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“Doc,” Lohen slurs, a manic grin on his face as he sways on his feet. His cape is torn, and a hand is pressed tight against the bloody mess of his shoulder. “The Millelith really need to work on their aim.”
His arrival is like a storm rolling in off the harbor—sudden, violent, and entirely too loud. Baizhu doesn’t flinch as the knight collapses onto Bubu Pharmacy’s counter, scattering vials from his belt, though he does sigh and stand as one shatters, releasing a sweet scent into the air.
It’s cloying, with an undercurrent of something metallic. Dendrobium extract. His own formula, stolen and bastardized into something far cruder than he’d ever allow in his pharmacy. He clicks his tongue with irritation, but professionalism wins out; he snaps his fingers toward Gui. “Use gloves when cleaning this,” he mutters, nudging the shattered glass with his shoe. “I’ll take him to the back.”
He’d first met Lohen a week ago, when the Favonius contingent arrived in Liyue. The first time had been all professional charm as Lohen purchased emergency medical supplies for the upcoming international fighting drills, though there’d been a gleam in his eye that promised trouble.
The second time, he’d slipped Baizhu a pouch of powdered violetgrass—an odd gesture, considering Baizhu already has shelves of the stuff, and they aren’t particularly close—but Lohen had just winked and said, “I heard you like the strong stuff.” Baizhu is no stranger to gifts from his patients, so he’d accepted with grace.
The third time, Baizhu had caught him trying to pocket a vial of paralytic elixir.
That same night, while purchasing a late meal at Wanmin Restaurant, he’d overheard two soldiers drunkenly lamenting Lohen’s habit of charging headfirst into battle.
“It’s like he wants to get shot!” the Millelith soldier had groaned.
The other, a Mondstadter, had snorted into her drink. “Oh, believe me, he does. Bastard gets off on it. But it’s not just for the thrill. Crazy little fucker keeps ‘em busy while we pick ‘em off. Terrifying, but effective.”
Effective indeed, Baizhu had thought to himself at the time, until Changsheng had hissed that it reminded her of another self-sacrificial idiot she knew, and Baizhu had pointedly ignored her and done his best to forget about Lohen and their alleged similarities.
Until now. The fourth occasion. When the consequences of Lohen’s actions had come due, and Lohen was giggling deliriously while bleeding all over Bubu Pharmacy’s counter.
Baizhu hooks an arm under Lohen’s uninjured shoulder, hefting him up with more ease than his slender frame suggests. Lohen is warm, muscles taut even in his half-conscious state, and Baizhu catches the scent of gunpowder and sweat beneath the metallic tang of blood. “You’re heavier than you look,” Baizhu huffs, dragging him toward the examination room.
Lohen’s laugh is breathless, uneven. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Doctor. Go on, keep telling me how sturdy I am while I bleed on your nice white jacket.”
Baizhu shoves Lohen onto the examination bed with more force than necessary, ignoring the knight’s delighted gasp. “Don’t bleed on my jacket,” he snaps, despite knowing the request is out of Lohen’s control to honor.
He rolls up his sleeves. The bullet wound is messy—a clean entrance but jagged exit, likely from an unstable rifling job on whatever cheap Mondstadt firearm the Millelith had been issued. Lohen’s breathing is shallow but quick, his pupils blown wide. Baizhu recognizes the look—hunger, barely restrained. Not just adrenaline.
Baizhu presses a hand against Lohen’s chest, pushing him down as vines slither from the floorboards to coil around his wrists and thighs. “Hold still,” he orders, but Lohen’s hips jerk up anyway, his hard cock brushing against Baizhu’s thigh. The knight moans, low and shameless, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “Fuck, please—”
“Honestly,” Baizhu scowls. “This is a pharmacy, not a brothel.” He pulls on gloves and assesses the wound—hot, pulsing, the edges already flushed with inflammation—but Lohen bucks again, hips canting up desperately. The vines tighten in warning, thorns lengthening and pricking against pale skin, and Lohen whines, high and punched-out, his cock twitching. Utterly shameless.
He gives Lohen his flattest, most unimpressed look. The stare over his glasses that makes trouble patients wilt.
Lohen, naturally, grins wider.
“You like this,” Baizhu observes clinically, his fingers pressing into the wound to probe for bullet fragments. Lohen’s answering moan is downright filthy, his hips stuttering against the vines. “Oh, you do. You’re aroused by pain, aren’t you?”
Lohen’s grin sharpens into something feral and unhinged. “Caught me,” he laughs, voice wrecked as Baizhu’s fingers twist deeper. Blood wells hot around his knuckles, and Lohen’s thighs tremble. “What’s—ah—what’s the diagnosis, Doctor?”
Baizhu’s fingers are slick with Lohen’s blood as he withdraws the final fragment. The knight’s breath hitches—not in pain, but something far more obscene. “Diagnosis?” Baizhu murmurs, peeling off his gloves with deliberate slowness. “Chronic recklessness. Potentially terminal idiocy. And an acute case of exhibitionism.” He flicks the fragment into a tray, watching Lohen’s pupils dilate further. “As much as it pains me to say, you don’t owe me anything for this. Ningguang has arranged for training injuries to be covered from the Millelith’s budget. So stay put and let me clean you up, unless you’d rather pass out from blood loss on my floor.”
Lohen’s grin doesn’t falter even as Baizhu presses a cloth soaked in antiseptic into the wound. His breath hisses between his teeth, but his hips jerk again, straining against the vines curled around his thighs. “You missed your calling,” Lohen sighs dramatically. “Should’ve been an interrogator. Fuck, your hands—never been fingered like that before.”
