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vickytaa · 1 day ago

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Music keeps me alive. M.S. Chapter I

summery: y/n's father passed away, and she moved to Boston to finish school. She always keeps her headphones on, only she knows the reason why. What happens when she meets Matt?

"‘Hey honey, can you give me a hand with this?’ Y/n heard her mom’s voice from a distance. Seventeen-year-old Y/n had moved to Boston with her mom after her dad passed away, and they were still unpacking boxes. She’d lived her whole life in LA, but her mom had decided to start over, so they’d had to move. ‘Coming,’ Y/n replied, quickly putting her headphones back on. She wore them all the time, for reasons only she knew; she listened to all kinds of music, knew all the lyrics by heart from listening to them over and over. She loved everything from Romeo Santos to Billie Eilish, and even 2Pac or Bob Marley—basically anything.

After a couple of hours of unpacking, Y/n finally managed to grab a book from her bookshelf, ‘When the Cherry Blossoms Bloom’ by Liliana Cinetto. She climbed into her new, cold bed, turned on her bedside lamp, and put on some jazz. It had been a long day: saying goodbye to family, moving into the new house, unpacking, packing her school bag for the first day—the list went on.

Later that night, Y/n and her mom had dinner—a cold pizza—and talked about what her life would be like now that it was just the two of them. Her dad’s passing had been tragic but expected, given his terminal illness. Y/n avoided talking about him, preferring to keep her mind occupied with other things, like how her first day at a new high school would be. It was going to be tough, sure, but as long as she stayed out of trouble, passed her classes, and kept a low profile, everything would be fine. But it would be nice to have a friend, right? At her old school, she had been well-behaved and got along with everyone, but no one well enough to call a friend. It would be difficult, but she didn’t really care anymore if she made friends or not."

Y/n fell asleep with her headphones on, but her mom woke her up to say goodnight. This had happened before, so her mom simply took the headphones and set them on the nightstand. She sat down next to Y/n and looked at her for a while. Y/n was beautiful, with long, silky hair and porcelain skin, just like her dad. Her mom gently brushed a strand of hair off her forehead and kissed her forehead. She knew that Y/n was hurting inside, even more than she was, because Y/n and her dad had been inseparable.

The next morning, Y/n woke up to the sound of her alarm and the delicious smell of food coming from the kitchen. Her mom loved to cook, and her food was always amazing. Y/n got out of bed and walked to the kitchen, passing by the bathroom, the laundry room, the living room, the guest room, basically everywhere. "Mmm, that smells delicious," she said as she reached the kitchen. "Good morning, sweetheart. Are you ready for your first day?" her mom asked, turning around to see Y/n leaning against the doorframe. Y/n didn't react well to the question. "Yeah, can't wait to meet new people," she said sarcastically, forcing a smile. Her mom rolled her eyes and gave her a serious look. "Come on, Y/n. You're going to do great. You're smart, you're kind, and you're beautiful. Everyone will love you." Y/n chuckled and left the kitchen to get ready.

Y/n kept repeating to herself, "You're going to be fine." She put on a pair of black sweatpants, a white t-shirt, and a gray sweatshirt that matched her headphones. She tied her hair up in a messy bun, leaving a few strands loose. She put on her perfume and went to the dining room, where her mom had breakfast ready.

After breakfast, Y/n grabbed her backpack and left for school. The school was close by, so she arrived on time. As she walked into the school, she noticed that there were several groups of friends, all of them seemed very close. Making friends was going to be difficult, and joining one of those groups seemed impossible.

Y/n went to her locker, put away a few things, and then headed to her first class. She preferred to stay under the radar and listen to her music. But as soon as she walked into the classroom, the teacher made her introduce herself to the class.

"Oh, Y/n, right?" Ms. Amy asked. She had a sweet voice and was wearing a long white dress. Y/n nodded, not knowing what was about to happen. "Class, please welcome our new classmate!" Ms. Amy said loudly. Y/n's face turned bright red. She had never been so embarrassed. She simply smiled at her classmates and walked to the first empty seat.

When Matt saw Y/n, he couldn't take his eyes off her. She was so beautiful, with her flawless skin and silky hair. He noticed that her cheeks were red, and it made her even more adorable.

Matt wasn't very popular in class. He had a few friends, but not many. He was a sweet and kind boy, and he was a triplet. His brothers were Chris and Nick. Matt was the quieter of the three.

Ms. Amy started her lesson as usual, and Y/n paid attention, kind of. She had her headphones on, so she was really in her own world. Matt, on the other hand, couldn't focus on all; all he could think about was when Y/n had walked into the room. He was lost in thought until Chris snapped him back to reality. "Hey, you okay, man?" Chris asked. It was unusual for Matt to be so distracted, since he was usually pretty studious. "Yeah, sorry, I was just... thinking about the new girl," Matt replied, looking over at Chris. "Oh, now it makes sense," Chris said, rolling his eyes and playfully punching Matt on the arm. "Cut it out, I was just thinking maybe she's lonely and doesn't know anyone." Chris chuckled. "Why don't you go talk to her?" he suggested. Matt's eyes widened. "Why don't you go?" he asked. "Because you brought her up," Chris replied. "What are you guys talking about?" Nick interrupted. "Matt's got a crush on the new girl," Chris announced. Matt quickly covered Chris's mouth to shush him. "No, I'm just trying to be nice!" Nick looked at him skeptically. "Sure, you are," he said. "I'll go ask her if she wants to hang out with us," Nick offered. "Hey, what about me?" Anna asked. She had been friends with the triplets since they were little, but she was closest to Nick. "The new girl," Nick replied. "Oh, yeah, she's pretty. I get good vibes from her," Anna said. "Oh, you and your vibes," Chris teased. They all laughed except for Anna. "You know, you should really—" "Hey, quiet down back there!" Ms. Amy called out.

The boys quieted down and focused on the lesson. Y/n, oblivious to the attention she was getting, continued to draw in her notebook and tap her foot to the beat of her music.

When the other classes ended, Y/n really wanted to leave. Not having anyone to talk to was a problem she would probably have to get used to in the future, but right now she would rather be doing other things, like helping her mom finish unpacking. But as much as she wanted to, she couldn't just leave school like that.

At lunchtime, Y/n had considered her options for eating alone. She could sit at a table in the cafeteria, but she knew it was impossible to find one empty. She could eat in the bathroom, but that seemed unsanitary and dramatic. She could go to the library, but she didn't know where it was and didn't want to ask for directions. Finally, she decided on the sports field. She found a spot under a tree, far enough away from the playing fields to avoid getting hit by a ball.

As she finished eating, she realized she had some time to kill before her next class. She pulled out her book and started reading. A few minutes later, she heard footsteps approaching. She looked up to see a boy and a girl standing in front of her.

"Hi, I'm Nick, and this is Anna," the boy said. "We saw you sitting here alone, and we wanted to say hi."

Y/n was surprised, but she smiled and introduced herself. They talked for a while, and Y/n realized that they were pretty cool. She was starting to feel a little less lonely. And she felt her heart fill with happiness as she talked to them, even though it was just a brief moment.

When it was time for her next class, Y/n said goodbye to Nick and Anna. As she walked away, she couldn't help but smile. Maybe making friends at her new school wouldn't be so hard after all.

At the end of the last class, Y/n headed to her locker and heard their voices. "Hey Y/n, see you tomorrow," Nick said. When Y/n turned around to reply, she realized there were more of them. "Oh, sure. I didn't know you had brothers," she said, confused. They looked identical; she only knew Nick because she had spoken to him and his clothes were the same as earlier. "We're triplets. This is Chris," he said, pointing to Chris who smiled, "And this is Matt," he pointed to Matt, who looked a little embarrassed, his red cheeks giving him away. "Hi, I'm Y/n, nice to meet you," she greeted them. "See you tomorrow," Y/n said, smiling at all three of them. Matt swore that if he opened his mouth, he would burst with butterflies, his heart was pounding so hard.

The walk home was short, but all Y/n could think about was Matt. She didn't know him very well yet, they hadn't really talked, so it was hard to say what he was like, but she could tell he was special. The way he looked at her with his bright smile, his blue eyes that seemed to see right through her, and the way his cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink every time he looked at her, it was endearing. She knew he was going to be important, but she didn't know how."‘Hey honey, can you give me a hand with this?’ Y/n heard her mom’s voice from a distance. Seventeen-year-old Y/n had moved to Boston with her mom after her dad passed away, and they were still unpacking boxes. She’d lived her whole life in LA, but her mom had decided to start over, so they’d had to move. ‘Coming,’ Y/n replied, quickly putting her headphones back on. She wore them all the time, for reasons only she knew; she listened to all kinds of music, knew all the lyrics by heart from listening to them over and over. She loved everything from Romeo Santos to Billie Eilish, and even 2Pac or Bob Marley—basically anything.

