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Mobei Jun’s library is an utter mess, honestly. Half of the books were water damaged, with only the scrolls carefully protected due to the paper being less absorbent, generally less illustrated, and prone to having ink run. Shang Qinghua had never bound books in his life, however desperate times called for desperate measures. Since transmigrating it had been one of his daily tasks, especially if he wanted to write in peace and with marginal costs. Given his usual amount of daily words, around the 20k mark if he was feeling particularly inspired by Binghe’s current storyline and conquests, be whatever they may (or interested in portraying a particular fetish) he went through a lot of paper.

Using a brush and very small strokes saved on paper but it was by far much slower than a keyboard and forced him to take his time and consider each stroke. To say that his plot points had improved was…questionable, he still only wrote shamelessly what he wanted and nothing more. They still sold when he snuck them out to the markets and pushed them onto the booksellers, thankfully. He bound his own books to ensure the quality was the same in each. That the paper wouldn’t yellow with age or run within the Northern Palace before he got them out the door. If he wanted good quality paper and binding with which to write better and not have everything weather to the elements within a few years, it was generally better to just do it himself.

It was good for record keeping too, he supposed, but he doubted Mobei Jun paused long enough to consider that. At most he read his scrolls once and then tossed them to an assistant to be filed somewhere, paperwork very much not being in his interests.

What Shang Qinghua wouldn’t give for a decent, cheap legal pad or, better yet, a ball point pen. They would have enhanced his speed considerably, let alone a typewriter.

Hell, his best works had been tapped out on his phone while half asleep in bed.

What he had would have to do for now.

His method of binding books had caught on in popularity, over the years, with Xuan Su Peak taking a strangely large amount for a non-scholarly peak. An Ding Peak sourced and supplied all sorts of things, and hell if he wasn’t going to give Liu Mingyan the paper she required to spin her epic tales or sordid love.

He was nothing if not supportive of a fellow erotica author.

Unfortunately, all he had now was hundred of sheets of Xuan paper, a hammer and chisel to punch holes, yard of silk to wrap the edges of book and further yards of fine, thin silk twine to bind everything together with.

When Mobei Jun didn’t need him around that much he was usually in the section on the library that seemed to have been converted into his office for him, surrounded by reports and all sorts of reconstruction work as well as his own private collection of novels and ramblings. He hadn’t really stopped writing, especially now that Luo Binghe wasn’t trying to destroy the world or whatever it was, He and his husband were also firmly past their brief honeymoon phase in the middle of nowhere.

At peace and able to go between Cang Qiong Mountain and Mobei Jun’s palace Shang Qinghua was able to allow himself to spit out the stories that lived rent free in his brain.

He spent most of his time in the library, which had become, he thought, noticeably warmer once Mobei Jun had noted he tended to spend most of his time there, however that did mean things tended to sort of…melt a little.

Yet the space of his own and a chance to write in comfort and solitude was rather a blessing honestly. He’d gained an annoying habit in his last lifetime of turning into a distracted, muttering mess if he couldn’t get those ideas down before they left him. Hence the tapping on his phone while half asleep in bed. PIDW had been his safe place for so long he’d gotten used to dreaming up endless beauties and contrived plots, used to engineering Luo Binghe’s brilliance and charm that without the chance to write he tended to get…antsy.

At least he could bind his own copies of whatever he’d written these days, even if not ones he was at all interested in selling, and pass them off to Sha Hualing. He’d normally get annoyed demands for more copies and some coins dropped into his palm as payment as a result, enough of which to find copy writers who could make more of the books with the papers and binding Shang Qinghua supplied if he couldn’t keep up with the demand. It was interesting, honestly. Sometimes he did wonder if she was reading them herself or simply selling them. She didn’t strike him as the type to read porn but—

The door to the library slammed open and heavy footsteps echoed.

Oh shit.

Shang Qinghua’s idly thoughts ground to a halt and he paused in his binding work.

He raised his head, shifting up onto his knees from where he had been kneeling behind his desk to peer over the piles of reports he was supposed to be organising. His fingers were covered in glue and ink and he hadn’t, actually, slept the night before. There was ink staining his fingers, though mercifully not his sleeves.

He really wasn’t prepared at all for Mobei Jun to see him like this, and that certainly sounded like Mobei Jun. Felt like Mobei Jun, from the instant drop in temperature in the room, like suddenly the palace realised it was supposed to be made of ice now that it’s owner was standing in it.

Did he have dark circles under his eyes?

Most likely.

Did he look like death?

Probably.

Would Mobei Jun be insulted by his state….?

Again, most likely. Thought he probably wouldn’t say anything. Shang Qinghua hastily wiped his hands and ordered his desk anyway.

He’d been left to his own devices for several days, Mobei Jun out doing…god knows what, since he hadn’t informed Shang Qinghua or requested his presence and so Shang Qinghua hadn’t felt he needed to be aware of his what he was doing. Normally if it was something marginally dangerous Mobei Jun would have mentioned it and in someway or rather, Shang Qinghua would have followed him, and pulled him out of whatever mess he got himself into. Mobei Jun would have gotten himself out of most messes, of course, but usually through this or that hardship that Shang Qinghua could negate. Planning plot points did have its uses, after all, for honing his skills as a tactician.

Mobei Jun had also ordered him to remain put before he’d left, another reason to take it very literally and not leave his desk. He’d remained put and ran the castle in Mobei Jun’s absence, yet he’d also accidentally written most of a new novel…

Look, without Mobei Jun around there wasn’t much for him to do.

That was all.

It wasn’t that he missed him or their occasional nightly meals, on three occasions of which had been Mobei Jun’s promised noodles and a stunning lack of glares or harsh pinches that allowed him to cope with the coldness of the palace. The palace itself, in fact, seemed much more hospitable since they had had their argument. Shang Qinghua’s leg had healed, Mobei Jun gifting him this or that item from the treasury to help it heal.

Some were more useful than others.

Most had likely unintended sexy side-effects that he politely appreciated for a moment but immediately set aside under Mobei Jun’s direct, flat stare.

So basically he hadn’t been sleeping much and was a little manic by the time Mobei Jun barged in.

He glanced around quickly, checking that the porn was hidden (it was) and then set down the cloth he’d been cleaning his hands with as Mobei Jun neared.

And ah, yes. It was Mobei Jun. Cloak flaring as he strode toward him, chest bared tantalisingly by his collarbone, dark hair falling in his face in the way that Shang Qinghua had always, always loved describing. It gave him a perpetually sultry look, he thought.

If Mobei Jun could look at him like that while prowling up his bed he would gladly throw over the covers and allow himself to be….eaten most likely.

Or pinched. Mobei Jun did seem to enjoy pinching him.

Not lately, which was both sad and a relief.

Mobei Jun didn’t seem to be interested in much more than that. Bullying Shang Qinghua seemed to be his favourite pastime, yet even that had lessened, and instead he’d decided to overburden Shang Qinghua with paperwork and abandon him for days on end while he went looking for this or that artefact and either tossed it at Shang Qinghua or set it somewhere prominent in his increasingly clustered palace.

“My King!” Shang Qinghua greeted, a little flustered, shaking himself from his line of thought. He nearly knocked over a stack of freshly bound books as he bowed in greeting. “You’ve returned. Welcome back. This servant greets you!” he chirped, reaching out to right the pile of books that was in danger of toppling over.

Mobei Jun’s expression was rather neutral, and his resting bitch face was…well rather well 90% of most of his expressions. Again, sultry. Perfect cheekbones, perfectly cold, piercing blue eyes, and the elegant, dark fall of his hair that framed his face just so and slightly over one eye.

Shang Qinghua have loved describing him.

Mobei Jun snapped his gloved fingers before his eyes. “Shang Qinghua,” he growled, with the tone of someone who had been forced to repeat themselves.

Shang Qinghua blinked and forced himself to focus on what Mobei Jun was actually saying. “What- Oh! I’m sorry, my King it’s just…been a while since you’ve been back.”

Mobei Jun stared at him for a moment, unconvinced. “When was the last time you slept?” he asked, looking him over.

Shang Qinghua resisted the urge to pat at his hair and straighten his robes. He knew he looked like shit, and not at all fit for greeting Mobei Jun on his return. “Ah…perhaps.” He paused and blinked.

Uh.

Well, he didn’t actually know what time or what day it was, now.

He only stared, face heating.

Mobei Jun sighed heavily and raised a hand. There was a small sealed scroll in his hand, which he tossed onto an empty patch of Shang Qinghua’s desk. “Read this and then go sleep,” he said, lowering his chin and looking Shang Qinghua over. “Everything seems in order, the palace will hold until you’re presentable.”

Shang Qinghua cleared his throat. “What’s this, my King?” he asked, rubbing at his face and then wiping his hands on his robes before picking up the scroll.

He could see Mobei Jun almost wince in his periphery, before he turned a little, his expression hidden behind a long fall of dark hair. “It’s for you.”

The seal was Mobei Jun’s own, and it seemed fancy, official even. Shang Qinghua gently worked open the seal. It almost seemed soft under his hand, the wax not yet completely set. It seemed rather strange for Mobei Jun to seal a scroll only to deliver it to him anyway.

Shang Qinghua was perplexed.

It was a tiny scroll, really, about the size of his palm. He unfurled the paper carefully, then set it down on the desk. There were only a few simple words on it in Mobei Jun’s practiced, elegant characters.

“An invitation,” Mobei Jun rumbled, lowering his chin a little, his eyes on the window to his immediate right.

“To what?” Shang Qinghua frowned, perplexed. He blinked several times and raised the scroll, actually reading what was written, this time.

Mobei Jun affectionately invites Peak Lord Shang Qinghua to the Winter Ball.

What.

Had Mobei Jun meant to put a different character instead of ‘affectionate’? “The Winter Ball?” Shang Qinghua asked, raising his eyebrows.

And beyond that, what was this? He never wrote anything of the sort, beyond mentioning the process of the Moon celebrations and the trials that the Northern heirs had to undergo. The North marked significant dates and events with ceremonies, but he’d not mentioned a Winter Ball.

Yet it was such an official and elegant scroll, delivered personally from Mobei Jun to Shang Qinghua. His eyebrows rose a little, before flicking his own wide eyes up, looking Mobei Jun over. He was still hiding behind his hair, yet after a moment he turned and fixed Shang Qinghua with a simple, single raised eyebrow.  