Baizhu’s fingers still against Lohen’s wound, his nostrils flaring slightly at the sheer audacity of the wording. “If you’re trying to provoke me into smothering you,” he says, voice low and measured, “I assure you, I am far too professional.” He presses the antiseptic cloth harder into the wound, noting how Lohen’s breath hitches, his cock twitching in his pants.
He bandages the wound with brisk efficiency, his fingers lingering only long enough to ensure the dressing won’t slip—no matter how Lohen squirms. The knight watches him with half-lidded eyes, his breathing still uneven.
Changsheng hmphs from her perch on Baizhu’s neck. “Disgraceful,” she hisses, though her amusement is evident. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Not as much as he is,” Baizhu counters, nodding toward Lohen’s still-hard cock straining against his trousers.
The knight grins, unrepentant, arching into the vines with another slow, filthy roll of his hips.
Baizhu tightens the final knot of the bandage with a sharp tug as Lohen’s breath stutters, his eyelashes fluttering. “Get out of my pharmacy before I charge you for indecent exposure,” he says, dismissing the vines. He'd usually keep a patient for a wound like this, but Lohen was perfectly capable of walking in here by himself, and he'd be a distraction if he stayed. He'll be back if he needs more help. He'll probably be back even if he doesn't.
But Lohen doesn’t leave. He sprawls across the examination bed, his torn cape pooling around him. “Come on, Doctor,” he purrs, fingers tracing the edge of his bandages. “I’d pay extra out of pocket for indecent exposure. Name your price.”
Baizhu stares down at Lohen—sprawled out, bleeding, and still preening like a man who’s won something—and wonders why the universe has not once, but twice, tested his patience by sending along reckless, beautiful idiots. Changsheng nudges her head against his collarbone, an unspoken I told you so hidden in her silence.
“I don’t sleep with patients,” he says, turning away to organize his bandages .
Behind him, Lohen makes a wounded, frustrated noise. “Bullshit,” he pants, heels digging into the mattress as he tries to sit up. “You’re lying. I saw how you—”
Baizhu flicks water from his fingers without turning around, his voice dripping with practiced disinterest. “I said get out, Knight. Unless you’d like me to inform your Acting Grand Master—or the Grand Master himself, now that he’s returned—that you’ve been harassing Liyue’s medical staff during official diplomatic exercises.”
“Harassment, Doctor?” Lohen’s voice is mocking. “I’d call it negotiation. But fine. I’ll play by your rules.” He finishes sitting upright with a wince that’s more theatrical than pained. “Just tell me one thing.” He tilts his head. “How long until I’m not your patient anymore?”
Baizhu doesn’t dignify Lohen’s question with a verbal response. Instead, he flicks his fingers, and the vines reappear, wrapping around Lohen’s waist like a makeshift belt before hoisting him unceremoniously off the bed and depositing him on his feet—or, more accurately, stumbling into the doorway. Lohen’s laugh is delighted as he catches himself against the frame.
“Point taken, Doc. But I do love a good manhandling, so you’ve just piqued my interest further. I’ll be back.” Lohen winks before staggering out the door, his torn cape fluttering behind him like a battle standard.
Baizhu takes a deep breath, fingers gripping the counter too hard as he collects himself.
Changsheng coils tighter around his shoulders, her tongue flicking behind his ear. “You’re blushing,” she observes, entirely too smug. “He’s just like Childe—all that reckless enthusiasm wrapped in a pretty, flirtatious package. You like this one too.”
Baizhu flicks Changsheng’s tail off his shoulder. “He’s nothing like Childe,” he mutters, though the heat lingering in his body betrays him. “Childe was an international diplomatic incident on legs. Lohen is—”
He pauses.
What is Lohen?
A headache. A hazard. A walking violation of professional conduct.
He sighs. “Fine. He’s exactly like Childe.” The admission tastes bitter. “And we both remember how that ended.”
Changsheng flicks her tongue in amusement. “Yes. With you spread across your desk and his tongue halfway up your—”
“Enough.” Baizhu pinches the bridge of his nose. “Or I’ll order you out of my pharmacy too.”
The next evening, Baizhu is elbow-deep in inventory logs when the bell above the pharmacy door chimes. He doesn’t look up. “We’re closed,” he says, brush poised over parchment. “Unless it’s an emergency.”
“It’s always an emergency with me,” Lohen informs him from the doorway, his voice bright with mischief.
Baizhu sighs, still not looking up, though the brushstroke wobbles.
Lohen’s boots thud across the wooden floorboards. “What if I said I was dying for a taste of your—”
Baizhu’s brush slips against the parchment, leaving a jagged black streak. He doesn’t bother hiding his glare as he lifts his head.
Lohen leans against his desk, hips cocked, fingertips drumming against his thigh. His uniform is pristine this time, no bloodstains or torn fabric.
“Ah,” Baizhu says dryly. “The walking emergency returns.”
Lohen grins, unbothered by Baizhu’s glare, and leans further over the desk until his shadow swallows the lamplight. “Emergency’s still walking, thanks to you,” he says, tapping two fingers against his shoulder. “Just thought I’d thank my favorite doctor properly, since someone wouldn’t let me thank him yesterday.”
Baizhu sets his brush aside with exaggerated care. “And what,” he murmurs, adjusting his glasses, “makes you believe I want your gratitude?”
Lohen leans in close enough that Baizhu catches the scents of pine resin and gunpowder beneath the crisp starch of his uniform. “Well,” Lohen smiles, “you didn’t kick me out when I bled on your floor. Or when I moaned like a whore while you dug a bullet out of me.” His knee nudges Baizhu’s side. “Face it, Doctor. You like disasters.”
