Work Text:
Mobei-jun sat silently on thick cushions, his robe draped loosely over his shoulders, exposing the recent cuts and bruises darkening his pale skin. His chin was held high, pride unwavering, but his gaze remained fixed on the man kneeling before him—the only alpha he allowed this closeness.
Shang Qinghua said nothing, his fingers moving with care as he cleaned each wound, attentive even to the smallest signs of discomfort. The silence between them was familiar, comfortable. There was something almost ritualistic in the way the lord of An Ding Peak attended to him, as if sealing promises in each soft stroke with the damp cloth.
Then, he pulled a small ceramic vial from his sleeve, uncapping it with gentle hands.
The scent that escaped was subtle, warm, faintly woody—a smell that could only be Shang Qinghua’s. An essential oil of his own making, mixed with rare herbs and the unmistakable scent of his recessive alpha pheromones. It was something Mobei-jun recognized even in his dreams.
"This helps the skin regenerate better," Shang murmured, his voice soft, almost shy. He rubbed the oil into his palms before gently spreading it across Mobei-jun's shoulders and arms.
Mobei-jun closed his eyes, his forehead still furrowed with the tension from his confrontation with Luo Binghe, the accumulated anger, his pride wounded. But the warmth of Shang Qinghua’s hands… the scent… it slowly began to ease it all. He inhaled deeply, as if wanting to lose himself in the moment, forever.
Shang Qinghua rose slowly, his robes still damp at the knees. Holding his breath, he leaned in, sealing his lips to Mobei-jun’s with the delicacy of one who fears rejection, even after all these years, but the resolve of someone who can no longer delay.
"My king… you did well," he whispered, his voice thick with relief and something deeper.
Mobei-jun snorted softly, averting his gaze, though his hands still gripped Shang Qinghua’s hips.
"You knew I wouldn't win," Mobei-jun said, bitterness creeping into his voice, his eyes reflecting a mix of curiosity and hurt.
Shang Qinghua let out a thoughtful hum, his gaze momentarily shifting elsewhere.
Because yes. He knew.
And the worst part was that he had said it. Straightforward, without sugarcoating. He had told Mobei that, if it came to facing Luo Binghe, the best course of action would be to bow. Rationally, strategically—safest. But Mobei-jun hated that suggestion. He hated the thought of bowing before someone he viewed as unpredictable, emotionally unstable, and human.
The argument had been ugly. Intense. For days afterward, Mobei had refused to let Shang Qinghua in his bed. Weeks passed without any contact. The silence between them was harder than any shout. Still, Shang Qinghua had not backed down. He never retreated on matters that were important. And Mobei didn’t forgive him until he had truly faced Luo Binghe.
His protagonist had the halo of protagonism. He was unbeatable. He shattered worlds, tamed heavens, and devoured hearts. Not even Mobei-jun, a strong omega, a formidable strategist, and one of the most powerful demons Shang had ever known, could face him head-to-head and come out unscathed.
Mobei-jun served a different role. He was the right hand. The first ally. The shield before the sword. There was no shame in that, not for Shang Qinghua. Even if Mobei saw it as the shadow of a throne he never wished to share.
But Shang Qinghua knew. He knew that in terms of pure strength, the Northern King stood shoulder to shoulder with Liu Qingge. Both were exceptional warriors, merciless, resilient. But Liu Qingge was impulsive, a kamikaze by nature. He jumped headfirst into danger without thinking of the consequences. Without caring. And that sometimes made him lose.
Mobei-jun was not like that.
Mobei was sharp instinct and calculation. A true predator. A king.
Shang sighed, returning his gaze to Mobei-jun.
"He’s part celestial demon," Shang began, caressing Mobei-jun’s shoulder with gentle affection.
Being a celestial demon was the least of Luo Binghe’s powers, but Shang Qinghua didn’t want to go down that road. He wanted to comfort his frustrated king.
King.
He wasn’t king yet. His father still breathed, but that was all. He no longer ruled, no longer made decisions. The throne belonged to Mobei now, even if the name wasn’t carved in stone and he hadn’t consumed his ancestors' energies yet.
"I know you’re strong, my king, but… you didn’t need to face him. You could’ve bowed when he asked. That wouldn’t have meant weakness. No one would have judged you for choosing not to face a stronger opponent…"
Mobei-jun snorted again at this, but didn’t respond. He raised his large arm, his skin still marked with wounds that now burned under the balm, and gently caressed Qinghua’s hand, intertwining his fingers with his, almost hesitant.
"You still rooted for me, Qinghua?"
"Of course, my king…" Shang Qinghua blushed, his eyes shifting away for a moment.
His attention was drawn to the bite mark on the back of Mobei-jun’s neck, the dark, deep mark where his teeth had sunk into the pale skin. The mark that would never fade. It was an obvious claim, visible even from a distance… but it was also a silent vow. A request. A promise.
A choice that Shang Qinghua had made years ago, after the death of the Northern Kingdom’s second prince, when Mobei-jun came closer to the throne and the Northern eyes turned to him with a mix of hope and ambition. There was fear that the older brother, the heir, skilled in alliances, would use Mobei’s non-commitment as political currency.
But there was more than politics here. There was desire. An old, almost silent desire, but constant—a desire for Shang Qinghua to finally give Mobei what he had promised for years. And Shang gave it. Not forced, not rushed, no more excuses.
He offered his mark as he had planned for months. With the same precision with which he managed his peak, as if drawing up a careful plan, trusting in the right moment. In exchange, he only asked that his future king be happy.
Mobei-jun accepted without hesitation.
And Shang Qinghua also carried a mark. Hidden beneath his own robes, protected by the high collar. It was uncommon for omegas to mark alphas; many saw it as a sign of submission, weakness, a reversal of the natural order. But Shang had practically begged for it.
If Mobei was to be claimed, then Shang Qinghua would be too. Both or neither.
And Mobei, although surprised at the moment he heard the proposal, was more than proud to return the gesture. Satisfied. And though he tried to hide it, also a little emotional.
"I ran as soon as the guards told me what was happening," Shang said, his voice low, almost hesitant. "But I knew you were fine. I… trust you."
"And yet you still interfered," Mobei replied, his tone reproachful but softened by exhaustion.
"I wouldn’t let my shi— the Junshang be threatened again," Shang retorted quickly, stumbling over the words as he corrected himself.
The title slipped out unwittingly—a reflex of old habits that were hard to break. But Mobei didn’t comment. He simply squeezed his hand more firmly, as if saying, I heard, and I don’t mind either.
"You are my partner. I like to defend you… It’s automatic. I know you’re more than capable. But I don’t want to see you hurt."
The silence that followed was different from the one before. It wasn’t just comfort. It was dense. Laden with emotions that the eyes revealed before the lips found the courage to speak. There was love there—not spoken, not declared, but pulsing between the careful touches and the marks left with pride.
Shang Qinghua, the lord of An Ding Peak, was there. As always.
And Mobei-jun, though wounded, though angry, though humiliated… was happy that he came.