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The young child nods at Shen Qingqiu. Hair, dirty and chopped ruinously by inexpert hands, bobs with the motion. The face under that, any beauty it possesses masked by the dark bruises punched upon the child’s eyes and temple, doesn’t smile. A bony finger points in the northeast direction, and once again a voice that makes Yue Qingyuan’s ears itch speaks up to tell them that the creature they’re looking for took the missing nobleman’s son before dawn.

Shen Qingqiu drops a measly coin into the child’s waiting hand before sweeping out of the alley without looking back, promised bribe for information complete. He’d already been irritated enough at this unexpected chase; Yue Qingyuan taking pity on a street kid had only exacerbated Shen Qingqiu’s foul mood. The suffering of children has never concerned him; it has always been Yue Qi’s weakness. To his own detriment, and – even worse – Shen Qingqiu’s own.

Looking down at the child, Yue Qingyuan swallows. At this age, he’d been in charge of wrangling the other slave children for a good while. Underneath the swelling of the bruises he can imagine how the face hidden will blossom. The rags the child wears cover everything well enough for now, but the voice betrays the child. Yue Qi used to utilize the same trick, his own performance much more convincing with what he now knows was help from manipulating his qi, when the differences between the boy and the girl children started to show.

He had almost forgotten, it has been so long ago now. A concern he no longer must consider.

Dropping a few more coins into greedy hands – perhaps more than a few – Yue Qingyuan leaves to follow his shidi without once meeting the child’s eyes. He tries to put the whole encounter out of his mind; Shen Qingqiu doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

It was quick work, once pointed in the correct direction. The creature, a Tortured Spine Rat, was easily dismembered by Xia Ya. The nobleman’s son, while injured, was alive. Their true prize, an ancient artifact both An Ding and Qian Cao petitioned to be acquired for its supposed replication qualities, was unpleasantly buried in one of the excrement piles. The bulk of the post mission motions and niceties is something that Yue Qingyuan has trained himself to do without thought, and he maneuvers easily as Shen Qingqiu seethes beside him while delivering the news of the rat’s death to the townsfolk and the bratty nobleman’s son to his parents.

The thoughts he is left with, once Shen Qingqiu is sequestered away from him again on Qing Jing Peak and he, himself, is alone in his bedroom after mediating custody between an overworked Mu Qingfang and an aggressively cagey Shang Qinghua, are less easily dealt with.

Yue Qingyuan wakes from a dream, dragging air into his too small lungs. The visage of a younger Shen Qingqiu – of a small, hungry Shen Jiu – slips from behind his eyelids as he greets the first rays of sun peaking in from his curtains. His heart burns, beating fast, thumping thumping thumping like a desperate animal on the run, and as Yue Qingyuan sucks in a breath he selfishly wishes that he had never pointed out that child to Shen Qingqiu. Some memories were more peaceful once they were forgotten.

His hand, unbidden, comes to cup his chest. He tells himself that it’s to soothe his rabbiting heartbeat, but the familiar shape of it, the contour of muscle and dense fat, ground him. He is no longer that Yue Qi, too big to be a girl and hoping, praying that he stays that way. His body, well fed in the resplendent fertile lands of Cang Qiong Mountain and shaped by the brilliance of their Qian Cao Peak, holds itself in the ways Shen Jiu of his memory, of his dream, had fantasized of being.

“One day, I’ll be so big and strong that Qi-ge won’t have to pretend! I’ll beat up anyone that even thinks to look at you!”

“Does that mean this Qi-ge won’t get his Xiao-Jiu’s gaze anymore?”

“Stupid! You’ll be my wife; I’m allowed to look at you however I want!”

Closing his eyes, only for the moment it takes for him to sigh, Yue Qingyuan then looks to delicate canopy of his bed. What a stupid thing he was, indeed. Shen Qingqiu hates to look at him now. Would never gaze upon him if given the choice – and Yue Qingyuan is weak; he will not give him even that.

He’ll take, and he’ll take, every scrap of a glare. Every scrap of a sneer. Every unwilling glance and snarl and baring of Shen Qingqiu’s teeth if it means that his eyes are on him. Even if he doesn’t deserve it. So long as Shen Qingqiu stays, in the safety Cang Qiong will provide him with all the resources he could ever desire, Yue Qingyuan will take his hatred. Even if–

Yue Qingyuan has not risen to his position by idling in futile fantasies. He forces himself to rise and to dress. It is early, but not so early that it would arose suspicion if he were to be seen out of his rooms. The running of the peak is endless; there is a never ending list of things he can throw himself into to silence his mind. Picking one of his plainer guans, Yue Qingyuan plaits his hair and weaves it through. He pointedly ignores looking at the mirror upon his vanity; he has no plans to leave Qiong Ding Peak today, and hopefully not even his manor if all goes well.

It will be alright if his look is plain and utilitarian.

The day passes uneventfully; his head disciple brings him a light breakfast about a third of the way through Yue Qingyuan’s first stack of scrolls for the day, and he isn’t interrupted again until the sun is setting in the sky, painting his office in soft orange and blue hues. An apologetic smile is directed to his disciple’s exasperated slump of shoulders when she peeks her head inside, her quick assessment that he hasn’t moved from his spot accurate once again. To appease her, he drops his brush and begins one of the wrist exercises all Qiong Ding Peak disciples learn with their calligraphy, ignoring the awareness the change in position brings to the stiffness in his arms and his legs and his back, the ache in his wrists that never truly leaves.