Mobei Jun only arched a single, perfect eyebrow. “It is a Ball. For Winter. You will come.”

…Mobei Jun was a smart ass.

No respect for his creator. Shang Qinghua sighed and couldn’t help but smile faintly. He was sure he’d not written him that way but oh, that inquisition eyebrow was very attractive.

Shang Qinghua laughed and nodded. “Yes, of course. My King. The Winter Ball. Of course.”

The way he said it sounded like there was an emphasis, a capital there, almost. Was it like New Years? Shang Qinghua had never bothered to write about the more mundane calendar events in the North, Luo Binghe had never been terribly interested in them.

Too cold. Everyone wore too much clothing. Not enough women. And beyond that it was strangely exclusive and often didn’t include Southerners.

Since Cucumber bro had bent the protagonist, perhaps that was a good thing to Luo Binghe now. Perhaps Luo Binghe had ordered Mobei Jun into throwing a lavish ball for plot reasons. Whatever the plot may be.

Yes. That made much more sense, actually.

It had to be Luo Binghe’s fault, because usually, it was.

Shang Qinghua nodded. “Thank you. This servant will go, of course.” He directed most of Mobei Jun’s kingdom from this desk anyway. A bit of booze and fun for the demons that worked with him and for Mobei Jun wouldn’t be too bad. There would be more food options at least. He could go, say hi to the few people he actually got along with in the palace, then leave and—

“You’ll need something suitable to wear.” Mobei Jun was still standing there, watching him, his eyes lowering for a moment, long, dark eyelashes covering his eyes. He looked back up again, and Shang Qinghua realised he’d just looked him over.

He felt like a disgusting, unwashed, mess. He hadn’t slept in 72 hours and he was sure it showed in more than just his lack of comprehension.

Shang Qinghua’s mouth fell open for a moment. “…I. Of course. My king, this servant doesn’t usually dress much different for special occasions. He usually wears the same thing regardless of it being an Immortal Alliance Conference or a meeting with you,” he said, blinking. “If it’s a ball that would be formal enough?”

Mobei Jun’s lips turned down faintly. “No.”

“…Do you want this servant to dress up even more?” Shang Qinghua ventured after a moment, perplexed. He swallowed thickly, a little unnerved by the idea. Dress up how? This was the most dressed up he’d ever been, he’d never been to any balls or anything of the like. Hell, cultivation robes were about as expensive and dressy as he could get. He was a Peak Lord, though he dressed simply, it wasn’t beneath his station.

And besides, all the balls he’d described in PIDW had all been sex fests (thank you Luo Binghe). He couldn’t imagine Mobei Jun hosting a sex fest, least of all dressing appropriately for one.

…

Was it going to be a sex fest?

Was he going to have to plan an orgy for Mobei Jun?

No no no…

Shang Qinghua had lived with and around Mobei Jun for years while he’d worked for him and advised him on finding and teaching Luo Binghe after the whole Endless Abyss mess. He’d never heard of such a thing in the North.

Mobei Jun waved a long fingered hand. “Generally, it is the most one would ever dress up. The Winter Ball is an occasion for…extravagance. There has not been one in…some time.” He didn’t sound particularly enthused on the matter either, but his eyes did linger on Shang Qinghua again, looking him over. Took him in as he tilted his head faintly, and the corner of his lips lifted a faint amount. “You will need to dress appropriately.”

Oh.

So it was a legitimate Ball. Like…a black tie ball?

“Okay,” Shang Qinghua said, the words falling from his mouth automatically. It would, he realised, mean he’d get to see Mobei Jun dress to extravagance as he’d put it.

He would not miss that for the world.

“This Mobei Jun will find you something to wear.” Mobei Jun lowered his head again and shifted, his long cloak swaying around him as he moved. Shang Qinghua nodded eagerly.

“Good,” Mobei Jun murmured, almost a rumble and turned. His eye lingered, though eventually he turned his back on Shang Qinghua, and he was left to watch his broad back retreat back out of the library.

The cold retreated with him, and Shang Qinghua was left to blink down at his invitation. “…Okay,” breathed.

He rather forgot about The Ball, as he was calling it, after that.

Mobei Jun suddenly had him running all over the North for him, speaking with different Northern tribes and trading different artefacts and land rights for certain imports and skilled workers. Silks and metal were high on his list of desires, along with craftsmanship, highly valued and very scarce in the demon world. Mobei Jun’s diamond mines might have been dripping with precious gems, but the palace, in terms of decoration and design was rather…boring, all told.

It was supposed to be austere and grave after the death of Mobei Jun’s mother, a signal of his father’s grief at the lost of such an important person to the North. Mobei Jun, by the time he’d absorbed his father’s body and taken the true mantle of Mobei Jun, had never done anything with the castle itself beyond maintain how his father had left it.

Shang Qinghua had once thought to make the running of the Winter Palace, the decoration, staffing and defence, the prerogative of the Northern Consort. He’d never gotten around to talking about Mobei Jun’s parents in great detail, however, and so he’d never actually put any of it into the story. Mobei Jun had admitted, once, that his mother had preferred things more…lovely, when she’d been alive. Without Shang Qinghua’s own knowledge that the castle had not always been so bare, Shang Qinghua wouldn’t have known that it could ever be so again, and would have found Mobei Jun’s comment something like derision for his mother’s decorating skill.

Mobei Jun had appreciated his delicate acceptance of the admission, and the lack of conversation there after that could have been culturally insensitive.

Suddenly the Ball seemed to have been the kick he needed to turn his attention wandering and occasionally bringing Shang Qinghua treasured to…designing.

Or rather he had Shang Qinghua design and coordinate the acquisition of all the goods and materials he acquired in his wanderings away from the Northern Palace.

There was a minor skirmish over an ironsmith and his apprentices who could make enough corbels and wrought iron designs to fill the palace and have it look both imposing and elegant. Mobei Jun returned to the Palace only when they found themselves almost invaded when the clan that had claimed responsibility for the ironsmith attempted to rescue him. Mobei Jun appeared briefly, only enough to appear out of a portal, assassinate the opposition, then glare at Shang Qinghua as he tossed the ironsmith at Shang Qinghua’s feet. “Put him to work,” he ordered, and left again, immediately leaving Shang Qinghua with a trembling demon and several dead bodies that he would have to get rid of.

Apparently it was incredibly rare to find Northern demons who not only worked with fire, but did something other than make rudimentary swords and farming tools with it. So having such a person tossed at Shang Qinghua’s feet instead of jealously guarded by Mobei Jun was…enough to give the demons of the palace pause. Those who worked with him suddenly started lowering their eyes when speaking with him, and when, on following Mobei Jun’s orders to put a little bit more liveliness and design into the palace, they obeyed without question.

Mobei Jun really was sure of his own power to have tossed something so precious at Shang Qinghua’s feet like it was nothing.

It seemed the next few months Shang Qinghua was wholly dedicated to redesigning the castle and making it as grand and overly designed as possible, more on par with Luo Binghe’s own palace. Somewhere worthy of visiting instead of just intimidatingly cold, bare and…dungeon-like. Shang Qinghua ended up appointing a panel of advisors for the Ball, since it seemed expected, and everyone put their heads together and came to Shang Qinghua for approval of their various selections and designs fit for a palace. Glass flowers that reflected the light along the hallways, ice sculptures, lighting of extravagant, strange make and windows made of stained glass with designs of past desert lords and their spouses were chief amongst their suggestions.

Shang Qinghua shrugged and approved of them. Mobei Jun didn’t seem to care, and so Shang Qinghua tried to make it look both as nice and as intimidating at Mobei Jun would have wanted.

Mobei Jun clearly had no sense of design or interest in it, and barely said anything when Shang Qinghua checked in with him over the designs. “If it’s what you like,” he said multiple times, returning the various scrolls and tallies of cost to Shang Qinghua, uncaring and unconcerned. “Then it is adequate.”

Mobei Jun had never really been one to wear much jewellery, wore only simple robes and plain, functional boots. Wore his hair straight, neat and unadorned.

His beauty was enough, spoke for itself.

Shang Qinghua had described his palace to be similar, but over time, as it became more intricate, Shang Qinghua was a little bemused. The more…stuff Mobei Jun put in it, the more elegant couches, useless tables, arrangements of Glory of the Snow and Stripped Squill arrangements in vases filled the rooms, the more Mobei Jun looked at him, expectant.

Expectant and waiting.

Then Mobei Jun began to change how he dressed. First it was the addition of a simple, finely embroidered outer robe which he still failed to pull closed over his chest. Then another, new cloak, this one so black the fur around his neck gleamed and brushed against his pale cheek when he turned his head. Then diamond earrings, dropping from faintly pointed ears.

Shang Qinghua found himself stuttering at each new addition.

Mobei Jun’s eyes seemed to glint each time, lips pulling back in something like a smile, almost as if amused at Shang Qinghua’s debasement. His flustered stuttering and loss of words whenever Mobei Jun appeared wearing something new, something beautiful.

Beauty in the demon world was so rare.

Shang Qinghua had written Mobei Jun to be one of the few, perfect things that existed outside of Luo Binghe’s charm, and the multitude of wives he collected.

Mobei Jun seemed to be discovering it, discovering that he, too was beautiful, that Shang Qinghua found him beautiful, and was taunting him with it. There could be no other explanation. The look in his eyes was clear, and his excuses for visiting Shang Qinghua became paper thin.

Even when they shared meals, they sat close, almost as if Mobei Jun thought torturing Shang Qinghua with the sight of his lips around his utensils was amusing.

Mobei Jun was cruel, after all.

Eventually he started taking some interest in the design of the castle, though only certain parts.

On one occasion a young demon came running and told him, breathlessly and harried, that Mobei Jun required him in the throne room. Shang Qinghua had felt his stomach sink. They had been doing some work there, that morning. It was to be the official reception of those who came for The Ball. Throne room first, kiss Mobei Jun’s icy feet or whatever, then move into the ballroom and…dance and make merry or whatever it was they were going to do.

Maybe Mobei Jun hadn’t like it?

When he’d arrived, Mobei Jun was standing just inside the relatively small room, lit on either side by stained glass windows that reflected the bright, glaring light that shone through, turning it into a kaleidoscope of faint, rainbow shards spilling all over the room. It had been similarly outfitted, with the flowers and other space filling items that made it seem more…homey and less like an empty space.

