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The Enormous Thousand-Blood-Swords Tempest Demon

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The monster’s footsteps echo through the tomb’s labyrinthine walls, pounding closer and closer. There were five, originally. Shen Qingqiu slew one and Luo Binghe slew three, but this last one is larger and hungrier than its brethren.

“In here, in here!” Shen Qingqiu calls, shoving at the coffin lid. It doesn’t move until Luo Binghe skids to a halt beside him and lends his strength.

“You hide, shizun,” Luo Binghe grunts. He’s struggling more than he should with the coffin lid—he’s exhausted. There are bloodstains, visible only by their wetness on his black robes. “I’ll slay the demon.”

Fuck, why did he have to marry such a stubborn brute? Shen Qingqiu peeks into the coffin and is relieved to see only dust and scraps of fabric. Could be worse. He swings one leg in and grabs Luo Binghe’s arm. “You’re in no shape to fight right now, idiot. Get in!”

As soon as Shen Qingqiu touches his arm, Luo Binghe sways, looking dazed. He looks down at the coffin, then at Shen Qingqiu, and a slow smile spreads across his perfect lips. He murmurs, “If you insist, shizun.”

Shen Qingqiu has no time to regret his decisions. Luo Binghe pushes him down into the coffin and jumps in after him.

The coffin feels smaller than it looked once they’re both crammed in there, especially with Luo Binghe twisting around on top of him to slide the lid most of the way shut. He leaves only a thin crack open.

The scrape of stone on stone stops, and all Shen Qingqiu hears is the monster rumbling closer and Luo Binghe’s heavy breath in his ear. They’re pressed completely together, Luo Binghe heavy on top of him. The sliver of light gilds the side of his face—even in near darkness, he is impossibly beautiful. His dark eyes dance as he leans in even closer.

“Shizun,” Luo Binghe whispers, and the small space suddenly feels intimate. “Are you all right?”

Shen Qingqiu wriggles his arm up so he can pat Luo Binghe’s shoulder. “You don’t have to whisper,” he says in a normal voice. “These creatures are completely deaf and have no sense of smell. They rely on sight, so as long as we stay hidden, it won’t find us.”

“Wow. Shizun knows so much. What are these creatures called?”

After a moment, he answers, “They don’t have a name,” because he can’t bring himself to say Enormous Thousand-Blood-Swords Tempest Demon out loud. Truly, one of Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky’s worst inventions.

He braces himself for further inquiry, but Luo Binghe remains blessedly silent. He shifts on top of him, sword hilt digging into his hip. Uncomfortable, and Shen Qingqiu’s about to scold him when he notices warm wetness seeping into his robes.

“Are you still bleeding? How bad did it claw you?”

Luo Binghe looks away, like he’s still a student being scolded. “Not bad. The bleeding’s almost stopped.”

“It’s soaking through my robes!”

“Oh no,” Luo Binghe says thoughtfully. “Maybe you should take them off.”

Shen Qingqiu freezes and reassesses the situation. The stone coffin floor is hard against his back, but Luo Binghe’s warm body is just as immovable above him. And farther down—okay, from the angle, that really is Xin Mo’s hilt digging into his hip. But Luo Binghe’s cock is also rock hard, pressed against his stomach, and that look in his eyes—

“It’s fine,” Shen Qingqiu says faintly. “The blood will wash out.”

“I’m not so sure,” Luo Binghe murmurs, and shifts around enough that he can brace with one elbow on the stone floor and slide the other hand between them.

“Luo Binghe, this is hardly—nngh.”

Shen Qingqiu has learned a lot about self-control over the years, but he still finds it difficult to carry a conversation when Luo Binghe palms his cock through his robes. Even more difficult now that Luo Binghe has some experience under Shen Qingqiu’s belt, so to speak. He’s learned that just pawing haphazardly won’t get the reaction he wants. Shen Qingqiu responds better touches like this: slow, firm, every small movement unbearable as Luo Binghe’s fingers slide around his cock, surrounding him completely.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” Luo Binghe says, dipping down to murmur the words against his neck. “The monster can’t hear you, so you can be as loud as you want.”

“Luo Binghe, you’re—”

He curves up into Luo Binghe’s hand, choking on his own words. Even though they’re trapped in this coffin—maybe because they’re trapped in the coffin—this is a better start to sex than Luo Binghe usually manages. There’s no space for Luo Binghe to throw him disrespectfully around the room, no space for them to contort into ridiculous positions that work far better in Resentment of Chunsan or Song of Bingqiu than in real life.

All Luo Binghe can do in this cramped space is tenderly touch him and breathe against his neck. Shen Qingqiu hardens under the inescapable grip. It’s difficult to think about injuries and escape and battle strategy when the coffin warms with their quickening breath, when all his blood drops below his waist, leaving him dizzy and aching.

Shen Qingqiu throws his head back, baring his neck for Luo Binghe’s teeth. He may as well give in at this point. Besides, this is hardly the stupidest place they’ve had sex.

Luo Binghe bites down at the top of his shoulder, growling possessively, and Shen Qingqiu can’t help the way his body jerks in pleasure. Fuck. He’s going to come in his pants like a teenager, if Luo Binghe keeps up with this. His hand fists in Luo Binghe’s robe, holding him close even though they’re already as close as they can get, and he rocks up into Luo Binghe’s hand.

“Scream for me, shizun,” Luo Binghe pants, but then he surges up to take Shen Qingqiu’s lips, muffling any sound he might have made.

All right, so he’s still not the best at sex.

But his hand tightens around Shen Qingqiu, and he moves faster as Shen Qingqiu moans more desperately into the kiss. And in a blast of heat unfurling from his core, he forgets the monster, forgets the hard stone against his shoulders, forgets everything but the pleasure of Luo Binghe’s hand and the devotion pulsing through their veins. He comes, arching up, and then collapses against the coffin floor.

Luo Binghe breaks their kiss to collapse with him, forehead pressed against his collarbone.

Gradually, Shen Qingqiu remembers all his discomforts, small and great. Starting with the awkward dampness under his robes and how heavy Luo Binghe is on top of him. He shifts, struggling to regain his breath and his composure.

“So beautiful,” Luo Binghe murmurs against his chest. “So beautiful for me.”

Shen Qingqiu sighs and pats his shoulder again, since that’s all he can really reach right now. “That was pretty good,” he grudgingly admits, and it’s worth it for the way Luo Binghe practically hums with glee.

He doesn’t bother asking whether he should return the favor. He knows without checking that Luo Binghe already came too.

“Shizun is too kind,” Luo Binghe mumbles, still hiding his face.

Shen Qingqiu pats him again. He’s going to get carpal tunnel syndrome one way or another with a husband like this. “Now, have you heard the Enormous—I mean, the monster?”

“No. I can sense its presence near, but…” He shuffles around on top of Shen Qingqiu, only elbowing him briefly, and peers out the crack of the coffin lid. “Oh. It’s right there in the doorway. I think it’s asleep.”

“Oh.” Shen Qingqiu runs through best and worst case scenarios, coming up with rather more of the latter. “Have your wounds stopped bleeding yet?”

Luo Binghe settles back onto him. “No,” he says cheerfully, nuzzling into Shen Qingqiu’s neck. “Shizun is right, of course. We should be cautious. We’ll have to rest here a while longer before I can fight our way out.”

Shen Qingqiu sighs and starts counting breaths until Luo Binghe’s hand starts wandering again.

He gets to three.