“Shifu, have you brewed the tonic Mu-shishu prescribed?”

He hasn’t; he thinks he did some of the more intense wrist exercises Mu-shidi has prescribed him around midday, but nothing else. “Of course; this shizun is indebted to Mu-shidi’s wisdom and care.”

“As Shifu says,” she agrees, tone belaying her words.

She Li then comes inside to pass him an envelope before making her way to all the night pearls to activate them, knowing that Yue Qingyuan won’t leave his office upon receiving it. The letter is marked with the wax Shen Qingqiu uses when he’s extraordinary annoyed with him; its a near replica of one of the proprietary and expensive blends produced by their artifact peak exclusively for the peak lords, with the seal keyed into the recipients’ qi signature to circumvent prying eyes from seeing what they shouldn’t.

All of the peak lords had touched each of the twelve seals, infusing them at creation. Shen Qingqiu had then reverse engineered a close enough formula of the wax and fashioned a seal which he has never allowed Yue Qingyuan to infuse with his qi; should anyone not a Cang Qiong peak lord attempt to open a letter marked by one of the initial twelve wax seals, the letter would self destruct and alert the letter’s author. Should Yue Qingyuan open Shen Qingqiu’s, he is treated to blistering fingers, worsening the longer he holds the letter in his hands. Easily healable, afterwards, but clear in Shen Qingqiu’s distain.

“Thanking She Li,” he says.

A bow, his disciple understanding it for the dismissal it is. She pointedly doesn’t look at the letter as she straightens, used to her shishu’s petty ways. “Hoping for a pleasant night for Shifu. One filled with rest.”

Yue Qingyuan lets himself give her a soft laugh as he picks up his letter opener. The door closes softly behind She Li when she leaves, and Yue Qingyuan lets a finger trail along the imprinted bamboo in the wax. It’s likely that the contents are merely Shen Qingqiu’s mission report; anything personal, Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t commit to paper regardless of the supposed security of its transport by his favored disciple hand-delivering it unto She Li’s own person.

Still, Yue Qingyuan cherishes the chance to read any characters his Qingqiu-shidi has penned, pride and selfish joy making their home in his bosom at how elegant and beautiful the most boring of reports are by his hand. Infusing his qi into the metal in his grasp, Yue Qingyuan slices across the wax and the edge to weaken it. Immediately, the cut digs a mirror of itself into the hand holding the envelope and his skin begins to warm. The pain is nothing; he slices again underneath where he had weakened the edge and ignores the familiar blistering.

The letter within is indeed the mission report; his eyes skim over Shen Qingqiu’s delicate brushwork, the dry and to the point recounting of events. There is no mention of the child that gave them directions. And why would there be?

Shen Qingqiu had no reason to see a ghost of the child that had failed him in another anonymous, dirty street kid. Qi-ge is as good as dead to him.

And as cultivators, one presenting differently isn’t even as dangerous of an idea or a novel curiosity–

The letter crumples slightly in his hand, and Yue Qingyuan forces himself to loosen his grip as he breathes through his nose. Stupid. It’s been decades; he hadn’t even remembered until today. Even if he had…

Yue Qi would have had to fail his Xiao Jiu, yet again.

He can’t stop thinking about it. It blends into the rotation of musings he has of Shen Qingqiu, stealing his attention when he lets himself wander. Between musings of how Qingqiu-shidi’s peak is doing and whether the man has burned the latest commissioned robes is Xiao Jiu’s childish voice calling him his wife. The blurred edges of Shen Jiu’s upturned lips linger, Yue Qingyuan’s memory hazy on the finer details like if they were red from cold or red from being bitten. The burgeoning blossom of discomfort he had felt in his chest then pulses each refrain, faint but nonetheless there. The deep, endless ache of being nothing cuts him more. The wonder, the curiosity of just maybe, if things had been better for the two of them–

Yue Qingyuan looks at himself in the bronze mirror. It’s large, the carvings around the reflection ornate and finer than he or Shen Jiu would have ever realistically imagined in their youth. When he lets his eyes meet themselves, what he sees is a tired man. His hair hangs freely from his head, the thick tresses healthy despite the flecks of grey he can pick out. His eyebrows are also thick, and his nose is not too bad. His jaw is a bit sharp, and, as a cultivator, the skin on his face is near flawless. The broad shape of his shoulders is helped by the upright posture his shifu had drilled into him, and his eyes lend themselves towards people trusting in him.

Yue Qingyuan is a handsome enough man to look at, he supposes.

A pad of his finger drags itself over his jaw; he traces the bone, turning his head to observe his cheeks. Even removing the bulk of his body and his height, Yue Qingyuan thinks that he would never be mistaken as a woman with the face he has grown into. How much of it is what Yue Qi would have naturally developed versus what was coaxed along by the droughts his shifu had supplied him from Qian Cao, he supposes he will never know.

There was enough of Yue Qi still in Yue Qingyuan for Shen Jiu to recognize him, which is all that mattered.