“Simple medical ethics,” Baizhu deflects smoothly. “I wouldn’t kick a murderer out if they required treatment. My job is to heal. No more, no less. I leave the judgment to the Qixing. Besides, what kind of doctor would I be if I kicked people out for bleeding on my floor?” He prays Lohen forgets about the second, unaddressed part of his comment, because as he’s recently come to realize, he does indeed seem to have an affinity for men who are more disaster than human.
No such luck. Lohen grabs the nearby chair Qiqi usually sits on, spins it around, and drags it close, draping himself over the backside with his arms crossed and his chin resting on them. He cocks his head, an infuriatingly disarming movement. “Bullshit,” he says pleasantly. “I’ve interrogated enough men to recognize when someone’s lying through their teeth. You didn’t address the moaning. Or your affinity for men like me. So I propose you give me a fair chance. One date.” He holds up a single finger, pressing it against Baizhu’s lips when he opens them to protest. “No, no. Listen. Dinner—your choice of establishment—and I’ll tell you why I stole that potion. What happens after is your call, and if you still can’t stand me, I’ll leave you alone. Pinky promise.”
Baizhu sighs, the warmth of Lohen’s finger still lingering against his lips. Lohen’s grin is unhinged, but there’s an earnestness beneath it that makes Baizhu’s pulse quicken. He nudges Lohen’s finger aside. “Dinner,” he repeats, voice flat. “And then you’ll confess your crimes against my pharmacy’s inventory. How noble of you.”
“If it sweetens the deal,” Lohen adds, “you only caught one of the three vials I took. And I’ve got questions about the others, so we can talk shop. The pink one didn’t seem to do anything but make my tongue numb, and the blue one...” His grin sharpens. “Well. That one worked too well.”
Baizhu’s nostrils flare. The blue one. Not a common color for his medicines, so it’s easy to pinpoint the exact potion it must have been—an experimental blend of mist flower corolla and qingxin, designed to relax muscles for pain relief but untested for internal application. His lips thin. “You stole an untested prototype,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “And ingested it without knowing the effects.”
“Two of them,” confirms Lohen, nodding. He seems supremely unconcerned about the admission. Ah, Mondstadters—usually willing to confess to their sins, but all too rarely willing to stop committing them.
Baizhu rubs at his temples with a groan as he stands. “Take me to dinner and answer my questions, starting with ‘how are you still alive when you live like this?’” Then, as an afterthought, he adds: “Someplace with nice wine, please. I don’t drink often, but something tells me I’ll need the fortification.”
Lohen is beside him in a flash, opening the door with a courtly bow before following Baizhu outside and presumptuously linking arms with him.
Xinyue Kiosk smells of slow-cooked pork fat and jasmine tea. It's far too refined for Baizhu’s current company, but Lohen’s pick had been surprisingly apt for the request of good wine, at least. The knight lounges across from him, fingers tracing the rim of his wine cup while Baizhu picks apart the truth behind his thefts.
Baizhu swirls his wine, watching the lantern light catch on its surface. “So,” he says, voice measured, “you stole my poisons not for warfare, but for pleasure.”
Lohen’s grin widens, fingers dipping into his wine cup to swirl the liquid lazily. “Warfare is pleasure,” he corrects. “But yes. Something like the latter.” He leans forward, elbows braced on the table. “That paralytic? Perfect for taking the edge off after a fight—just enough to make everything tingle. And the blue one?” His tongue darts over his bottom lip. “Fuck, Doctor. You ever come so hard your vision whites out? Because that’s what your little prototype did to me.”
Baizhu is not a religious man. The gods are cruel, and humanity saves itself more often than not. But he casts his gaze upward nonetheless, a silent entreaty to whatever cosmic force keeps putting these reckless men in his path. “I’ll have to adjust the paralytic,” he mutters. “It’s meant to keep people from thrashing while I suture them, not to numb the tongue. And the blue one was meant for pain relief for muscles, not for...well, certainly not for that.” He downs the rest of his wine in a single inelegant swallow, his cheeks warming—not just from the alcohol.
“Ah, don’t feel bad, doc. They probably work fine for most people, I’ve just built up a tolerance.” Lohen pulls up the sleeve of his uniform to reveal thin scars—a roadmap of deliberate, calculated wounds, each faded to silver. “Mondstadt has an alchemist willing to indulge my mithridatism. And my tolerance for pain is high.” His grin softens slightly. “But I’ll admit that blue potion was special. It didn’t just numb or sting, it made every nerve sing.” He leans closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “How’d you make it? Did you spike it with electro?”
Baizhu swallows. His estimation of Lohen continues to waver; while it’s, to put it quite bluntly, patently stupid to apply unknown substances to oneself, it takes a brave soul to endure the kind of tolerance-building those scars speak of. He knows because he’s been through similar himself; a gauntlet of topical and ingested poisons as an apprentice, carefully monitored and designed to instill a deep understanding of the body and empathy for patients suffering from similar ailments. Not to mention his more recent work with Changsheng, taking injuries and illnesses into himself to spare others the pain.
And if Lohen uses this invulnerability primarily to ensure that he stays alive to keep his soldiers, and the citizens of Mondstadt, safe, then...well. They are, perhaps, not so dissimilar after all.
“No,” Baizhu finally answers. “No electro. But I used a custom technique to process the mist flower corollas—one that I developed when making preservation talismans for my ward.” His lips quirk in amusement. “You seem to be familiar with elemental theory, so you tell me what effect you think adding electro would have on such a potion.”
