.

His hands lingered for a moment longer, smoothing down the edges as though he were ensuring it would shield him properly. A glint of amusement shone on his eyes when he’d stepped back to appreciate his work, likely at seeing Shen Qingqiu all bundled up, with his dainty ears whittling the fabric in their shape.

He only huffed lightly, too tired to even protest. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” he’d said, making for the door as Liu Qingge trailed behind him, his lips tugged in a fond smile as he carried Shen Qingqiu’s forgotten gloves in hand.

They took to the sky shortly after, descending only when the frost-kissed meadow came into reaching distance.

Their landing, while ungraceful, was certainly smooth by his shidi’s usual standard, Shen Qingqiu’s legs not even wobbling once he’d set foot in the ground, his boots sinking softly into the shreds of ice with a muted crunch. With a quiet sound, Liu Qingge had sheathed Cheng Luan back at his side, ready to take in their search; but before they’d even taken a step forward, Shen Qingqiu’s nose started itching, the very air making it uncomfortable to breathe it in. Not because it was raw and cold, though that definitely didn't help, but because of the thick, cloying scent of flowers, their fragrance sharp and strong. Heady as it was, it could only be a blessing that hadn’t even bothered to disguise, for it meant that they’d dismounted right where they needed to; with the Zeal Windflower being in close proximity.

Sure enough, after they’d only walked for a couple of minutes—following the trail of their fragrance—Shen Qingqiu’s gaze had caught on the the many frail, bell-like petals that were scattered across the ground, his ears perking up in rapt attention while he scanned the ground ahead for the actual flora. Taking notice of them too, Liu Qingge slowed his own steps to match his pace, all the while scouring the area for any apparent threats, though there were no other footprints to be found aside from their own.

For that one moment, the world had seemed to hold its breath, expectant of what was to come. While the clouds were set on unleashing even more flakes of snow, further thickening the carpet they’d already laid on, their decreasing amount suggested that it wouldn’t be long before they ceased completely. Until then, unfortunately, there was nothing for them but to weave their own path across; braving through the dawdling blizzard hand in hand, blue-like ice and mist their only companions for what felt like miles on end.

Just when doubt had taken root in Shen Qingqiu, ever growing as he started to wonder whether they’d missed them by cruel chance, relief had cut it by its rearing head; gracing him with the view of a vast, dense foliage, its purple flowers in full bloom. Since no threat had come at them, no fearsome creature to speak of either, the coiling tautness of his body was washed away in gentle waves, a slow tide that wasted no time in smoothing out the frown in his brows along with it.

Shen Qingqiu almost didn’t dare to hope, but maybe they’d get home in time for their mid-afternoon nap, after all. He’d been terribly annoyed that now, with the turning of seasons, the sunbeam they so enjoyed no longer hit in the same angle, nor the same hour, that it used to do. Don’t let it be said that he was anything but resourceful, though. He’d been chasing after its trail ever since, dragging Liu Qingge by his hand to rest with him in any and all corners, much like a common cat lying over the most random of furniture.

And yet, before they got any closer to the tall, square stalks that occupied the field, a low growl rolled through the air, ringing in the silence like a warning bell.

Definitely a maybe not, Shen Qingqiu lamented, a sigh already falling from his lips. He lit some incense in his heart for his ruined nap, too, just for good measure.

A pair of huge, striped figures emerged from the grassland, their silver, mottled fur glinting faintly from the light of the rising sun that’d touched upon the snow crystals. Their eyes gleamed with keen, predatory intent as they came closer, heads so lowered they almost touched the ground they stalked on.

Moon-Clouded leopards, if he wasn’t mistaken.

Fuck.

Trust them to run into spiritual beasts first thing in the morning.

Much like their name implied, they were peculiar in the sense that they were most like a mirror, capable of reflecting whatever form of energy they came across. Drawing ambient qi into their bodies, they would cast it back in bursts of raw, devastating energy; rendering qi-infused attacks as both useless and detrimental to whoever went against them, since they’d only return to them in a manner they couldn’t foresee. Worse still, Shen Qingqiu recalled, retreating in his steps so as to not alert them further, their claws were things of nightmares. Harder than jade, they could pierce through layers of skin with a single graze, leaving torn and rotten flesh behind, slowly being eaten away by their fatal poison.

A mid-level cultivator wouldn’t stand a chance against one, let alone two.

“Stay back,” Liu Qingge instructed, his commanding voice leaving no room for Shen Qingqiu to argue.

Not that he was going to, anyways. He’d already been poisoned once, thank you, no need for a second. Learn to pick your battles and all that.

Striding forward, Liu Qingge moved with unyielding purpose, Cheng Luan seized tightly by the carving of its hilt. With his cloak billowing behind him, ponytail swaying with each step he took, he was the very image of a god, descended to bring wrath upon his enemies. Shen Qingqiu barely had time to take in the sight before the blade flashed silver, cutting through the crisp air with lethal grace.