His finger pushes the skin around his eyes; he’ll need to powder under them for the upcoming peak lord meeting this week. The poor sleep he has been having since the mission is visible if one looks too closely. Shen Qingqiu sits beside him and would notice; Qi Qingqi, if she’s in a good humor, would jokingly say something in front of everyone; Mu Qingfang would linger after the meeting, inquiring after his health.

Unnecessary for a few sleepless nights.

Yue Qingyuan lets himself stare at his face for a moment longer. His hand reaches for his recently acquired box of cosmetics. He has memories of older sisters experimenting with either thrown out or stolen goods in the night when they were by rivers to wash it off before anyone else saw, of overhearing shijie and shimei sharing tips in whispering groups out in the pavilion. Of his shizun taking powder and color to his own face to reduce the corpse-like appearance Yue Qingyuan returned empty-handed with.

His hands shake as he lifts the lid. Shen Qingqiu decorates his own eyes: a subtle kohl to make them look meaner.

Inside the box, Yue Qingyuan first spots the light face powder with which to pursue a jade like complexion; he huffs. He hadn’t known what to acquire, and he had played the ignorant man for an imaginary wife to the merchant. As sect leader, his skin is lighter than it was in his youth, but it’s still dark. Eyes sliding to his reflection, Yue Qingyuan wonders. Shen Qingqiu demands perfection of himself, of his peak, of his disciples. Would he demand peerless beauty and fashionable cosmetics from his wife? As a child, his Qi-ge’s pursuit of safety of course mattered more than being pretty. In those days, to be pretty was to be in danger, and all of them were outside regardless. As a child, a boy doesn’t want from a wife what a man does. And now, when he can surround himself by any number of beautiful and seductive mortal women–

Yue Qingyuan’s hand leaves the cosmetics box to reach to his own powder. Shen Qingqiu hates failure and useless efforts more than anything. It’s hopeless to pretend that his skin is anything other than it is; even if Shen Qingqiu wanted it, Yue Qingyuan wouldn’t have been able to provide. He dabs the powder into his skin, focusing on erasing the lack of sleep around his eyes. He attempts to create an illusion of thinner brows by layering powder upon them. Some is also pat into the underside of his jaw to try to lighten the shadows. It makes only the most minute difference.

He lifts the coral rouge out. Thinking of Qi Qingqi, he applies it to his lips, letting the pigment saturate and change the soft, pale color he is used to. Next, he follows the shape of his eyes with kohl; he doesn’t know what is the proper thickness or shape, and neither side is even his first attempt. Nor are his eyes even the second, the third. The fourth they are decent, he thinks. Less obviously has his hand been shaky and unconfident, but still the kohl is not perfectly symmetrical the way Shen Qingqiu’s lines are. The lid color he dusts on with his eyes closed and then opens them to add it to the skin below. Finally, he colors his cheeks.

Looking into the mirror, the sight that greets him is a poor attempt at a woman. He looks better than the clumsy attempts of some of the young, new disciples only due to the finer motor control of his hands, and his facial features are obvious under the makeup. Just like when he had took custody of Xiao Jiu all those years ago, he is too big and too wrong. Yue Qingyuan doesn’t even think putting his hair into a style would help.

His heart sighs; he is at the same time endlessly relieved. Coral lips part in the mirror, and sword callused fingers come to rest on top of their reflection. They’d have even been callused on the imaginary version of him that didn’t ruin Xiao Jiu’s life and got to marry him. Assuming they’d have escaped, either they would have become cultivators together or Yue Qi would have had to help work to provide.

Yue Qingyuan rubs his lips’ reflection. He forces himself to stop trying to imagine anything; he isn’t and will never be Shen Qingqiu’s wife. Not even going into Shen Qingqiu’s lack of forgiveness, Yue Qingyuan is a man. A man, and the sect leader. If they married, the politically appropriate match would be Shen Qingqiu to him, now. The thought is sour on his tongue despite his desire and the knowledge that marriage between cultivators is more balanced than between mortals, and Yue Qingyuan forces his stare from his lips to look himself in the eye.

He wouldn’t be a very good spouse at all, wife of Shen Qingqiu or husband to Shen Qingqiu.

The earrings sit upon his vanity, the small lacquered box they rest in left unassuming in the same place he’d set them two days prior. He’d initially purchased them months ago, the jade white and green with gold connecting them in the exact shades of a set of robes Shen Qingqiu favors. Unfortunately for the earrings, Shen Qingqiu had suffered a weak qi deviation back then, and Yue Qingyuan knows better than to ply the man with gifts while his pride is wounded so and suffering under both Yue Qingyuan and Mu Qingfang hovering his peak.

Also unfortunately for the earrings, Shen Qingqiu wouldn’t have worn them anyway. He hasn’t worn a single thing that Yue Qingyuan has commissioned or ordered or bought for him except for a mere winter coat back when they’d been newly raised to their roles as peak lords, all of the lords having to accept a gift from their sect leader to symbolically show their good relations. It was the dead of winter when they ascended, and despite his cultivation, Shen Qingqiu has always felt the chill that nips at him during the season. Yue Qingyuan had desperately seized his chance: he’d spent the bulk of his allowance on the commission for the nicest fur, pressing talismans of warmth into the lining.