Lohen taps his fingers against his wine cup in a rhythm that suggests he’s already dissecting Baizhu’s words. “Electro would destabilize the cryo base,” he muses, tilting his head. “Superconduct, but not for damage, since the potion doesn’t cause damage. As a physical enhancer, it would enhance the effects on the body, making the effect last longer, and the electro would add a stimulating effect, so...” He whistles lowly. “Fuck, Doctor. You’d have something that relaxes muscles and heightens sensitivity at the same time. And it’d last. That’s—” His grin turns downright feral. “That’s wicked. You could overstimulate someone while keeping them putty in your hands.” He leans forward, chin in hands, and flutters his lashes. “Don’t suppose you’d want to give me a demonstration?”
Lohen’s gaze is molten, pupils dilated with anticipation—or perhaps the lingering effects of Baizhu’s stolen potions, depending on how long ago he’d tried them. The air between them is thick with the scent of braised pork and wine, but beneath it, something hotter coils.
Changsheng shifts, her scales cool against Baizhu’s flushed skin. “Predictable,” she murmurs, her tongue tickling the fine hairs of his neck. “You’re considering it.”
He takes a deep breath and adjusts his glasses—a nervous habit Changsheng has teased him about for over a decade now. “A demonstration,” he repeats, voice deliberately calm. “Here? In a public restaurant?”
“‘Course not, doc,” Lohen drawls, his smirk widening. “What kind of deviant do you take me for?” His voice drips with honeyed amusement. It’s clear that he knows that Baizhu knows he’d be exactly that kind of deviant, if it weren’t for the fact that neither the potion nor a source of electro can be found in the restaurant. “Clearly, we’d head back to your place.”
The rational part of Baizhu’s mind—the part that still clings to professionalism—insists he should refuse. But his curiosity about Lohen's limits, and the heat pooling low in his belly, have other ideas. “You’re insufferable,” he sighs. “Come along, then.”
Lohen’s grin is wolfish as he tosses a pouch of mora onto the table before rising with a fluid grace. He holds out a hand to Baizhu, palm-up, the picture of a gentleman. “Lead the way, Doctor.”
Changsheng makes her exit the moment they reach the pharmacy steps—slithering off Baizhu’s shoulders with a knowing flick of her tongue against his jaw. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she teases, then vanishes into the shadows. Baizhu doesn’t dignify her with a response, but his ears burn as he unlocks the door, and Lohen presses close behind him, heat radiating through his uniform, his breath warm against the nape of Baizhu’s neck.
“This will take time,” Baizhu warns him, plucking the remaining vial of the blue potion from its drawer. “You can’t rush an elemental infusion without a vision, and neither of us has command over electro.”
“I’m aware,” Lohen murmurs, his hands sliding along the exposed skin of Baizhu’s stomach. He’s short, but it puts him at the perfect height to kiss Baizhu’s nape, pressing his lips against the delicate vertebrae. “I have patience when it suits me.” His fingertips trace the waistband of Baizhu’s pants, dipping beneath to tease the soft skin there. “Unless you’d prefer me impatient?”
Baizhu shakes his head with an amused puff of laughter. “No. No, patient is fine. In fact, you can help.” He nods at a drawer nearby. “Grab a packet of powdered electro crystal from that drawer. I’ll stir it in while you monitor the cryo ratio. Easier with a vision holder than having to get out the instruments to do it.”
Lohen’s fingers are already in the drawer before Baizhu finishes speaking, rifling through with the precision of someone who’s spent too much time memorizing the layout of another man’s workspace. He unfolds a paper packet of faintly crackling purple powder, holding it up to the lamplight with a delighted hum. “Incredibly refined,” he observes. “This matches the stuff coming out of the Snezhnayan delusion factories. Someone’s been trading with the Fatui.” His voice is singsong, delighted.
Baizhu scoffs even as a flush crawls up his face at the memory of Childe. “An old acquaintance helped set me up with the trade route,” he admits, carefully reaching for the packet. “The Fatui were the only way to source legitimate Inazuman electro crystals until quite recently. Although you’ll note that there’s no Tatarigami residue—I filtered it all out myself.” His fingers brush Lohen’s as he accepts the powder, sending a small static shock between them that makes his breath hitch.
Baizhu nods at the vial as he picks up a slender glass rod. “Pop the cork and monitor the ratios. How intense do you want this?” His voice is clinical, but his heart is pounding fast at the thought of what they’re about to do.
“Intense,” Lohen all but begs, bouncing eagerly on his toes. “Overstimulate me so much it hurts, Doctor.”
Fifty percent electro concentration would be optimal, then. But Baizhu knows Lohen well enough to know he’ll say there’s more cryo than there actually is, to try to get him to add more electro.
“Thirty percent electro is our target, then,” Baizhu lies smoothly. “Tell me when the cryo concentration gets down to seventy percent.”
Lohen groans but nods, watching as Baizhu slowly stirs the electro powder in with the glass rod, the mixture swirling into a vibrant violet-blue. The air hums with elemental energy, tiny sparks dancing in the vial.
For all that Baizhu resisted Lohen’s advances earlier, feeling him hard and eager against his back is more intoxicating than the wine. His own cunt is slick already, pulse resonating with the crackling energy in the vial. He steadies his hands—this requires precision. Too fast or uneven on the mixing before it’s complete, and the superconduct reaction could externalize instead of suspending in the liquid, which would shatter the vial at a minimum.
“Seventy,” Lohen breathes. “Fuck, doc, it’s perfect. And your hands are so steady.” His fingers curl into Baizhu’s waistband, tugging him back flush against his chest. “Bet they’d feel even better inside me.”
