“Honestly, I can’t believe he had the face to return. He used to sweep floors and mend clothing!”
“I know! And after everything that happened with his Highness Xie Lian, you’d think he would have just given up by now.”
Mu Qing is not as unaffected by the cruel words floating around him as he may let on. In public, he wears an impassive mask—familiar and cold. But the moment he finds himself alone in the confines of his heavenly temple, the mask slips and reveals his true face.
A bitter, ruined and vulnerable face.
They, of course, never say such words to his face. But he’s not oblivious, to the whispers and the gossip that follows him throughout the Heavenly Realm. Like a toxic trail, one that has followed him his whole life. Even as a god—he is bullied and spat upon like the common whelp he used to be.
And he is so very tired of it.
“You know, you could at least give me the courtesy of waiting until I've left the room.” He lashes out.
One of them laughs, Mu Qing is not familiar with either of them. “And why should we do that? Do you really deserve that courtesy?”
Before he can take another step, the other official pulls out a very tattered and familiar looking piece of parchment.
Mu Qing see’s red as they laugh, and then he stops dead as they set fire to the precious paper. The disciples laugh again, pointing to where he stands, trembling and frozen.
Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks and dissolve the mask in place. Mu Qing can feel it slipping—
A hand firmly grasps the back of his neck, pushing him forward—his head thrust down and out of sight.
“Don’t look! Don’t let them see.” A familiar voice hisses in his ear. Mu Qing both tenses up and relaxes at the same time, but for entirely different reasons. Still, he allows Feng Xin to steer him away.
He doesn’t have much choice but to go with him, but a small piece of him is relieved—comforted even, by Feng Xin’s presence. Despite all their faults, they’d been through more together than anyone else in their respective lives. They may have fought each other in the past, but they’d also fought together—through hundreds of years of hardship and betrayal.
He can trust him, right?
Do I trust him?
The hand at the back of his neck suddenly slips away, at the same time the sound of the temple doors slamming shut echoes throughout the empty rooms. Mu Qing keeps his head down, unable to meet the blazing gold eyes he knows he’ll find if he looks up.
Beneath the hurt and raw embarrassment of being caught without his mask, Mu Qing feels his temper begin to flare deep in his chest. It’s easy—familiar, to cross his arms and frown. He wants the fight, the urge to bite out foul words nearly overwhelming him. Feng Xin is his sparring partner, they have learned to take each other’s hits and deal careful amounts of damage in return.
But as Mu Qing opens his mouth, his retort is suddenly swallowed with the weight of Feng Xin’s tongue down his throat.
The impact of the sudden kiss knocks the breath out of Mu Qing, his back slamming into the wall. It’s not tender at all—their lips are rough, jaws aching and tongues clashing. Yet Mu Qing finds he does not object, nor does he hasten to pull away.
The anger that had threatened to boil over in his chest vanishes almost instantly. He feels the same sense of calm and release now that he does when they fight and—
Just as quickly as it had happened, Feng Xin suddenly rips away from Mu Qing, panting loudly.
Blazing gold meets shining obsidian.
“Why the hell did you do that?” Mu Qing says through clenched teeth. He wipes his mouth sloppily with the back of his hand, distracted by the taste and feel of Feng Xin on his lips—
He still leans heavily on the wall. In fact, he’s almost positive his legs won’t hold him up anyways. Otherwise he would have punched him by now.
Feng Xin absorbs the harsh bite of his words with ease, countering them easily. “You needed it—that’s why! Don’t tell me you didn’t like it. I know you did.”
Mu Qing laughs bitterly, low and rough in his throat. “Fuck you. I didn’t ask for your help. And I certainly—”
Feng Xin is kissing him.
This time though, slender fingers wrap around the base of his throat. The pressure does not hurt, nor does it cut off his oxygen. Instead, he’s pressed to the wall by that blessed hand around his throat and the hard, lean contours of Feng Xin’s body against his own.
Mu Qing whimpers.
Euphoria dances at the edges of his senses, teasing him as thoroughly as Feng Xin’s tongue. The kiss is heated from the start, they’re being consumed by the same fiery passion.
He will burn and burn and—
Feng Xin breaks away again, eyes now a molten gold. His lips part—red and angry as their emotions. This time, he doesn’t let go of Mu Qing.
“The paper. What was it?” Feng Xin demands, voice deep.