When Matt saw Y/n, he couldn't take his eyes off her. She was so beautiful, with her flawless skin and silky hair. He noticed that her cheeks were red, and it made her even more adorable.

Matt wasn't very popular in class. He had a few friends, but not many. He was a sweet and kind boy, and he was a triplet. His brothers were Chris and Nick. Matt was the quieter of the three.

The boys quieted down and focused on the lesson. Y/n, oblivious to the attention she was getting, continued to draw in her notebook and tap her foot to the beat of her music.

"Hi, I'm Nick, and this is Anna," the boy said. "We saw you sitting here alone, and we wanted to say hi."

When it was time for her next class, Y/n said goodbye to Nick and Anna. As she walked away, she couldn't help but smile. Maybe making friends at her new school wouldn't be so hard after all.

a/n: First chapter, what will happen on the next one?? I am very happy to do this. Love ya:))

#matt sturniolo #sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #christopher sturniolo #matt sturniolo x reader #sturniolo #the sturniolos #chris x reader #christopher owen sturniolo #nick sturniolo #matthew #matthew bernard sturniolo #matt x reader #matthew sturniolo #chris x y/n #christopher x reader #i love chris

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sh0jun · 2 days ago

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I was very impressed with the article you wrote for Lawyer MC. This request also comes from me. Can I request an MC who is a talented academic specializing in topics related to political science and the history of political thought? Since he was an academic, he also improved his diction. In addition to Japanese, he can also speak English and French very well. What would the warlords' reaction be? Thank you.

OMG REALLY??! THANK YOU SO MUCH

I hope you like this one!

Sorry this took so long

Political Scientist MC

• Oda Forces

→ Nobunaga Oda

• he was impressed to see your knowledge in political thought when he first met you. As such, he often brought you along for war councils and other discussions

• when you both got closer and you told him about how you're from the future and a political scientist, well- just know you both will be talking for hours

• just know he's gonna ask you all types of questions related to the political view from 500 years in the future! He may or may not implement some laws on his people to so tell him at your own risk!

• he will also bring you along to meet distinguished guests from overseas since your French and English is good :)

• you're one talented fireball that's for sure

→Hideyoshi Toyotomi

• you being fluent in French and English. And your knowledge in political grounds was what actually got him to be even more suspicious of you

• how do you know all this? Who do you work for? What's your plan?

• several several questions will be coming your way so get ready to answer them!

• when you both get closer and he gets to know more about you. He's actually very impressed

• you know so much! He'd love to know more about your work!

• also your fluent in French and English! Most fascinating! He'd bring you along during negotiations as well

→ Mitsuhide Akechi

• interesting. Very interesting.

• for the first few days he will be keeping a close eye on you from the shadows

• occasionally while teasing you he will purposefully add some political details. You always fall for that trick.

• Because history is never fully accurate so this was your chance to know more about it!

• when you both get closer he finally figures out the secret to your intelligence

• like Nobunaga he will also ask you about the political view of the future

• he will be amazed by how much it changed since the unification

• Uesugi-Takeda Forces

→ Kenshin Uesugi

• he wasn't interested in whatever you had to saw

• *throws you in the cell*

• .....i may have over did it BUT in my defense. He's not really interested in political talks. He only wants to go to war

• well not that he's completely uninterested but he'd rather go to wat

• when you guys do however get closer. He will be interested in talking to you. Actually he'd be interested in hearing the view point from 500 years in the future

• he will be like Nobunaga and try to put some of the ideologies to work

→Shingen Takeda

• he's one of the only few who would actually like to talk to you about the political views and such

• he may correct you in certain points. But actually you would end up having a good long chat with him

• he's nice :)

• when you both get closer, well, he's pretty much like Kenshin and Nobunaga and would hear and compare the political views from now and 500 years in the future

→Kanetsugu Naoe

• are you a spy? (Part 2)

• suspicious like Hideyoshi

• does not trust you

• how do you know so many languages that's not normal

• when you both become lovers tho, he will understand how you are so knowledgeable

• will be very interested to talk to you after that

• maybe there are some rules he can introduce to Lord Kenshin too?

• Lone Forces

→Kicho

• you can speak French and english?

• that may be a problem but again. Maybe not

• Of course he's aware you're from the future. So he's not really amazed by your political knowledge and how fluent you are in different languages

• he will still bring you along durijg negotiations

• but will send you away if they wanna talk about something important

• when you both get closer, well- of course. He will stop sending you away like before qwq

Thanku so much for reading!

Taglist: @batteryrose @kissmetwicekissmedeadly @mollycoddle707 @bontu-the-l0ver

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madbard · 3 days ago

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“Ford is irredeemably self-centered” this, “Ford’s a bad person” that, etc…

Alright. Tell me then.

What was he supposed to do?!?!

Be a better brother? Ford loved Stan! When they were children, Ford took care of his brother as best he could. But Ford was also a kid in a bad situation, and there were limits to what he could do. Not to mention that Stan relied so heavily on Ford that it honestly wasn’t healthy for either of them. Stan couldn’t stand by himself and he wasn’t trying. They were both struggling; maybe pin that on the parents instead of the kids.

Not be angry at Stan for messing with his experiment? Of course Ford was angry! This was his dream college; in that moment he thought his entire future was crumbling. I assure you, if my sibling had ruined my chances of getting into my dream school I would have been more than a little upset, and I’m sure the same goes for most of the people reading this. Of course, Ford did hold onto that anger for considerably longer than was justified, but in this case I would argue that Ford less “held a grudge for 10 years out of spite” and more “never got the chance to make things right with his brother and held onto that anger because it was better than the nauseating guilt over that final argument, the uncertainty at times that his brother was even alive.” (Which is not to say that Ford isn’t spiteful. Our man has plenty of spite. But him being spiteful is not the only thing going on here.) Which brings us to our next point.

Stop Stan from being kicked out? How?! That household does not appear to have been a safe place for either of the brothers. Should Ford have gotten himself kicked out too? Should he have known exactly what to say to talk his father down - the man who just violently threw his twin out of the house? Ford didn’t kick Stan out. He just wasn’t able to stop it from happening, and that’s not something any teen should be blamed for.

Behave himself when reuniting with Stan at the culmination of the worst period of his life thus far? There’s stress. And then there’s being dangerously sleep-deprived and at the mercy of a horrifying demon that betrayed you, leaving you alone in a shack in the woods with no one to call for help except your estranged brother, who’s complaining about a mullet, of all things. Yeah, I’m not going to say Ford’s behavior was anything other than atrocious here. But really. How well would you handle that?

Thanked his brother? Stan could have destroyed the universe; it makes sense that Ford’s upset! He’s also had literally decades to stew in the terror and fury he experienced in those last moments before falling through the portal (something which almost certainly would not have happened if it weren’t for Stan). Again, Ford’s not acting like the world’s best brother here, but it’s understandable.

Ford’s not perfect. He can be arrogant, spiteful, and bitter. He makes serious mistakes (often due to his own hubris) that put himself, his loved ones, and sometimes the entire universe in grave peril. Ford is, in fact, deeply flawed. That’s part of what makes him a fun character! It’s also what makes him a well-written and believable character. Yes, Ford acts like a jerk. He does so quite often.

Ford also spends nearly the entire narrative bouncing from one deeply toxic situation to another, desperately trying to survive and make life better for himself and his family and watching as his brother makes mistake after mistake - sometimes making choices with severe, negative consequences on Ford’s own life.

Ford is doing the best he can. He’d not a bad person. He tries to be good. He tries to do the right thing.

He just fails sometimes.

Don’t we all?

#say it with me #Ford. Is Not. A Bad. Person.#He’s Doing. The Best. He Can.#And The Narrative. Is Dealing Him. An Unbelievably. Shitty. Hand.#anyway don’t come after Ford y’all #i will die on this hill #(and don’t come after Mabel either that’s an entirely different post and hill I will die on)#actually let’s be kind to the entire Pines family #I love them #they’re great #and so well written #wow this post is a bit agressive uh…#sorry but the Ford hate makes me irrationally upset #and I might be overcorrecting a bit because the intention was not to excuse Ford’s behavior at every junction #just. he screwed up. he did. but I understand his choices at every junction? so I find it hard to be angry at him?#gravity falls analysis #gravity falls #stanford pines #gravity falls stanford #grunkle ford #ford pines #gravity falls ford #wow lots of tags um…#sorry im new to the fandom and still figuring out which fandom tags to use #madbard rambles

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boba-pearl-writes · 2 days ago

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Amortentia - 11/8/24 - word count: 613 - @rosekillermicrofic

Evan was not enjoying Potions.