There was a new addition, however, and Shang Qinghua relaxed a little, realising that he still didn’t care about the designs, but seemed to have made his own addition.

Mobei Jun’s ancestral throne had been replaced with an uncomfortable looking iron monstrosity. Shang Qinghua stared at for a solid minute in shock. It didn’t look comfortable at all. It had several spikes on it.

“…My king? What is…?”

Arms linked behind his back, chin high, Mobei Jun was observing Shang Qinghua from the corner of his eyes, dark fur grazing his chin. “What do you think?” he asked, tone quiet and deep and oh, sometimes when Shang Qinghua was close enough he could almost feel the rumble of Mobei Jun’s chest as he spoke.

He flushed and looked at the throne again, then at the new blue carpeting that ran up the centre of the room towards the throne. He’d certainly upgraded, it was much more opulent, but he couldn’t help but imagine Mobei Jun in that throne, legs spread, looking down at everyone else. It just seemed to appear horridly uncomfortable looking.

Yet seemed to match Mobei Jun more than the delicate flower arrangements and mild, drifting incense smoke. Someone had even strung silver silks along the ceiling that looped over the upper architecture of beams and other roofing structures. They dipped down in several places, creating wide panels of clear white silk that drifted idly.

“This servant thinks it’s wonderful. Very…very fitting for Mobei Jun’s station,” Shang Qinghua mused.

Mobei Jun hummed, then turned his eyes back to the room, appraising.

Shang Qinghua frowned. “My king….do you like the arrangements this servant have made? Why did you decide to add this now? You didn’t…like your father’s throne?” he asked, delicately.  Mobei Jun had never seen fit to alter the design of the palace in PIDW, after all. Shang Qinghua, though depicting Luo Binghe’s having ordered Mobei Jun into throwing a ball, didn’t quite explain the extravagance or attention he was having Shang Qinghua put into it all.

Mobei Jun tilted his head, then looked down at him properly, turning to face him. It put him eye level with Mobei Jun’s chest—his mostly bare chest oh god, hello. “It was time for change. A new era.”

Shang Qinghua nodded slowly, still confused. “So… you decided to decorate the entire palace?” he asked, confused. “This servant thought that…it was perhaps all for the Winter Ball?”

Mobei Jun blinked slowly, long eyelashes brushing against his cheeks. “Winter Balls are traditionally the time of confessions and partnerships, the time of new beginnings,” he said, staring, gaze intent. Shang Qinghua swallowed thickly, feeling like that gaze went straight through his soul, and Mobei Jun saw everything that he was and could be. “This Mobei Jun wanted there to be a more human…presence in the designs, as a reflection of that, for this Ball. You understand, of course.”

Shang Qinghua’s eyebrows raised. “Of course,” he said immediately, thinking that he really didn’t, but he wasn’t about to say as much to Mobei Jun’s face. He’d focused a lot on the North having specific ceremonies related to the change of power from generation to generation and, general cannibalism aside, the North was thick with traditions, ceremonies, and fortuitous timings for everything. However, there hadn’t been peace in PIDW like there was now.

Maybe that was why Mobei Jun was adding a softer touch to his palace, allowing Shang Qinghua to add all of the touches his father had stripped from the castle in his grief.

Mobei Jun tilted his head, and shifted beside him. “Good,” he murmured.

“Ah well. This servant can see that a lot of time and effort has gone into acquiring these items,” Shang Qinghua said, because he’d done most of the work acquiring them, honestly, though Mobei Jun had helped, “and thinks it makes a lovely addition. The Palace is looking…softer and more welcoming,” he said, considering. “More hospitable for humans.”

His own chambers had gotten warmer, matching the library now, he’d noticed. Mobei had found people to accommodate Luo Binghe’s husband’s comfort ‘lest the lover of a ruler be cold in his own bed’, so he’d informed him.

Mobei Jun nodded, then paused. “So, you approve?” He raised his chin, looking at the throne. He seemed pleased, and sure the answer would be positive.

Shang Qinghua’s eyebrows raised. “I— yes, my king. I think—this servant thinks it looks lovely, you have, of course, done a wonderful job,” he said, bowing a little.

Mobei Jun hummed and raised his chin, seemingly satisfied. “We have.” He paused, letting the moment linger, then turned. His hand moved to Shang Qinghua’s back, pushing him along as if he was afraid Shang Qinghua wouldn’t automatically follow him anywhere. “Come with me.”

Mobei Jun lead him into the Ballroom. A large expanse of an empty, chilly room that was in the process of having chandeliers strung and large braziers, with a specific type of coal that wouldn’t melt the whole palace down, fitted. There were also several rows of fabrics, a large mirror and two nervous looking demons waiting for them, dressed in warm, impeccably designed winter gear. Their horns polished to a neat shine, and gleamed when they dipped into bows as they entered.

“Greetings, Mobei Jun. Advisor Shang.” They straightened and smiled faintly, appearing eager, their eyes going to them both, as if pleased to have been chosen for their craft. And it was craft, Shang Qinghua realised. The bolts of cloth lying around and on display were all theirs, he realised.

Shang Qinghua blinked several times, the ‘advisor’ title being new to him. It was something that had occasionally come with the new respect and dropped eyes whenever he dealt with his organisation of the castle. He was getting used to it.

Mobei Jun didn’t react or correct them in the least, so he supposed it was official, now. Or at least not offensive to him. Shang Qinghua supposed it was apt.

Mobei Jun waved a hand. “Pick something.”

Shang Qinghua stared at the demons, expecting them to pick something for Mobei Jun, and it was only after a moment that he realised Mobei Jun had been speaking to him. He blinked several times, then looked up at Mobei Jun. “Wh- Me?” he sputtered.

Mobei Jun looked down at Shang Qinghua, arched an eyebrow, then abruptly turned and started wandering through the rows of fabric, looking them over.

Shang Qinghua followed him. “My king?” he asked, confused.

“This lord will not repeat himself.” Mobei Jun turned his head away, dark hair hiding his face after a moment.

Ah. That was right. Mobei Jun had said he would provide clothes for him for the ball. Yet he hadn’t expected to pick them all out himself.

Shang Qinghua blinked. “For you?” he asked, and turned to the materials and cloths, then felt overwhelmed for a long moment. He was able to dress Mobei Jun? Or at least chose the materials he would wear?

“If you want,” Mobei Jun murmured, then moved further away, abandoning the rolls of cloth for now. He found a chair and sat, crossing one long leg over the other. He was apparently content to simply sit and brood, watching them all like he thought someone would run off with the amount of expensive silks and embroidered…everything within the room.

“…Right,” Shang Qinghua murmured, and swallowed before turning back to the materials. He went to the demons, who immediately turned to him attentively. “This advisor may need some help if we’re going to be dressing him.”

Look so, okay.

When he wrote PIDW he was a little sparse in designing the clothing. He’d never been one to think too much on what demons wore beyond skimpy and attractive. He’d looked at a few image boards enough to be able to describe the leading women in attractive and instinct styles (no easy feat for six hundred women, though there were eventual overlaps). He’d never put much thought into designing what Mobei Jun would wear. It was always the same thing.

Cloak. Boots. Robe that bared his chest occasionally. Sometimes gloves and bracers on his arms.

His newer clothes, the earrings, the finery, were more than Shang Qinghua could have never thought of.

“Advisor Shang, you need only choose the fabric and we will design the clothes in the appropriate manner for the ball,” the demon on the left said, their skin flushed with the cold. They were a southern demon, as the horns and general intolerance of the cold suggested. When they spoke they had a few rows of teeth and a visible, black tongue. Otherwise they seemed like a perfectly pleasant, mildly mannered man of average beauty. “If you have any suggestions we can add them.”

“Oh,” Shang Qinghua breathed, and relaxed. “Oh good.”  

Feeling a little better, Shang Qinghua spent some time wandering around, allowing himself to be selective. If Mobei Jun would be wearing it and it was supposed to be super fancy and fitting of his place as second hand to Luo Binghe then he would do his best to choose appropriately.

He chose a few shades of blue in steadily darkening colours, the lightest, almost transparent fabric having embroidered stars and snow in it. Was it cheesy as hell? Probably. He refused to turn Mobei Jun into Elsa, though, and so he was careful to choose masculine, intimidating fabrics. Rich black with bold additions, the fabric soft and pleasant in his hands.

The demons followed along, humming and clucking over his choices, offering their own suggestions.

“This one is particularly strong and will hold against a sword quite well,” they lectured, the material looking flimsy and almost paper thin.

Shang Qinghua raised his eyebrows. “…Are we to be expecting the need to hold against a sword?” he asked, bemused.

The demon grinned, showing his several rows of teeth. “Oh yes! What’s a Winter Ball without a few deaths.”

Shang Qinghua stared for a moment.

Alright then.

Eventually the day of said Ball arrived, and Shang Qinghua had no idea until about mid-morning, when several of the servant demons kept coming to him asking what room they should install Lord such and such of wherever. He realised suddenly that, oh, they might actually be here for the Winter Ball. Mobei Jun never had guests, after all, and if he did they were never more than one or two, all of them placed at the far end of the palace.

At this rate they would have all their rooms full by sundown. He’d been distractedly waving the servants off with half hearted answers since mid-morning. They had left him to his own devices, perhaps assuming that Shang Qinghua knew what damned day it was and wasn’t lovingly plucking out appropriate words to describe his current stallion’s sky pillar instead.

Hurriedly, Shang Qinghua put his latest self-indulgent porn adventure down and left his makeshift office in the library, rushing instead to look around the Palace. He was a little bemused at the activity he found. Mobei Jun had other advisors, of course, and they seemed to at least be able to follow a calendar week and remember when certain events were, so things were running smoothly entirely without his input apart from the placement of visitors. Thankfully he’d placed most of them in the other wing, far away from Mobei Jun and himself.

The tailor demons accosted him near his own rooms, however, and grinned at him toothily, like they expected to eat him whole. Part of it was annoyance, he could tell, the res feigned politeness through that annoyance.

“What?” he asked, shrinking a little, looking at them both warily.