His heart pounded fiercely in his chest, the drum of admiration felt all the way through to his ribcage.

While Liu Qingge was relentless in his advance, his attacks calculated so as to exploit even the smallest of openings he could detect in their guard, the Moon-Clouded leopards were no ordinary beasts. For all their size and bulk, they were frighteningly quick, tearing through the very fabric of the surrounding qi with each swing of their paws, the energy warping and crackling under the strain of their ability.

Still, he evaded them with the ease of a natural talent. His boots skimmed over the watered-down soil, following the practiced steps of a deadly dance he’d long known by heart. A nasty swipe came for him with those large, thin-edged claws, very much able to cut deep into his bones; but he dodged with such dexterity he couldn’t even dream to error, his rhythm never breaking. Cheng Luan flashed in his hand, striking true in a sharp, decisive arc that dissevered one of its front legs, streams of blood splashing all over. Liu Qingge had dealt no small damage, only equal to the ruinous shockwaves that’d been sent rippling through the air, flinging snow and plants alike in a flurry.

Yet despite their brutality, he never once faltered; this was his element, the chaotic, merciless play of battle. No matter what charged at him, no matter how vicious or massive, his blade would leave no threat to go unscathed.

The unyielding resolve of a born warrior, entrusted to raze down the world.

But just as Liu Qingge was a man on a mission, so was Shen Qingqiu—much as he loathed to admit. With a heavy heart, he tore his eyes away from such thrilling scene, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. The Zeal Windflowers spread before him, delicate and unassuming, their dotted, violet petals dusted with frost. Carefully, he knelt to their level, inspecting them more closely.

While they looked ordinary enough, there was no mistaking the sweet, fresh fragrance that swirled around at his touch; almost as if they were mint. Only, their shape was all wrong. Instead of the round, blunt-tipped leaves that he knew, the one he held looked more like a heart, rough to the touch and cut sharply at the edges. Still, their smell tickled at the corners of his memory, tugging at something deep and half-forgotten, familiar in a way that made him pause, made him want for more.

It seeped into his lungs, spreading along his body and unfurling a deep, gentle warmth inside, settling far down into his very cells. For a fleeting second, he almost leaned nearer, his fingers brushing over the velvety leaf as though drawn by instinct alone. An inexplicable urge rose within Shen Qingqiu, coaxing him into pressing his cheek against it, to rub his face all over until its scent soaked him in further. And why shouldn’t he?

The thought hovered in his mind, enticing and strange, pulling him closer still to a flower that seemed to call for his most ardent desire, daring him to fulfill it even if it escaped from his hands. For as of this moment, as of this life, there was nothing more that he needed than to—

A sudden, ear-piercing roar echoed across the meadow, jarring in its intensity and ripping Shen Qingqiu from his haze. His ears flattened at once, tail bristling in startled alarm before he rose to full height, his eyes darting toward the noise.

Liu Qingge, still locked in combat, was a blur of motion, Cheng Luan gleaming as he deflected yet another attack. A short distance away, the giant, lifeless body of a leopard lay sprawled over crimson snow, its flesh sliced solely at its throat in a wide, clean cut; a true testament to the skill of a master swordsman. Now, with only one remaining, his blade pressed forward, ready to deal the final blow.

Right. He needed to gather them, that’s what.

Biting into the deerskin, Shen Qingqiu’s teeth held onto it while he pulled off the fabric from his hand, removing the other in a far more dignified manner before he tucked the pair away. Then, in a variation of the Plucking Leaves technique, he called his spiritual energy forth, encasing each singular leaf in its embrace.

Raising his closed hand up to his lips, he began to unfold his fingers at a slow pace, blowing softly over his palm to release his summoned qi. Carrying out his order, they detached themselves from the stems, floating around like obedient servants lined up in wait of further instructions.

But as Shen Qingqiu reached for the qiankun pouch at his hip, tugging on the leather strings so that he could store them, a deafening blast of qi surged outwards, shaking the very land he stood on. Merely a second later, a heavy, solid body followed, slamming into him and sending him face-first onto the frozen ground.

With his concentration broken, the cluster of leaves that he’d so carefully put together now fell on a heap over him and Liu Qingge, effectively burying them underneath them. If Shen Qingqiu were to be honest, such a thing wouldn’t be too much trouble to deal with, actually, if it were any other time. He’d just spit them out, dust himself off of the filth on his clothes and move on with his life, truly. Simple as that. Only, the moment they’d settled over his face, brushing against his skin and tickling his nose, an unexpected sensation coursed through him; a whirling, almost intoxicating lightness that made his head spin and his pulse quicken. It was as if the very essence of the flowers had seeped into his pores, threading through his veins like liquid fire.