“You may be disappointed if you’re a bottom,” Baizhu says dryly, corking the vial for transport. “I can put my fingers in you just fine if that’s what you really want, but I’m afraid I don’t have a cock, nor do I have the stamina to fuck you with a prosthetic.”
“Oh, I’m adaptable,” Lohen grins. “In all things. Didn’t have a specific configuration in mind, really, just want those hands on me or in me. Your call, but make it fast, because that vial isn’t the only thing you’ve been stirring up tonight, Doctor.” He grinds his hips against Baizhu’s ass to emphasize his point, his erection hot and insistent through the layers of fabric.
Baizhu’s breath hitches, and he tilts his head toward his bedroom in the back of the pharmacy.
Lohen wastes no time once they’re inside, crowding him against the door, already working Baizhu’s jacket off. It slides to the floor as Baizhu makes sure the latch is in place; he’s not sure how intense they’re going to get tonight, but he does know that Qiqi doesn’t need to see a single bit of it.
He grabs Lohen’s wrist as it slides under his top. “Patience,” he chides, flicking the stopper off the potion vial and pressing it to Lohen’s lips. “Drink this, then strip.”
Lohen doesn’t hesitate—his lips part around the vial’s rim, throat bobbing as he swallows the potion in a single greedy gulp. A shudder wracks his frame immediately, his breath turning ragged.
Baizhu watches, fascinated, as Lohen’s skin flushes pink.
“Fuck,” Lohen slurs, swaying on his feet, his muscles clenching erratically as if he’s deliberately focusing to stay upright. “That’s—fuck—stronger than last time.”
“Clothing,” Baizhu reminds him. Lohen isn’t in his full uniform, but there are enough complex Mondstadtian layers that he doesn’t want to be the one to take it off. “You can strip by the bed or the table if you need something to brace against or sit on.”
Lohen staggers toward the bed, fingers fumbling at his belt as the potion takes hold. His movements are jerky, over-responsive. Every brush of fabric against his skin seems to ripple through him in waves. Baizhu follows leisurely, loosening the ties of his own pants while Lohen struggles with his. There’s something fascinating about watching a man who usually moves with predatory grace reduced to trembling desperation.
By the time Baizhu removes his final layer and lets his hair down, Lohen is sprawled naked across the bed, writhing with oversensitivity—every twitch of his muscles visible beneath his flushed skin. His cock stands hard and leaking against his stomach, untouched, and Baizhu can already see the way his thighs tremble when the breeze from the open window ghosts over them. The potion is working beautifully.
“Fuck, doc,” Lohen groans. “You’re real pretty with your hair down, you know? Almost makes me feel bad about wanting to ruin you.”
Baizhu’s lips curl into a smirk as he steps forward, nudging Lohen’s trembling thighs apart with his knee. “Ruin me?” He clicks his tongue, dragging a single finger down Lohen’s sternum—just enough pressure to make him gasp. “You can barely keep your hands steady, much less wreck me.”
Lohen’s laugh is giddy. “Still gonna be the one with my cock in you, aren’t I?”
Baizhu scoffs, unimpressed. “You won’t be putting anything inside me until I’m satisfied you can behave.” He traces his finger lower, circling Lohen’s navel before dipping down to his cock—just barely grazing the flushed head with his fingertip. Lohen arches off the bed with a groan, his hips jerking helplessly. Baizhu tuts. “See? You can’t even handle a single touch.”
He presses his knee between Lohen’s thighs, spreading him wider as he leans down, letting his hair curtain them both. “You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
Lohen’s lips part—whether to argue or plead, Baizhu never finds out. A sharp gasp punches from his throat instead as Baizhu’s fingers trail lower, tracing the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, where the potion’s effects have rendered him hypersensitive. Every brush of fingertips sends tremors through Lohen’s body, his hips twitching helplessly, cock drooling against his stomach. It’s long and slightly curved, eager and straining with enthusiasm. Baizhu would call it elegant if it were attached to any other man.
He hums, pleased, and curls his fingers inward just enough to scrape his nails lightly over the tender flesh. Lohen moans, his cock pulsing intensely, and Baizhu realizes with fascination that he’s near orgasm already. Well, that won’t do. Not if he’s meant to satisfy Baizhu as well—and he is.
“I am going to be very cross with you if you spill before getting inside of me,” Baizhu informs him, sinking to his knees on the bed with measured grace.
The mattress dips beneath his weight, but Lohen’s gaze is fixated on Baizhu’s fingers drifting higher. A bead of precum wells up at the tip of his cock, trembling as he holds back with a gasp.
“Look at you,” Baizhu murmurs, shaking his head. “Desperate already, and I’ve barely touched you.” He stretches alongside Lohen on the bed, pressing a kiss to the knight’s bandaged shoulder.
Lohen moans at the pressure on the wound and rolls on top of him eagerly, bracing himself on his good arm. “If you want me to follow directions, doc, you’re gonna have to let me in you soon, because I—” his hips jerk, rubbing his cock along Baizhu’s folds, and he groans. “I can’t—it’s so much. I’ll come.”
Baizhu gasps as Lohen’s cock drags against his cunt, and he digs his nails into Lohen’s hips to still him. “Not yet,” he murmurs, though his voice wavers. The heat of Lohen’s body pressed against his is intoxicating, the reckless energy coiled in those trembling muscles irresistible. But Baizhu has never been one to rush. “You misreported the cryo ratio, didn’t you? What percent is actually electro?”
Lohen’s grin is wild and unrepentant even as he shudders under Baizhu’s grip. “Fifty-five,” he gasps, hips jerking helplessly. “Maybe sixty. Fuck, doc, it burns—” His cock twitches violently against Baizhu’s thigh, smearing precum in hot streaks. “Wanted—wanted it to hurt.”