“Oh, Advisor Shen, we have been looking for you everywhere!” One crowed, feigning relief while the other hastily wrote a message out on some paper and sent it into the air, where a talisman flared to life shortly after, and both seemed to wink out of existence. Perhaps letting Mobei Jun know that he’d finally been located.

Bullshit, everyone knew he hid in the library to write.

Didn’t they?

Had Mobei Jun told them not to bother him or something?

“What’s wrong?” he asked, blinking at them. “Did Mobei Jun’s clothes not work out?”

“No! No Mobei Jun looks a vision, perfectly princely. Second only to Junshang himself!” the demon crowed, looking particularly satisfied, but also taking Shang Qinghua’s elbow and leading him away from the gathering crowd. “It’s you who aren’t appropriately dressed. This should be rectified!”

“What?” Shang Qinghua squeaked, startled. He allowed himself to be ushered down the hallway towards his rooms. “Oh! The clothes.”

The other tailor followed behind them, seeming to rifle through their bags, then pulling out various accessories and holding them against Shang Qinghua’s skin, as if testing them, dismissing some and seeming satisfied with others. “Hang on! This one can go like this, can’t he?”

“Is Advisor Shang stating that he wishes to attend the Winter Ball, the most important day of the year for Mobei Jun, in ink stained robes and with hair that looks like it was washed several days ago?” the demon holding Shang Qinghua’s arm chirped, arching an eyebrow dryly.

Shang Qinghua sputtered. “Well, no, this one guesses that he can clean up a little, put on some fresh robes. I—this advisor has some—"

“You don’t want what we made you?” the demons asked, horrified. “Won’t you at least see the end result? Advisor Shen is sure to be confident in our abilities once he’s seen them, of course…”

“What?” Shang Qinghua blurted.

“We made them in the colours you requested,” the other said, nodding and apparently deciding on a particularly spiky looking crown, smiling after a moment. “You’ll see.”

“What?” Shang Qinghua blinked, looking between them. He was a little overwhelmed at the ambush.

“Oh yes, you and Mobei Jun will make quite the matching pair!”

Matching.

Pair.

“You will perfectly complement each other, I’m sure,” the other added, humming. “Though we thought to add some warming talismans and spells for you. Very expensive, see we had to go to the border and find a particular seamstress who specialises in such things—"

Shang Qinghua zoned out a little, letting himself be led to his own chambers.

The demons helped Shang Qinghua bathe, embarrassing in and of itself, their hands swift and sure as they washed out his hair with particularly bland smelling scents, then scrubbed the ink from Shang Qinghua’s skin. Shang Qinghua submitted to it, suddenly concerned about being underdressed and fetching Mobei Jun’s disapproval for it for something that Mobei Jun himself had claimed called for extravagance. He allowed himself to be pampered and primped, ready for his appearance amongst those within the demonic nobility.

Luo Binghe, and by extension Shen Qingqiu, would be there of course. Which suddenly made it even more horribly important that he looked his best. He wouldn’t allow Cucumber Bro to one up him in this, after all. This was his novel. His King. His Palace that he had decorated for months now, leading up to the ball.

He would go to the Winter Ball, fit in, and soak up some of his so richly deserved thanks and appreciation at being such a good host, hopefully. Large amounts would have no idea how bland and unwelcoming the palace had been before, each hallway the same as any other, without a single embellishment.  Shang Qinghua, spy extraordinaire and curious advisor or…pet or whatever he was to Mobei Jun, these days, deserved respect. Respect as their author.

It had been one of his finally snapping points with Mobei Jun, one when he finally put his foot down, Mobei Jun seemed to listen and obey.  

Which was…nice.

It had been nice.

He was excited to see Mobei Jun, to see how he’d dressed up for the occasion, sure it would look wonderful. He knew the colours, at least, but not the cut of his robes. Not how he would wear his hair, or smell, or how he would look up close when they inevitably spoke.

Once he was clean and dry, the demons allowed him to pull on a simple white under robe and pants while he sat and had a small snack. One worked on combing his hair out and then applying fragrant, pleasingly scented oils. The other pulled out the robes they had apparently been commissioned by Mobei Jun, the materials he’d chosen all there. They were pulled layer by larger from a large chest, then laid carefully out.  

They materials themselves are beautiful, but seeing the robes constructed gave him pause. “Those are mine?” he asked, pointing, rising from where he’d been resting. His hair was done now, anyway, bar an ornament that one of the demons seemed to be waiting to put in his hair.

“Of course, do you like them?” one of the demons asked, holding the innermost layer up, admiring the deep, rich black of the material, almost blue in certain lights, the edges neatly embroidered with fine silver thread in elegant patterns. For demons, it was exemplary. The other layers were perfect too, some more opaque than others, the belt to go around his waist a bright, shining blue.

Shang Qinghua could only nod dumbly, looking them over. “Mobei Jun is wearing something similar?” he asked softly, touching the furs that seemed to have been added, a cloak that he’d not chosen but that, perhaps, Mobei Jun had chosen for him. Mobei Jun had thought of him, and what clothes he should wear, what he wanted to see him in, and the thought made him heat. His cheek flushed “Ah,” he said softly, looking over it all and licking his lips, excited now.

“Oh yes,” the demon said, watching him closely, amused.

They helped him dress. The robes were the finest he’d ever worn. Aside from his under robes there were three layers. A dark, moody black and then the lighter blue layers with distinct patterns that could have been icicles of drops of snow along the hem. The belt they fitted around his waist the bright blue he’d noted earlier. The hanging ornament they pulled from another box was finely made from thin, silken threads in a distinct Northern Ebony that was so, so common and often traded to the south.

Yet outside of the North, in the human circles, it would have been expensive beyond belief. Shang Qinghua couldn’t help but smile.

Last was the cloak, thrown over his shoulders, warm and like being hugged by a particularly warm beast. There were no sleeves, only slits for his arms, allowing his long, flowing sleeves to move freely. His sword was offered as well, at the demon’s instance. He was sure they had plucked it off its place on the wall, forgotten, since he was sure he’d not asked if it was required before. He was not intent on presenting a threat to much of anyone in the North less they think it a challenge and take him up on it.

The tailors words echoed, though. It wasn’t a ball without some bloodshed. Shen Qingqiu hoped it wasn’t his own. With any luck he could talk to Cucumber Bro, drinks some wine and take some food, speak with whoever he had to, ogle Mobei Jun for a good long while, then retreat to his rooms to work on his books.

It seemed like a good night.

Lonely, but pleasant.

A bell rang somewhere in the Palace, and Shang Qinghua paused, blinking. It was the first time he’d ever heard it.

“Ah, the festivities begin! Come! Look at yourself and then you should go….!” The taller tailor said, fixing the last of Shang Qinghua’s robes where he’d quickly adjusted them.

The other dragged him before a mirror hastily applying bangles to his arms and fixing his hairpiece in. His hair was half up and half down, the crown elegant and branching, almost reminding Shang Qinghua of the throne Mobei Jun had commissioned himself not long ago.

“Stand up straight,” the demon beside him said, pushing at his chest, and Shang Qinghua did.

He tried his best to appear confident and regal. All of the Peak Lord he knew himself to be. All of the Peak Lord he knew he should have been impersonating. Yet no one here had ever known the sharp and confident mind of Shang Qinghua, and instead only knew the anxious, shameless Airplane siding with the demons and his favourite, perfect demon lord.

He straightened and tried to imagine himself deserving of Mobei Jun’s regard, his place by his side as his advisor, as he seemed to be now, as everyone seemed to refer to him as these days.

Shang Qinghua had, and he knew there were rumours, even advised Luo Binghe in the matters of love. Had assisted him in his courtship of his own beauty. He spent all of his time with his nose in books, when not out making deals and running negotiations for Mobei Jun. Shang Qinghua, by reputation, was much more than Shang Qinghua felt he truly was.

Yet looking at himself in the mirror, he could imagine himself as someone important.

How he looked now didn’t feel like him, but he couldn’t help but think that, for tonight, it would be alright. He felt that he could fill the shoes he seemed to have accidentally stepped into. He smiled.

He looked beautiful, he thought, hair framing his face, dressed in such fine clothes, ready to attend his King’s most important ball. It was nice.

“Thank you,” he said softly, looking at the demons in the mirror.

“You’re most welcome. Now if you would be so good as to give our names whenever someone asks where the clothes came from…” one said, and suddenly Shang Qinghua realised he’d not only never referred to them by name, but that he’d also never asked what their names were.

Of course now it was too late to ask, and so he simply said, “of course!” face a deep red.

The demons bowed and took their leave. Shang Qinghua spent a long moment staring at himself in the mirror, adjusting his crown and the hair that framed his face carefully, nervous, before he finally straightened his back, gripped his sword, and headed for the throne room and the entrance to the ballroom beyond that.

The throne room was mostly empty by the time he reached it, given to the late hour and his, he realised, very late arrival. Most had already moved through to the ballroom, thankfully.

Shang Qinghua appeared to be late and only just fashionably so. He gathered only a few glances when he entered, and those looks lingered, in various degrees of surprise and curiosity. The ballroom was, it seemed, actually quite full, with demons of all shapes and sized about, most dressed for warmth, but some, particularly those he recognised as belonging to Sha Hualing’s clan, still insisted on wearing nothing but their thin, gauzy red silks and tinkling, obnoxious bells.

Dancing in their swaying manner with other demons along to faint, odd music of the demons, he could hear them from the other side of the ballroom. There were many others dancing too, and beyond that others eating or drinking, socialising.

All told, it was a particularly packed ballroom with demons lingering along the edges talking, admiring the decorations or otherwise making all sorts of deals of trade, romance, and connection. At parties like this, Luo Binghe would have excelled and ended up bedding several a night after a grand and captivating entrance.

He seemed to have already missed Luo Binghe’s own grand entrance, since he could see him standing with Shen Qingqiu near the back of the ballroom. Shang Qinghua would have been able to pick his son out from anywhere, least of all because he had a particularly bad habit of wearing Xin Mo over his back at any occasion, be it pleasure or business. His black robes were fine, and particularly dashing, tailored around his thin waist and broad shoulders, wild, unruly hair pinned and braided into submission with what looked like an artefact that Mobei Jun had gifted him the year before on his and Shen Qingqiu’s first anniversary. Supposedly it had those around him compelled to truth, though only if Luo Binghe touched them skin to skin. Useful in these sorts of events, but not so much in the North, where everyone wore a minimum of three layers.