Seeing Shen Qingqiu wrapped in something he’d provided him – even if just for the ceremony – had choked him, his heart attempting to break free from his ribs so strongly he’d felt like he would die of happiness.

Yue Qingyuan is sure that the coat was ripped into shreds as soon as Shen Qingqiu stepped foot into the bamboo house he’d inherited. Shaking his head, he turns to his reflection. Today he has to meet with his hall masters and possibly strong arm Liu Qingge into agreeing to not abscond his peak for the next two days; he’d been off the mountain the last three peak lord meetings, and Shang Qinghua is ready to attempt to rip the Bai Zhan lord’s hair out for the expenses cleaning up after him are creating. So far, the increased amount isn’t high enough Yue Qingyuan has to decree anything over Liu Qingge’s will and can leave the confrontation to Shang Qinghua, but the numbers are getting ridiculous.

A practical hairstyle, then, but more elegant than he’s been wearing around his own peak for today. Yue Qingyuan begins to section for his braids and quickly gets lost in weaving his hair. When he is almost finished, he picks a medium level formal guan to top the look off, and he sighs at the headache he knows will start halfway through his day.

Yue Qingyuan’s eyes slide to the lacquered box again. He doesn’t adorn himself in jewelry; only his guans and his elaborately embroidered robes advertise his status – and, by extension, his wealth. To adorn himself had first felt foolish; he was made head disciple quickly, but he was more focused on becoming stronger. When he thought Xiao Jiu dead, there was nothing left in him to give thought to anything but his mourning. Upon Shen Jiu’s reluctant acceptance into the sect by his shizun, Yue Qingyuan’s allowance was no longer his own; all of his money went to attempting to give Shen Jiu any comfort, any trinket that showed Yue Qi was thinking of him. Throughout the years he has allowed himself to commission robes to maintain his status, allowed himself to indulge in seasonal fruits. The thought of decorating himself, to even not think of Shen Qingqiu upon seeing a display of precious metals – or on the rare occasion Qi Qingqi or Wei Qingwei, the only other two peak lords that don finery regularly enough that it wouldn’t be overly intimate to get them something on important sect occasions – wouldn’t have ever crossed his mind until recently.

His fingers open the lacquered box before Yue Qingyuan can second guess himself; the expensive earrings are delicate in his hand, and the light jade contrasts against his skin when he holds one up to his ear. He looks...alright. The image of the earring doesn’t make him more handsome, he doesn’t think. Greens aren’t the best match for him, but it’s not so terrible he would look foolish. More than that, green is so associated with Shen Qingqiu and his Qing Jing Peak – a warm flush heats Yue Qingyuan’s cheeks. It’d be the first thing any of his fellow peak lords would think if his ears were pierced and he wore the earrings out.

A claim.

Yue Qingyuan swallows as he looks at his reflection. His fellow peak lords wouldn’t know how right they were, that Shen Qingqiu owns Yue Qingyuan’s life. Shen Qingqiu himself doesn’t–

A knock on his door cuts his thoughts off; he hurries to put the earrings back, and She Li blinks as she enters when Yue Qingyuan calls. It is strange of him to still be at his vanity when she comes to collect him; if he’s still in his rooms and not his office, he’s usually steeping his morning medicinal tea. Her eyes go to the box.

Yue Qingyuan had bought the earrings with her in tow.

“Shifu,” she bows. “Let this disciple fix your hair.”

Eyebrow raising, Yue Qingyuan looks at his disciple. His hair is symmetrical and undisturbed; he has taught her better ways to offer conversational overtures for information.

She Li smiles at him when she straightens, lips gentle in the way of a big sister finding her siblings had made a mess but she’ll help them clean it up. Slowly, telegraphing her intention, she begins to walk until she is standing behind him. Her sword and qin calloused hands tap onto the cosmetic box that Yue Qingyuan hadn’t bothered to stash away, only ever him and She Li inside his rooms, Yue Qingyuan’s first change as the Qiong Ding lord to make them off limits even for cleaning.

“Forgive this disciple’s forwardness, but this is new. With the addition of the earrings, this faithful disciple has made assumptions.”

Her hands, still being sure to telegraph, go to unpin his guan.

Yue Qingyuan catches her wrist. “There are meetings today. This master can’t be late.”

“The hall masters are otherwise occupied, Shifu.” She Li meets his eyes in the vanity mirror. Her next words are colored with amusement, “There was an accident in one of the junior classes. Nothing so serious as to need the lord of the peak, of course, but they will be busy long enough for Shifu to take a leisurely morning.”

“An accident, hm?”

“Of course. My shidi and shimei are trying their best, but such things do happen.”

Yue Qingyuan releases her wrist; he’d made her his head disciple precisely because she wasn’t scared to cause disarray to his benefit. “This shifu supposes that he will hear about whatever this is only later at the meetings?”

“Begging forgiveness again; this disciple didn’t stay after making sure it wasn’t an incident of concern.” She Li loses her amused mien. “Shifu has been contemplative, these past days. This disciple has noticed he hasn’t dressed his hair in the usual manner, but he hasn’t been taking the headache teas.”

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t say anything, curious of her assumptions, and She Li continues, voice quiet but sure.