Where there’d been a gentle warmth before, a scorching heat had now been ignited in his chest, feeding itself from the brushwood and spreading till his fingers; unfurling in waves that engulfed his whole body. It wasn’t unpleasant; if anything, it was soft, soothing, and greatly comforting—like being nestled in a web spun by the earth itself. Shen Qingqiu stayed still for a second, his ears flicking as if to ward off the daze that’d clouded his thoughts; coiling around him like a thread, wrapping around his throat and pulling hard.

As colours seemed to brighten, clearer than they’d ever been, sounds only became duller with every other second, as if his ears had been stuffed full with cotton. In such a state, he could only find anchor in his breath, chaining himself to solid ground with every gulp of air that filled his lungs with deep, heartfelt satisfaction; as well as in the hand that lay within his grasp.

Shen Qingqiu turned sideways to gaze upon Liu Qingge, intent on checking if the man was faring better than himself, feeling no different than grains of sand in an hourglass, slowly dropping alongside passing minutes.

More alluring than any setting sun, his eyes alone contained the creeping shadows of twilight, drawing him into the loose path of midnight so he would go wild with abandon. Wishing to be joined together, Shen Qingqiu pressed himself closer to Liu Qingge, his body flushed against his, hand tightly gripping the fur of his cloak. Up so close, the sweet perfume that’d clung to their clothes had suddenly become impossible to be ignored, urging—demanding—he give in to temptation.

Very much willing to indulge in it, Shen Qingqiu wasted no time before he buried his face in the bend of his neck, fully taking in the rich, pleasant aroma that’d drawn a sigh of pleasure from his throat. Nothing less than divine, it sent tiny sparks dancing through his nerves, tickling his whole being and leaving his toes curled, drunk in a satisfaction that’d derived from the hitch in Liu Qingge’s breath, encouraging him further. While he had done this before, nosing down his throat in early mornings when their robes had held on to the soft smell of sleep, this time couldn’t feel more novel, more intense than it ever before.

Shen Qingqiu wasn’t much for licking at him—an action that had come easily for Liu Qingge with their recent set of instincts, readily grooming the grey fur of his ears more often than not; but it hadn’t been so for him. Yet this time, it was only natural for his tongue to lave at his skin, to take delight in his taste and smell. Deep and addictive, it had him holding on to him tighter, lapping at him in a much more enthusiastic manner than he’d done prior to now, flaying it with his rough caress until he unearthed the fresh, spring-like scent of the flowers. Recognition sparked within him, then, lights and flashes of that familiar note from before unfolding in his mind like the reel of a film, allowing him to name it.

Fucking catnip, of all things.

No wonder said fragrance had irked at his brain, then. With their current condition, there was no other choice than being bound to the singular virtues of the flower, behaving no different than a common cat who’d gladly beg for more of it, even. Truly, a wife-plot in the making, ready to assist the protagonist in taking a roll in the grass with his catgirl wife, bodies coming undone by its powerful effect. Unbelievable.

Though, being with Liu Qingge, cradled in his comfortable embrace, with his hand running lines down his back and kneading his flesh, he couldn’t really be too mad about it. With uncertainty looming over them both, there’s not one minute spent together that he’d regret, no matter what came with it. And so he wouldn’t; not in years, not ever, and certainly not now.

With his mind resolved, Shen Qingqiu went to tracing his face, caressing a flushed, burning cheekbone in hopes of cooling down his skin. He tended to him in a manner so gently it could only be described as loving, yet it still fell behind to the softness found in his expression; one so often concealed beneath stiff, edged features. Many times since he’d first invited Liu Qingge into his home—into his life and bed—he’d gotten glimpses of it, most recently shown when he’d come to straddle him, wrapping his arms around his neck as he rested his weight on his thighs, unable to sleep on his own while Shen Qingqiu wasted the night away with work.

A privilege, was what he’d been granted with, willingly gifted to him after their relationship had shifted, growing into something more. Even when he hadn’t yet known about it, having dated his shidi entirely by accident, Shen Qingqiu had given as much as he’d gotten in turn ever since, doing his best to make him as happy as Liu Qingge did for him.

It’s with care, now, that he winded a loose, curled strand of hair around his finger, moving it away from his nose before his hand drifted back to rest on his temple, gaining perfect access for Shen Qingqiu to pet him around his ears. His thumb—for he couldn't resist it—brushed over the beauty mark nestled just below his eye, a spot so small, yet alluring in its quiet charm.

Much like a drop of ink that’s added to a drying painting; not as an afterthought, but as an enhancer of its fairness.

Reverence bloomed inside him, having Shen Qingqiu’s finger press on it a little firmer, all the while tracing the mark in soft motions; a silent worship in every stroke. Liu Qingge’s eyes fluttered shut beneath the gentle caress, his breathing slowing, steadying, his purr only increasing in volume. As if drawn by some unspoken pull, his face tilted into the touch, his thick, dark eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones.