This wasn’t quite a surprise, as he never enjoyed Potions. Usually, this had to do with him not being able to make Potions as well as Slughorn demonstrated, ending up with him at the end of Slughorn’s judgemental, disappointed looks. He didn’t really care. Barty and Pandora were way more skilled at Potions, and he usually partnered with them anyway.

This time, they were making amortentia- Evan hadn’t done the required reading before the class, but he knew what it was. One of the most powerful love potions in the wizarding world, and not too easy to brew, either. It was supposed to smell like your soulmate or the person you loved most.

Evan had never been really interested in the concept or the meaning of soulmates. In his view, Barty was the only right person for him, the only person he’d felt strongly towards, and not even fate would change that. If fate agreed with him, then… Well, that was alright.

The only problem was, Barty had refused to partner with him this Potions class partnering with Regulus instead, and Pandora had already partnered with some Gryffindor girl. Evan was happy to leave them to that.

Dorcas wasn’t even in their year. Evan had ended up with Mulciber, something he’d never forgive the rest of them for. It was well known that Mulciber was absolutely helpless at Potions, and, combined with Evan’s lack of affinity towards this class- they were going to end up doing something wrong.

By some miracle, after the last ingredient and the last stir, the potion took on the pearly color it was supposed to take, no thanks to Mulciber, who’d just been chatting with Avery the entire time. The potion looked almost hypnotizing with its silvery color and its swirling smoke. What was the most entrancing about it was its smell. It smelled like the smoke from a blunt, green apple lollies, and something else that could only be described as Barty. He looked over at the person in question and found that he was already staring back.

Their eyes met. Evan sucked in a breath. Barty looked away, a flush of red on his face.

What’d that mean? Could it be…?

Barty didn’t look over at him for the rest of the class. Evan cornered him after class, and Barty tried making several excuses to get away. Evan knew for a fact, though, that they both had a free period.

“What’d you smell in the amortentia?” He asked, getting right to the point. Barty looked down, not meeting his eyes.

“What’s it matter to you?” Evan frowned. Barty wasn’t this hostile, not to him.

“Barty,” he said, softer this time, and Barty looked up at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I smelled green apple lollies and blunts.” Evan tried to emphasize the smells, tried to get Barty to understand. Barty’s eyes widened and Evan knew that he’d understood.

“I… I smelled roses… and a small bit of blood,” Barty said. Evan had suspected but hearing it, actually hearing it, was an amazing feeling.

“So it’s… me?” Barty’s face brightened and he reached for his hand.

“It’s you. It’s always been you,” Barty said, breathlessly. “It’s always been you and me.”

Barty and Evan leaned into each other as one, meeting in the middle for a kiss that, even though it was broken apart by giggles moments later, was unlike anything Evan had ever experienced.

It was perfect, or, at least, as close to perfect as he could imagine. That was enough.

They walked back to the Slytherin dorm hand in hand, Potions and studies the furthest thing from their mind.

#rosekiller #pearl writes #pearls fics #barty crouch jr #evan rosier #evan x barty #another one!!!

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admirationandromantics · 3 days ago

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Old story of mine, but I deleted my last Tumblr account, so here it is again!! This is a collage au!

Here we go again

The party hadn’t started yet. The only ones in the house so far were me, Jesse, and Dina. Dina hadn’t even begun to get ready, only stressing about where the bowls should stand, and what ornaments to put under the sink so that they wouldn't break. She was the host after all.

“Just go and get ready,” I urge her, searching for bowls in her cabinets to put the food in. Drinks were already in the fridge, and people with common sense would also be bringing their own. I had labelled my flask of white wine with my name, just in case someone decided to steal some.

“Fine! Just put the vases in the lower cabinets in the kitchen, please” she asks, before hurrying to the bathroom to apply her makeup.

Soon, people began arriving, and we started playing drinking games, pointing at the one who`ve had the most sex, the one with the most exes, and on and on. In the middle of the game, the door opened again. Dina ran there, and we kept sitting in the living room. That’s when I heard the voice. Her voice. A cold shiver ran down my spine, and I pressed my lips together. If I knew she would come here, I would probably fake being sick, or lie about a college assignment. In the middle of my slightly panicked state a new question comes;

“Who is the worst at managing alcohol?”. Everyone raises their fingers at me.

“The hell do you mean? Several of you can handle less than me”.

“Maybe, but you only get drunk on wine, and when you first do drink, you never stop. I`ve seen you being hungover for days” Jesse chuckles, and the others also start laughing.

“It’s true honey”. I look up to find Ellie leaning against the doorframe to the living room, looking down at me. I roll my eyes, and scoff.

“Fine, I'll show you guys that I’m not just some fancy person who enjoys only drinking things that actually taste good” I firmly state, as I pick up two filled shot glasses, and down them both in fast manoeuvre. Everybody cheers, and I can hear Jesse say something about the other part he said, but I don’t listen. Ellie lifts her eyebrows surprisingly as she watches me, and opens her mouth slightly. She soon sits down, joining the circle. I was already drunk, and this was not going to make it better.

Ellie was, simply put, a bitch the first time we met. She was super cocky and couldn’t stop talking about how good friends she and Dina were. Every time she was around me, she eyed me up and down, like she felt threatened by me. She even made a number of walking harshly into my shoulder several times, not even apologising after. This was the first year of college, and I had just gotten to know Dina as a roommate. Before she introduced us, she was completely sure we would get along well. Spoiler, we didn’t. After putting up with her behaviour for about two weeks, I exploded. Called her a bunch of names and shouted at her for being such a rude person (I may have been a little drunk too). I realised after that I may have gone over the line and waited outside her biology class to apologise. I had a shitty week, and I guess I took it out on her. She eyed me once more and swore she would make my life hell. She did. Making fun of me publicly, tripping me in the hallways and always tried to prove everything I said wrong. It was exhausting, and I started avoiding her at all costs.

***

We played through several games, and soon everybody was either laughing uncontrollably or laying on the ground talking about deep, philosophic stuff (As everybody does when they're drunk). Dina and I were discussing Buddhism, while sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“I just think that it makes so much sense that they refer to his awakening as a type of rebirth” I point out.

“That’s wrong, many people don’t see it like that.” I could feel her presence behind me before she started talking. I breathed in deeply, before letting it out again and turned around. Her body sat tense on the sofa, leaned a bit forward while her elbows rested on her knees.

“The scripts are badly translated, and it could be anything that we don’t yet understand”.

I smile and use a sarcastic tone while agreeing with her. “Of course, you`re totally right”

“Are you saying I am wrong?”

“Exactly what I didn’t say”.

“Fine”

“Yeah fine”

I struggle to hold my laugh, as I can sense how stiff she is. I hold my breath for too long and snort, looking away from her immediately. She gets up from her chair and her voice lowers.

“What was that?”

“Nothing” I calmly state, a smirk lurking as I lift the glass to my lips. She notices, and huffs. I`m loving this, and feeling as if I've taken some of my power back.

After a few hours I had to go to the bathroom. My body is swaying, and I understand that tomorrow is going to be horrible. Jesse is always right. I try to take my mind off it as I’m washing my hands and staring into the mirror. Suddenly, the door opens, and Ellie is standing there, her hand blocking the way out.

“What do you want?” I ask, trying to keep a stern tone, but ultimately failing.

“Do you think you would get away that easy, trying to one-up me?”

I freeze. Shit, I thought she would get over that since I got my win for the first time in a while. My voice fails me, and instead of commenting back, I stand there, mouth agape.

“What’s wrong? Lost your voice honey? But you were so open-mouthed a while ago”. She slowly walks forward, closing the door and locking it behind her. Her body is towering over mine, closing in on me till I feel her hot breath on my face. Alcohol and smoke. I back up as she puts her leg between mine and her hands against the wall. I blush.

“How drunk are you?” I ask, wondering if this is the best time for this.

“Not enough, you?”

“I'm fine,”

She starts pulling off her shirt, and I do the same. She’s flexing her arms, and I can’t help but admire her muscles. How her veins run down her arms and end by her long, slim fingers. Her hair is up halfway, but some strands are falling in her face. I meet her green eyes and decide this will be the last time. The last time we’ll do this.

“I bet you have missed me,” she smirks.

“I don’t care about you, and this will be the last time we do this” I state, already feeling hot for her. I may have said that the last time too, but this time I meant it.