“My sister stole our mother’s necklaces, at first. And then it was robes. If Shifu is wanting to explore, this She has practice both in doing hair and in discretion.”

Fondness for his disciple cascades through him. Yue Qingyuan huffs, shaking his head. He makes sure to make eye contact again in the mirror when he speaks. “My disciple was true in saying that she had made assumptions. Your shifu, he is not like your sister.”

A nod of acknowledgement to her error. “Then if Shifu is merely wishing to be beautiful, this She can still offer her hair services.”

Yue Qingyuan looks at the lacquered box, thinks of his face with the earrings dangling down to touch his collarbones, of his hair fashioned in a woman’s style. She Li favors practical styles, following in Yue Qingyuan’s taste. Qi Qingqi wears her hair in both practical styles adorned with hairpins and elaborate masterpieces that she must have a disciple do. Yue Qingyuan thinks of the aunties he and Shen Jiu would see on the streets, hair all the way pulled up unlike the stylish cultivators that don’t fear sweat and yanked hair. He thinks of his own fears of growing up to be beautiful, the worry carved out of him when he’d woken up on Qian Cao with no breasts in sight and a penis hanging between his legs. Of how the fear would be the only thing he’d think of outside of Xiao Jiu as he had scrambled his way to Cang Qiong Mountain Sect the first time, on the brink of dehydration, that he couldn’t be caught and taken to be a female slave. He remembers sweet moments of helping his sisters with their hair, their fingers picking out his tangles in the way he’d eventually do for Xiao Jiu. He thinks of his own shizun, allowing others to be intimate with him so as to better endear him to them, every interaction a long game to be won.

“This one would be grateful for She Li’s guidance,” Yue Qingyuan says, She Li gently removing his guan to begin.

Shen Qingqiu’s stare pierces through Yue Qingyuan. As per usual, Yue Qingyuan had been the first peak lord to reach the meeting hall, and Shen Qingqiu had been the last so as to avoid any socializing prior to the agenda starting. Because of this, he hadn’t been there when Qi Qingqi had drawn attention to it, Wei Qingwei teasing him until Mu Qingfang put a tired hand on his arm and Shang Qinghua’s face blustering while everyone else did their best to pretend they hadn’t seen it, that it was normal to see the sect leader like this.

Decorating his ears, Yue Qingyuan wears a pair of delicate earrings that simply clip to his lobes. She Li had procured them after undoing his hair and quickly redoing it into something more traditional for him to wear out two days ago, pressing them into his hand with the next stack of his paperwork for the evening. A cheeky little note had sat on top of them, revealed when Yue Qingyuan had opened their box.

It may be best if Shifu doesn’t start in Shen-shishu’s colors in public

Yue Qingyuan doesn’t know when she’d grown so bold to his face instead of behind his back like he’d taught her, but in his greedy heart he was grateful for the gift. Without it, he doesn’t know if he would have ever worn anything outside of the safety of his room. And She Li is right; after all, this latest bout of– Yue Qingyuan supposes it’s been melancholy, or insecurity, has been because of Yue Qingyuan craving to be something of Shen Qingqiu’s he had killed with his own hands. A wife. A trusted person of whom Shen Qingqiu could rely on. A brother. For he is a man, but he could attempt to be a beautiful one instead of a handsome one.

If Shen Qingqiu desired it.

Even just putting the earrings on before walking to the meeting hall, Yue Qingyuan had scoffed at the thought. Shen Qingqiu would only claim Yue Qingyuan as the worst thing that had ever happened to him, as a nuisance, every synonym he could think in his brilliant mind. Wearing his colors so boldly would be a mistake. But at least doing this, getting a reaction from the man, it would hopefully stop Yue Qingyuan from thinking about it any longer. Cease this endless dwelling on this stupid, inconsequential ideation from childhood. Xiao Jiu had only called him his future wife aloud that one time; Yue Qingyuan has no right to be obsessing over it decades later. To be distracted thinking of things that haven’t ever mattered to him before.

Throughout the meeting, dark black eyes never leave him. Even when vitriol is spit from his mouth towards their other sect siblings, Shen Qingqiu’s focus remains. Yue Qingyuan does his best to stay in control of himself, to not let his own gaze lock onto Qingqiu-shidi’s stare. If he does, he knows that either one of them will explode into some emotional outburst. The heat that pools in his gut threatens to overwhelm him, and the smirk Wei Qingwei throws his way halfway through the itinerary almost makes him stumble. His attention goes to Shen Qingqiu automatically, and he then quickly looks at the much safer option of Mu Qingfang.

Shen Qingqiu’s eyes sear into him, his intense gaze not even hidden by his fan which rests closed on the table, grip on it making his hand go white. His lips are downturned, body coiled tightly like a spring. Rage is written in ever single line of it. Yue Qingyuan swallows; it is a different rage than usual.

The sound of his earrings jangling with the movement of his head is loud in his ears. His shidi’s sharp eyes track the motion.

Yue Qingyuan does his best, but he can’t follow the rest of the meeting as well as he knows he should. His hand writes notes in Qiong Ding shorthand, but he knows that there will be large gaps in his minutes. When it is time to dismiss everyone, Yue Qingyuan watches as the usual lords rush to leave. He raises to mingle with his sect siblings that remain, but he is instead grabbed by a strong but deceptively delicate looking hand.

