Work Text:
1. First Time
A small sound next to his ear pulls him out of sleep, as the warmth atop him sighs happily and snuggles closer into his neck. He is startled, of course; Though thankfully not startled enough to lash out. It may be the smell, or just his bone deep knowledge, seated in his heart, of who is here, with him. It takes him less than a second to remember.
Shang Qinghua.
He suppresses a smile for only a moment, before remembering where they are, as well. That which he holds back, has held back for so long, is safeguarded between them in the dark and quiet of his bed. He allows the smallest curve of his lips, and presses them to soft hair.
He is not accustomed to this, may never be. For as long as he has lived, his rooms, his bed, his heart, have been empty. And who would have filled them? None have ever caught him the way this human has. He has never felt moved to make himself vulnerable, to open his arms and invite anyone into his space. Who else but Shang Qinghua is clever enough, quick enough, as dear or loyal to him? Who could ever come close?
Mobei Jun breaths in, savors the smell of Shang Qinghua’s hair, his sunshine skin. How could he come to hold these things, this warmth, so close to his heart, when he is built of ice and frost? A thousand mysteries surround his Shang Qinghua, and Mobei Jun wants to dive into every one, explore to his heart’s content.
What startles him most, he thinks, is not the subject of the wanting, but the wanting itself. Shang Qinghua is so painfully transparent in all he does, and yet a mystery that cannot be fathomed. Not surprising then, that Mobei Jun would be endlessly fascinated. Surprising, that his fascination has come to this, to pleasure, and openness, and lying here, together.
He starts when Shang Qinghua lets out an inelegant snort in his sleep. Mobei Jun had not anticipated that having a bedmate would be much more than pleasure and sleep. But of course it is more, there is a living, breathing person, so close to him that he can count his eyelashes, his freckles, match the rhythm of his breath as he sleeps. So close that if he wished to, Shang Qinghua could end Mobei Jun’s life, easily.
That thought brings the sweetness of the moment to a sudden stop, and Mobei Jun is left suddenly uneasy. The closeness has gone from dear to nerve racking in an instant. When has something as tender as this ever been a part of his life? Never. How can he possibly know what to do, how to be? Even here, when his contentment should be at its peak, such thoughts barge into his mind. He tries to force them away, desperate for the peace of only a moment ago.
He means to keep this little human at his side for as long as they live, for as long as Shang Qinghua will have him, whichever ending comes first. But what has he to offer such a man? What tenderness can he share, when his heart has been hard and empty and full of suspicion nearly as long as he can remember? He is not-
Shang Qinghua makes another small noise.
A laugh, Mobei Jun realizes. He’s laughing in his sleep.
The longing he has spent years ruthlessly pushing down and away rises up in his heart, silences the voice of his doubts. It stutters in him, so much that he too, shudders out an involuntary laugh. Quietly, though. Quietly, so as not to wake his bedmate. Quietly, so that he may continue to watch him as he dreams.
How? How can he still ache so deeply for this man, when he is here, present in his bed? He can feel him, deep in his bones, in his blood, and yet still the longing comes, unbidden.
What is he dreaming of? Mobei Jun wants to know, the knowledge surely a treasure without match. He imagines for a moment, fanciful and indulgent, that he may dive into those dreams, as Lord Luo does, find what makes his Shang Qinghua laugh. Bring it home so that his Shang Qinghua may laugh forever.
Mobei Jun stays still for a long time, keeps his Shang Qinghua warm and soft against his chest, watches as dreams flit across his face, until morning intrudes on their solitude. As night finally gives way to day, Shang Qinghua blinks awake as well, eyes soft with sleep. They gaze at each other, Mobei Jun can see the moment he passes from hazy post sleep to full waking. When his face fills with something warm and private, Mobei Jun can’t resist leaning down for a slow kiss.
The anxious thoughts float away as though they were never there, and Mobei Jun has forgotten all but the sweet smell of sunshine and the feel of soft skin against his lips.
2. Stars
The sky is clear above their camp, and the stars burn in a glittering show of beauty and majesty. It is a rare sight as they lie together, exhausted as they are. Lord Luo’s mission had been simple enough, a retrieval mission. But his Shang Qinghua’s presence had been required, as only he carried the knowledge and sharp insight to discern the real object from the thousand fakes lining the treasure room. Mobei Jun would much rather his little human stayed safe, either in the ice palace, or keeping the company of Lord Luo’s husband, but with the danger passed and the two of them settled into a bedroll, he relaxes. This is nice, for what it is. And in any case, he is here to protect his Shang Qinghua. The stars are not visible, in his rooms deep below the ground, and to bring his Shang Qinghua pleasure under them, after the day’s work was done, had been a treat for the both of them.