“No wonder it tinged purple,” Baizhu huffs. “You’re a menace to yourself and everyone else, aren’t you? But I can help.” He calls on his dendro vision where it’s sitting on the nightstand, the familiar power threading through his body, and sends a pair of strong vines curling up Lohen’s thighs, encasing his legs and hips in a sturdy grip. The tip of the leftmost one sprouts a small offshoot, wrapping the base of Lohen’s cock in a slow squeeze—tight enough to keep him from coming, but not tight enough to cause real damage.
Lohen groans, head dropping forward, sweat-damp hair tickling Baizhu’s collarbones. “You’re gonna kill me,” he pants, but his hips push greedily into the vine’s grip anyway, chasing the pressure. “Fuck—fuck—doc, I can’t—”
“You’re not supposed to fuck the vines,” Baizhu says irritably. “Fuck me.”
The knight’s breath comes in ragged, uneven bursts, his muscles taut with desperation—but his hips still jerk in tiny, aborted thrusts, chasing friction even as the vine tightens further. Baizhu clicks his tongue. “I said,” he murmurs, voice low and laced with threat, “fuck me.”
He flicks his fingers and uses the vine harness to drag Lohen forward, pulling him down until the head of his cock presses against his entrance.
Lohen finally takes the hint—his breath catches as he sinks into Baizhu’s cunt. He whines, high and desperate, his thighs trembling where the vines hold him captive.
Baizhu holds his breath at the stretch, fingers curling into Lohen’s hips as the knight bottoms out in one shallow thrust.
“Fuck,” Lohen gasps, forehead dropping to Baizhu’s shoulder. “Fuck, doc, you’re—” His voice breaks off into a moan as Baizhu clenches around him experimentally, savoring the way Lohen shudders.
Lohen’s restraint snaps the moment Baizhu relaxes the vines. He bucks forward with a snarl, hips pistoning wildly as he drives in like Baizhu’s cunt is an enemy he’s trying to spear dead. His teeth find purchase on Baizhu’s collarbone, biting just shy of breaking skin, and Baizhu’s gasp fractures into a moan.
The sheer force of it—the slap of skin, the burn of overstretched muscles, the way Lohen’s fingers dig into his waist—threatens to overwhelm Baizhu’s frail constitution. His vision blurs at the edges, breath stuttering as Lohen fucks him like a man starved, all feral hunger and uncoordinated thrusts.
He barely has time to process the shift before Lohen’s hips snap forward again, driving into him with a roughness that steals his breath. The knight’s movements are erratic, almost frenzied—his fingers clutch at Baizhu’s waist hard enough to bruise, his teeth scraping against the delicate skin of his throat.
There’s something wild in Lohen’s eyes, pupils blown so wide they swallow his irises, his lips parted around panting, desperate gasps. It’s too much, too fast—the relentless pace, the way Lohen’s cock spears into him with each thrust, the sting of teeth marking his collarbone. Baizhu tightens his control over the vines again, holding Lohen back, restricting his range so he can’t fuck in quite as intensely.
Lohen makes a frustrated, denied noise at the adjustment—his hips stutter mid-thrust, forced into a slower, shallower rhythm that leaves them both panting.
Baizhu can feel the tension coiled in Lohen’s thighs where the vines press into his skin, the way his cock twitches inside him, desperate for more friction. But Baizhu needs to catch his breath, needs to think—because Lohen’s enthusiasm is threatening to either damage him or unravel him completely. His pulse hammers in his throat, sweat-drenched skin sticking to the sheets beneath him, and he knows if Lohen keeps pounding into him like that, he’ll come embarrassingly fast.
“Slower,” he instructs, slipping his hand between them to rub over his slick clit as he guides the movement of Lohen’s hips into a controlled rocking motion instead of the frantic jackrabbiting of before. “Savor the moment. It doesn’t have to be—ah—over so fast.” His breath hitches as Lohen’s cock hits his sweet spot, pleasure pooling deep in his belly.
Lohen’s hips stutter in protest when Baizhu tightens the vines—his breath ragged, his muscles trembling with pent-up need. But the restriction only stokes the fire in him further; his free arm grips Baizhu’s waist, his teeth scraping possessively over the delicate skin of Baizhu’s throat. “Fuck,” he growls, the word hot and wet against Baizhu’s pulse. “Fuck, doc—let me—” His cock twitches as if trying to burrow in further, but the vines hold him mercilessly in check.
Baizhu’s fingers press tight circles against his clit, his breath hitching as Lohen’s hips roll into him with slow, deliberate thrusts controlled by the vines still wrapped around his thighs, using the man like a living dildo to set the exact pace he wants. It’s obscene and indulgent, not to mention incredibly satisfying, to have a man such as this under his command.
But the vines don’t control Lohen’s mouth. It’s everywhere—hot, wet bites along Baizhu’s collarbone, teeth scraping over his pulse point, lips dragging over his flushed skin. Every nip sends sparks down Baizhu’s spine, his cunt clenching reflexively around Lohen’s cock.
He knows he’ll have marks tomorrow. Changsheng will tease him endlessly about the love bites she’s hiding as she curls around his neck, and the thought makes him grind down harder onto Lohen’s cock, chasing the friction. If he’s to endure the teasing, the experience had better damn well be worth it—and given the way Lohen’s breath hitches against his throat, the way Lohen’s mouth worships him, the way Lohen’s cock drags over his sweet spot with every controlled rock inside of him, it is. He could use a toy if he wanted, on any occasion, guided by vines to save his wrist the effort, but nothing compares to this; to the warmth of an eager body against his own.