Shen Qingqiu’s nails dig through his robes into the flesh of his arm, and Yue Qingyuan is powerless but to follow the tug out of the meeting hall. He gives short farewells as he is pulled away; this seems to only anger Shen Qingqiu further.

His back meets the wall once Shen Qingqiu pushes open one of the less frequently used visitor halls. His shidi whips around to close the door and slam multiple privacy talismans on it. Fiery eyes soon met his, and Yue Qingyuan is struck again with the beauty that Shen Qingqiu has grown into, his body fed and mostly healthy. Silky, perfumed hair and expensive green robes look almost thrown in the wind Shen Qingqiu approaches him so quickly. His hand grabs at one of Yue Qingyuan’s earrings, yanking it painfully from his person. A snarl invades Yue Qingyuan’s space the same moment the front of his robes are fisted into a qi infused hand.

“And just who gave these to you?” Shen Qingqiu pulls him forward and then slams him back against the wall. “Answer me, you fucking–”

He almost sounds jealous, Yue Qingyuan thinks deliriously. He blinks stupidly at Shen Qingqiu’s angry scowl, and he lets his body stay maneuverable so Shen Qingqiu can continue pushing him around. His tongue goes out to wet his lip; Shen Qingqiu’s focus immediately snaps to it, unintentional, his qi flickering in his hand, and Yue Qingyuan owes She Li everything in his possession that isn’t for Shen Qingqiu.

“Does Qingqiu-shidi not like them?” Yue Qingyuan smiles. “Are they poor quality?”

Shen Qingqiu bares his teeth. “Zhangmen-shixiong should answer his shidi before his shidi rips his ears off. Who. Gave. You. The. Damn. Earrings.”

“She was being nice,” he says, purposely not saying it was his head disciple.

“Nice!?” A qi filled slap to his chest. The earring in Shen Qingqiu’s hand is thrown to the floor, and the one on Yue Qingyuan’s other ear is ripped off to join it. “She has you walking around like a whore, advertising her gift.”

The name has Yue Qingyuan sucking in a sharp breath; his legs widen of their own accord. “Qingqiu-shidi–”

“You’ve never worn any of the treasures gifted to you, not even from our allies. Don’t play me like I’m stupid. You’re not allowed to move on from me.”

A high, keening noise echoes in the visiting room as both of Shen Qingqiu’s hands fist the front of Yue Qingyuan’s robes. As if Yue Qingyuan could even dream of parting from Shen Qingqiu’s life. He lets his mouth hang open as Shen Qingqiu pulls him down, sharp teeth anchoring into the meat of his neck, deep deep deep enough to break skin and make him bleed. Greedy laps and swallows follow the rush of blood, Shen Qingqiu staying there long enough for Yue Qingyuan to feel the excitement it brings hardening against his thigh.

When Shen Qingqiu finishes using his throat as a chew toy, his mouth and chin are bloody. Yue Qingyuan wants to kiss it from his lips, use his tongue to clean the mess he’s made of him. Whimpering, not wanting to ruin the moment like he’s ruined so many others, he keeps his body still to not draw attention to either erection trapped between their robes.

A pleased, self satisfied smirk grows on Shen Qingqiu’s red lips as he looks at the painting he’s created.

“Let’s see this bitch give you anything else now, covered in my marks.”

The words make Yue Qingyuan shiver. His marks. His, his, his–

“Qingqiu-shidi, Qingqiu, please–”

Firm pressure meets his cock, Shen Qingqiu’s thigh pressing up against him, and a mean smile, white teeth bright against Yue Qingyuan’s blood, grows on Shen Qingqiu’s lips at the moan Yue Qingyuan lets out.

“At least you know whose arms you’re in, you unfaithful bastard. Calling my name so sweetly while wearing some other bitch’s gift.” Shen Qingqiu brings his mouth back to Yue Qingyuan’s jugular, nipping at it before continuing, “now, will you finally give me what I want? I suppose I should have known I’d need to get you off to get answers; you’re nothing but a man, in the end, aren’t you?”

The words make familiar discomfort rise in Yue Qingyuan’s chest. He is a man in the end, isn’t he? And Shen Qingqiu makes his dislike of them well known; he isn’t Shen Qingqiu’s Qi-ge, he isn’t the exception to the rule anymore. Not that he ever was; he was a sham, he was a liar, he was Xiao Jiu’s elder brother in name, in nausea inducing name only to him.

He doesn’t know when Shen Qingqiu realized that Yue Qi was never going to stop, that he wasn’t ever going to shed the lie, that it wasn’t merely an ill-fitting cloak to shelter him from the cold.

The arousal that Shen Qingqiu’s mood had flamed in him cools, and he attempts to bring his hands up to unwind Shen Qingqiu’s grip in his robes, to separate them. Nails dig in, the thigh between his legs rubbing up, a strong jaw locking back into place. No tongue comes out to soothe the hurt this time when Shen Qingqiu speaks.

“Guilty conscious?” The sneer is obvious. “Don’t worry, Zhangmen-shixiong, I already know you’re a man that can’t keep his promises. I’ll even clean up your mess; give me the bitch’s name, and I’ll make her disappear.”

