Chapter Text
He wakes and does not know where he is. His heart skips a beat. He freezes, remains very, very still, as he tries to work out what horror awaits him now.
Last he remembers— Oh, he does not want to remember what he last remembers. What he last remembers is making an obscene offering to the beast in exchange for Qi-ge’s life, the beast accepting and then forcefully reattaching one of his legs. He must have fainted from the pain. Not surprising.
Instead of hanging in mid-air, suspended from that painful contraption, he is lying down somewhere soft. Cautiously, afraid of what he’ll see, he risks opening his eyes. The elaborately carved canopy of a beautifully made bed greets him. He blinks. What?
Very carefully he takes stock of his body. Things ache in a dull kind of way, but he is in less pain than he has been in since the day he was first brought to the Water Prison. His hips hurt the worst, and he is glad to be lying on his back, because he doesn’t know he could tolerate lying on either of them, but even then the pain in them is nothing compared to what it was last he remembers. His mouth no longer hurts, and a quick reconnoitre with his tongue tells him that his broken teeth seem to have been somehow fixed. Tentatively he wriggles the toes of his left foot, then his right— he has feet. A glance down his body. He has legs.
He has legs clad in the bottom half of a set of gauzy, red silk robes. That’s all he’s wearing. A set of translucent red silk robes. He can see through them. He can see every detail of his body through them.
Panic has him lurching upright, wincing at the ringing in his head even as he grabs for the covers and tries to cocoon himself in them, which is when he notices the demon kneeling on the floor staring at him. The urge to throw something at her is almost overwhelming— she must have seen his naked body through the robes— but he doesn’t have anything to throw, and as he stares back at her he soon realises she must be a servant, so guilt rises to replace the urge to do violence.
She doesn’t look like one of the beast’s wives or concubines. She is dressed neatly, in well-made but plain clothes, not bejewelled and draped in embroidered silks, and her face— She is not hideous, but she is very, very plain, not helped by the curly tusks erupting from between her lips, or the collection of scraggly looking short horns awkwardly bracketing her face. She looks to be a mix of various demon types to him, of which he can detect at first glance some kind of pig demon, some kind of sheep or goat demon, and something scaly. Knowing Luo Binghe’s tendencies he would bet it is only her lack of beauty that has preserved her from the man’s attentions.
One thing he does have to give them demon, instead of simply pestering and assaulting women and abandoning them, he has a reputation for inviting every woman he’s bedded into his harem— excessive and grotesque as it may be.
‘You are awake,’ she says, her voice delicate and oddly beautiful, almost songlike— and some kind of bird demon, possibly— ‘This one will inform the emperor.’ With that she gets to her feet without waiting for him to reply and walks over to the wall, which parts and lets her out, before closing behind her and leaving no sign of any opening.
The walls are red too. There is no furniture in the room aside from the bed. No door. No windows. The only light is coming from talismans stuck high on the walls, mimicking the light given off by oil lamps.
He sits there, trying not to fret. He is clean, he realises, which means someone has cleaned him— he reaches up and risks touching his hair— clean too, and oiled, but still feeling straw-like and brittle. He risks opening the cocoon of covers enough to peer down at his body— thin, still, all jutting bones and sparse flesh. So, he has been healed, washed, sort-of dressed, and brought into this room, but nothing else has been done for him, and he’d guess not much time has passed.
It all feels intrusive and violating— but then, with what he has promised Luo Binghe— his life is about to get more intrusive and violating, isn’t it?
If the beast still wants what he offered he will have to—
Now, time passed between the threats and his fear and waking up clean with his unconscious body having been interfered with, he is not sure he can do it. To start with he’s not sure he has the strength to do it. The Immortal Binding Cables are gone, and he can feel— something like his cultivation— but his qi reserves are terribly weak, his meridians feel ravaged even worse than usual, and he suspects it won’t take much to push him over into a qi deviation. Hah, that would serve the beast right. He can imagine the demon’s face if he qi deviates when the creature sticks his cock into—
He shudders, wincing away from the thought.