“Keep telling yourself that honey”

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mediocre-shark-tales · 15 hours ago

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The Debut

Masterlist

The news hit the F1 world like a thunderclap—a 20 year old American driver, a complete unknown, was stepping into the Aston Martin seat mid-season. One of the few rookies to join halfway through the season, she was brought in to cover for Lance Stroll, sidelined potentially indefinitely by a severe injury. Speculation about his replacement had run wild, but no one expected it to be someone with almost no public history, let alone a driver no one had ever seen outside their helmet and racing suit. Yet Aston Martin was now ready to unveil her to the world—a driver who had only been known by her number, 66, and the nickname “Daredevil.”

In the week leading up to her debut, Aston Martin teased fans with cryptic photos and voice-modulated videos. Finally, they dropped a fifteen-minute video titled Welcome to AMRTC Driver 66, capturing her first day with the team. It opened with clips of the team speculating about her skill, personality, and confidence, overlaid with shots of her walking through the building without truly showing more than her shoes. Then, as a black screen lingered, the opening chords of “Real Gone” from Cars filled the silence. The video cut to the mystery driver getting suited up, each layer adding to her mystique, until she finally took to the track in the new car. A montage of high-speed laps displayed her undeniable skill and poise until the song slowly faded, revealing her standing still, helmet off, with curled hair framing her face as she turned toward the camera for the first time. This was quickly followed by a long ‘get to know me’ interview.

From the moment she arrived, the paddock buzzed with whispers. Her face was unfamiliar to the veteran drivers, but rumors hinted at her racing roots from leagues around the world. The fans, media, and even her new teammate waited with bated breath, eager to see if this newcomer could hold her own against the sport’s giants.

Y/n pov

I stepped into the Aston Martin garage with Marcus, my manager, beside me. My headphones were on, the bass of my favorite race weekend hype playlist thumping as I took in the scene. Mechanics and engineers glanced up from their tasks, eyes darting over to me before resuming their work on the cars and equipment, all in preparation for Practice Day 1. I’d skipped the usual media day—Aston Martin had somehow managed to get the FIA’s approval for me to skip it, which suited me just fine.

Marcus guided me through the bustling garage, giving me a quick rundown of everything before leading me to my driver’s room in the Aston Martin hospitality suite. As I took a seat, nerves bubbled up—I still hadn’t met Fernando Alonso. As confident as I felt in the car, the idea of meeting a living legend, someone who’d been racing since before I was even born, was something else entirely.

For as long as I could remember, Fernando Alonso had been my idol. I’d spent years studying his every move on the track, even adopting his aggressive, calculated driving style until I’d eventually developed my own. But knowing that I’d be racing alongside him—that I’d actually get to learn from him first hand—felt surreal, like stepping into a dream I’d chased my entire life.

That all changed the moment I actually met him. As I walked into the garage, fully suited up in my fireproofs with my helmet tucked under my arm, I could feel the weight of the moment settling in. After a quick weigh-in, Marcus led me over to Alonso. For a few awkward seconds, he barely glanced my way, his focus elsewhere until someone pointed me out to him. Around us, everyone was smiling and looking expectant—everyone except him. I swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in my throat. I hadn’t expected him to be thrilled about my arrival, but his distant, unreadable expression stung in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

As I approached, He looked me up and down with the slightest hint of a frown.

"So, they think you're ready to jump into this mid-season?" he asked, crossing his arms. "I wonder if you actually understand what that means."

I blinked, taken aback by his bluntness. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't," I shot back, trying to keep my tone even.

He raised an eyebrow. "A lot of drivers think they’re ready," he replied, his voice cool. "But being ready means more than just showing up with confidence. Winning is a mindset, an instinct. It’s not just something you decide you have one day."

I felt my hands tighten around my helmet. "Maybe it’s not something you decide—but it is something you prove. I’m here to race, not get your approval, and I’ll show you on track that my style is nothing like what you've seen before."

A spark flashed in his eyes, though his expression remained unchanged. "We’ll see if your style is worth anything," he said, a hint of challenge in his voice. "Just remember that here, being good isn’t enough."

Without another word, I turned on my heel and headed toward my car, trying to shake off the sting of his words. As I disappeared around the corner, Fernando watched me go, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Once my car was ready, I climbed in, settling into the seat as the engineers moved in to strap me down. Glancing up at the screen, I watched past race footage from this track with this very car. They wanted me to see what I’d be up against—what I needed to match and, ideally, surpass.

A moment later, Marcus crouched down into my line of sight, flanked by two guys—one older and serious, the other younger, with a bit of a wide-eyed look.

“Y/N, this is Ben,” Marcus began, gesturing to the older man. “He’ll be running your radio. But he’s also training Landon here,” he nodded toward the younger guy, “to be your personal radio engineer. Since there’s still a good part of the season left, you’ll need someone who gets you on and off the track. Landon’s been watching your last F2 season, studying up to learn your style. Today’s practice sessions will help you both adjust to your new roles together.”

I nodded and gave them a thumbs up—they wouldn’t hear me over the helmet or the noise of the garage anyway, but my excitement was clear.

It was finally time. My doorman stepped out, giving me the signal that I was clear to go. I eased the car forward, carefully navigating my way onto the main pit road. Aston Martin’s garage was positioned right at the front of the entrance, but it also meant the longest stretch before merging onto the track. As I rolled past each team’s garage, I felt eyes following my every move, curious and assessing. They’d all heard the buzz about the new “mystery driver,” and now here I was.

Once I hit the open track, becoming the first car out on the tarmac, my radio crackled to life with Landon’s voice. “Okay, Y/N, this session is all about finding your sweet spot with the car. If anything feels even slightly off, let me know immediately. For now, just get comfortable with the track. We’ll start gathering real data in the next session.”

I pressed the radio button and replied with a quick, “Yes, sir,” a grin hidden behind my helmet as I pushed down on the accelerator, ready to make my mark.

I took a deep breath, the roar of the engine and the blur of the pit wall filling my senses as I pushed down on the accelerator. The Italian GP track spread out before me in a symphony of curves and straightaways, each turn already embedded in my mind. I’d studied this circuit obsessively—every corner, every curb, every shift in gradient. But now, with the Aston Martin beneath me, I could finally feel it for myself, each bump and nuance translating through the car with perfect clarity.

As I took on the first few turns, my instincts kicked in—a mix of smooth control and split-second aggression. Where other drivers might ease off in preparation for a hairpin, I’d mastered the art of late braking, letting the car edge just to the point of losing grip before snapping it back with a calculated shift in weight. I slid through the Variante del Rettifilo, cutting a sharp angle through the chicane, my hands steady as I kept my foot down. Each move, each turn was a test, not just for me, but for the entire team watching my data back in the garage.

The name Franco Colapinto kept flashing in my mind. I knew he’d have an impressive debut mid-season, and I could feel a competitive drive swelling within me as I attacked the track, eager to match and even exceed his potential mark. Exiting the second Lesmo, I made a mental note of how much grip the car could hold, the feeling just right as I powered down the straight toward Ascari. I couldn’t afford a single misstep. If I was going to prove myself, this was my moment to do it—full control at breakneck speed.

“Looking good, Y/N,” Landon’s voice crackled through the radio, but I was already focused on the final corner. The Parabolica curved ahead, inviting me to test my limits, and I didn’t hesitate. I took it wide before tightening on the exit, feeling the car grip to the line as I pushed the throttle to the max, the car launching down the home straight.

“Love you, Landon, but please don’t speak before I’m accelerating out of the corner,” I said quickly over the radio, just as I straightened out and hit the next curve.

There was a pause before his voice crackled back, a bit sheepishly. “Yes, ma’am. My apologies.”

I chuckled, the corners of my mouth lifting behind my helmet. “No worries, I’ll have you perfected in no time.”

With that, I settled back into my rhythm, feeling the weight of the car and every detail of the track imprinting itself in my mind. Soon enough, the first practice session came to an end, and I guided the car back to the pits. As I parked and the engineers moved in, I took a moment to pull off my helmet, still buzzing from the thrill of my first laps. This track, this team, and this car were quickly becoming home.

Time Skip -

Race day had arrived, bringing the tension and thrill of my F1 debut, but the sting of yesterday’s qualifying disaster still lingered. I’d ended up in P18, an unfortunate consequence of a poorly timed red flag that left the five of us at the back with no real shot at setting a solid lap time. I tried to brush it off as I prepared to join the rest of the grid for the drivers' parade.

Dressed in team gear, I wore one extra item that had become a part of my ritual. A few months ago, I lost my mother to cancer, and since then, I’d made sure to honor her at every race. Something on me, whether it was my gear or my helmet, would always bear a symbol of her favorite animal: the sea turtle. She had chosen it after learning the turtle’s symbolism of wisdom, endurance, and trusting one’s path, all qualities that described her so well. On each of my helmets, a small sea turtle was etched into the design. And when I wasn’t wearing the helmet, I kept a sea turtle necklace with me, its pendant filled with a touch of her ashes, as if she were here with me, watching over this pivotal moment.