In such a tranquil moment, heavy with words unsaid, it was as if time itself had slowed; bearing no past nor future, only a present that stretched for ages. Bewitched as he was, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from him, coming undone beneath the look Liu Qingge had graced him with; one full of a longing that mirrored his own. Darting down, his gaze lay on Shen Qingqiu’s lips, lingering there for a fraction too long, panting ever so slightly; as if waiting, hoping for the distance between them to close.

With desire ripping at the seams, very much ready to burst, they were like twin stars that’d been drawn to each other, collapsing together under the weight of gravity. In a frantic, untamed rhythm, Shen Qingqiu’s pulse went off course once again, with each pulsing, erratic beat brought about by the same man who plagued his every fantasy; who made his blood run wild, pumped up harder by endless anticipation.

He truly—he couldn’t possibly not kiss him.

Meeting him halfway, the press of their mouths was slow, as always, with a well-known warmth blooming in their chests; the kind that unfurled in waves, much like dawn stretching over the horizon. Shen Qingqiu’s touch was light, placid, his lips brushing against Liu Qingge’s with the same tenderness of when they’d first kissed; as if time and night belonged to them completely, just so they could revel in the easy and dear slide of their longing flesh.

A delicate thing, like the plucking of a string.

Together, they moved in perfect sync, a dance unhurried yet brimming with need; carried out in the space found between heartbeats. Liu Qingge’s fingers had buried themselves in Shen Qingqiu’s hair, threading through the silken strands at his nape before tightening around them, guiding him closer still to him. Answering in kind, Shen Qingqiu placed his hand over his side, his thumb brushing deep circles through the fabric, grounding in its devotion. He could feel the warmth of Liu Qingge’s breath in between kisses; melding into his lungs only to leave on the next exhale, could feel the way he pressed and lingered, as if unwilling to part too soon.

As Liu Qingge tilted his head—their mouths joining together a little firmer, a little wetter—the faintest of sighs escaped him. His tongue swiped at Shen Qingqiu’s bottom lip, soft and deliberate; not demanding, but coaxing, an invitation that he’d accepted in full. It was almost on instinct, the way in which his lips parted for him, readily melting into nothing but heat and sensations at his touch. His heart drummed wildly inside of him, echoes of it left forgotten in his chest in favor of savoring the sweetness of his mouth; with every stroke of Liu Qingge’s tongue against his own unraveling him further, shedding a skin no longer meant to fit him as he took more and more from the man in his embrace.

There was a quiet hum of energy running down his spine, a frenzy contained within that would only grow further, as though it could never be enough, no matter what they filled themselves with. Liu Qingge’s tail coiled around his thigh, then, firm and insistent, tearing the frail thread from which they’d been hanging on as he tugged on Shen Qingqiu’s leg, having him moan as it settled over his. Their kiss deepened with unrestrained passion, their mouths melding with a fervor that burned bright and loft, each press of their lips a new height; a crescendo that could do nothing but soar.

He’d hardly noticed when a low, rumbling purr had shaken his chest, not until Liu Qingge’s attention had shifted downwards. With no time to mourn its loss, his mouth trailed along his jaw, fingers deftly unclasping the brooch of Shen Qingqiu’s cloak, then loosening the ties at his collar, his tongue tracing mindless lines over the shell of his ear. The fabric parted, revealing pale skin beneath; unmarked, like a primed canvas waiting for the first stroke of paint, coloured fiercely by the strength of his kiss. A sharp tug at his hair had his head tilting back further, giving Liu Qingge full access to his throat; not a second gone by before his lips sucked the sensitive flesh into his mouth, laving at it with care and want.

A strange kind of lightness had settled over Shen Qingqiu, like he was drifting weightless on a breeze, carried away with no wish to be caught. Not yet. Not in such never-ending bliss, so utterly freeing. His purring only got louder, his fingers holding onto Liu Qingge as wave after wave of pleasure rolled over him, dragging him under even as his hand found anchor in the curve of his waist, tightening on it with sudden resolve. In one, fluid motion, Shen Qingqiu pushed him back onto the ground, his knees fixed on either side of his hips, cushioned by the lining of his cloak. A vivid flush dusted Liu Qingge’s cheeks, as red as a rose button that’d just bloomed under the heat of spring. Frost had collected on his long lashes, weighing over his widened eyes; each flake like rounded pearls, delicately glued to each singular strand of hair.

He’d never looked more beautiful, Shen Qingqiu thought, his short, panting breath ghosting across Liu Qingge’s face. Without thinking, his fingers came to rest upon his inner arm, tempted by the rich expanse of his porcelain-like skin, gracefully painted in blue, willowy patterns. His touch branched out in a slow, sensual slide, tracing his veins in wordless provocation as he took delight in watching his lover writhe beneath him; hearing him swallow, watching his throat bob as he did so. Having reached his wrist, Shen Qingqiu’s thumb posed itself over its bone, two of his fingers slipping under the fabric of his gloves; not once breaking his gaze, nor the silent exploration of his willing body.