Can he do it? Forgetting his concerns about his weakness and damaged cultivation, will he be able to cope with what is required of him to go through with this?
The truth is that he doesn’t know. It has been so long— so long and he swore to himself never again. No man was ever going to touch him like that again.
He survived it though, in the past. He survived Qiu Jianluo. He survived Wu Yanzi— it’ll be just the same. Luo Binghe no more desires him than either of those men did. For Qiu Jianluo he was an outlet for sadism and a replacement for the sister the other was not yet corrupted enough to touch. For Wu Yanzi he was nothing but a means to assist the man’s cultivation— it is the same with Luo Binghe.
He just has to be a void. This just has to be a thing happening to his body, not a thing happening to him.
For now the best thing he can do is meditate. He needs to gather himself, as well as to gather whatever strength he can, for what will probably follow. It is hard, almost impossible— he has used meditation techniques to survive his time and tortures in the Water Prison, but somehow it was easier to slip into the right frame of mind while hanging suspended in agony. Near naked and clean and in this very big bed in this little room— his mind won’t settle. He is too aware of his own body.
It'll hurt— of course it’ll hurt, it’s always hurt— but hopefully Luo Binghe will be more like Wu Yanzi than Qiu Jianluo. The hurt was more perfunctory with him, less the purpose. He tries to remind himself that even with Qiu Jianluo at his worst the pain he experienced from that act was nothing compared to the pain Luo Binghe has caused with his tortures. It will be fine. He has survived worse. He just needs not to panic and cry and beg for mercy. He will not be getting any mercy, and the last thing he wants is for the beast to see his very real fear. The fear at the heart of him.
If it works— what will happen then? Presuming the demon keeps his word and leaves Qi-ge and the sect alone— What will happen to him? Will he be relegated back to the Water Prison and its torments, or will Luo Binghe simply kill him? It would be better for the beast to kill him— Of course the beast might want his services again. Wu Yanzi’s cultivation was hardly fixed after one round, and even when it was, in essence, the man kept getting stronger and stronger every time after. Will the beast end up keeping him here, not as concubine, not as a bed toy, but as some kind of cultivation aid? It could be worse, he supposes— as long as he can keep his detachment from his body, as long as it can be like it was with Wu Yanzi, and not like it was with Qiu Jianluo— except he cannot help but think he’d rather be dead.
He should have self-detonated when the beast emerged from Huan Hua Palace and started throwing around accusations— or at least, the moment he looked at his martial brothers and sisters and saw belief, saw the fact they were not going to say anything, not going to act to save him— then he should have self-detonated.
He could have fled, he could have fought, but in the wake of the accusations, in the wake of seeing that look on Qi-ge’s face, that belief that he really is as rotten as the beast accused him of being— something inside of him that had somehow kept clinging on for all those miserable years had finally broken. That something is still broken. He cannot make himself want to live. He cannot imagine stepping back into his old life even were the beast to release him after this. He wants to die— it’s just that for whatever reason the relief of death is being denied him.
Such pleasant thoughts to be dwelling on at the moment the wall splits open again and the beast steps inside, sword strapped to his hip. Incongruously the creature is carrying a tray, a pleasant, savoury scent wafting into the air alongside the smell of tea.
He watches, wary, as the beast approaches. Behind the man the wall seals up again, leaving him trapped with his fate.
The tray is presented to him with a flourish, ‘This disciple has prepared breakfast for shizun.’
Congee, he sees, white and delicate and topped with green onions. A pot of tea as well, smelling light and delicate and properly brewed. His stomach cramps at the sight. If there is gravel in that bowl it is well hidden, if the tea is brewed with warmed piss he can’t smell it. He glances from the food up to the man, reminding himself to be diplomatic, to be careful, to try not to anger, ‘It has been a very long time since I have eaten food. While I thank you for your consideration, this is too much for me right now. I will be sick if I eat so much.’ His stomach will cramp and he will be wracked with hot and cold chills— all in all not a state he wants to be in while playing human cauldron for the beast.