I slipped on my headphones, tuning into my “reminiscing” playlist, letting myself reflect in the few quiet moments before the chaos. “How Do I Say Goodbye” by Dean Lewis filled my ears, a song that resonated now more than ever. My F2 team had given me the remainder of the season off after my mother’s passing, telling the media I was undergoing intense training for my reserve role. Nobody outside my close circle knew the truth, and it felt like a private thread of grief I carried alone, my mother’s memory grounding me as I faced the reality of my first F1 race without her.

I followed the line of drivers, hanging back, unnoticed by most. No one had approached me—not to chat, nor to dismiss me. They’d fallen naturally into their cliques, small pockets of friendships built over countless races together. The trailer pulled up, and I was the last to step aboard, taking a quiet corner near the back. My gaze drifted over the crowd as I toyed with the sea turtle pendant around my neck, a small comfort. If there was ever a moment I needed my mom, it was now. I imagined her smiling at my awkwardness, maybe even scolding the guys to show a bit of gentlemanly grace. Her humor and warmth were all I had left to keep close in this overwhelming moment.

Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder, pulling me from my thoughts. I pulled off my headphones and turned to see a smiling Franco Colapinto standing there, his easy grin contagious. My smile mirrored his as I placed my headphones around my neck, grateful for the distraction.

“Hola! I’ve been waiting to get a chance to talk to you,” he said, his tone smooth and friendly.

“Hey! I didn’t think anyone would come over,” I replied, surprised but pleased. “It’s nice to finally meet you. How are you feeling about today?”

“Excited and a little nervous, to be honest. It’s not every day you get to race in Formula 1, right? I’m sure you feel the same way.”

I nodded, feeling a wave of camaraderie. “Definitely. It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m ready to show what I can do out there.”

Franco's eyes sparkled with encouragement. “You’ve got this! I saw your lap times from practice; you really have a gift. Just stay focused and trust your instincts. We’re in this together after all.”

“Thanks! That means a lot, especially coming from you. I know you’ve been making waves already too,” I said, my confidence growing.

“Just trying to keep up!” he laughed, his energy infectious. “How about we make a pact? Let’s push each other out there and see how far we can go. We might even surprise some people!”

“Deal!” I grinned, feeling the excitement of a budding friendship. “I’d love to have someone to share this experience with. After all, it’s always more fun with friends.”

Franco nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! Let’s catch up after the race too—maybe grab a bite? I think we could both use a little downtime after all this craziness.” He blushed slightly, the nerves from the question filling him.

“Sounds perfect,” I replied, feeling a sense of relief wash over me. As we exchanged a few more words, the nervous weight on my shoulders lifted, replaced by the warmth of a new friendship that made this moment feel just a little less daunting.

Time flew by, and before I knew it, we were dropped back at the paddock. With no distractions, I headed straight for my garage, ready to change and get my head in the game. As I pulled on each piece of my race gear, my heart thudded louder, like it was syncing up with the pulse of the race track. I pressed play on my go-to race day anthem, letting "Real Gone" by Sheryl Crow blast through my headphones on repeat. If this song didn’t put me in the zone, nothing would—it was basically my theme song at this point.

Finally dressed, I took out my helmet. Today, I’d be wearing something special. Up until now, I’d been using my usual helmet, but today was different. This one was for my mom. The design was everything she’d loved: a watercolor sea turtle on each side, painted in her honor. And the top? Like Max’s iconic lion, but this time, it was the face of a sea turtle, wise and serene, watching over me. I could almost hear her laugh as I ran my fingers over the shell details. This one’s for you, Mom.

Leaving the driver’s room, I headed towards the garage, spotting Fernando getting weighed, his usual intense focus evident even with all the last-minute prep happening around us. I gave him a nod, but he was too busy to notice. The team was buzzing, everyone moving with that pre-race electricity.

Before long, I was strapped into the car, staring down the rows of vehicles lined up before me. Silence filled my helmet as I mentally ran through my race strategy. My goal was clear: make it into the points. It wasn’t just about my debut anymore; it was about proving that I belonged here. I’d shut up the critics, the doubters, the ones who said I didn’t have what it took. One pass at a time, I’d show them exactly why I was here.

With just minutes left before the race began, the team pulled the last of the covers from my car and gave it one final check before stepping back off the track. A calm washed over me, the nerves melting into pure focus. It was time.

As the lights went out for the formation lap, I pressed the pedal, feeling the power beneath me roar to life. One by one, the cars in front began moving, and I eased into line, the vibrations of the track buzzing through my hands and up my arms. As I made my way around the circuit, I took in the crowds, fans pressed up against the barricades, flags waving, people cheering, everyone vying for a glimpse of the action before the real race even began. Some held banners and signs with drivers’ names, a few even with my number and the sea turtle logo—my symbol.

I could feel the weight of all those eyes, every fan, every camera trained on the car, and I let it sink in. This was it. For a split second, my mind flashed back to all the hard work, the sleepless nights, and every lap it took to reach this moment. I had something to prove to the fans, to the team, to everyone who’d doubted me. But right now, the only thing on my mind was to trust my path—just like the sea turtle my mom had loved so much.

As the formation lap came to an end, the tension in the air shifted into something electric. The cars lined up on the grid, engines rumbling in anticipation, and I felt a surge of adrenaline course through me. The lights began to sequence, and I focused on the start, visualizing my strategy for the race. This was my moment, and I was ready.

The lights went out, and with a roar, I launched off the line. The initial surge was exhilarating; I was quick on the throttle, feeling the car respond to my commands as I made my way into Turn 1. I immediately positioned myself on the inside line, expertly avoiding the chaos of the cars jostling for position. I could hear the crackle of the radio as Landon encouraged me, reminding me to stay calm and focused.

By the time I reached the first series of corners, I was already gaining ground. I overtook a struggling driver on the outside, timing my move perfectly as I accelerated past him, narrowly avoiding a collision. The thrill of passing my first competitor sent a rush of confidence through me. I could see Franco up ahead, holding steady in P15, and I set my sights on catching him.

As I maneuvered through the tighter sections of the track, I began to find my rhythm. I was in the zone, my mind clear, my instincts sharp. Every corner felt like an opportunity, and I seized each one with determination. The roar of the crowd grew louder with every pass I made, and I could feel the energy fueling my drive.

By the end of the first five laps, I had already climbed up to P15. The rush of adrenaline pushed me further as I entered the sixth lap, where I saw two cars ahead battling for position. I took advantage of their fight, threading my car between them at just the right moment. It felt like a dance, fluid and precise. I could hear Landon’s voice in my ear, excitement evident as I made my way to P12.

With each lap, I continued to push, my confidence growing as I settled into the flow of the race. I navigated through the midfield, expertly carving my way around each driver that stood in my path. Before I knew it, I was in P10, and the battle for the final point was heating up. I had Franco in my sights, and he was locked in a fierce duel with a driver ahead. I took a deep breath, my focus zeroing in on the track ahead.

As we approached the DRS zone, I positioned myself perfectly behind Franco, ready to capitalize on the situation. The moment the DRS activated, I unleashed the power of my car, speeding past him as I made my way into P9. A rush of exhilaration flooded over me—I was in the points! I could hardly believe it. The realization that I had come from P18 to P9 within 2/3s of the race filled me with a sense of accomplishment and the determination to keep pushing forward. With my mother’s spirit guiding me, I 2ould fight for better positions.

The final laps flew by in a blur, each corner, each straight a chance to cement my place in this race. I held P9 fiercely, defending against anyone who dared to challenge me, pushing the car to its limits while staying calm under pressure. As I crossed the finish line, a wave of relief and triumph washed over me, the weight of the entire race lifting in an instant. My radio crackled with life, and suddenly the cheers of the team filled my helmet, their voices a symphony of celebration.

“P9! Absolutely incredible, y/n!” Landon’s voice shouted, brimming with pride. “You did it, you’re in the points on your debut!”

I could hear Marcus chiming in, his excitement nearly drowning out the others, “You’ve made history today. Unbelievable drive—everyone here is beyond proud!”

A smile broke across my face as I took a moment to let it all sink in. The crowd’s cheers blended with the voices in my ear, my heart racing with pure exhilaration. I lifted a hand in a quiet tribute to my mom, feeling her presence there on the track. This was just the beginning—I’d proven I belonged here.