The tips of them skimmed over his skin, slightly curving his fingers as his nails went over the lifelines on his palm; as if he were reading them, learning the very ties of his soul by it. Liu Qingge shivered at the contact, the silver of his irises now a ring of light almost swallowed by his pupils, both dilated in full. His hand had come to twitch, incessantly, each and any caress sending it in a flutter; much like butterflies, soon ready to take flight. Taking pity on him, Shen Qingqiu finally removed his glove, freeing him from the restricting give of it only to toss it aside, lacing their fingers together. They fitted fatefully, like two same halves joining as whole at last.

Beneath them, the snow gave way under their weight, soft and pliant, causing his knees to sink further into the ground. Such shift left their bodies flushed against each other, every touch and heartbeat shared between them. He barely registered Liu Qingge’s startled gasp before he was silenced, sealing any other sounds by bearing down on his mouth, the moans he sang at the tentative grind of their hips heard by no one but Shen Qingqiu alone. He kissed him with abandon, a quiet but undeniable claim. Liu Qingge’s lips moved against his with purpose, parting as if to draw him in, a bait for Shen Qingqiu to follow before he bit down on him, his teeth catching his lower lip with just enough pressure for it to be pleasant.

He tugged on it, slow and possessive, the lingering sting of it quickly soothed by the wet slide of his tongue; a contact so luscious it had Shen Qingqiu shivering, sensitive beyond measure. His blood thrummed in his veins, loud and lively; a wildfire that neither wanted to quell, wishing it would last until it tired of burning.

A whimper escaped him, then, high, airy; like the played note of a melody yet unheard, trembling in its birthing. Liu Qingge’s fingers tightened around his, at once meaning to reassure him, to promise he would only advance in his shixiong’s steps, if he allowed it. Shen Qingqiu squeezed back at him, moved by his courteous demeanor even as every nip and press of their lips was already a show of their eagerness; a ballad, written in sin and devotion, known by their hearts alone. With his other hand, he wandered, slipping between the thick folds of his cloak in search of his robes. He’d meant to grasp his belt, at first, to tease at it until it came loose; but it met with bare skin instead, startlingly warm under his palm.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes snapped open, shocked into awareness by the heavy downpour of dread that fell over him.

Where he’d expected the soft feel of fabric, there was little more to it than the scalding heat of fevered flesh. His heart clenched as he laid eyes on the uneven tears in Liu Qingge’s clothing, shredded and soaking wet, the full extent of the injury revealed to him as he pushed the matted fur away. Shen Qingqiu froze, stunned, colour draining from his face as his gaze landed on the wound—no, the carnage—that marred his left side. Four wide, vicious cuts ran all the way through his chest, raw and yawning, the edges tender and bursting with raised, pink tissue. His flesh was split open, swollen so the thin layer of fat contained beneath went by unseen, the bubbly and yellow matter hidden by the blood that’d seeped from the gashes. Running down in thick, crimson rivulets, it washed over him in glistening waves, flowing into the expanse of his ribs, then low into the dips of his hip; all of it barely held back by the dark clots that surrounded it.

Shen Qingqiu couldn’t tell how deep they went—whether they had scraped past bone or not; or even worse, if it had cut into any of his organs. His breath caught in his throat, gaze flicking over the wound with growing horror as he noticed the sickly bruising that spread outward, the inflamed skin stretching taut.

Unforgivable, to think that he hadn’t realized.

His fingers quivered in their hold, his veins now coursing with brittle adrenaline rather than the thick essence of the flowers he’d left behind. Shen Qingqiu’s stomach twisted, thinking of how the poison may have already begun to set in; an ugly reminder of how death could reach him still. Panic had threatened to choke him, to seize him in both body and mind as he lost himself to guilt and distress. Weren’t they supposed to have years left together? To spend in peace and quiet before the plot came crashing down on them? It was all too different, too soon; he hadn’t anticipated that he’d be ripped from him like this, with his life taken by a monster in place of his disciple. But then he’d felt it—the drumming under his touch, his heart beating for as long and hard as it’d always done; a full breath, his fingers following the rise and fall of his chest.

It wasn’t fatal. It couldn’t be.

Shen Qingqiu let himself breathe along with him, his entire body trembling as he forced air back into his lungs. With his vision now clear, the world no longer spinning in its axis, he was allowed him to closer inspect the wound, gaining a far more critical eye than before. No drainage seeped from the cuts, nor did they show any signs of necrotic tissue; which meant that the poison must be slow to flow through his system. Though ruined and shredded, only layers of flesh were in sight, mercifully clean, at that—no hints of bones nor tendons to be seen, either. While by no means minor, the injury wasn’t severe enough that he couldn’t mend the worst of it, he concluded, relieved but distraught still.

