Work Text:
The first thing Jinshi does when he regains consciousness is croak out, “Am I dying?”
Maomao looks unimpressed. She’s leaning over him slightly, which is not the most flattering angle for anyone, but she manages to make it work somehow.
“No,” she answers shortly. “Though you’ll probably feel like it in the next few hours.”
Ominous. Jinshi wants to complain about her bedside manner, but she’s already turning away to call out, “Gaoshun! He’s awake now, so I’ll leave you to talk to him.”
/
What happened is this: Jinshi is, objectively speaking, very beautiful. He is the sort of beautiful that makes heads turn, that draws flocks of admirers and makes maidens swoon at his feet. And he would be such a catch too, laments a besotted lady-in-waiting once, unaware that he’s within earshot and trying not to laugh about it. If only he wasn't an eunuch! Or so everyone thinks anyway. As far as covers go, this one is really ready-made to deter marriage offers. Or invitations for less savoury liaisons.
Mostly.
He’s careful about it, but sometimes, things just slip through the cracks. Things like, say, a cup of spiked wine at a party he attended alone.
/
Gaoshun fusses. He usually does, but with even more vigour this time, as if in apology. He also tells Jinshi that the culprit has been apprehended, which is not much consolation in several hours when, just as Maomao’s dire words foretold, Jinshi’s sweaty, shaking and feeling like he’s being turned inside out.
Everything aches. He curls up tight, cheek mashed to a pillow, and can barely stand to put a hand on his cock for how sensitive it is.
“Maomao,” he whines, too miserable to even care about acting so pathetic. “I hate this. Fix it.”
There is the light sound of footsteps approaching the bed before the curtains swish apart. Maomao peers down at him, eyebrows raised.
“Fix it how?” she says, looking callously unmoved by his plight.
“I don't know, you're the apothecary! Give me some disgusting medicine or knock me out or whatever, I don't even care anymore.”
This gets him a frown. “I told you already, it’s not good to mix medicines like that. You’ll have to wait for it to wear off naturally.”
“My dick might fall off before then,” Jinshi snaps, too overwrought to even think of moderating his language. Suiren would have washed his mouth out for speaking to a lady like this. Maomao just tilts her head. Some quality of her face changes; she’s looking at him with the detached, calculating gaze that she usually turns upon particularly vexing crime scenes. Other than that, her expression is totally neutral.
Maomao is here because Jinshi would rather die than have Gaoshun or Suiren see him like this. Gaoshun had tried to protest the inappropriateness of it, but Maomao had shut him up with a few sentences delivered in her usual pragmatic, no-nonsense way: “It’s nothing I haven't seen before, growing up in the red-light district. And someone has to stay and make sure he doesn't have a heart attack or a stroke.”
Jinshi had not actually thought that much about it at the time. Physicians liked to toss around worst case scenarios like that, right? And Maomao was basically a physician, sort of, since she was more or less doing the actual guy’s job. But right now, with his heart pounding in his chest, more rapidly than it ever had even for the most strenuous exercise, the possibility is feeling a lot more alarming.
It’s hard to breathe. He kicks irritatedly at the sheets tangled around his legs, searching fruitlessly for a more comfortable position.
He only stills when Maomao reaches over to take his wrist. Her hands are cool against his burning skin, fingers pressing firmly against the pulse.
Whatever she divines from doing that makes her frown. “Are you still aroused?”
It’s really unfair that she can say something like that with such a blank expression. Jinshi’s entire face is hot. He’s too aware of her hand around his wrist, the spread of her slim fingers, the slight roughness of her callouses.
“Yes,” he grits out.
She doesn't let up. “You managed to finish earlier, didn't you? Why did you stop?”
“Because it hurts!”
Maomao hums quietly. She lets go of him to rummage through her sleeve, producing a small pot. “I suppose I should have brought this up earlier but I didn't think you’d need it.”
She sets it down on the bed. “Lubricant, of a sort,” she says, in explanation, and when Jinshi just stares dumbly at it: “Well? Try it and see if it helps.”
“Ah.” Jinshi unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “That. Right now?”
Maomao just looks at him. “Yes.” The obviously goes unsaid, just like what are you waiting for is implied only by the impatient angle of her eyebrows.