Mu Qing gasps, still reeling from the kiss. “It’s none of your business—”
“It was from your mother, wasn’t it?” Feng Xin tightens his grip on Mu Qing’s throat, watching as his eyelids dampen from unshed tears. Mu Qing says nothing, but doesn’t fight back either.
It’s ridiculous, he knows, but for the first time in a while he feels grounded. Safe. The hand around his throat is not threatening, it’s relieving. Feng Xin will not hurt him, and he realizes he knows the answer to his earlier question.
I trust him.
Feng Xin waits, watching the stern flit of emotions across Mu Qing’s face. Finally, he nods. Once.
He’s rewarded when Feng Xin presses closer, his hard length now pressing into Mu Qing’s hip.
“Good,” Feng Xin whispers roughly, the praise going straight to Mu Qing’s groin. “You need this—let me take care of you. Lose control.”
Mu Qing can’t help the moan that slips out of his mouth. He’s never been so aroused—body pulled tight as Feng Xin’s bowstring. His skilled hands keep Mu Qing pinned to the wall, the grip on his throat unwavering.
And then Feng Xin moves. His hips grind into Mu Qing, presenting that delicious friction they both desperately seek. Mu Qing doesn’t hesitate, his hands reach up into Feng Xin’s hair to pull him in for another kiss. They pant into each other’s mouths, loud and heavy. Feng Xin’s free hand slides down the front of Mu Qing’s robes, tugging on the fabric and pulling free the belt that holds it in place. Their clothing falls to the floor, until they're both left only wearing their pants and boots.
Mu Qing moans again, loud and unbridled as Feng Xin slides away from his mouth. His lips make a hot trail down down Mu Qing’s chest, kissing and biting the ivory skin. Mu Qing tugs the hairpiece holding Feng Xin’s hair free, his fingers tangling in his shoulder length hair.
He’d always wanted to see Feng Xin’s hair loose.
Feng Xin looks up at him, eyes blazing and a smirk on his lips. Fingers loosen around his neck, finally letting go as Feng Xin kneels at Mu Qing’s feet. The sight is almost too much, undoing the last shred of control Mu Qing had possessed—
Those beautifully skilled hands trace along the waistband of Mu Qing’s pants, softly brushing along the top of his stiff cock. A tease, and a promise of what’s to come. Mu Qing moans again, tightening his fingers in Feng Xin’s hair in encouragement.
“Please.” He breathes, hips moving as he tries to find more contact.
Feng Xin leans forward, pressing a hot kiss to the dip in Mu Qing’s hip, hands gripping the waistband of his pants and tugging—slowly. Too slowly.
“Patience.” He admonishes, biting into his soft skin.
Mu Qing gasps, head falling back onto the wall. He very well might just die from this. Feng Xin seems to know exactly how to rile him up, how hard to bite and where. Time seems to slow for a while, keeping them suspended in this moment—wrapped up in one another.
When his cock finally springs free Feng Xin wastes no time and presses a gentle kiss to the tip, contemplating, and then takes it into his mouth. Mu Qing’s fingers rake through his hair, urging Feng Xin to take him deeper. There is no hesitation between either of them, they match each other kiss for kiss, touch for touch. Feng Xin works his mouth along the shaft, marvelling at the taste and length. He listens to Mu Qing, listening for those telling small noises he makes when he likes something.
All the arguments, the fights, their anger—it had all led to this, working them up to finally losing themselves in each other. Mu Qing whimpers, close to that wonderful edge he’d denied himself for so long.
Fuck cultivation, fuck everything else—
His orgasm comes crashing down upon him, body bowing against the wall and hands tightening in Feng Xin’s hair. The latter takes his spend with ease, lapping up every drop eagerly as he works the martial god through the final throes of it. Mu Qing shudders with pleasure, his obsidian eyes lost in that wild churning sea of gold. Feng Xin stands, hands on Mu Qing’s waist as he kisses him—sharing the taste of his pleasure on his lips.
“See?” Feng Xin whispers into his mouth. “Doesn’t it feel good to let go sometimes?”
Mu Qing bites his lip in response, hands dragging down the muscular plains of Feng Xin’s body. “Asshole. Only if it’s you fucking me.”
Feng Xin smiles—brighter than the sun. “I’m sure that can be arranged.”