Pulling into parc fermé, I powered down the car, feeling the silence wrap around me as the engine’s roar faded. Just as I started climbing out, I heard someone shout my name over the buzz of the paddock. I turned and saw Franco charging toward me, a huge grin plastered on his face. Before I could react, he reached me, practically tackling me in a bear hug as he lifted me off my feet and spun me around.

“You raced beautifully, hermosa!” he yelled, his excitement infectious. I couldn’t help but laugh, caught up in his energy as he set me back down.

“And you! That defense was insane—I thought I’d never get around you!” I replied, still catching my breath. We grinned at each other, peeling off our helmets and balaclavas, both flushed and exhilarated.

“Seriously,” he said, eyes bright, “for a debut race? You were unstoppable. I knew you’d make waves, but that was something else.”

“Thanks, Franco,” I said, feeling the pride and relief mix with a new rush of excitement. “And I know that won’t be the last time I’m chasing you down.”

“Can’t wait for it,” he replied with a laugh. We shared a nod, silently acknowledging the start of something bigger between us.

As we pulled away, someone called out for us. I turned, and to my surprise, racing legend Lewis Hamilton was walking over, looking exhausted but with a warm, genuine smile. "That was spectacular from both of you," he said, nodding at Franco and me. "I can’t wait to watch the highlights later. You both defended and overtook with skill today—I’m excited to see how you both keep improving."

Franco and I exchanged a quick look of shared amazement and thanked him, both of us a bit starstruck. Just then, Alex appeared, pulling Franco aside, leaving me with Lewis.

“So, y/n,” he began, his tone more serious now, “I actually wanted to have a word with you. I didn’t want to overwhelm you earlier, so I thought now might be the best time—when your spirits are high and you’ve got a bit of space to breathe.” I nodded, curious, as he continued.

“I know it can be tough to find real allies here,” he said gently. “Especially as someone who stands out in a sport that doesn’t have many like you.” His words hit home; I’d felt the isolation creeping in, even with the excitement of today’s race. “I went through a similar thing when I started. I want you to know, if you ever need a friend or someone to talk to, I’m here. Whether it’s for advice, venting, or just someone who gets it—don’t hesitate to find me.”

A wave of gratitude washed over me, and I managed a smile, feeling the pressure I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying start to lift. “Thank you, Lewis. That really means a lot,” I said, trying to convey how much his words reassured me. He gave a small, understanding nod, like he knew exactly what I was feeling.

“Anytime,” he said with a kind smile. “You’ve got a bright future ahead. Just keep your head up.” With a reassuring nod, Lewis turned and walked back toward his team, leaving me standing there with a sense of both calm and determination. I took a deep breath, letting his words sink in, feeling a surge of confidence.

Gathering myself, I turned and headed back to my team’s garage, the noise of the paddock buzzing around me, but somehow, I felt more focused than ever. As I walked, a few crew members caught my eye, giving me nods and pats on the back, their own excitement mirroring my own.

I saw Marcus waiting with a grin, surrounded by engineers who all looked just as thrilled. I knew I’d made a mark today—not just on the track but on the people who believed in me. And as I joined them, I couldn’t help but smile.

#x reader #f1 angst #driver!reader #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #formula 1 #max verstappen #charles leclerc #oscar piastri #lando norris #franco colapinto #lewis hamilton #carlos sainz #george russell #grill the grid #f1 grid x reader

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perpetualcontrolleddrowning · 2 days ago

Text

Moshang Fic - Part 2

half of something else

JRaylin441

Summary: The tomfoolery continues

Content Warnings: blackmail and some vague talk of bad childhoods and emotional neglect

Read it on ao3 here (x)

Read Part 1 (x)

Read Part 3 (x)

Mobei-Jun is not going to ask for help. He is not the sort of demon who does such shameful things. Luckily, Tianlang-Jun has made it clear that he is the sort of demon that likes to stop by and offer unsolicited help, so that will not be a barrier.

He was not expecting it to be so effective, using words rather than actions. Qinghua still ran away, but it seemed as though he noticed, this time. That Mobei-Jun was interested.

There is something hopeful in Mobei-Jun's chest. This does not often happen. He was raised in a family where trusting others, hoping for things. These were not done. To be able to do so now...

He has been attempting to court Qinghua for years. That lowly general had no right asking for permission after Mobei-Jun had cooked Qinghua's meal for the feast the night before. He is lucky his head is not displayed as a trophy this very moment.

"Well you're all smiles today," Tianlang-Jun drawls as he slinks his way into the room where Mobei-Jun is consulting with the royal tailor to plan out new pieces to both his and Qinghua's wardrobes. This is patently untrue. Mobei-Jun's face is flat as ever. "Turn down that sunshine or your human might start to get jealous."

"Tianlang-Jun."

"Present and accounted for. But that's not as interesting as the obvious joy I'm seeing from you." Tianlang-Jun navigates effortlessly around the silent tailor and chooses a seat for himself. "Has our plan been working, then?"

"Qinghua came to talk last night." He needs to give a little ground for any of this to work.

"Oh, did he? Good. I'd hoped he might."

"He said you stole his list."

"I most certainly did, and you're welcome for that. It sounds like you two were able to get all cozy because of it. Did he fuck you?"

Mobei-Jun is holding one arm out for the tailor to measure. Without even glancing away, he manifests a dagger of ice and hurls it in Tianlang-Jun's direction. He knows it's not going to hit, and he is right. Tianlang-Jun knocks it out of the air and laughs good-naturedly when it hits the wall and shatters behind him.

"Not yet, then. You're far too pent-up." Mobei-Jun can feel a tic in the muscle behind his eyebrow. He wants to banish Tianlang-Jun from ever setting foot in his palace. If he thought it would work, he might. Most likely, though, it would simply increase whatever this absurd behavior is.

"You took his list."

"I did. You already said that."

"Give it back."

"He knows what he needs to do to get it back, and you're welcome for that. I'm doing all of this for you, you know."

"Give it back."

"If this is the kind of brilliant negotiating technique that you bring to the table, then I'm suddenly understanding a lot better just how much you rely on your little human."

"Give it back."

"I'm beginning to think you don't want me here. Which, of course, couldn't possibly be true, since I'm a delight and also could defeat you in front of your entire court."

The tailor clears their throat delicately. Mobei-Jun shoots a murderous look in Tianlang-Jun's direction. Tianlang-Jun smiles back guilelessly.

Mobei-Jun pauses for a moment. Orders the tailor to leave the room. If they are going to have this conversation, he would rather not continue to lose face in front of his subjects. The tailor follows the command quickly and silently. This is the kind of obedience Mobei-Jun is accustomed to.

When the tailor leaves, he waits for Tianlang-Jun to continue with the irritating chatter. Tianlang-Jun has a ridiculously smug smile on his face. He does not speak.

Mobei-Jun does not speak.

They sit in silence for almost a quarter shichen. Mobei-Jun needs to remember that he can't win in a test of patience against a demon who spent the last few decades alone under a mountain. He could wait here for several shichen as well, but he does need an answer, and he has several more things he must do today if he has any hope of maintaining Qinghua's good will.

"Last night."

"When you didn't fuck Qinghua," Tianlang-Jun says, almost immediately. As if he had been preparing that response. Mobei-Jun wants to try and kill him again.

"I attempted to use more words." Mobei-Jun's face is burning at this admission. This is the only thing that has worked in his years-long attempt to court Qinghua. This is the path forward.

"Oh fabulous!" Tianlang-Jun's grin goes from smug to eager, and he leans forward over the space between them. "You listened to my advice! And how did your man of words respond to it?"

"He listened." For many of the people Mobei-Jun talks to, this would be a response that would be difficult to parse. Tianlang-Jun lets out a long, low whistle.

"Oh, so he really liked it, then. I knew that would work for him. Humans, they always want you to say things out loud and communicate. My Xiyan always wanted that too. And she wasn't even as into words as your man is."

"You knew that would work."

"It wasn't hard to figure out." Mobei-Jun can feel the way his face slams shut at those words. "Oh. You really hadn't figured that out yet? This might be worse than I thought."

"How did you know." This is the extent of Mobei-Jun's ability. He has never asked for help like this before. If it wasn't Qinghua, he still would not be. This is not something he does. He does not have the words.

"He keeps lists. He keeps a brush behind his ear. He writes things down. His room is full of books. When you ask about the books, he can talk about them for hours. How did you not know?"

"Qinghua has always behaved in such a way."

"Ah, so you wrote it off and took it all for granted." Tianlang-Jun strokes at his chin as though he is an elder stroking a beard, even though he has no such beard. Mobei-Jun reaches deep for the calm inside him to keep himself from starting another fight. "The same trap that many old married couples can fall into, except you aren't even married yet. Haven't even kissed yet!"