Something complicated crosses the beast’s face, and he sees the man’s hands shake a little, rattling the tray. ‘A mouthful or two— surely shizun can manage a mouthful or two of the congee this disciple was so generous as to make for him?’
It’s not a request. It’s clearly not a request.
If he was still strung up in the Water Prison he would take pleasure in being contrary— but he is not, and Qi-ge’s life is on the line, and now he is here, dressed like this, with all the terrible things Luo Binghe somehow never thought to inflict on him hanging in the air
‘A mouthful or two,’ he concedes, waiting for the tray to be played on the bed before him so he can reach for the spoon, only the moment the beast lets go of the tray the man snatches the thing up instead, scooping up a little congee and lifting it towards his face expectantly.
Is he really expected to submit to being fed? Obviously the answer is yes.
The beast looms over him, the spoon hovering just in front of his lips. Reluctantly he opens his mouth, expecting the congee to be poisoned, or full of crushed glass, or made with acid, or for the creature to ram the spoon deep into the soft parts of his throat to do damage, but Luo Binghe remains gentle, and the congee, when it is delicately deposited on his tongue, tastes amazing.
For a moment he doesn’t even want to swallow, closing his mouth around this first precious morsel, and letting the savoury taste soak into every corner of the mouth that has tasted nothing sweeter than demon’s blood in so, so long. ‘Is it good, shizun?’ the beast asks, some dark satisfaction glowing in red eyes. He nods as he swallows, giving the beast what he wants, and opens his mouth readily for the next spoonful.
All in all he accepts three whole spoonfuls from the beast, before raising a hand to stop the man when he attempts a forth. A frown breaks over that too handsome face. ‘Shizun is serious about rejecting the breakfast this disciple made for him.’
He can sense that dark energy in the air, the way a man like Luo Binghe feels when he’s on the cusp of some sudden and unexpected violence. He doesn’t want to have to deal with it right now. He has never liked playing sweet, pretending at being soft and seductive, a gentle creature whose sharp edges have all been ground away— and usually the very thought that someone might want that from him is enough to make him act the opposite— but right now he doesn’t feel he has a choice.
‘The congee is delicious,’ he says, and watches that frown disappear, a look of surprised wonder taking its place. With that expression on his face the beast looks little more than a boy— He’s reminded of what it was like at the end, before the Immortal Alliance Conference, when he had been foolish and complacent and almost fond of the boy— before his earlier fears had been proved true, and whatever stupid, useless emotion he had been developing for the boy had reverted back to that early fear and disgust. ‘I was not lying when I said I would be sick if I ate too much,’ he adds, dragging his mind back to the issue at hand. ‘I will have some more later, if you want me to. I just cannot manage it right now.’
‘Does shizun believe this disciple would deprive him of a freshly cooked meal later?’ the beast asks.
It feels like a trap. Considering it has been weeks, he thinks, since anything resembling food was offered to him— and he does not want to think of the things he has been made to drink— he doubts the beast wants an honest answer. Still doing his best to be sweet he replies, ‘I will be grateful for any proper meal you provide for me.’
It seems to be an acceptable answer, because something like a smile crosses the beast’s face. ‘This disciple will be glad to cook for shizun again later— Now, how about some tea?’
He glances at the pot and then the man and tells himself that if it’s bitter and overstewed and disgusting he will simply smile and compliment it. He has been made very well aware how much the beast did not appreciate having tea poured over his head in the past. How sensitive. How weak. Luo Binghe would not have lasted a month on the Qing Jing of his shizun’s day. How many times did he have tea poured over his own head? How many times did shizun take the skin off his back with the discipline whip? He may have no soft, affectionate feelings towards the man, but he is wise enough to be grateful for the opportunity to have escaped his past and made something of himself— until it all fell to nothingness.