His Shang Qinghua had dropped to sleep after only one round, obviously weary. He is not anywhere near as strong as Mobei Jun, nor is he used to the rush of a mission, his exhaustion taking him long before it normally would. He had dozed too, for a short while, until a sound in the distance had startled him awake, hypervigilant with Shang Qinghua here. It would be so easy, for something bad to happen, now that they are relaxed and resting.
But Mobei Jun will not let anything happen.
Mobei Jun knows he should be careful not to wake him, but like this, looking at his slack sleeping face, he cannot hold back his need to touch, to feel. His heart beat picks up, for no reason other than the vastness of his feelings, the magnitude of it.
This man brings his heart to breaking, just by lying in his arms asleep.
He traces patterns across his human’s body, shapes with no meaning and lines with no end. He is fond of this spot right here, high on his human’s shoulder, where three freckles sit close together to form a triangle, and here also, low on his back, down past his shoulders, a splatter of little dots like a spray of blood. He has spent months memorizing them. They are messy and erratic, but still so beautiful. They grace his Shang Qinghua’s fragile skin, endlessly fascinating to his eyes.
His human stirs from his rest, cracks an eye open to look at him with sleep addled befuddlement. Ah, he truly had not meant to wake him, but now Mobei Jun can see so much more, as his Shang Qinghua turns to face him. Here, too, little spots across his nose, over the curve of his cheeks, a few just under his ear, marking a spot Mobei Jun knows can make his Shang Qinghua moan in increasing volume, if kissed and sucked in just the right way, at just the right moment. He passes slow fingertips over that spot, reverent.
Shang Qinghua shivers, and looks him fully in the face.
These scattered marks are his navigation point, his map to Shang Qinghua’s body. A cluster of stars to guide him home in the darkness. And he always comes back, could not stop coming back if he tried. He’s opened his arms for it, and this body pulls him in, holds him in a warmth he should hate, should recoil from. But like stars and maps and all manner of romantic things not fit for a demon king’s heart, here rests this warm body anyway. Mobei Jun has stopped questioning it. They are as they are, and he cannot find any fault in that which makes them happy.
Shang Qinghua smiles wide as he watches Mobei Jun. He returns that smile, the smallest curl of his lips, something he saves for his Shang Qinghua. In the quiet and stillness he strokes his back, traces a nonsense pattern of connected dots and paths across soft skin, bridges and roads and orbits between the two of them, for the two of them to travel together.
3. Anniversary
It has been a year.
He knows this, because his Shang Qinghua had told him so, only that morning. With slow kisses and sweet laughter and all the good things Mobei Jun keeps close to his heart.
He had presented Mobei Jun with a small gift, something Shang Qinghua had made himself. A clumsy attempt at a traditional royal scented pouch. It was poorly made, barely smelled of Shang Qinghua at all. Mobei Jun had pressed it against his heart and vowed himself to his Shang Qinghua again, anyway, nearly as shameless as Lord Luo with his love. The resulting blush in Shang Qinghua’s face had made the silliness worth it. The pouch rests now, in his free hand, his fingers tight around it. He fears, irrationally, that if he should drop it, the worst may happen.
He has had this man beside him, as his partner, his confidant, his love, his Shang Qinghua, for a year. And what has he done, in that time?
Not enough.
He holds that small hand, much cooler than it should be. His fingertips, his palm, his weak pulse, feel wrong. Warmer than Mobei Jun’s naturally low temperature, but still far too cold. He cannot warm him, he has not the right body for that. But if there is any flicker of consciousness behind his love’s eyelids, he hopes he can at least bring comfort.
Shang Qinghua’s freckles stand in shocking contrast against his too-pale skin. Like a declaration. Mobei Jun was too slow, too slow, too slow.
The attack was a surprise, as they are nearly never surprised. Vicious little vermin who Mobei Jun easily crushed beneath his heel, stamped to pieces before they could get further than the throne room. But he had been careless, arrogant. He had forgotten than his own people could betray him, would betray him, for even a whiff of power. He has become spoiled, in the knowledge of his Shang Qinghua’s fealty. In the security that he will weed out the disloyal, the weak hearted, before they can cause him trouble.
But even his Shang Qinghua can miss a spot every once in a while.