Mobei-Jun sits in silence for several more minutes, sifting through the raging fury within himself to try and find words to ask the questions he needs to ask, rather than starting and losing another fight.

"What words did you say. To your human." He can't make it sound like a question. He can't concede that ground.

"Ah, the age-old question. What words will woo a human? What words worked so well last night, that you've already come around to my side?"

"I told him that he is needed here."

"Appreciation! That not a bad start at all, considering all the things he seems to run around here. I can't read that ridiculous list of his, but I know enough to see that he seems to be managing everything on the demon and human sides of things. Appreciation would probably always go well with that one. Couldn't hurt to use some flattery as well. He definitely has little in the way of self-esteem, so he might be easy to get to that way."

Mobei-Jun throws another ice dagger, because Tianlang-Jun has already demonstrated that it will not cause him to leave and because it helps him feel better about sitting here in the same room as this demon.

"Qinghua is aware that he is useful."

"I mean, of course he's useful, but surely you must find him attractive too? Not that I could ever understand just how that happened, there's no way you would be putting up this much of a fuss if you didn't want to fuck him."

Mobei-Jun was wrong. He won't sit here for this. When he stands to leave, Tianlang-Jun makes a cooing, cloying kind of noise and stands up too. His arm drapes over Mobei-Jun's shoulders in a way that makes his skin crawl.

"Don't go, don't go. I forgot how young you are. I'll be kinder, promise." Tianlang-Jun holds out his hands in a sign of innocence and defenselessness. Mobei-Jun doesn't buy it for a moment, but he does sit back down. "I wasn't kidding. It seems like your man doesn't have a very high regard for himself. Flattery about his physical appearance could probably get you far. Especially if you keep this whole appreciation for his work up at the same time."

"I do not need your advice on how to say nice things to my advisor."

Tianlang-Jun stares at him in disbelief for a second. "Right. Which is why you definitely did ask me for that exact thing at the start of this conversation."

"It is time for dinner."

"All this work I do, and you're just going to try to walk away from our conversation without a thank you. You don't even deserve the dinner surprise I've got set up for you." Tianlang-Jun somehow manages to sail out of the room ahead of Mobei-Jun, turned to face him and continue the conversation while he is walking. "You still should definitely keep up with those letters, though. He appreciates the written word, your boy."

Mobei-Jun grunts rather than admit that any of this has been helpful in any sort of way. Tianlang-Jun laughs and glides down the hallway toward the banquet hall, since everyone else needs to be there before the king anyway.

When Mobei-Jun sits down at the table in the front and center of the room, he is ready for it to be a banquet like many others he has attended in his life. These are boring moments of posturing. He will sit and be quiet. People will look at him and decide that he is thinking or saying whatever it is that they want him to be saying, and then he will leave. And then they will leave. He has done this so many times in his life.

Qinghua has an open invitation, by nature of the multiple courting acts Mobei-Jun has performed, to sit at the head table. He does not. Instead, Qinghua usually sits at a table along the side of the room. Mobei-Jun hates this. It does not appropriately communicate his rank and value in the court. Mobei-Jun loves this. It allows him a much better view of Qinghua than he would ever get if he were sitting at his side.

When Mobei-Jun arrives to the banquet, Qinghua is not in his seat. This should be considered a high offense, considering that the king has arrived. Mobei-Jun won't enforce that. Qinghua can do whatever he wants.

It is a notable change in behavior. He likes to arrive early so he can listen to gossip and conversation. He says it's one of the most helpful times for his map of important people. Mobei-Jun suspects that, whatever is happening, Tianlang-Jun is involved. He seems bent on disrupting every pattern and ritual in the court.

When Mobei-Jun sits, the food is brought out. Immediately, the room explodes into noise. All illusions of formality disappear. There are several rotting animal carcasses brought to the center tables. Blood in pitchers. Fruit and vegetables and some minimal starch.

Usually, a specific platter is set before Mobei-Jun. Today, there are two smaller platters set to either side of him.

Mobei-Jun does not spend time looking around or concerned. The food will come when it will come. Or it will not. He does not particularly care about eating either way.

And then, from the side door into the banquet hall, Qinghua comes skittering in. Mobei-Jun automatically finds himself orienting all his attention in that direction.

Qinghua is carrying a dish of food. This is very strange, because Mobei-Jun is the one who cooks for him, or he eats what is prepared by the kitchens. If someone else in the court has dared to cook for him, Mobei-Jun will find them and remove their heads from their shoulders.

Qinghua steps up to the dais and places the dish before his king. It is in a low, wide bowl. There are light noodles, a dark sauce that smells of meat, and cut carrots and vegetables. Mobei-Jun looks down at it in confusion and then up at Qinghua. The dish is not as elaborate or beautifully arranged as the things he normally eats. There is a possible explanation for this. Mobei-Jun will not consider it until Qinghua says that it is the case.

"Zha jiang mian," Qinghua mumbles. He shoots a significant look toward Tianlang-Jun as he sets it down. Tianlang-Jun nods back. Another departure from their typical pattern. Another clear sign of interference from Tianlang-Jun. Mobei-Jun will not consider the possible explanation until Qinghua says that it is the case. It does not take long for the explanation to come. If someone stares at Qinghua silently for long enough, he usually moves to fill the silence. "You said the other night that it's your favorite food." Mobei-Jun did say that. He said that because one time, early on in their knowing each other, Qinghua had eaten it, cooked by one of the few cooks at the time that knew how to prepare human cuisine. It was one of the first things he had expressed enjoying about the Northern Palace. Mobei-Jun does not like food, but he wants to know about the things that make Qinghua happy. Make him willing to stay. "I just thought, if I was going to make you something, it would probably be best to make something you would actually like, since I know you don't really like much food at all, most of the time. And that seemed like a big waste of time, to try and make something if you wouldn't even like it."

"Qinghua made this dish," Mobei-Jun clarifies, because he needs to be absolutely sure.

"Ah ha ha, yeah." Qinghua scratches at the back of his head. "Yeah, I made it for you. You know. You cook noodles and stuff for me all the time and I thought I should return the favor." Another glance at Tianlang-Jun, but that does not matter right now. "So, it might not be as good as some of the other stuff you get to eat all the time, and it's fine if you want to throw it away and eat your regular stuff. I had the kitchen prepare a backup meal too, so they can bring that out if you want. Actually, let me just go get that right now. That would probably be better. Yeah. Okay. Wait here and I'll-"

Mobei-Jun grabs Qinghua's wrist tightly. Not so tightly that it will bruise. He knows the difference and carefully maintains it. It causes Qinghua's mouth to snap shut, the way physical touch often does. Before Qinghua can run off and ruin it, Mobei-Jun scoops a generous bite of the noodles into his mouth. Qinghua watches with the wide eyes of cornered prey as he chews it slowly and swallows. Only when Mobei-Jun feels that he has established his point does he let go.

"Go sit down, Qinghua," he orders, because Qinghua cooked for him and presented that food to him in front of the entire court. It's a blatant act of demonic courting and Mobei-Jun will not stand for any hint of a suggestion that it might be taken away.

Qinghua is still watching him with wide eyes, even as he pulls his hand back and holds it against his chest.

"Yes, My King." There's a panicked little smile at the corner of his mouth and Mobei-Jun wants to bite it. Bite it until his teeth are bloodied and then bite down Qinghua's neck until he is scarred and claimed in a way that will never be mistaken. He'll mount Qinghua now, before the entire court, and then dress him only in the finest of gauzy silks, make it impossible to cover the mark of his king's teeth.

He does not do this. Qinghua would not like it. Probably. It will at least require further information gathering. Instead, he holds Qinghua's gaze as he savors the entirety of the dish before him. Every now and then, he pauses his staring at Qinghua to move his gaze across the court, meeting the eyes of every demon present. Let it be very clear what is going on right now.

The food is just like any other food. He does not particularly enjoy the experience of chewing. The texture of chewed food on his tongue. The way it freezes as it moves down his throat before landing heavy in his stomach.

It does not matter. This is food that Qinghua prepared for him. He presented it before the entire court. Mobei-Jun relishes each bite.

*~*~*

Here's a fun fact: Shang Qinghua knows how almost every person in this universe likes to fuck. Or have sex, whatever. Even the characters who never got to have their own on-screen erotica. It's not just because he's a horny pervert, though that is definitely true. It's also just, he's always found it to be an important detail about a character. How does someone behave, when they're being vulnerable and intimate with someone? Are they even able to be that open? Do they control the encounter from start to finish?

