[ What? What? What the fuck? The tips of his ears burn and he knows it, even if nowhere else shows a response to the fact he has Binghe hissing and nipping at his robes, far too clear in intent when he's fucking standing there and watching him doing all this! Feeling all this! Even if he's not feeling much, he still feels a little!
What kind of natural born seducer is he anyway?!
He won't let the sweet words or forward actions deter him from his own point; he made no fucking oaths, promises, what the fuck evers Binghe made with and for himself. It makes sense, specifically in that Binghe makes up his mind and then is committed to his ideas, not one prone toward paltry things like indecision or hesitation. The fact Shen Qingqiu is someone he's made oaths to himself about is...
Beyond comprehension. Truly. Still, it's real, and he doesn't hate it. Had confessed a moment before to love, and he knows while he isn't saying it again, not a direct statement, he truly cannot right now, he'd meant it.
He holds still under the onslaught of open mouthed kisses his clothing suffers, trying pointedly not to pair those movements and places with where they'd fall on bare flesh. It doesn't matter. (It kind of matters.) Not when he takes both hands and cradles Binghe's face, thumbs stroking over his beautiful cheekbones, that face which takes so much after his mother, until one truly looks into the constellations of his eyes. If there's any obvious mark of his father, it's there. He loves that, too, the most masculine feature of his impossibly gorgeous face. ]
Those are not promises you made to me.
[ Only to Binghe. Only to himself, and his own mind. ]
I have never said I would not help, you ridiculous fool of a disciple. [ Said with fondness and affection in his voice, but dead seriousness in his eyes and the lines of his face. ] You choose not to listen if the words being said aren't the ones you want to hear, but listen now. I cannot be the only way you generate chroma. There are too many ways that can go wrong, and while you can bear with dying again, I cannot.
[ His touch is achingly gentle then, a long, slow stroke of the pads of his thumbs down Binghe's cheeks toward his jaw. ]
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What kind of natural born seducer is he anyway?!
He won't let the sweet words or forward actions deter him from his own point; he made no fucking oaths, promises, what the fuck evers Binghe made with and for himself. It makes sense, specifically in that Binghe makes up his mind and then is committed to his ideas, not one prone toward paltry things like indecision or hesitation. The fact Shen Qingqiu is someone he's made oaths to himself about is...
Beyond comprehension. Truly. Still, it's real, and he doesn't hate it. Had confessed a moment before to love, and he knows while he isn't saying it again, not a direct statement, he truly cannot right now, he'd meant it.
He holds still under the onslaught of open mouthed kisses his clothing suffers, trying pointedly not to pair those movements and places with where they'd fall on bare flesh. It doesn't matter. (It kind of matters.) Not when he takes both hands and cradles Binghe's face, thumbs stroking over his beautiful cheekbones, that face which takes so much after his mother, until one truly looks into the constellations of his eyes. If there's any obvious mark of his father, it's there. He loves that, too, the most masculine feature of his impossibly gorgeous face. ]
Those are not promises you made to me.
[ Only to Binghe. Only to himself, and his own mind. ]
I have never said I would not help, you ridiculous fool of a disciple. [ Said with fondness and affection in his voice, but dead seriousness in his eyes and the lines of his face. ] You choose not to listen if the words being said aren't the ones you want to hear, but listen now. I cannot be the only way you generate chroma. There are too many ways that can go wrong, and while you can bear with dying again, I cannot.
[ His touch is achingly gentle then, a long, slow stroke of the pads of his thumbs down Binghe's cheeks toward his jaw. ]
I cannot survive mourning you again.