“When,” Shen Qingqiu asked, the single word cracking under the weight of his own reproach. His voice was faint, barely above a whisper, for it carried other questions with it—Why didn’t you tell me? How could I not notice? Why did you even let me kiss you, if you knew? His fingers lay over his wrist, assessing his pulse so he could aptly proceed in easing the blockage in his meridians; yet he was caught between acting and dithering, as if he was no longer deserving of touching him.

“Does it matter?,” Liu Qingge questioned in turn. Calm, steady gaze never wavering from his. His eyes spoke of no concerns, light as a feather, with no intent to go back once it’s already fallen off. It urged him to let go, too; since the past was dead, there was no need to trouble himself with blame and such, much less when there was nothing to be forgiven for to start with.

Shen Qingqiu could only concede, then, his shoulders sagging in defeat as he faced against Liu Qingge’s sincere and forceful conviction. “You reckless idiot,” he muttered, drawing away from his body, his legs folding neatly beneath him before he called spiritual energy to his hands. Though he’d chided him, the sharp edge of his words could never be earnest. If anything, it was a plea; calling on him to be more cautious, more mindful of himself, lest demons come to haunt Shen Qingqiu’s heart.

Golden light began to glow softly from his fingertips, bathing the injury in an almost fragile warmth. Zhen Qi poured from him in slow, measured pulses, weaving into the torn muscle and ravaged flesh; coaxing it to knit itself back together. He fell into a trance, his world narrowing to the lilting beat of his heart, along with the quiet hum of his energy at work, coursing through vessels and meridians alike so it could nourish his body and defend it, flushing out the poison in dragged out successions. Once more, time seemed to slip away from Shen Qingqiu; much like smoke, stretching into something distant and unimportant, leaving only a hint of its existence. There was only this—a seamless give of qi, pure and unbroken, and the wound that fixed under his care, strengthening the rate of Liu Qingge’s heart; rapid like hummingbird wings beneath his fingers.

As each beat of it signaled minutes, he was pulled deeper by the connection between them, tapping into their shared energy and molding it as one under their affinity. He truly might’ve drifted away in meditation, hadn’t it been for Liu Qingge’s voice, his call low and vexed. “There’s no need to fuss over me,” he grumbled, his tail wrapping loosely around his wrist, “I don’t feel any pain.”

Shen Qingqiu blinked, brought back to himself with startling clarity. For the longest of moments, he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Of course you don’t, he reasoned, tempted to swat it away from him like a pesky fly, you're fucking high.

The thought had just flashed across his mind, truly—fondness and frustration warring in even measure, but his face must’ve let on some of it. When he glanced down, he caught on the way Liu Qingge’s ears had flattened, his lips curled in what could only be described as a faint pout; giving him an air far more petulant than he was likely aware of. A war god who’d faced down countless enemies, slicing through demons and beasts without an ounce of fear, now looked like a disgruntled cat, sulking before Shen Qingqiu.

Really, this shidi of his.

He let out a sigh, soft, exasperation bleeding into something warmer, something infinitely tender. The clear, balming light coming from him died down, going through one last cycle before he ceased the transfer of qi; withdrawing his energy, but not his hands. His fingers trailed a slow, deliberate path along Liu Qingge’s abdomen, going over the newly healed flesh to ensure it had closed properly. Every touch lingered just a little longer than necessary, though, feeling the heat of his life beneath, grounded by the vibrant thrum of his pulse. Under his palms, Liu Qingge arched slightly, his body responding to the attention by nature; wordlessly pleading for more, for him to pet him fully.

Raking his nails across skin, Shen Qingqiu did exactly that, drawing on patterns light enough to tease him. He dared anyone to do better, honestly.

The reaction was immediate, with a tremor that ran through Liu Qingge in waves, his muscles tightening under his touch. The short hitch of his breath, the way his chest rose a fraction higher with each intake of air; neither escaped his notice. His eyes, blown and half-lidded, locked onto Shen Qingqiu’s with unrelenting focus, the frost on his lashes catching what little sunlight filtered through. 

Tension hung between them once more; coiled and tight, ready to spring at any forceful press. With singular interest, Liu Qingge glanced down, catching on the loose, parted folds of Shen Qingqiu’s robes, his collar still unfastened. His wear had slid over, layers of fabric now lying past the gentle curve of his shoulder, exposing more than they concealed. Marred and tender, his own skin had bruised all over, his throat a length of velvet that’d been dyed in cherry-red; an imprint of passion and desire that his bound hair couldn’t cover. Liu Qingge’s eyes lingered, like crescent moons that shone upon him; a scorching brand on his flesh that yearned to burn him whole.

Without a word, Shen Qingqiu placed his palm over them, blocking that searing gaze from view. 

“Behave,” he warned him, voice flat and impassive, his fingers pressing harder under his light resistance.