Also useless on his doe eyed, pleasant Binghe, who only grew cold when Shen Qingqiu wasn’t around him. Which wasn’t often.

He was there now, his back to Shang Qinghua blocking who he could tell was Mobei Jun given the amount of black.

Shang Qinghua went towards them, intent on greeting them, though having to pause and greet a few demons as he passed, having met most of them recently in Mobei Jun’s endless errands and collections of this and that artefact, treaty or something special.

As he neared, though, the crowd shifted, and he nearly tripped over his feet. Shen Qingqiu had shifted, and he gained his first true, proper glance of Mobei Jun.  

It was Mobei Jun in all his splendour.

Mobei Jun in the robes he’d chosen. Yet along with that gleaming, silver half armour, winding around his wrists, neck and waist as if to protect him from attack, while his chest was still infuriatingly bare. The soft flowing robes bared his collarbone and neck almost as if in dare or taunt. Mobei Jun was beautiful with his dark inky hair brushed out to a dead straight flatness with jewels woven through it, visible when he moved. His hair fell over one eye as he looked across at Shang Qinghua, instantly spotting him through the crowd. When his hair fell like that, when he glared, it seemed to make him only sexier.

And he was glaring, apparently at him as he looked his over, taking him in from head to toe. The glass in his hand cracked, the crystal splintering until he had to pause and look down at his hand, annoyed, and set the nearly broken glass on the tray of a passing waiter.

Thank for Shang Qinghua had had the foresight to blend modern influences of these sorts of parties into his books or he could have been denied this sight. Mobei Jun was in his element, his robes falling over strong thighs, bared by slits that bared high boots.

Shang Qinghua wanted to fall to his knees and sob. This was far too good.

As if Shang Qinghua needed to be reminded of his own particular fetishes (and how he’d put them all in Mobei Jun) any more than he already did, Mobei Jun in formal, extravagant dress seemed to pronounce them all even more.

He could only swallow thickly and stare for a long moment, until he realised that Shen Qingqiu was looking over at him, his own clothes particularly fine and somehow even greener and finer than usual, if simple in their elegance. He had a fine silver circlet over his brow that caught the light when he moved, and Shang Qinghua recognised it as similar to the one Luo Binghe was wearing. A twin to the truth teller. Interesting ornaments for them to choose.

Shang Qinghua forced himself to move forward to greet them all, especially when Luo Binghe turned his red eyes on him and watched him with the sort of dead half-interest he’d always regarded him as. Unimportant, inconsequential, and thankfully nothing he’d never recognised in Mobei Jun’s own eyes. “Junshang, Shen Shixiong…” he greeted, bowing once he was close, careful of his own sweeping robes.

He felt Mobei Jun’s eyes on him suddenly like a solid, heavy weight. “Mobei Jun,” he greeted finally, looking up at Mobei Jun from the tops of his eyes, through his eyelashes, almost afraid of what he’d see there in his expression.

He saw nothing but a blank, intent stare though. Mobei Jun’s gaze was minutely wide. His hands had disappeared beneath his robes, though he thought he could hear the creak of leather as he clenched them. He was beautiful, and it seemed almost as id the light of the ballroom, the coldness, only accented his pale, cutting eyes.

Shang Qinghua wondered if he’d overstepped suddenly, presuming to wear the same colours as him, wondering if the tailors had made a mistake, if he’d been set up somehow. Mobei Jun normally stared, but this was intense, even for him. It made him self conscious, unsure of himself in his new fancy clothes and while he tried to remain straight backed and confident, he felt it slipping away by the second.

“Shang-shidi,” Shen Qingqiu said, drawing Mobei Jun’s attention suddenly, and leaving Shang Qinghua relieved and no longer feeling like a butterfly pinned to a wall. “How wonderful of you to finally join us.”

“Ah, Apologies. This servant was….working,” he said, blinking, suddenly embarrassed. “Lost track of time.”

Shen Qingqiu took a sip of his drink. He was wearing several layers of highly designed and elegant robes that seemed to evoke thoughts of peaceful mountains and breezes, the material moving with the sway of his arm. Certain elements were reflected in Luo Binghe’s own clothes, his own armour and beauty. The two of them made a wonderful pair, but stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the northern colours the Palace had, all cool blues and creams.

Shen Qingqiu seemed unimpressed and stared down at him with sharp, imperious eyes for a moment, then made a quiet, unconvinced sound. He turned to Luo Binghe and touched his shoulder, as if to draw his attention, as if Luo Binghe didn’t have 90% of his attention at all times anyway. “Excuse us a moment. This master would like to speak with Shang-shidi in private. It has been a while.”

“Of course, Shizun,” Luo Binghe said, flashing a besotted smile at him and then turning his eyes on Shang Qinghua, almost as if warning him to keep an eye on Shen Qingqiu. As his subordinates by proxy, if anything ever happened to Shen Qingqiu while he was near he would not be in Luo Binghe’s best books if he ever failed to protect him. Luo Binghe had lost Shen Qingqiu to death once. He would not again.

Shen Qinqgiu nodded in thanks and together they moved to the side, apparently going to where some food had been laid out. Most of it, thankfully, by Shang Qinghua’s own request. Edible for humans, and smelling appealing. The obligatory rotting meat was there, given the amount of upper echelons around, but separate and at the far end of the room.

“Tell the truth, what were you doing?” Shen Qingqiu asked, picking up an appetiser and biting into it, before turning to look at Shang Qinghua.

Shang Qinghua picked up a glass of wine, drained it, and then immediately set it aside. He relaxed in Shen Qingqiu’s presence but still turned to look back on Luo Binghe and Mobei Jun. The had made themselves their own little bubble, few others daring to approach them as they would have in PIDW. Luo Binghe should have had women fighting over him by now, hanging on to his arms and slipping errant hands into his clothes, yet here, now, the both of them were giving a wide berth. “Well I started writing a new book,” Shang Qinghua admitted, then sighed, looking over at Shen Qingqiu. “And got a little distracted. I think Mobei Jun must have ordered people not to disturb me? There’s been very few people barging into the library and accusing me of sullying the palace these days.”

That seemed to gain Shen Qingqiu’s interest immediately, though instead of leaning in and engaging as one would, he turned to look at the ballroom as well, eyes flitting over the glittering pairs as they danced.

God, he was such a tsundere.

“Is that so?” Shen Qingqiu asked, distain in his voice, though there was clear intent interest in his eyes, something hungry and longing.

Shang Qinghua was well aware that Shen Qingqiu, for all his complaining, would probably read anything he put out. Anything and everything, if he wasn’t already acquiring what he’d put out under a penname already. Shang Qinghua narrowed his eyes at him briefly, then looked Back to Mobei Jun, enjoying the way he shook his head to shift his hair out of his eyes.

“I’ve been working on binding the books for it. In a few days I should have something if you would like to read it,” Shang Qinghua teased, laughing a little.

Shen Qingqiu raised his chin and hummed. Did his best to seem disinterested and aloof. He wasn’t fooling Shang Qinghua one bit. “So long as it isn’t like your last trash novel…”

“All things told the trash novel worked out quite well for us,” Shang Qinghua said dryly, looking around. He gestured vaguely to Luo Binghe. “For you especially.”

“Hmn,” Shen Qingqiu said softly, then smiled wryly, then turned sharp eyes on Shang Qinghua.

He instantly regretted giving him shit, because he knew the next thing he said would cause some sort of trouble.  

“So what about you and Mobei Jun. This is a fortuitous day for him and his intent is clear,” Shen Qingqiu said, looking down at Shang Qinghua, tapping his nails on his glass and waving his fan idly.

Shang Qinghua blinked. And there it was. “What?” he asked as reached out and found what looked like some normal meat on a fancy little cracker thing, then ate it. He downed his glass of wine, looking at Mobei Jun again, then back at Shen Qingqiu.  

Shen Qingqiu who narrowed his eyes and smiled faintly, slowly. There was an odd light of delight there. “You do remember the Winter Ball plotline, don’t you?” he asked, reaching into his sleeve and pulling out a delicate fan with an ebony guard. He pointed it at another demon across the way, speaking with several others. “Wei Lang is going to try to assassinate Mobei Jun,” he murmured, keeping his voice quiet. “Because Mobei Jun refused to negotiate over his offer of his daughter as a bride or concubine, therefore leaving her feeling rejected and spiteful and demanding her father kill Mobei Jun for the insult.”

Shang Qinghua blinked, suddenly reminded.

That was right.

He’d made of point of being sure to specify that Mobei Jun was single and an eligible bachelor in the novels, especially as Luo Binghe’s second hand man, had even entertained a plot or two of Mobei Jun’s marriage or potential dalliance, but in the end he’d never been able to bring himself to pairing Mobei Jun with anyone. The resulting plothole he’d had to write himself out of meant that Luo Binghe had, at the time, stepped in and had offered Wei Lang’s daughter his own hand in marriage instead. Luo Binghe had been sleeping with them all along, however, and he’d framed it as a success for Luo Binghe, and a loss for Mobei Jun.

He doubted Mobei Jun had ever so much as looked in their direction. He’d never even appeared in the entire plotline, too busy off killing someone for Luo Binghe. Thus, the plot line had slipped his mind.

What had followed had been another arranged marriage and harem drama that had gone on for a few chapters before Luo Binghe had managed it in the typical manner and moved on to the next chapter, the next beauty, and all else was forgotten.

Shang Qinghua had, at the time, forgotten Mobei Jun’s involvement in it all.

Did that, then, mean that Mobei Jun had received a marriage offer, rejected it, and then went about throwing a lavish, grand ball with heavy connotations of an auspicious date to announce a joining of clans and houses. It was the sort of event that someone would announce a marriage proposal, that families would agree on a joining of sons and daughters, or that declarations of love would be made.  

Mobei Jun had gone so far as to invite anyone and everyone who mattered, just to rub a little more dirt in the wound.

Oh no.

“Mobei Jun has all of the political intelligence of a hammer,” Shang Qinghua sighed heavily, rubbing at his face, then pinching at his nose.

No wonder the tailors had warned him of violence, he understood why now.

“True,” Shen Qingqiu mused, sipping from another cup of wine. “However, as Luo Binghe informed me on the ride here, no Winter Ball is considered a success without at least one death. Mobei Jun warmed him to expect at least the one.”