His fingers move faster as the heat in his belly grows. He knows himself, knows how close he is. His thighs tremble as pleasure coils tighter, hotter, a knot of tension winding impossibly tight, and he knows it’s time. He releases Lohen, giving him free rein to ravage him as he wishes, but snakes a vine around his throat on a whim.
It’s the right call; Lohen’s lashes flutter with a pleased little sigh before his restraint snaps. He fucks into Baizhu with reckless abandon, his cock plunging deep, then dragging back with a delicious stretch that makes Baizhu gasp.
He stays low and close to Baizhu; close enough that Baizhu can watch his hazy, unfocused eyes as they glaze over, and feel the hitching of his breath as he’s slowly choked.
Baizhu circles two fingers against his clit as Lohen’s cock twitches violently inside him, his hips stuttering as he groans.
“Fuck—tell me—” Lohen’s voice is ragged, wrecked, his body trembling with the effort of holding back, his airway restricted. “Can I—?”
Baizhu’s breath is uneven as pleasure crests. “Inside,” he manages, his voice thin, wrecked. “Come inside.”
Lohen’s entire body jerks when Baizhu gives permission—his fingers dig into Baizhu’s hip, his cock pulsing hot and thick as he buries himself to the hilt with a choked groan.
Baizhu gasps as Lohen spills inside him, the warmth flooding his cunt in thick pulses, and the sensation—paired with the relentless pressure of his own fingers—tips him over the edge. His control over the vines slips as pleasure crashes through him in blinding waves, his back arching off the bed as he clamps down around Lohen’s cock, milking him through the aftershocks.
Lohen collapses, his entire body going slack as he presses his sweat-damp forehead against Baizhu’s shoulder. His cock twitches weakly, still half-hard, still leaking—evidence of how thoroughly the potion has wrecked him.
Baizhu’s fingers comb absently through Lohen’s hair as the knight’s breathing slowly evens out. He dismisses the vines, leaving them alone in the ruins of their debauchery.
His skin tingles with the aftershocks of pleasure. Lohen’s weight is heavy against him, pleasantly warm despite the sweat cooling between them. He doesn’t push him off.
Lohen shudders and lets out a ragged exhale against his throat. “Brilliant potion, doc,” Lohen murmurs, voice an absolute wreck. “Felt like—” His hips twitch weakly where they’re still pressed flush against Baizhu’s. “Like my dick was on fire.”
“Usually I’d advise you to see a doctor for that sort of symptom, but, well....” Baizhu sighs.
Lohen huffs a laugh against Baizhu’s skin, breath warm and uneven. “Think I found the right one,” he murmurs, drowsy with satisfaction. The weight of him is grounding, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against Baizhu’s chest—too fast still, but slowing.
Baizhu nudges him onto his side, taking care to put him on his good shoulder. Lohen goes willingly—limp and pliant, grinning like an idiot—and Baizhu shakes his head before standing and padding across the room. He searches through the bottles and jars on his shelves until he finds what he’s looking for: an infusion meant for bruises and muscle aches. He uses it to wet a soft cloth before returning to the bed, and presses it to Lohen’s thigh where the imprint of a vine lingers.
Lohen arches into the touch, his grin lazy and sated. “Didn’t take you for the nurturing type,” he slurs, eyelids heavy as the potion’s lingering effects and the post-orgasm drowsiness leave him boneless.
“I’m quite nurturing, actually,” Baizhu says dryly, following the vine’s path. “Comes with trying to do my best as a doctor. I believe circumstances have led to you having a distinctly different impression of me than most get. But I don’t delight in pain, as you do. In fact, it’s my life’s work to reduce it.” He switches to Lohen’s other thigh, dampening the fabric again before wiping at the reddened skin. “With men like you, however, a bit of pain can be considered ethical in the pursuit of pleasure.”
Baizhu’s fingers linger on Lohen’s thigh longer than strictly necessary—the muscle firm beneath his touch, the skin still flushed from exertion. He swipes quickly over Lohen’s neck, but it’s complicated by Lohen’s choker; next time, he’ll simply pull it tight to choke him, instead of bothering with a vine.
Next time? Ah, he’d best not, really. Then again, Mondstadt is considerably closer than Snezhnaya, so perhaps getting attached wouldn’t be quite as devastating as it had been with Childe.
Lohen watches him through half-lidded eyes, his grin slow and knowing, and Baizhu pointedly ignores him. He folds the cloth neatly, setting it aside before reaching for the quilt tangled at the foot of the bed. The evening air carries a chill through the open window, and though Baizhu’s skin still hums with warmth, he knows it will fade soon.
“You don’t want me to leave?” Lohen asks, catching Baizhu’s wrist as he drapes the quilt over them. His fingers are rough from spear calluses, but his grip is loose—an invitation to come closer, not a demand.
“Don’t mistake practicality for sentiment,” Baizhu says, tucking himself against Lohen’s chest. Their bodies press together, warm and tacky with sweat as they drift to sleep.
Changsheng will slither back in eventually and complain that her favorite neck is occupied, but for now, the quiet is theirs.
When he wakes in the morning, Lohen is long gone, the sheets cold beside him. There’s a letter on his desk, scrawled in messy Mondstadtian script, and Baizhu’s not quite sure if Lohen simply has handwriting abysmal enough to rival Xingqiu’s, or if he’s simply unused to using a brush, but he adjusts his glasses and squints to make out the words.