He was not fast enough, he did not see the poisoned powder until it had been blown full in his face.
He has been told that his Shang Qinghua had used his small body to drag him to the floor and away, though he cannot remember it. He has been told that Shang Qinghua had taken a face full of the poison himself, while striking out at the attacker with Mobei Jun’s sword.
Even he often forgets that his Shang Qinghua is a cultivator, a peak lord. That he too, can draw a sword in defense of his home.
Shang Qinghua left none of the remaining attackers alive.
The swell of pride in his love is more than his weary heart can take. He closes his eyes, brings his love’s hand to his face, presses it against his cheek. It’s alien, too chilled for his bright and warm Shang Qinghua. His ever moving, ever thinking, endlessly brilliant Shang Qinghua. But the little warmth it offers him is all the comfort he has, and he will hold onto it for as long as he can.
The poison had been nothing more than a momentary stunning agent, for him. Five minutes with the wind knocked out of him, his vision blurred and consciousness wavering. Five minutes it had taken Shang Qinghua to end the threat and fall to the floor. Five minutes that would have been more than enough to end Mobei Jun’s life.
Again, he’s been saved by this man again.
It is always like this.
He’d woken, still on the floor of his throne room where Shang Qinghua had thrown him, with his attendants fussing overhead. Woken to limbs that still did not work and vision blurring at the edges, and some member of his court, who he did not know, lifting a limp and pale Shang Qinghua, carrying him away from Mobei Jun.
That demon probably has the residual effects of the powder in Mobei Jun’s system to thank for his life.
He wants to break his calm veneer to bellow out his fear, wants to track down every last member of whatever disasterously stupid upstart group had dared to come into their home and harm his love, wants to rip to shreds everyone who comes near them at all. It burns and boils under his skin, a vicious mockery of the warmth his love usually brings him.
He is not powerless today, but he was rendered powerless, and Shang Qinghua paid the price.
When Mobei Jun opens his eyes, Shang Qinghua is looking up at him.
He doesn’t register what he’s seeing, at first.
“My king,” Shang Qinghua croaks, and licks his dry lips, “My king is a- alright?”
Mobei Jun is a demon with dignity. He gives away nothing, shows nothing of himself. He was raised to be a ruler, to stand with his back straight and his eyes forward, and to stoop to no one, for no one.
He crumples to the bed like his heavy heart has finally weighed him down. Bows his head low, to rest his forehead against Shang Qinghua’s.
He does not cry, but it is a close thing.
“Shang Qinghua” He says, the air punched out of his lungs. He presses kiss after kiss to that cold face, forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks, lips, chin. Follows the trails and paths of his freckles, beloved roads he knows by heart. Turns his head this way and that, for better access to those places he wishes to reach, until his Shang Qinghua bats weakly at his face, wheezes out a laugh. It sounds painful.
“Alright, alright, understood, my king is alright.” He says, and his voice is still too weak for Mobei Jun’s liking, but it is there. His Shang Qinghua is awake and speaking and Mobei Jun would give him anything, anything, so long as he does not go so cold and still ever again.
“Shang Qinghua will not do that again.” He says, resolute. “This will not happen again.”
His Shang Qinghua nods and pats his face, as though to say ‘yes, yes, my king is correct as always’. It is transparently placating, and Mobei Jun is pitifully grateful for it.
4. Nightmare
He has not slept well in the days since the attack. Rest comes slowly, and he wakes easily. More easily than before, at least. He has not had such trouble sleeping since he was very young, and haunted by the memory of a circle of cultivators, a damp cell, a child’s broken heart.
The servants have been tiptoeing around him even more than usual, the palace eerily quiet. Ostensibly so Shang Qinghua can heal in peace, though in truth it is because they fear their king’s wrath, should they gain his attention.
He knows that he is being unusually harsh. He does not care.
Shang Qinghua, however, categorically refuses to cooperate. No matter how Mobei Jun asks, demands, insists.
Pleads.
He refuses to just stay still, damn him. It’s his nature, Mobei Jun knows this, loves this part of him, too. But it is driving him to distraction. Repeatedly he has returned to their rooms, only to find them dark and empty. Each time he discovers this, he murderously stalks through the halls, searching for his Shang Qinghua. He has seen more than one guard dive into nearby doors and hallways, to avoid him.
Today was such a day.
He does not wish to control his love, does not want to hold him down or take his freedom. He loves Shang Qinghua, all of him. Without his frenetic, restless, endless energy, he would not be the same man. These past days have not been good for Mobei Jun’s rattled nerves, but he will never ask his love to stifle himself, could never.