Shang Qinghua blinked. So then…Mobei Jun was taunting them on purpose and it wasn’t entirely a political misstep on his part?

It was cold, very cold if it was on Mobei Jun’s part. A message if he ever saw one.

And completely Mobei Jun, through and through.

“It’s possibly also why he’s dressed with his tits out so much,” Shen Qingqiu added, leaning into Shang Qinghua conspiratorially as he spoke, his voice soft, eyes sliding back over to Mobei Jun.

Shang Qinghua couldn’t help but follow his gaze and, yes, they really were. Totally out and his entire chest, his heart, bare and open for attack. While his neck was covered his armour didn’t even come close to his chest itself. The highly spelled protective robes didn’t cover it either. Instead he was…just there, speaking with Luo Binghe, his back to the Wei clan like it was nothing to him.

Someone was going to try and stab Mobei Jun.

He couldn’t stand for it.

“Oh my god,” Shang Qinghua sighed, and set his wine down with a thump.

Shen Qingqiu hummed and unfurled his fan. “Anyone with moderate intelligence would see that this, then, means that they were brought here only to be killed under just and celebrated means. Wei Lang’s daughter would have no cause for attempting to start a blood feud with Mobei Jun, since his death would be just as part of celebrations of the Winter Ball. An honourable death. Not an assassination. It is smart, in some ways. But it misses a few things…”

“Things like what?” Shang Qinghua sighed, waiting, frowning. Surely the Wei wouldn’t have come if they were aware of Mobei Jun’s play, unless they had a counter of their own.

“They would, in response to this, decide to not attack Mobei Jun, and instead go for another target. The matter is who, however,” Shen Qingqiu mused, waving his fan idly, then looking down at Shang Qinghua pointedly, as if waiting for him to catch up.

Shang Qinghua considered.

He turned his eyes to Luo Binghe. He was sure no one would dare.

 He looked at Shen Qingqiu, who blinked at him slowly, waiting patiently. No one would dare do so much as touch Shen Qingqiu without his permission. It would mean an instant and brutal death if someone so much as tripped Shen Qingqiu, let alone attempted to assassinate him. Luo Binghe had not, even here, avoided the tenfold punishment for wrongs against him. Especially amongst demons, where he needed to show his strength.

That left Shang Qinghua puzzling over who else was important to Mobei Jun. There were the other advisors, of course, yet none were quite high profile and most were old and more interested in monitoring the security and safety of the Palace now that Mobei Jun had absorbed his father’s body. They had, apparently, taken an interest in updating the castle and maintaining relations with other tribes and regions, intent on ruling, finally, instead of simply following Luo Binghe whims and assisting him in his own revenge and assassination plots. The Mo elders similarly were nothing in Mobei Jun’s eyes, more of a hindrance than anything.

He scratched his head, considering.

Shen Qingqiu sighed heavily. “You really have no idea,” Shen Qingqiu said dryly, staring down at Shang Qinghua. “Do you?”

Shang Qinghua glared up at Shen Qingqiu. “That’s ironic coming from you Mr Self Destruct and Fake My Own Death because he bent the protagonist further than either of us could imagine,” he said dryly.

Shen Qingqiu looked up, briefly. Barely resisted rolling his eyes, apparently. Raising his fan, he scoffed a little.. “It’s you, you idiot. The best target would be you.”

Shang Qinghua blinked then frowned. “What? Me? Why me?” he squeaked, flapping his arms. His new bangles jangled, an odd sensation to hear. He reached out to hold them, stilling them lest he draw attention to the both of them.

Shen Qingqiu lowered his fan and closed it, then poked at Shang Qinghua’s shoulder. “You saved Mobei Jun multiple times. Helped him through the trail, protected him while he absorbed his ancestor’s power. Helped oust Linguang Jun. Hold a powerful, respected position in his court. Come and go at your whim and seize land, trade and powerful artefacts for Mobei Jun.Mobei Jun said you decorated the castled, the first task of the Mo Consorts. Mobei Jun had clearly positioned himself to make some sort of declaration or announcement tonight, it’s too auspicious of a date, and you, here, dressed in the same colours as him, stared at by him…”

Shang Qinghua’s stomach fell out of his body, and he could hear a faint, distant ringing in his ears. Shock didn’t come close to covering what he felt, for the moment. Someone had pulled the floor out from under his feet, and the world was no longer what he thought it was.

The noodles.

The.

The noodles.

The gifts.

The changes in him and the way he stared, always stared, now. The way he never let anyone get close to him, even look at him, unless it was important. Left him to his own devices in the library, safe and sound and happy.

Shen Qingqiu arched an eyebrow. Waited.

“W-what?” Shang Qinghua blurted.

“He looked like he wants to eat you alive,” Shen Qingqiu drawled, straightening.

“Yes, yes he usually does. But it’s normally because I’ve annoyed him, not because he likes me—”

“You say that like tsundere’s don’t make up 90% of Luo Binghe’s harem. You have a type, bro.”

“I. I—!” Shang Qinghua spluttered, and his face went red. “I do not.”

Shen Qingqiu shot him a look.

“Okay. I do. Like. Mobei Jun may be my dream man but that doesn’t mean—”

“Hmn, I don’t think it has to be justified. Your worth and his interest is clear,” Shen Qingqiu mused, looking over to Luo Binghe and Mobei Jun, Mobei Jun who was watching them still, through the fall of his hair, from the corner of his eyes, despite speaking with Luo Binghe. “He’s going to propose to you.”

“But. Ah. Shit,” Shang Qinghua gasped, trying to absorb it all. “That can’t be right, though,” he breathed, frowning, thinking. He shook his head.

“You said he makes you noodles,” Shen Qingqiu drawled “Mobei Jun. Making human food.” He snorted.

Shen Qingqiu was right, wasn’t he?

Mobei Jun had been kinder lately, especially after he’d exploded at him and had demanded he stop treating him like trash. His unfilial creation of his own mindbeing so cruel to him had pushed him to the very edge, and his own devotion had given in. Running away had been his only recourse. Mobei Jun coming after him, defending him, helping him heal after his broken leg and changing his behaviour for the better afterwards was…. Was something.

Mobei Jun spoke through actions.

And since then he’d handed him the preparations for the ball, the new clothes, the missions he’d sent him on. The little gifts and artefacts. Waiting for his opinions. The meals together. The noodles.

And Mobei Jun’s eyes on them now, watching, waiting. As if worried he’d be attacked, not only Shen Qingqiu.

“Oh shit,” Shang Qinghua wheezed.

“Hmn.” Shen Qingqiu took a sip of his wine. “There’s the lightbulb turning on, finally.”

“Oh shit. Is this…is this all for me?” Shang Qinghua gasped, looking around. He’d chosen most of the décor, had offered opinions on this and that, had designed Mobei Jun’s Palace for him just as the previous spouse of the Nothern King had.

“Most likely,” Shen Qingqiu mused, disinterested. The prick.

“Fuck me,” Shang Qinghua gasped, raising his hands to pull at his hair a little, his eyes going to the floor.

“Get a room first.”

“Ugh.” Shang Qinghua took a deep, calming breath and then breathed it out. “So… what, Mobei Jun’s going to propose? He is. He’s going to propose.”

“Something like it. All of his Elders are here, Luo Binghe is here, anyone who is anyone is here,” Shen Qingqiu said, sliding his eyes down to look at Shang Qinghua. His lips lifted a little and he took another cup of wine from the table beside them, along with an extra cup, apparently intent on taking some to Luo Binghe. “Now you just have to avoid being murdered before the night is out,” he said with a particular sort of amusement.

“Great.”

As far as fancy balls went, Shang Qinghua had been to enough Immortal Alliance Conferences to be able to speak with most there with polite enquires and small talk. It helped that he knew most of the people here and had either advised Mobei Jun to keep them close or to be wary of them, knowing their relations with Luo Binghe and the North mostly through many of Luo Binghe’s now non-existent marriages.

So instead of running to Mobei Jun he circulated a little, wary of anyone with any sort of weapon, and felt himself watched the whole time.

He was going to be attacked. And maybe they would think, why not attack Mobei Jun while they were at it. The power vacuum it would create would leave a position open under Luo Binghe for the taking.  

Shen Qingqiu’s logic was quite sound and, thinking on it, he wasn’t sure how he didn’t notice Mobei Jun’s regard himself. Some part of him still doubted. Why would he care for Shang Qinghua, after all, when he’d detested the original and only kept him around for his worth as a spy. Now, after promises of noodles and a noticeable lack of violence and frustration, there seemed a gentling, an understanding.

He glanced out the windows to the ballroom and sighed heavily, annoyed at how much they seemed to be drawing it all out. Frustrated, he kept his back to the ballroom, hoping to make himself a target and draw the danger away from Mobei Jun.

“You could be less obvious,” a deep voice came suddenly, purring in his ear, prompting Shang Qinghua to jump and forcibly stifle a loud screech of surprise. “No one will attempt an assassination when you are so on guard.”

Shang Qinghua spun to look at Mobei Jun.

He was staring down at him with a particular expression of amusement, lips curving faintly upwards in a smile. In his fancy, almost diaphanous robes, and his gleaming silver armour, chest framed by the dark fall of his hair, he looked so damned regal Shang Qinghua wanted to shove him against a wall and mouth at a nipple. It was right there, frustrating tantalising and hidden.

Mobei Jun noticed, and smiled a little, lips quirking. He bowed his head further and his dark hair spilled over his shoulder, pale, icy gems in it following the movement. “You ran away.”

“My King,” Shang Qinghua wheezed, staring up at him, wide eyed. They were close now, almost nose to nose. So much of his attention was taken by Mobei Jun he almost didn’t notice the glass being pushed into his hand, chilled and faintly wet with condensation. Wine. Mobei Jun had brought him wine. “Ah. Recently this servant has become aware of a few things…” he began.

“Hmn?” Mobei Jun straightened and lifted his own glass and drank, keeping his eyes on Shang Qinghua. God his shoulders were so broad, and when he tipped his head back like that, swallowed, Shang Qinghua could see his throat bob. He wanted to bite it.

“Well. It’s just that… this servant has realised the significance of the Winter Ball and your insistence on my help preparing for it,” Shang Qinghua murmured, flicking his eyes up to meet Mobei Jun’s gaze occasionally. His eyes kept dropping to his chest then to his own drink, only to rise again, unable to look away. “This servant has realised that…he may have missed a few cues. Regarding. Courting.”