Liu Qingge’s tail fluffed out in protest, curling in broad arches as he shifted beneath his restricting hand, his annoyance clear in the flick of his ears that’d tilted sideways. “I’m just looking at you!”

“And I’m not letting you,” Shen Qingqiu countered, not even bothering to call him out in his bullshit, proven enough by the lust he’d read in his eyes, his mouth still dry at the memory, “do it some other time.”

A second, then two—slowly, the fight bled out from Liu Qingge’s body, tension easing from his shoulders as he resigned himself to compliance. Yet, rather than lying there, looking prim and pretty, waiting for the effects of the catnip to fade so they could fly back, he moved, settling himself onto Shen Qingqiu’s lap. His cheek came to rest over his thigh, his stare no longer shielded by his hand, but by the soft folds of his robes instead; a veil, to be draped over his sultry eyes. Curled around his hip, his tail had been fixed to it as if it belonged there, tightening briefly before it lulled—a silent claim, a wordless demand for closeness. “Fine,” he said, his breath warm even through his wear, “I’ll hold you to it.”

Despite himself, Shen Qingqiu found the childish display to be far too endearing, shifting his legs so that Liu Qingge could rest more comfortably against him. He felt entirely justified in pinching his cheek, really. “Who would’ve thought you could be such a brat.”

Liu Qingge only purred in response, low-pitched but unmistakable. Utterly unabashed, he leaned into Shen Qinqiu’s palm as he soothed the pulled skin, tilting his head so he could kiss it. A loving touch, hot and fleeting like summer rain.

Be it hours or not, they remained exactly as they were; pressed close to each other, sharing in their honey-like warmth, thick and infinitely sweet. One of his hands rested on Liu Qingge’s head, his fingers threading through the downy fur of his ears, scratching them, lightly rubbing the tips in a way that made him purr louder. The other lay low on his back, tucking the pleats of his cloak tighter against him, then drawing slow, tender circles on his waist, much like he’d done earlier. In time, Liu Qingge’s breaths had evened out, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest a sign that he’d fallen asleep. His face, usually sharp with purpose and assurance, had relaxed in its entirety, his lashes fanning out under his eyes, his lips parted in quiet repose.

Unguarded, with not a burden to weigh him down.

Looking at him like this, Shen Qingqiu felt his heart tighten painfully, as if the weight of all his fears had settled there at once. Realization struck him, relentless like a tide—he could’ve lost this, lost him.

The thought hollowed him out, sending a deep, aching chill down his veins, despite the combined heat of their bodies. Many times before he’d been spared; a darling of the heavens, with their favor in his hands. Yet a day may come where they withdraw their blessing. It was a truth he couldn’t fathom, waking to an empty bed, reaching out for Liu Qingge only to find cold, flat sheets. Never again feeling his weight beside him, nor being lulled to sleep by his warmth and purr. He couldn’t bear it; wouldn’t bear it. An unshakable, blazing resolve took root in his bones, joining as one with his marrow. He would take better care of Liu Qingge; commit to him and his safety, watch over him as fiercely as he’d always done for him.

But how could Shen Qingqiu defend someone who’d spent his entire life fighting, thriving in the chaos of battle? Who was stronger, faster, and far more skilled than him in combat?

Liu Qingge moved in his sleep, at that moment, and so Shen Qingqiu followed; his fingers carding through his long, scattered hair, tracing the shell of his ear before he gently smoothed over the strands. It dawned on him, then; the answer lying in the very act that he was carrying out. He may not be able to meet with him in battle, never be able to fight in his place, bearing the brunt of it; but he was in no way powerless. Shen Qingqiu would just have to protect him in a different manner—subtle, unseen.

Around his hand, he wrapped the tail end of his hair ribbon, grey as a silver moon, then tugged on it; the cloth slipping free with ease. Woven from the silk of Arctic Wolf spiders, its threads were closely tied to their mating rituals, in which they offered them in hopes of further engagement. Given their giant size, a single fiber would spin inches of fabric, let alone dozens of them; more than enough to make a fine length of fabric out of it, sheen and cool to the touch. As much as it was lovely, its needlework beautiful and detailed, a ribbon such as his would also be quite expensive, worth no small fortune indeed.

Yet it had been a gift, brought to him by Liu Qingge from one of his latest missions, having spent two full weeks in the northern regions whilst he dealt with a clutter of them—one more than he should’ve, but who was counting anyways.

Though he’d long grown past the man who’d used to drop monsters at his door and bolt, there had still been a quiet hesitance to his voice when he’d returned from his journey, a note of shyness slipped in it as he’d asked Shen Qingqiu to sit down for him, facing their glass mirror. With doting hands, he’d removed his guan from his hair, the lightest of touches grazing his neck while his fingers carded through the strands, weaving a thin braid with them before he tied it all into a ponytail, tightening the ribbon. Reaching his waist, the smooth ends of it swayed freely as his head turned round and wide, tickling him as it had tilted back to look at Liu Qingge; his lips parted in wonder, eyes full of the brightest of stars.