“That really won’t be necessary.”

Shen Qingqiu growls, and Yue Qingyuan can feel his cock twitch despite himself.

“If you don’t give me a damn name, I’ll make it slow when I find her myself–”

Yue Qingyuan breathes through his nose, eyes closing, heart fluttering, as he tries to not let out any noise. The smell of Shen Qingqiu’s perfume doesn’t help him ground himself at all; his hips twitch forward, cock pressing against Shen Qingqiu’s leg. The possessive tone, the threat of violence, reminds him desperately of Xiao Jiu clawing at the other slave children for daring to try to get Yue Qi to even look at them. He’s missed it; he’s missed belonging.

Throwing his head back, baring his throat even more, Yue Qingyuan clumsily pats his hand down Shen Qingqiu’s body to his erection. A hiss ghosts on the skin of his neck at contact, and Shen Qingqiu’s hands tighten. He jerks against Yue Qingyuan’s palm; the angle is a little awkward, their bodies pressed so close together, but Yue Qingyuan cups at Shen Qingqiu’s cock all the same. He wishes he could see it, could touch it without silks between them, but he’s unwilling to ask.

Shen Qingqiu surely would come to his senses and leave him.

Calling out for Qingqiu-shidi, over and over, Yue Qingyuan lets Shen Qingqiu maul him as the two of them work each other over, himself on Shen Qingqiu’s thigh and Shen Qingqiu against his palm. The bites sometimes stray up his neck to his chin, but they always gravitate back to Shen Qingqiu’s apparent favorite spot on his jugular. When Shen Qingqiu comes, sounding almost like a surprise to him, his teeth dig in so deeply and messily as Shen Qingqiu shakes through it that Yue Qingyuan has to circulate his qi to heal himself, worried that he’d actually start bleeding out.

Heaving, Shen Qingqiu rests against him for only a moment before he slams Yue Qingyuan again into the wall. He glares as he pulls away, the tops of his robes stained beyond repair. The sight is what sends Yue Qingyuan over the precipice, bits of Shen Qingqiu’s hair already sticky with drying blood and his eyes slightly dazed. A manicured hand rushes to his cock to try to inflict pain to pull him back, but it too late. The touch only makes him moan, curling into Shen Qingqiu as he spills.

A crinkled nose greets him when he straightens. Shen Qingqiu stares directly into his eyes as he wipes his hand on Yue Qingyuan’s robes, and he sneers as Yue Qingyuan can only sheepishly grin.

“You certainly get wet enough like a whore,” he says, his usual venom softened by the breathiness of his words. His eyes have moved to Yue Qingyuan’s neck, and Yue Qingyuan can’t parse his expression.

“Your days of being one, however, are over. If I catch you again,” nails dig into the meat of his chest, right over his heart, “wearing the mark of another, I’ll make you wish that I’d have just pinned you to the wall like this.”

The encounter replays endlessly in Yue Qingyuan’s private moments, his cock paid more attention than it has ever had the whole time he’s had it. Shen Qingqiu’s words make him feel light, a floaty feeling in his head as he chokes, often forgetting to breath as he pleasures himself. The rightness of being something Shen Qingqiu doesn’t want others to have emboldens him.

With the peak lord meeting over, he usually doesn’t see Shen Qingqiu again until either he goes over to his Qing Jing Peak in a month’s time, the shortest time buffer Yue Qingyuan allows him, or a mission comes up that requires him to give his shidi a briefing. Shen Qingqiu never comes to see him outside of requests for seclusion or meetings arranged for discussing upcoming inter-sect conferences. Knowing this, he pulls out his list of preferred artisans. He pens requests, and he passes the envelopes off with his money pouch to She Li; if Shen Qingqiu was serious about trying to find his supposed “lover,” let him find out who it is. She Li will likely be tailed, and Yue Qingyuan tells her to let it happen. All the artisans will be able to say is Yue Qingyuan semi-regularly commissions pieces made up of greens and teals with motifs of bamboo and elegant cranes and protective signals, all of which Yue Qingyuan then delivers right to Shen Qingqiu’s own door.

All of which except these upcoming pieces of jewelry.

She Li laughs openly, propriety damned. Yue Qingyuan had healed his throat completely and re-clipped his abandoned earrings before leaving the visitor hall through a hidden serving entrance so no one could see him in his bloody and semen stained robes, and he had shed them immediately upon reaching his rooms. But he had bathed, throwing off his schedule for the day. Not even accounting for the time lost while with Shen Qingqiu–

So of course his head disciple laughs at him sending her out to pick up more jewelry for her shifu to fuck in, acting more like a young disciple in love than a great sect leader. Yue Qingyuan puts his head in his hands. He isn’t embarrassed enough to not go through with it, however.

He’s felt Shen Qingqiu’s teeth in his throat and the way his cock twitches as it spills; he will do anything to experience it again. To steal more and more of Shen Qingqiu, whatever his unworthy hands can take. He can be a release for him; he can mold himself into a whore for him. Decorated in pretty things, beautiful and owned.

It can be enough.

His days bleed into each other, the motions of sect work a never ending machine. Outside of the confirmation that She Li did believe she had a shadow on her delivery, nothing out of the ordinary happens. Yue Qingyuan continues as he always has until the day to pick up his first piece of jewelry arrives; the decision to pick them up in person instead of having them delivered was an easy one.