Mobei Jun arched an imperious eyebrow, and said nothing. His expression remained bland.

“You. Courting me?” Shang Qinghua asked eventually, almost a small, terrified squeak.

Mobei Jun only reached out and pressed a single finger to the bottom of Shang Qinghua’s glass of wine. Tipped it up until Shang Qinghua was forced to take a sip. He still stared, eyes wide, face feeling hot. He was sure his blush was showing.

His new bangles shifted on his arm as he raised his arm, drawing Mobei Jun’s eyes. They wandered elsewhere, down to Shang Qinghua’s robes, to his chest, to his hair and the thick, warm cloak. He looked like he wanted to eat him, seemed vaguely angry, frustrated, that he couldn’t.

“This Mobei Jun is aware of your dual nature,” Mobei Jun murmured. “Frustrating as you are, you are…the only one that this Mobei Jun would lower himself to make noodles for.” His lips lifted faintly at the corners and he leaned down, his hair falling between them again. He lowered his voice, speaking softly. “The only one he would tolerate in his palace, eating his food, using all of his paper, sharing my duties and advising me.”

Shang Qinghua lowered the glass and swallowed thickly. He straightened,  holding Mobei Jun’s gaze. Nodded. He had been doing all of those things. He had worked hard, very hard, for Mobei Jun to not only not kill him once he’d past his use, but also to trust him.  

“You are not ignorant now,” Mobei Jun deduced, and his voice was almost a purr, a deep rumble, the sound of faint satisfaction coming from somewhere deep in him.

Shang Qinghua could only swallow thickly and shake his head. No. He was not ignorant.

“Good,” Mobei Jun said, and straightened as well. He finished his wine and then offered him a hand.

Shang Qinghua took it meekly.

Mobei Jun turned and led them both away from the window. “Then perhaps we can cease dancing around each other and leave. They may not attack,” he said, sounding almost bored, his eyes scanning the ballroom.

Did that mean.

Was Mobei Jun suggesting they—

It was only a moment later Shang Qinghua noticed that someone was making a beeline for them both, apparently irritated, pushed over the edge by Mobei Jun’s clearly interested, for him, body language. By his apparent desire to blow this popsicle stand, so to speak, for…

Well for Shang Qinghua.

Mobei Jun wasn’t even looking, his attention apparently on seeking out Luo Binghe to indicate that he was, as he usually did, leaving when he pleased.

It wasn’t the Wei patriarch, it seemed, but another, smaller demon that struck out at them as they passed, the blade so thin and so sharp that Shang Qinghua had to pause, briefly, and catalogue whether they had actually missed as he dodged or if they really did get him. He was, by now, so used to taking Mobei Jun’s attacks and dodging Shen Qingqiu’s more irritable swipes with his fan that catching the hand that held the blade was natural, instinctive. Unthinkingly he stared down at the little demon, at the knife in her hand, looked down to check if it was indeed buried in his chest over his heart as she’d attempted and thought—

Oh.

If he weren’t a Peak Lord, if he hadn’t worked his way there by his own wits and had to, unfortunately, develop his core to maintain that position for Mobei Jun’s benefit, he wouldn’t have been able to do such a thing. But he was, and he was more than just a crafty human following Mobei Jun around.  

“That blade should be in the armoury,” Shang Qinghua mused, staring down at the blade that was glowing a faint blue, stopped an inch from his chest. It was poisoned, deadly enough to burn meridians and spiritual cores from the inside out, something that Luo Binghe had suffered not once, but twice, and something he’d been sure to hide in Mobei Jun’s own treasury to keep safe.

He twisted the demon’s arm and forced the blade out of their grip, stepping back further, feeling Mobei Jun release his hand to allow him to move. There were two blades, twins of each other. One for humans and one for demons.  The other could burn away at demons from the inside within an hour, the death slow and painful, petrifyingly so. Panicked, he looked to Mobei Jun, terrified that he’d been attacked at the same time as well, or would be.

Mobei Jun was holding another demon by the throat, lifting them above the ground, his fingers digging into their neck until there was a dull crack of their spine severing and grinding together under his grip. Gritting his teeth he raised his now free hand, black ice and energy appearing so thick and dense that it was difficult to breathe for a moment. Mobei Jun launched his spear of ice at the demon that had tried to stab Shang Qinghua, which sent them careening through the crowd and clear through to the opposite side of the ballroom, pinning them high up on the wall near the entrance. They took several attendants and tables with them, along with some flower vases and a particularly elegant ice sculpture. The demon was dead, the ice spear pinning them to the wall caving in most of their chest.

The chaos was immediate. The demons around them began accusing each other of collusion and began to fight. Much like a bar fight, what was once somewhat civilised and elegant degenerated into an all-out brawl, the demons tearing at each other, creating only more chaos for Shang Qinghua to try to defend Mobei Jun within.

Shang Qinghua spun around, seeking another attacker wildly. He drew his sword, glad he’d been pressed to bring it with himself.

Mobei Jun growled behind him. “Foolish,” he snarled, and Shang Qinghua felt his hand land on his shoulder as he spun, defending Shang Qinghua’s back, trusting him with his own.

Shang Qinghua didn’t quite had the time to appreciate it, and all it meant.

There.

Mid-leap, blood red sword aimed downwards, a demon hurtled towards them, falling from the ceiling. They were screeching, black wings outstretched, formal attire ruined for function over form. Another demon from another clan, this one from the south which would have also had no chance, but which were arrogant and thought highly of themselves.

Shang Qinghua raised his sword, recognising the twin of the spiritual poison dagger. He gathered his spiritual energy and threw his sword, seeing no way he could have possibly otherwise defended against such a blow. Mobei Jun was taller than him, besides. His back turned to them.

The sword went singing through the air, sharp and quick. Shang Qinghua forced all of his will, all of his protectiveness into it. No one would, could ever, take his King from him. Or him from his King. Least of all so soon after their discovery of the true depths of Mobei Jun’s affection.

The sword, carried with his spiritual energy and fury, pierced the demon’s chest and sent him sailing back up the way he had come, hurtling towards the ceiling and them impeding itself there. Drawing a talisman quickly, cursing, Shang Qinghua tossed it after him and keeping the blue dagger in hand, held his hand out for the red twin blade, catching it as it fell from the ceiling.

The demon choked, then screamed as the talisman tore through it, before going limp, still pinned to the ceiling.

“Stop!” Luo Binghe roared, his voice and the essence of his demonic power blanketing the entire ballroom.

Everyone stopped, pausing in place and turning their attention to Luo Binghe.

Luo Binghe who stood, untouched, with Shen Qingqiu in the circle of his arms, untouched.

“Enough,” Luo Binghe said. “This Lord thinks that Mobei Jun’s balls are renowned for their violence and...interest. He should be congratulated on his efforts,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.

There was a shift of material as Mobei Jun turned behind Shang Qinghua, then made a soft sound of satisfaction. “Junshang is satisfied?” he asked, looking around.

“Oh yes,” Luo Binghe said. “This lord does not wish to see Shizun’s new robes that he appreciates so much become dirtied with blood if he were to have to walk over puddles of it on the way out.” He turned his eyes on Shen Qingqiu and smiled faintly, indulgently.

Shen Qingqiu, hiding behind his fan, stared for a moment, then gently patted Luo Binghe’s arm as if to reward him. “Binghe is too kind.”

Shang Qinghua wanted to curse. How twisted his blackened demon lord was, tied around Shen Qingqiu’s finger so much. Who truly rules the demon world? It wasn’t Luo Binghe! It was Shen Qingqiu through his son’s sky pillar!

With his typical aplomb Mobei Jun moved to stand beside Shang Qinghua and then waved a hand at the still frozen ballroom. “Continue,” he said, and looked to the doorway of the ballroom that led to the throne room.

He had subordinate guards that saw to the security of the castle, and they came rushing in a little too late. The captain came to Mobei Jun, looking at the demon hanging from the ceiling, Shang Qinghua’s sword still impaled in his chest.

“Take care of them,” Mobei Jun said, taking Shang Qinghua’s elbow.

“A-ah my Lord, if someone could…get that one down?” the captain asked, looking up at the demon still pinned to the ceiling with Shang Qinghua’s sword.

Mobei Jun glanced up, then hummed and turned his pale eyes down on Shang Qinghua. He held out a hand for the sword Shang Qinghua now held.

“Oh!” Shang Qinghua gasped and offered Mobei Jun the weapons carefully, then raised a hand, recalling his sword back to himself. The demon fell to the ground immediately, causing those around it to step back suddenly, gasping a little. Shang Qinghua flicked the blood from his blade and then sheathed it, clearing his throat nervously and many gazes turned to him.

Mobei Jun raised his chin and smiled. “Junshang, if it please you, my betrothed and this Lord will take our leave.”

This…was news to Shang Qinghua, and apparently everyone else in the room. He gaped up at Mobei Jun.

That was it.

That was his proposal?

Just simply announcing it so?

Luo Binghe only bowed his head a little. If he was surprised he didn’t show it. Instead he raised his glass in a brief toast, then returned his attention to Shen Qingqiu.

Shen Qingqiu who was smiling behind that fan, he was sure. A shit eating ‘see I told you’ grin if he ever saw one.

Mobei Jun pulled him from the ballroom. Shang Qinghua went willingly, happily.

It was only once they were on the upper levels of the palace Shang Qinghua realised where they were going. “My King?” he asked.

“You don’t object?” Mobei Jun asked, all but purring.

Shang Qinghua nearly tripped. “Of course not!” he gasped happily. “Betrothed? Though? My king since when?”

“Since now.” Mobei Jun growled as he kicked open the door to his bedroom.

He dragged Shang Qinghua inside.

Shang Qinghua had only been inside a few times when they had taken their meals together. It hadn’t changed much since then, was still opulent and full of weird keepsakes from all over the demon world as well as some notable pieces that Shang Qinghua recognised as cultivation weapons. Specific pieces that had amused or annoyed him.  

Otherwise it was a perfectly normal room. Nothing overly sexy or strange about it.

They didn’t make it much past the door, which Mobei Jun also kicked shut with a booted foot.