Shen Qingqiu had worn it ever since, treasuring it dearly, never once willing to take it off—until now.

He turned his qi into a thin thread at his fingertip, set to engraving a Puppet Charm on such precious silk. Meant to take a fatal hit in place of its owner, said charm would draw in from Shen Qingqiu’s spiritual energy, its dispersal allowing him to sense it at once if it ever shattered. As if he were embroidering them, he traced each line with steadfast precision, pouring his entire heart out into his work; for it would also be guarding it.

One hundred and eight strokes; Shen Qingqiu carved them all with diligence, not one done wrong.

Holding the fabric between his teeth, he gathered Liu Qingge’s hair in his hands, working with careful fingers to weave the locks together. One half of it trailed down, brushing against his face with each unconscious shift of his body, as if it were yarn and Shen Qingqiu was teasing him. It must’ve itched, since only after moments his nose scrunched in slight discomfort, sneezing afterwards—a small, delicate sound, so utterly at odds with the depth of his voice.

He paused, his lips twitching at the sight before he quickly resumed his work, threading the silk into the braid with practiced ease. It wasn’t until the strip was secured, knotted seamlessly into the neat strands with a bow, that Shen Qingqiu was enlightened; loud and clear for him to see.

His hands stilled for half a breath as warmth crept up his neck, the weight of the gesture settling over him. Shared between the two of them, this charmed ribbon would be his first gift for Liu Qingge since he’d learned they were courting; a declaration of intent, a bind for both of their hearts. While at first accidental, born from the wish to pet and be petted in turn, their courtship had since flourished; a bud lying in wait, which could do nothing but blossom under the care of affection. Now choking him with its plentiful petals, dusting his cheeks with their tint.

Much like a blindfold that’s been ripped off, a nascent sun showed itself to the world, facing against the fainting moon that’d been sent to rest; the heavens wide enough to fit them both. For a moment, they met—a minute stolen from time where they could chance and greet, to bask in their mutual glory before they had to bid once more, bound to miss each other for ages to come.

Gone were the snowing clouds that’d buried them in white, indistinct and opaque, replaced instead by a vivid, pearlescent gleam, blinding in their luster. With iridescence, they shone like opals, moving patterns of yellow, pink, purple and red. It was as if they’d been made with cotton balls, painted high and smudged in little circles, blended in perfect harmony.

Where the muted colours used to be shadows of themselves, they were now awash with life, brightness seeping into every recess it could touch. Shades of blue, vermilion hues—all passed over like a carousel lantern, hinting at thousand golden rays that weren’t far behind, ready to bathe his hands in light; not to heal, but to welcome sunrise instead. Filtering through the frozen trees, it kindly spread its fingers to them, offering its balm to those who were still wrapped in the remnants of night, casting a gentle glow upon where they lied on. Then, much like nectar spilled by deities, it poured forth, further bringing its grace to the land at hand.

Sunlight reached Liu Qingge first, joining Shen Qingqiu in lending heat to his body, showering his face and ears in amber hues. Caught just right, the dainty tips of them glowed at the edges; translucent, almost, gilded in turn by morning’s embrace. They perked up at its touch, instinctively, drawn to the light in the same way that sunflowers do, craving its comfort. Shen Qingqiu chuckled, amused as only one of his ears flicked, uneven, tilting sideways while it tried to chase down the soft sound of his voice.

He couldn’t help himself from blowing on it, watching it twitch in reflex as his mellow breath teased out its delicate fur. Cute as it was, the brief motion resembled the florets of a pearl white dandelion, disturbed by brisk and warm wind, only to drift away from its ceaseless rush.

Shen Qingqiu did it again.

Because he could, and he wanted to.

Liu Qingge had only huffed, at first, burrowing the slightest bit closer to him; but the next puff of air had him grumbling, sullen, his ears flicking with evident irritation. Then, with great reluctance, his lashes fluttered, cracking one eye open—riveting grey instead of black under the scattered light, still hazy with sleep, yet already brimming with obvious affront.

Shen Qingqiu just smiled at him, curling his fingers around his nape, utterly unrepentant as he poked at his beauty mark with his thumb.

To think that this person was his.

His to cherish, to stand beside; be it the quiet of dawn or the loudness of battle. His to have and to hold, in sickness and in health.

If Liu Qingge was to be his sword, he decided, sharp and unyielding, then Shen Qingqiu would be his shield, steadfast and lasting, guarding the one who had so often fought alone.

A solemn vow, sworn with every drop of blood and tears that his meager body could muster, etched into his very being; bound not by duty, but by love.

One that not even death would dare undo.

No lifetime will part your soul from mine.