And so he moves through the halls like a thunderstorm, frightening guards and servants alike. He finds Shang Qinghua, sometimes in the library, sometimes in his office, always working diligently, despite Mobei Jun insisting that he should just rest. Shang Qinghua will throw him worried looks, which he gallantly ignores as he follows after his wayward human, duties be damned.
He’s not being unreasonable, surely.
Tonight, he starts awake from a vision of his Shang Qinghua cold and still, laid out on the floor of a damp, dark cell, surrounded by a circle of faceless cultivators. This is not the first time he has jolted awake out of this dream. The dream, the nightmare, sends his hands flying across the bed, blindly grasping at the sheets until he finds him. Once his frantic arms are full of Shang Qinghua, he settles somewhat. He will not speak of how his stomach drops when he cannot find him, but he can allow himself here, in the dark, to hold him close.
His dreams leave him shaken in a way he cannot put words to, waking to search pathetically for Shang Qinghua in the dark. When he was a child, home and safe at last after his ordeal, he had left a lamp burning all night, to chase away the nightmares when he woke. He refuses to do it now.
A shameful part of him wishes he would let himself.
His Shang Qinghua, ever adaptive, has already adjusted to the change. He barely wakes, but soothes a sleepy hand down his king’s back, stroking over stiff shoulders and down his rigid spine. Mumbling comfort in the dark, into his king’s hair where the crown of his head tucks against Shang Qinghua’s chest.
“Shh.”
“It’s alright, I’m alright.”
“I’m here.”
“My king, my king.”
Or, Mobei Jun’s favorite response. His Shang Qinghua will hum to him, a simple tune as he brushes sleep clumsy fingers up and down his neck. He does not know it, has never heard such a song before. It’s lilting and pleasant, with dips and turns that somehow befit his human. There are sometimes even words he does not know, a language he does not speak.
His humming settles Mobei Jun as nothing else does, and he drifts to sleep again, wrapped firmly around Shang Qinghua.
——————————
Shang Qinghua lies awake long after his king has drifted back to sleep, and watches him. He’s been getting less sleep, but he won’t leave Mobei Jun to suffer alone in the dark. If he needs to lose an hour or two, who cares? He’s already long-recovered from the poison, anyway. The palace doctor mixed up his antidote faster than she’d done anything else in her life, he thinks wryly.
He knows his king is suffering, knows it’s because of him this time. He really hadn’t meant to get hit with the poison, though! Of course he hadn’t. First of all, Shang Qinghua is the best at staying alive, and second of all, he’s not usually so rash. But when he’d seen Mobei Jun start to sway on his feet and smelled the tell tale scent, had realized the severity of what was happening, he’d seen red. He doesn’t think he’s ever been so angry, not in this life, or the last. No time to plan, no time to map out his paths and choices, just him and his king and a sword to defend him.
He never thought he’d actually use his cultivation. He’d always intended to just let it slide as much as he could get away with. What use does an An Ding peak lord have for swordplay? Or a… whatever he is, to Mobei Jun, for that matter?
Maybe it’s time for him to start practicing again, though. Not for himself, he’d rather thoroughly enjoy the luxury of being a kept man. But maybe for Mobei Jun. Just in case. Cucumber-bro will be happy, anyway. He’s been nagging Shang Qinghua to quit being lazy for ages, had warned him that he might need to fight, someday. He’s not exactly looking forward to the smug ‘I told you so’ he has coming.
He slides his hand down his king’s back, soothing the both of them. The muscle there is finally, finally relaxed. Every time he’s touched his king the last few days, anywhere, he’s been so tense. Not that Shang Qinghua can blame him.
He doesn’t mean to cause him worry, but Shang Qinghua cannot, will not, stay cooped up in their rooms all day. He’s healed, he’s fine, and he has work to do. Important work, keeping-the-kingdom-running-for-his-king work. The danger has passed, Shang Qinghua has gone ruthlessly to the heart of the problem, weeding out the rebel group’s base of operations. Mobei Jun has already made short work of them. Everything is fine.
Not that he has a problem with being pampered and fussed over. He loves his king, loves his king’s attention. If he could luxuriate in their rooms as his king did nothing but cook him pulled noodles and shower him in kisses he’d be a happy man for all of his days. But this isn’t about him.
The best choice is to try and return to normalcy.