“Aren't you going to -” he flounders desperately. “Turn around or something?”
“No. You said it hurts, didn't you? I have to observe in order to see how to proceed.”
Jinshi takes the pot as if in a daze. It turns out to contain a viscous-looking salve, with a vaguely herbal smell. It’s cool, when he sticks a finger in it to collect a small dab.
“Take more than that,” Maomao instructs. “It’s safe for this sort of use, don't worry.”
So Jinshi coats his palm liberally with it, to the point that the salve is in danger of dripping onto his already ruined robe. He doesn't really know why he’s still wearing it. He sweated through it long ago. It’s just that the thought of being totally naked under Maomao’s flat, assessing stare makes the bottom of his stomach drop like he just stepped off a cliff, thrilling and terrifying in equal parts.
He keeps the robe on, reaching down. And it hurts, even with the salve slicking things up, as he gingerly wraps his fingers around his dripping cock. God, it hurt, but it’s like once he starts touching himself, he really can’t bear to stop or slow down. A small, pained noise makes it out of his throat as he squeezes the head of his cock, half-turned on his side like that’ll hide anything from Maomao’s vantage point, standing over his prone form on the bed.
She lets him go on for a few minutes, just watching the clumsy, frantic way he’s palming the reddened, abused flesh. It’s awful. He thinks about coming like this, pinned under her stare like some passingly interesting specimen, and almost moans out loud.
Finally, she says, tone neutral, “Have you only been touching there?”
A small frown touches her brow at his wobbly nod. “Ah. No wonder you’re getting chafed.”
“Where -” Jinshi’s gasping for breath, at this point. “Where am I supposed to touch then?”
Maomao makes a face like she thinks Jinshi’s being purposefully obtuse. He is not. He doesn't have the mental facility to be purposefully anything right now, head completely empty, as he strokes over his slit. It spits out a small spurt of precome, adding to the mess on his robes, and he whines, hips jerking.
“Maomao, please, I really don't,” his voice hitches. “I don't know, okay, just tell me, I really feel like… ah, ah -”
“If it’s painful, stop doing it,” Maomao says, and she really is frowning now, in what might even be concern, as he curls in on himself and moans like a wounded animal.
“I - ah - can’t .” He’s shaking. The urge to touch is compulsive, even despite the pain. Some muscle memory, maybe, or misguided instinct. His palm drags roughly over his raw cock, catching slightly on the foreskin, and it hurts so badly that he could cry.
It takes Maomao reaching over to physically grab his arm to stop him.
“Enough of that,” she says sharply, and there’s something about her voice that makes him feel lightheaded and fuzzy. He goes limp, flopping over onto his back. Lets her move his hand away, when she takes his wrist again, pushing it down to the bed.
Eyes narrowed, she looks from his flushed, teary face to the needy jut of his cock, exposed by the parting of his robes. Jinshi squirms. He can’t help it. Her face was really just too impassive. It was already wretchedly embarrassing to be seen in this condition, and the way Maomao was looking at him just made it worse. Her stare makes him want to somehow both dig a hole to hide in and splay himself out, belly-up, to beg for mercy. Absolutely terrible ideas all around. Maomao wouldn't know mercy even if she was dissecting it to see all the messy inner workings of its guts.
Case in point: he watches her fold back her sleeve with neat, precise movements. Her wrist comes into view, the narrow bony jut of it, and then her slender forearm. It’s like the world’s most boring, lackadaisical little strip tease.
She either doesn't notice, or doesn't care that he’s staring as avidly as a sleazy old man in a brothel. She taps his thigh. Says, almost casually, “Open your legs wider,” and doesn't even bother to comment on the way his cock jumps, slapping wetly against his belly. It might not even exist, for all the attention she pays it, as she reaches down, hand slipping between his thighs.
Jinshi pants. “Wha - what are you - Maomao .”
He jerks, a small noise escaping him, as her fingers brush his sac. She cups it for a moment, like she’s testing the weight of it in her palm. Not ungently, though it makes him feel a bit like he’s a fruit at the marketplace being assessed. He’s not sure what it says about their relationship that it’s really turning him on.