“Now?” Shang Qinghua squeaked, flushing. “My King are you…sure?” he asked, biting his lips.

Mobei Jun released Shang Qinghua’s arm and turned, releasing the clasp on his cloak so that it fell to the ground, then working on his own shining pale armour, divesting himself of it. Shang Qinghua could do nothing but stare, wide eyed, as more and more pale skin was bared.

Mobei Jun was undressing in front of him.

Mobei Jun was.

Pleased that he was watching him undress.

“Qinghua,” Mobei Jun murmured, moving forward suddenly, dropping the armour over his stomach, working at releasing his arm guards as he did. Arms free, finally he pressed his hands to the door behind Shang Qinghua trapping him, caging him in, and fixing him with his signature glare. Only….it probably wasn’t a glare.

It was, Shang Qinghua thought, one of his angry glares.

Only he knew for a fact Mobei Jun wasn’t angry with him.

Instead, when he looked at it differently, it could almost be that Mobei Jun wanted to eat him alive. In a good way, mind. One that he very, very much wanted to indulge him in.  

Oh.

Okay.

So they were doing this, then.

Fuck yes.

“Yes?” Shang Qinghua gasped.

Mobei Jun reached down and unclasped Shang Qinghua’s own cloak, then allowed it to fall to the ground. His hands hovered. “Mobei Jun is sure,” he murmured, lowering his chin, his thumb gently caressing Shang Qinghua’s jaw, his cheek. “Only you.”

Shang Qinghua’s mouth worked. Processing, he gasped, blinking heavily. He gasped, feeling like it was his first breath of air in a long time.

Mobei Jun leaned forward after a moment only to pause once they were close, his forehead nearly resting against his own. “Qinghua?” he asked softly, questioned.

Something in Shang Qinghua snapped. “Yes,” he gasped.

Mobei Jun, his dream man, his king, wanted him, had accepted him. Was offering more than just noodles and a less violent home life. He rushed forward and leaned up, raised himself on his toes. Pressed his lips to Mobei Jun’s hungrily, eagerly. Wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him down that little bit to meet him.

Mobei Jun’s response was immediate, his tongue pressing against his own as they kissed hungrily. They groaned, the both of them falling into a deep kiss, hungry and sure. Pressing close to each other, they held onto each other tightly, fingers dipping in deep.  

Shang Qinghua had no idea what he was doing, but by god had he read and written a lot of porn and thought himself thoroughly prepared to rely on his own instincts and his own mind. They would be fine, he was sure. Shang Qinghua eagerly shifted his hands and pulled at Mobei Jun’s robes from his shoulders, letting his hands smooth over fine, pale skin and gripping occasionally, just feeling the strength and power there.

Mobei Jun lifted his head a little, breaking their kiss. “Qinghua,” he gasped, his hands sliding down to grip at Shang Qinghua’s waist, tugging at his robes.

Shang Qinghua moaned and shifted to help, seeking the ties to his new robes he’d only seen put on him through the mirror.

“Wait,” Mobei Jun breathed.

Qinghua immediately froze and pushed himself back, his hands sliding up to Mobei Jun’s chest. His particularly plump chest. His fingers twitched, and the muscle beneath gave a little. Shang Qinghua wanted to whimper a little, his eyes dipping to where Mobei Jun’s robes were barely remaining tied around his waist. If he could just…slide his hand down a little, they would fall open with a gentle touch, and he’d be able to push his hand down further, into Mobei Jun’s pants and—

Only Mobei Jun was lowering himself, suddenly, and pushing Shang Qinghua back. His back thumped against the door they hadn’t managed to move away from. He stared in incomprehension as Mobei Jun kneeled before him.

Mobei Jun’s hands were working at his robes, pushing them open, baring Shang Qinghua. He leaned forward, pressed his lips to Shang Qinghua’s chest as it was revealed. “Wait,” he murmured again, his voice a low, deep rumble. His long, dark eyelashes hid his pale eyes for a moment as he seemed to just sink Shang Qinghua in.

“My... my King?” Shang Qinghua wheezed, and gasped a moment later as Mobei Jun kept kissing his way down his stomach. His hands gripped at Mobei Jun’s shoulders, fisting in the robes there. He could feel the muscles of his shoulders under his hands and it pulled a groan from him as Mobei Jun nipped gently.

“Want this first,” Mobei Jun murmured against his skin, breath hot. “There has…been few ways you will acknowledge my gifts to you…”

Shang Qinghua blinked. Gifts?

The artefacts he catalogued? The clothes? The endless decorations in the hallways? The library, oddly warm and always quiet for him?

“My King… this…”

“Shut up, Qinghua,” Mobei Jun murmured, looking up at him past dark eyelashes for a long moment, his hand pulling at Shang Qinghua’s pants, until his cock was released and suddenly against Mobei Jun’s cheek. It was dark and flushed with his need. Just from the pure sight and memory of Mobei Jun’s lips against his own. From seeing Mobei Jun’s lips so close to his own arousal. He couldn’t help but flush all over, his cock twitching, precome slipping free from the tip as it did.

Mobei Jun watched with rapt attention, apparently transfixed.

Shang Qinghua panted. “This…this servant doesn’t think that’s going to be possible right now, my king,” he gasped, shifting a hand to press at Mobei Jun’s lips, fingers trembling. He couldn’t believe he had the permission, and that someone so powerful, so perfect as Mobei Jun was allowing him to press his fingers against his lips, and to push them further in, past sharp little fangs and over a warm tongue.

Couldn’t believe that Mobei Jun, apparently, wanted to suck him.

Mobei Jun hummed deeply, taking Shang Qinghua’s fingers into his mouth. After a moment, Shang Qinghua blinked in surprise. It was a deep, satisfied rumble, almost a purr.

“Fuck,” Shang Qinghua breathed.

Mobei Jun reached up and grasped Shang Qinghua’s wrist, then pulled his hand, his fingers, away from his mouth. He turned his head slightly to catch Shang Qinghua’s cock between his lips instead and licked, then sucked, on the tip of Shang Qinghua’s cock.

His eyes flicked up to Shang Qinghua, watching eagerly as he did. Watched him as he let him feel the heat of his mouth, the slide of his tongue against the tip of his cock, tasting that precome.  

Shang Qinghua couldn’t help but stare, transfixed. “Mobei Jun,” he whimpered. “My King…”

Mobei Jun pulled back after a moment and licked his lips. “Do you understand now, Qinghua?”

Shang Qinghua nodded eagerly. “Yes!”

“Good,” Mobei Jun murmured. Mobei Jun closed his eyes this time, parting his lips and taking him in. He sucked at Shang Qinghua’s cock until he’d taken him all of the way in, and Shang Qinghua could only swear and let his head fall back against the door, lost to the wet head of Mobei Jun’s mouth. The overwhelming knowledge that Mobei Jun wanted this too, was content and considered him competent, worthy. Wanted him enough to do this, to demand this of him.

Shang Qinghua had never felt anything quite so good in his life. His own hand couldn’t compare. Nor his dreams, his fantasies, or any single scene he’d ever written.

It was perfect.

Mobei Jun was relentless, his pace unceasing. Shang Qinghua moaned thickly, his hands shifting to Mobei Jun’s perfect hair, winding through it, careful to not damage the jewellery there, winding through Mobei Jun’s hair like teardrops. He gasped and moaned. Tried so hard to keep himself from rocking into Mobei Jun’s mouth.

He felt his orgasm rising quickly all the same. Which was inevitable, really.

He made the final mistake of looking down at him, at Mobei Jun’s lips sealed around his mouth and his eyes watching Shang Qinghua’s reaction. He lifted a hand after a moment and caressed Shang Qinghua’s thighs, his balls gently, fingers caressing delicate skin and encouraging.

Shang Qinghua gasped. “My King,” he gasped in warning. His orgasm rose too quickly, too violently for him to say much else. He choked and came a moment later, head falling, hair falling around him.

 He came, his orgasm washing over him in a thick, blinding wave.

Spilled himself into Mobei Jun’s mouth, feeling him suck eagerly. Feeling him continue, holding him still, unwilling to release him until he absolutely had to.

That rumble was back, that gentle purr of satisfaction. Harmless and reassuring. He sucked at him until Shang Qinghua mewled gently in complaint, pushing at his shoulder, and then finally pulled back reluctantly.

Shang Qinghua leaned against the door, trying to keep himself up on unsteady legs. He gasped for air and looked down at Mobei Jun, his face flushed. “This servant understands,” he breathed.

Mobei Jun licked his lips and hummed. He surged up, lifting Shang Qinghua up, his hands sliding under his ass. Shang Qinghua wrapped his legs around Mobei Jun and clung to him, dazed and sated.

They kissed, Mobei Jun hungry, and Shang Qinghua dazed and on the verge of giggling happily.  

Eventually they parted, and Mobei Jun hummed, pulling him away from the door. “Consort. Finally.”

Shang Qinghua swallowed and smiled a little. His hands fisted In Mobei Jun’s robes, wrapped around his neck to steady himself. “Finally…?”

“This lord would allow no other to follow him along. This lord would not turn over an entire kingdom looking for another. Would never…lower himself to cooking noodles….Or taste you as he has…” Mobei Jun grumbled, carrying Shang Qinghua towards the bed. A large, curtained monstrosity.

“You make wonderful noodles,” Shang Qinghua said, smiling, amused. “Are you sure?” he asked faintly.

Mobei Jun gently lowered Shang Qinghua to the bed and made a softly, deep sound that was distinctly a purr. He licked at Shang Qinghua’s lips and caressed his waist, pinning him there. “Stop asking,” he murmured, pulling back enough to meet his eyes. “You are mine.”

Shang Qinghua’s eyes dipped to Mobei Jun’s lips.

So he was.

“You are strong, and you proved that before them all tonight…” Mobei Jun smiled faintly. “You belong here…”

Shang Qinghua blinked, then reached up to caress Mobei Jun’s cheek. He smoothed his hand down to his chest, then down further to his pants, and the loose fall of his robes, spilling around them. “This servant…would be very, very happy to be yours.”

Mobei Jun smiled faintly, his lips pulling up. “Good,” he purred, and kissed him again. “Let me prove it to you again, so that you won’t forget.”

Shang Qinghua squeaked a little and wondered exactly how much the protagonist's stamina had rubbed off on Mobei Jun.