‘Of course,’ he replies, watching as the beast pours him a cup. The liquid is light in colour, the scent delicate. He takes the cup from the beast and brings it to his lips— Ah— Well, finally the beast has learnt.
‘How does shizun find the tea?’ Is the beast looking for praise, criticism, or for an excuse to hurt him?
He takes another sip, unable to fully contain the petty urge to make the beast wait— ‘Very good,’ is what he says finally. Again that nets him a smile. The beast seems far too delighted in his praise. He doesn’t understand it.
Feeling uneasy he focuses his attention on drinking the tea. It is a small cup, delicate porcelain of the fine quality even the Qiu household would not even dream of owning. He is not sure he will be able to manage it all— but the heat soaks into cramping stomach and seems to help a little.
How much longer will this farce go on? How much longer before they must get down to business?
He hadn’t let himself think too closely about the particulars, but now it occurs to him— He glances up at the beast again, finds the creature watching him in fascination. He fights back a shudder, the urge to raise his shoulders and duck his head. ‘If—’ he begins, but his voice fails him. It takes him a moment to raise the courage to try again, and then he can’t bring himself to meet the demon’s eyes as he chokes out, ‘If you will need to bring a woman in here to help you prepare beforehand I—’ he swallows, prays to nothing, begs the universe that Luo Binghe really is more Wu Yanzi than Qiu Jianluo, ‘I would prefer you choose one I do not know.’ He does not think he could bear it were the beast to choose Ning Yingying.
For him, on a personal level, he thinks the worst accusation was the one levelled at him by her. That had fractured anything left of him. He still cringes away from the memory of her saying that he had been inappropriate with her, that he had lusted after her, that he had made her feel uncomfortable and unsafe— In short, that he had been to her a milder version of what Qiu Jianluo had once been to him.
It had tainted every good memory of his life at Qing Jing Peak. It had tainted every speck of pride he felt in himself, few though they were.
Ning Yingying was an orphan, with only a devoted aunt left in this world, but nowhere safe to live because her aunt’s husband would only take her in if he could take her as a concubine the moment he considered her old enough. After he had been hired to dispel the wrathful ghost of one of the awful man’s concubines from the household the aunt had begged him to take the girl with him, to keep her safe from the woman’s husband, which he had, and had soon grown fond of her. She was like a daughter to him— it sickens him to think she may have ever felt unsafe with him. That she was ever made aware of her body and its potential to bring another pleasure and her suffering by him. By anything he did.
For a while, when he was first brought to the Water Prison, he would dwell on it, would think back, try to work out what he did to hurt her like that. He still isn’t sure. He must have been too comfortable with her, too casual, too intimate— but it was never from lust, never from desire, only ever because he saw his role in her life as parent and not— not something like that.
No matter what has been said about him, no matter the rumours, has never desired a woman.
In all reality he is probably a cutsleeve. Would be, if he could bear the thought of a man touching him in that way. His few flickers of desire have always been awoken by men— though they have shortly after turned to nausea and fear at the thought he could want to be hurt in that way ever again— and yet here he is, having offered himself up to such treatment once more.
‘Why would I need a woman?’ the beast asks, looking honestly confused.
He carefully places the empty cup back on the tray, fidgeting for a moment, before forcing himself to answer, the words coming out sounding more hesitant and stilted than he wants them to. ‘What I offered you— the— the one-sided dual cultivation— it— it will only be possible if you are— are—’ he swallows, mouth feeling dry, the words not wanting to escape, ‘—If you are erect.’
Please be more like Wu Yanzi than Qiu Jianluo. Neither of the men were attracted to him, he was just what he could offer them. Wu Yanzi sometimes became aroused in a fight, or after a particularly nasty bit of violence, but the man took no particular sexual pleasure in hurting him. Oh, the man did hurt him, did beat him, did whip him, did cut him, did practice all manor of unsavoury demonic arts on him— but unlike Qiu Jianluo doing so didn’t arouse Wu Yanzi and turn the impulse to violence and cruelty sexual.