The note is a cheeky scrawl informing Baizhu that Lohen has slipped out for dawn training with the Millelith. Won’t be upset if they shoot me again, the messy script declares, since I know a good doctor for that. Baizhu scoffs, but the corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. Typical. He folds the note neatly and tucks it into his desk drawer—right beside the empty potion vial they’d used last night.
Changsheng slithers onto the desk, her tongue flicking out as she eyes the rumpled sheets. “Tch. Left before sunrise like a thief.” She coils around Baizhu’s wrist, her scales cool against his pulse. “You’re smiling.”
“I am not.” Baizhu adjusts his glasses, but the warmth lingering in his chest is harder to dismiss than the note. He dresses methodically, fingers pausing only briefly over the faint bite marks on his collarbone—Changsheng will never let him live this down.
Lohen returns just before noon, sweat-drenched and grinning, his shirt unlaced enough to reveal fresh bruises from whatever training exercise he’d subjected himself to.
“Miss me?” He leans against the counter, deliberately blocking Baizhu’s light. A smear of color streaks his cheekbone—not dirt from a fall, but blood from a graze. A knife, perhaps. Or a bayonet. Reckless.
Baizhu flicks a vine at Lohen’s wrist, smacking it lightly. “Move. You’re in my light.”
Lohen doesn’t. Instead, he pulls something from his belt—a small, frosted glass vial, its contents shimmering with unnatural cold. Inside, suspended in ice, is a flower so vividly red it seems to bleed into the glass. Baizhu’s breath catches. He knows this bloom, though it’s so rare it’s nameless in most texts. It thrives only in Durin’s bones, its petals containing a toxin so potent that the Adventurer’s Guild won’t accept commissions to harvest it.
His fingers hover just above the glass. The petals glow like embers, veins pulsing crimson even through the ice. Dragonspine’s Frostbloom is the most common unofficial name he’s seen for it. Deadly, exquisite, priceless. A collector’s dream. A poisoner’s holy grail.
And Lohen—reckless, grinning Lohen—drops it onto the counter like it’s a trinket he picked up at a market stall.
“Where,” Baizhu prompts carefully, “did you get this?”
“Found it,” Lohen says, as though that explains everything. “I’ve got an affinity for Dragonspine, even if killing the lawachurls out there is a pain in the ass by myself. Exhilarating place.” He leans further over the counter, deliberately invading Baizhu’s space. “Grand Master’s calling us back home, but I thought I’d bring you something nice before I left.”
Baizhu schools his expression into something less eager. “You scaled Dragonspine’s peaks for this?” He traces the frosted glass carefully. “Either you’re far more skilled than you act, or far more stupid.”
“Both,” Lohen admits cheerfully, his grin unfazed as he stretches. “But mostly I just wanted to see your face when I gave it to you.”
Baizhu resists the urge to snatch the vial immediately. “You could have died,” he grumbles, but his fingers betray him, curling around the glass with a reverence most reserve for sacred relics. “Let me put this out of Qiqi’s reach. Just one moment.”
Baizhu rises, the vial clutched carefully between his fingers. He moves toward the locked cabinet where he keeps his most volatile ingredients, his pulse rapid. Lohen follows without invitation.
Baizhu’s fingers tremble as he unlocks the cabinet and places the Frostbloom securely in a rack of vials. His pulse runs too fast—ridiculous, really, for a man who deals in death daily—but he refuses to acknowledge that it might not be due to the poison, but due to Lohen. Instead, he plucks a vial from the same rack, its contents a deep red paste. It looks more like half-coagulated blood than poison.
“Here.” Baizhu presses the vial into Lohen’s palm before he can think better of it. “Distilled from a Natlanese import, enhanced with scarlet quartz for pyro application. I bring needles dipped in it with me when I venture to Dragonspine, though I don’t tend to go far up the mountain myself. Could help with your lawachurl problem. But—” he grips Lohen’s wrist, his voice dropping low. “You don’t test this on yourself. Not even a little. This isn’t some mild paralytic you can shrug off or inoculate yourself to. At this concentration, this will stop your lungs from contracting, and you’ll die a slow, suffocating death.”
Lohen sighs dreamily. “You do like me.” His fingers close around the vial, deliberately brushing Baizhu’s palm as he takes it. The gesture is teasing, but his grip lingers a second too long, calloused fingertips catching on Baizhu’s sleeve. “I’ll behave. At least when it comes to this.” He tucks it into his belt pouch and turns to leave, his grin lazy and self-satisfied.
Baizhu’s fingers tap against the counter before he speaks. “Come back in one piece,” he warns, “or don’t come back at all.”
Lohen pauses at the doorway, hand resting against the frame, and turns his head just enough to glance back at Baizhu, his grin softening—not the reckless smirk Baizhu has grown accustomed to, but something more genuine. “You got it, doc,” he murmurs, throwing a lazy salute with two fingers. “Don’t forget about me while I’m gone.”
“As if I could,” Baizhu mutters under his breath, watching Lohen’s silhouette disappear.
The Frostbloom pulses in its vial long after Lohen leaves—an eerie, crimson heartbeat that draws Baizhu’s gaze whenever he opens the cabinet.
He tells himself it’s the rarity of the specimen that preoccupies him, not the reckless hands that delivered it. But when his fingers brush the frosted glass, it’s not the petals he sees.
It’s Lohen’s grin, sweat-slick and triumphant as he dropped his prize onto the counter like a challenge and a courting gift, wrapped into one. It’s Lohen’s expression of ecstasy as he came, buried deep inside of him. It’s Lohen’s eagerness when Baizhu had tipped the potion into his mouth, and the speed with which he’d arrived at the conclusion about adding electro.
And Baizhu is forced to admit, even to himself, that it’s not the flower he’s thinking of at all.