“Just a moment,” she says absently, like Jinshi isn't about to lose his damned mind. He whines needily, hips shifting, pushing into her grip.
This at least makes Maomao turn her head to look at him, though that might actually be worse. Something about her flat, dark gaze is making his stomach do flips. “Are you not capable of holding still for two minutes? I’m trying to check something.”
“Can you check faster? I’m really dying here.”
She sighs, put-upon, like he’s really testing her patience. “Fine. I suppose it’ll work even if you don't have much left in you.”
He doesn't ask. He’s not sure he wants to know.
Maomao lets go of him, but only briefly, just to lightly press her knuckles into the soft stretch of skin just behind his sac.
“Any discomfort?”
Her tone is perfectly clinical. Detached.
“I -'' Jinshi, in comparison, stutters. His throat clicks and he has to swallow before he speaks. He is acutely aware of every movement of her hand. His entire world seems to have narrowed down to it, Maomao’s light, probing touches between his thighs.
“Jinshi?”
He sucks in a breath. “No? I mean, it doesn't hurt.”
Maomao hums. “That’s good. Let me know if that changes.”
Her touches grow more purposeful. Jinshi isn't very sure what she’s doing until her fingers rub over a spot in a way that makes his breath catch. He makes a small, startled noise. His hips shift, rising jerkily off the bed.
“There?” Maomao doesn't wait for him to settle down. She pushes against the spot again, more firmly, and it’s - strange. He’s never felt anything like that before, but there’s something about the smooth, circling pressure that makes him melt. His legs seem to fall open of their own accord, making room for her.
“Maomao,” Jinshi says, after a few minutes of this. His voice sounds weird even to his own ears, all drawn-out and wobbly. “Maomao, what is this?”
“A prostate massage,” she answers briskly, not pausing in her ministrations. “It’s a good alternative, since you seemed too sensitive to be touched directly earlier.”
“It feels good,” he mumbles, words slurring slightly, and shivers when she presses particularly hard. “Ahh….”
“It’s supposed to, yes. Do you think you can finish like this?”
Could he? Jinshi stares dazedly up at the high, shadowed ceiling. His head had fallen back at some point, which wasn't very good since he couldn't see Maomao anymore.
“Dunno. Can you pass me a pillow?”
“Why?”
“Wanna,” he’s struggling to make his body cooperate. “I wanna see .”
Maomao sighs again, but it almost sounded amused when he wasn't able to see her face. Or maybe he was just being delusional. Still, she fetches a pillow for him and even shoves helpfully at his shoulder to get him upright enough to situate it properly.
“Happy now?”
“Mhm.” There’s a pale, milky fluid beading at the tip of his cock. Jinshi stares at it with a sort of hazy fascination, and it takes him a while more to notice the corresponding puddle it’s made over his bare abdomen. The ties on his robe have come loose at some point, so it’s fallen open. He must look quite a mess. He tilts his chin down to see better and finds that his nipples are hard and almost shockingly dark even against his flushed chest, though he’s pretty sure he never touched them at any point during all this.
Maomao is leaning over him from the side. She sat down on the bed at least, rather than stoop awkwardly to reach him. Her eyes are as unreadable as always, but she’s still looking at him and the weight of her full attention makes him feel hot all over, spine tingling.
The urge to come, to be allowed to squirm and moan and further debase himself in front of her is all of a sudden overwhelming. He wants to see her face when it happens. He has to. Would she even change her expression? Or just keep watching with that impassive face, mildly disinterested, as if he were totally beneath her notice?
Jinshi whines, high in his throat, hips snapping up. His cock bounces with the motion, sweat and come splattering off him, making a mess. Maomao doesn't even bat an eye.
“Maomao, I - my cock.”
“Hah?”
“Please, please touch my cock,” he gasps out, and then writhes, limbs tangling in his own clothes. His heels skid across the sheets, the ruined silk damp and sticky with sweat. Somehow, his leg ends up pressed against Maomao’s hip, the soft cotton of her skirts cool against the outside of his thigh. “Please, Maomao, I’m really - I can’t take it anymore -”
Maomao looks at him like he’s a bug.
“Stop squirming,” she says, pushing his leg away. And just to rub salt in the wound, because she’s mean like that, she looks pointedly at him. “You have hands, don't you?”