Sometimes he was made into a cauldron in the aftermath of a battle, but more often than not Wu Yanzi would drag him off to a brothel, where the man would hire a woman for a while, long enough for her to get the man worked up enough that he could perform. The best times, the kindest times, he was allowed to rest against the woman while Wu Yanzi made use of him. It was some sweetness, some comfort— as were the times when the man was done and he was left in the room in the brothel, a woman or girl hired to attend and take care of him when he was too weak to even move for days after, while his so-called master went off to enjoy himself elsewhere in the building.
The beast lets out a laugh, bitter and mocking. He draws back, can’t help himself, offended. ‘Oh, shizun—’ the creature says, ‘Trust that this disciple will have no trouble in that department.’
Perhaps that’s true. The creature seems quite capable of performing sexually in all sorts of undesirable situations. Still, in case what the man means is that he intends to arouse himself by torturing him— ‘If I am in too much pain, I will not be able to concentrate adequately to do what I need to do.’
‘Does shizun believe this disciple is incapable of pleasing his wives and concubines?’ the man smirks at him, something dark and strange and indecipherable in the man’s face. ‘I am no novice in the bedroom. I know what I’m doing.’
There are insinuations there he refuses to humour. It’s a mind game, that’s all. Of course the beast has no intention to treat him like one of the man’s many women, no more than he intends to act like one. Pleasure has never been any part of his experiences in this matter, and he hardly expects it, or wants it, now.
When he doesn’t answer the beast lets out a tiny laugh, then takes the tray from the bed and places it on the floor— Oh, is it going to happen now? He’s not ready. He’s not ready—
The beast comes closer, and it’s all he can do not to flinch, and— and— A hand, large and warm, cups the side of his face, tilts it up, and—
Lips. A mouth.
He’s never been kissed before—
He freezes, eyes wide, staring at the beast’s handsome face so close to his own as the man continues to press those lips to his own.
Unable to stop himself he sucks in a gasp of air, and as he does he feels a tongue flick against his open lips. No. No. Absolutely not.
All sense, all restraint, escapes him and he’s pushing the beast away before he can stop himself, hands coming up to cover his mouth. There has been some kind of misunderstanding. There has been some kind of misunderstanding. There has been some kind of—
The beast is staring at him, looking startled and young, but the edge of offence is starting to creep in— No. No. He does not want to be beaten for refusing to give master what he— What master? This is just Luo Binghe. A monster but not his owner.
Forcing his hands away from his mouth he speaks, tone calm and measured, even as his heart races in his throat. ‘I am afraid I did not properly explain— I— I will need to concentrate for this to work, so— so I will simply lay here and do that while you— you do what is necessary to— to connect us. While it is something like dual cultivation it is not something like— like sex. Kissing is not required— nor is— nor is anything else of that nature.’
‘So, you intend to lie here like a dead fish while I plough you like a fallow field?’ the man snaps at him, looking oddly annoyed.
‘I intend to sort out the issues your sword is giving you with your cultivation. That is what we agreed upon.’ He hides a wince at how snippy he sounds.
The beast opens his mouth as if to protest— before deflating, looking petulant and dissatisfied, ‘I suppose you’re right. Clever shizun, making such an offering—’ the man blows out a breath, then looks at him, eyes cold and dispassionate. ‘You had better get undressed then, shizun. A dead fish has no need of silk robes— and when you’ve got them off you’d better lie back and spread your legs. We should get this over with.’
Luo Binghe is angry with him. He can tell. He can— He doesn’t want to be hurt. He is so sick of being hurt. He just needs to— he just needs to move. To do what the man wants— why is it so hard to move? He feels frozen. The beast might as well have ripped off all his limbs for how cooperative they are.
‘—Shizun?’ a voice. It sounds like it comes from a long, long way away. ‘Shizun?’