It gives Shen Qingqiu a chance to corner him. Multiple of them.

Stepping into the room he’d rented, he unpins his guan. All of his hair is quick to get tumbling loose down his back, the style a simple one he had planned to be easy to undo. In the low quality mirror, Yue Qingyuan rushes to rework it into something slightly more feminine to match his new hairpin, something understated to draw Shen Qingqiu’s eyes immediately to what was different. He had practiced, late into the evening, to memorize the movements required.

Just as he pushes the hairpin into place, the door behind him opens. Shen Qingqiu’s fan is held in front of his face, hiding the lower half, but Yue Qingyuan can clearly see the storm brewing behind his black eyes. Anger is written in every line of his body, a faint shaking overtaking him, and the door slams closed as he stalks deeper into the room.

“And where is your illicit lover?” cuts through the air.

Yue Qingyuan looks up at his jealous– can he claim Shen Qingqiu as his lover? When he’s the man that owns him but hates him? When Shen Qingqiu doesn’t want anyone else to touch him? He looks up, at the jealous man before him, and tilts his head, trying to get the pearl ended tassels to pull Shen Qingqiu’s eye to them. They are arranged to hang from the delicately sculpted bamboo stalks of the hairpin.

“This one is sure whoever shadowed his disciple has given Qingqiu-shidi a name already,” Yue Qingyuan says, pausing to swallow at intense focus Shen Qingqiu has given the hairpin, his mouth twitching and eyebrows drawn together. “As Qingqiu can see, this piece was commissioned by this Qingyuan and now is worn by him.”

Shen Qingqiu’s nostrils flare; the faintest traces of a flush begins to blossom under his skin. Yue Qingyuan wants to lower his gaze, to peak at his shidi’s waist, but he is reluctant to move, to accidentally break Shen Qingqiu’s trance upon the hairpin. The space between them is only an arm’s width, and yet it feels vast. Shen Qingqiu isn’t pressed up against him, caging him with his desire. Shen Qingqiu’s breath isn’t fanning his skin, his lean but firm body lined up neatly to Yue Qingyuan’s own. His cock isn’t taking its pleasure; his mark hasn’t been carved into Yue Qingyuan’s skin.

Yue Qingyuan wants Shen Qingqiu to snap again.

“Does Qingqiu-shidi like this one better, perhaps?”

A hand darts out to grab the hair resting on his neck; with it, Shen Qingqiu yanks. Yue Qingyuan allows himself to be maneuvered, for his head to be examined. His hair is only tied loosely in a simple woman’s bun, the exposed decorative tail of it held tightly in Shen Qingqiu’s fist. A finger comes to caress the hairpin.

A shiver runs down Yue Qingyuan’s spine at the echo of the pearl tassels in the quiet inn room.

“Is Zhangmen-shixiong thinking himself clever?” is hissed, voice tight. “No matter how much was offered, all of them only gave my name.”

A flick of the tassels before Yue Qingyuan’s head is pulled so he can look at Shen Qingqiu.

“But it’s Zhangmen-shixiong that said someone else gave him those earrings.” His pupils are blown wide; his gaze slides from Yue Qingyuan’s eyes to the hairpin. “Your little show here doesn’t prove anything.”

Without input from his brain, Yue Qingyuan’s hands fly out to grab at Shen Qingqiu’s silks. He is so stubborn–

The hand in his hair forces his head back at an uncomfortable angle. “Your hair is in a women’s style. You could have simply pushed the hairpin through where you place your guan.”

Silence, only the sound of their breathing.

He could have. But the thought had never crossed his mind. Yue Qingyuan works his jaw; he doesn’t want to do this by halves. He wants to be Shen Qingqiu’s, even if it’s just his whore, and Shen Qingqiu likes beautiful things. He likes women. Yue Qingyuan can decorate himself just like the brothel girls can, adding ornamental things to add to the canvas that is their body. So long as he doesn’t pretend to actually be a woman, it’s fine. So long as Shen Qingqiu doesn’t ask that of him, he wants this.

“Does Qingqiu-shidi….does it not please Qingqiu-shidi?”

“Zhangmen-shixiong has gone long enough already ignoring what pleases his Qingqiu-shidi,” is all the answer given. The hand in Yue Qingyuan’s hair maneuvers him so his face is level with his crotch, and Yue Qingyuan feels a giddy nervousness. His cock is indeed hard; Shen Qingqiu, whatever other emotions he has, enjoys Yue Qingyuan like this.

Shen Qingqiu’s free hand comes to sweep under Yue Qingyuan’s mouth. “I warned you that I’d make you wish you’d only been pinned against a wall, the next time.”

“This Qingyuan isn’t wearing the mark of someone else,” he counters, pulling Shen Qingqiu closer. “He knows exactly who he belongs to now.”

Nails dig into his skin, the long points for qin playing piercing through. Black eyes stare down into his own, and Yue Qingyuan opens his mouth; it’s not difficult to know what Shen Qingqiu plans to do to him.

“Whore,” is spit out, Shen Qingqiu forcing Yue Qingyuan’s jaw wider.