Cruel, cruel. Why does he like her so much if this is how she treats him? Jinshi brings his trembling hand down to squeeze his poor cock, barely managing a stroke or two before moaning uselessly and letting his arm flop back to the bed.
“Shut up,” he gasps out, even though there’s no sound in the room but his own wrecked, messy panting. He can’t even bear to meet her gaze, letting his head loll back onto the pillow.
There is finally a touch of pity in Maomao’s voice. “I suppose the aphrodisiac was pretty strong. Fine, I’ll help, just this once.”
Jinshi sags, pathetically grateful. He braces himself for the touch of her hand, thinking that perhaps she’d just rest her palm against him and let the pressure nudge him towards completion, for the sake of not further irritating the sensitive skin.
Maomao, as always, defies expectations.
She tucks her hair back and leans down. Jinshi does not understand what she’s doing until her tongue is gliding over his shaft, up towards the fat, swollen head.
“Oh,” he manages, voice small, and collapses back.
Her mouth is soft. Wet, in a way he’s never felt before, and almost astonishingly, unbelievably hot. He moans, hips twitching, and is immediately pinned down by her free hand.
“Try not to move too much,” Maomao tells him. Somehow, she still looks composed, leaning over him with her hand between his thighs and mouth barely an inch away from his leaking cock. “I’m not very good at this yet. It’ll be bad if I bite you accidentally.”
Jinshi makes a strained, high-pitched sound. He has a lot to say suddenly like ‘what do you mean yet ’ or ‘good how, have you been practising, when and on who exactly’ but Maomao is already putting her mouth back on him.
Humiliatingly, he doesn't last five minutes. Hell, he doesn't even last thirty seconds. Maomao returns her fingers to that spot between his thighs. Massages it like she’s trying to milk him dry, even as she sucks on the head of his cock, cheek hollowing. Jinshi’s back arches off the bed, even as his hip aches with the force of her grip, holding him in place. He makes some sort of garbled, nonsensical sound, eyes rolling back, and just like that, it’s over. He spills into her mouth with a choked cry and goes limp on the bed. Limbs slack, only to be wracked by an occasional tremor.
Maomao waits patiently for him to be done before rising. She doesn't swallow. Instead, a small bowl appears from somewhere and she bows her head to spit everything out. Very neatly too, arm lifted so her sleeve hides the action.
Jinshi thinks that he might have some feelings about this later, once his brain starts working again. As it is, he just lies there limply, flopped over like a dead fish, trying to remember how to breathe. It’s alright though. The world is beautiful, and so is Maomao especially. He feels floaty and stupid. Was this what sex was supposed to be like? No wonder people were crazy for it.
“What are you muttering about now? Drink some water before you faint from dehydration.” Maomao presses a bowl to his lips.
Jinshi sips dutifully. He can’t seem to look away, even though his eyelids feel heavy. There’s not a hair out of place on Maomao’s head – she looks perfectly put together and not at all like she just made him come harder than he ever has in his life. The only hint of their activities is the slightly redder tint of her mouth. Other than that, she could have been in the middle of a normal day of work.
But her face has softened somewhat, like he’s finally passed some threshold of pathetic that makes him too pitiful to be mean to. Once he’s drank all the water he can stand, she pulls out a cloth and pats away the sweat on his brow before dampening it to clean up his softened cock and come-splattered belly.
It feels awkward and embarrassing, but Jinshi’s too tired to even try to wriggle away. He waits until she’s set aside both the cloth and bowl before he clears his throat.
“Can I ask for one more favour?”
Maomao’s face appears in his vision. Her head tilts, cat-like. “Another one?”
He doesn't even have the dignity not to beg. “Please.”
“I suppose I could hear it,” she concedes.
“Let me rest my head in your lap.”
Maomao blinks. He holds his breath.
“Oh, is that all?”
And just like that, she’s sliding the pillow out from under his head and replacing it with her thighs. In a rare show of sympathy, she doesn't even make him ask before carding her fingers through his hair.
Jinshi is sore and sticky and slowly becoming lucid enough to dread the thought of having to put on clothing over his chafed, sensitive skin. But Maomao rubs her thumb gently over the base of his neck and he’s out like a light.