That means work and meals and going about their business, everything that makes up their usual days. And if Mobei Jun needs to follow him around for a while, check up on him, he’s more than willing to accept his presence.
If he needs Shang Qinghua to hold him in the dark, if he needs him to soothe and whisper and hum and sing, Shang Qinghua will do it. He can offer this support, he can do this. And in the coming days, he’ll become stronger, too. He’ll protect his king with everything he has, in every way he can.
If anyone had asked him where he would end up in this world, all those years ago, when he first transmigrated, how could he have ever guessed at this?
There’s a mole on his king’s neck, near his jaw, a beauty spot. He can just make it out, in the dark. Shang Qinghua loves to look at it, to touch it, to kiss it. His king’s skin is nearly unmarked, except for a few spots. There’s another one on his hip, he can draw a line from one to the other with a single swipe down Mobei Jun’s body. And there’s one more, on his ankle. Shang Qinghua has kissed lines and paths from one to the other more times than he can count.
And one more, on his inner thigh, so high up that probably Shang Qinghua is the only one who’s ever seen it. He smiles at that thought.
There’s a lot of things, that only Shang Qinghua sees.
5. Together
Sudden banging on their door jolts them both awake.
Rude, thinks Shang Qinghua. He’d been very comfortable, thanks. Who interrupts a newly married couple like that, anyway?
He gets almost no warning before his new husband rolls them to the side and hovers over him close and protective, glaring daggers at the door and growling low in his throat.
Ah, uh oh. Better distract him.
He reaches up and turns Mobei Jun’s head gently to press a kiss to his lips. Mobei Jun freezes, and the growl dies instantly. There, much better. He kisses his king one more time, a quick affectionate peck, and rolls easily out from under him, and off of their bed. There’s no danger, no killing intent behind the door. It’s going to go much better for whoever it is, if Shang Qinghua is the one who answers. One perk of sharpening his cultivation, at least, is that he can maneuver around his king a little more easily, when he needs to. Not that he’s anywhere close to as strong as his king, but he’s smaller, and faster. Mobei Jun shoots him a wounded look, but Shang Qinghua just smiles as he shrugs on a very wrinkled outer robe, retrieved from the floor, where his king had thrown it last night.
He’s made it halfway across the room before cool arms capture his waist, and a low voice whispers next to his ear, “Leave it.”
“My king-“
“Husband.”
Oh yeah. He can’t keep the smile from his voice, “My husband, what if it’s an emergency? Let this- this husband check. It sounds urgent.”
Mobei Jun, sometimes, reminds Shang Qinghua of a very big, very moody child. He doesn’t whine, but he does quietly bury his face in Shang Qinghua’s neck, and very decidedly does not let go of him. It’s adorable.
He’s just turning his head to lay another kiss to the crown of his king’s head when the knocking starts up again, loud and insistent. Shang Qinghua sighs. Can’t he have just one day without the staff having a meltdown? Even during the ceremony yesterday, there’d been one catastrophe after another, it’s a miracle they were able to get married at all.
Whatever, as long as he answers the door, he can solve whatever it is and get back to their bed.
He ducks expertly out of his disgruntled husband’s arms and lays a hand on the door. He hears a muffled thump behind him, and recognizes the sound as Mobei Jun flopping back on their bed. Good, he’s getting better and better about letting Shang Qinghua handle things like this.
He’s pretty cute doing it, too. He can just picture how his husband is laying on their bed now, probably with his arms spread, legs dangling over the edge, staring at the ceiling petulantly. It’s hard to hide his snicker, but he manages as he slides the door open.
It really is trivial, something that could have been dealt with, without him. He’s sure to make it clear to the (either very brave or very stupid, maybe both) young counselman, that he won’t be answering the door again. It will be his husband, next time (and ah- that’s actually pretty fun to say). The young man stutters and bows and flees, and alright, maybe he does have at least one brain cell floating around in there.
When he can finally, finally shut the door and turn back to his king, the sight that greets him is so much better than he even pictured. Mobei Jun is reclining against the head of their bed, watching him with a fondness Shang Qinghua has only ever seen directed at him. He’s still gloriously naked, all long muscular limbs and elegant sprawl. His beautiful hair is unbound, falling across his shoulders and chest in a way that only adds to the appeal, a beautiful frame around the masterpiece of his body.
His husband lifts an arm, holds it open and waiting for him. He goes to him, will always go to him, and slides into this place made welcoming, just for him.
He’ll always meet Mobei Jun where he is, where he needs him.