This means that, theoretically, he knows exactly what Mobei-Jun is like in bed. Probably. Any doubt comes from the fact that, one time, he managed to coax some details out of a very drunk Cucumber-bro. It is possible to change things. Butterfly effect and all that shit. He definitely never wrote his son to be the kind of man who cries all over the person he's fucking and begs for the opportunity to bottom or suck a dick. Life events change people.

So, that means that he might not know everything there is to know about how Mobei-Jun behaves when he is having sex with someone. Shang Qinghua is reminding himself of this fact over and over again as he once again finds himself standing outside his bedroom door late at night.

The door opens at the first knock. Mobei-Jun is similarly dressed-down, but does not have the same groggy, grumpy expression of the newly awakened. Shang Qinghua can see from the doorway that there is a fire roaring happily in the fireplace, and there is some level of heat radiating out from the doorway. It's bringing a soft blue flush to his king's cheeks. Shang Qinghua is not looking at that, because if he looks at that he's going to explode and then it'll be a whole mess for the servants to clean up and, more than that, it will make it so that he never gets an answer about all of this, and he needs for there to be an answer.

"Explain this," Shang Qinghua demands, slapping the folded parchment of a letter against his king's chest. This potentially has the added benefit of pressing his hands up against the exposed skin of Mobei-Jun's collarbones and tits, but Shang Qinghua wouldn't know anything about that, because he's not paying attention. He doesn't even notice the way that he can feel the cold of his king's skin through the thin layer of the parchment, the way that the harsh, carved lines of his musculature cause the parchment to bend and conform to the dizzying shape of him.

Shang Qinghua isn't paying attention to that. Because there is something infinitely more pressing in the words contained on that parchment. It was waiting for him (along with his daily pile of mail and the desperate relief from the return of the Overarching To Do List), sitting innocently on his desk as if its departure hadn't spelled potential disaster for everyone in both realms. It had worked beautifully as a mechanism of blackmail. Shang Qinghua is going to have to figure out a fail-safe right now or at least in the next couple days, because he doesn't have enough to do already but he also cannot have something like this happen again.

The letter had sat there, on the bottom of the pile of letters, with his name scrawled across the top in familiar handwriting, just as it had been for the past few days.

Qinghua,

The meal you prepared for me was appreciated. Thank you.

You wore the colors of my house at the banquet tonight. I appreciate seeing you in blue. It will always be a color you are welcome to wear.

You organized an effective banquet. Well done.

Again, there was no signature. Again, there was no need for a signature. Shang Qinghua knew immediately who wrote it, even if it is utterly impossible. Obviously, that is his king's handwriting. Those are his king's stiff sentences and phrases.

But the words are not at all the sort of thing his king would say. He has known this demon for the past thirty years. Since he was nothing more than a headstrong adolescent doing everything he could to make himself something remarkable among his family members.

These are not the sort of things that Mobei-Jun says. He knows how to read between the lines of what he says. These are attempts to thank him, praise him. This is not the sort of thing Mobei-Jun says.

Something is wrong. Based on the experience that Shang Qinghua has been having for the past few days, he would bet all of his staggeringly unfairly low income on this all being due to the influence of Tianlang-Jun.

His king still hasn't answered, hasn't even moved, an unfairly beautiful ice statue under Shang Qinghua's hand.

"Explain." He demands again. Something in it must make it clear that he will not be moved from this point, because Mobei-Jun reaches up to take the letter from his hands. He does not go through the motions of pretending to look over the letter. They both know he wrote it and that he knows what it is.

"Qinghua deserves to know that he is appreciated."

How dare he! Saying that sort of thing out here in the middle of the hallway where anyone in the entire court could hear him. Shang Qinghua shoots a terrified glance down both ends of the hallway. There are multiple demonic servants making their way through the hallway for various reasons. At least two of them are running errands specifically assigned by Shang Qinghua, because he is relentlessly causing his own downfall at every moment of every situation.

"What are you doing? Out here in front of everyone! Let me into your room and we can talk about this quieter." This happens sometimes, when Shang Qinghua gets anxious enough, where he'll just start ordering everyone around until things are exactly the way that he wants them to be. He usually doesn't even notice the tone or words that he used until after he finished speaking. Then, afterward, he sits in horror as his mind plays back everything that he just said. Sometimes he has to go and retrace all his steps until he can do damage control for all the delicate politics he disrupted.

When Mobei-Jun was younger, he would become offended as soon as he would dare to presume to give him an order. Sometimes it would result in Shang Qinghua smacked clear across the hallway. More recently, especially in the past year or so, it has more resulted in unnerving cooperation and compliance from Mobei-Jun, who will follow wherever he is led and do what he is told with a peaceful, half-smile on his face.

This is another one of those times. Shang Qinghua grabs ahold of him and tugs him into the room. Instead of resisting or pushing back in any way, Mobei-Jun follows easily at the slightest pressure. It's bad, it's dangerous, because it means that Shang Qinghua is inside the room faster than he was prepared to be. He's standing in the firelight, watching it play across the planes of his king, relishing in the strange comfort of the warmth in this room. It's before he had a chance to brace himself.

He can feel his mouth going dry. Resists the urge to lick his lips like the pervert he is but tries to pretend not to be. Ends up licking his lips anyway because he can't stop imagining what it would be like to lick Mobei-Jun's washboard abs that are on display through the very loosely tied single robe that he is wearing.

"My King," he orders, because he needs to distract himself now before things get even more off track. "What are you saying here? What is happening? Is Tianlang-Jun blackmailing you? As your primary advisor and the person who runs almost all of your kingdom, you need to tell me if you're being blackmailed into doing things you don't want to do."

Mobei-Jun is staring down at him with those same softened eyes but a slight furrow to his kingly brow, now.

"Is Qinghua being blackmailed?"

"What? No, not anymore. That's not the point. I was asking if someone is blackmailing you!"

"What would make Qinghua think this King has been blackmailed?"

"What do you mean?" Shang Qinghua slaps the paper against Mobei-Jun's chest again. "This letter is why I think you're being blackmailed. My King, this is completely out of character. How else was I supposed to take this other than as a cry for help?"

"This letter is out of character." His voice is flat as the frozen tundra outside, in the way that it tends to get when he is asking a question but would rather demand someone provide further context than admit that he might not understand something. Sometimes, Shang Qinghua starts to think too closely about what it means about him that this is his dream man. He doesn't let himself think about that for too long.

"Um? Yes? If you do not remember, My King, it was just a few years ago that you were hitting me around whenever you felt like it. A letter full of compliments to me is something that you have never done, not once, in the decades that I have known you." The furrow of Mobei-Jun's brow carves itself deeper and deeper with every word that Shang Qinghua says, and it's kind of sending him into a fucking panic, because he's clearly pissing off this powerful demon in front of him, and he doesn't even know what about this situation is pissing him off, so he doesn't have anything he can pull off the Overarching To Do List, or even add to it, that would help to fix it.

"Qinghua sees this as a change in character."

They're standing there in the middle of his king's cavernous and beautiful room, staring at each other like idiots, saying the same thing back and forth to each other over and over. Shang Qinghua wants to hit his head against the wall. He wants to grab his King's thighs and hide his face in the strong muscles there and also use it as an excuse to never look him in the eye again.

"It's a pretty big change from how you have literally ever acted before, yeah. I think I've already said that." Mobei-Jun is just looking grumpier and grumpier and Shang Qinghua is about to lose his mind.

"Qinghua is appreciated. This comment being a departure from normal behavior is a failure of this king." Mobei-Jun even fucking reaches out with his hands to grasp tightly to Shang Qinghua's upper arms as he says this. He could probably pull away and escape if he tried to, Mobei-Jun would let him. It's more like he wants to make sure that he has Shang Qinghua's full attention before he says this. Shang Qinghua would have really appreciated more warning and also for his full attention to never be demanded because this is the literal worst case scenario of all time ever.

"Ah," he says, like an idiot. "Right. Yes. Well, in that case, your advisor should go continue to work on the things that made him so appreciated." Shang Qinghua can feel himself squirming to pull away from Mobei-Jun's grip. He lets go, just like he knew he would, but his expression is tilting more and more from frustrated to bereft, if you're someone who just happens to have known him since he was very young and are therefore able to read the micro-expressions he uses in his everyday life. "So enjoyed this talk. Please stop saying such things out in the main hallway, since it really will open you up for someone to come along and blackmail you." A step back toward the door. "If they haven't already started doing that." Shang Qinghua makes it all the way to the door unimpeded. Mobei-Jun is still just standing there. "Which I really think they have and you should definitely tell your main advisor about it."

With that last statement, he edges his way out the door and slams it shut behind him. That was strange, strange, strange. He never wants to do that again. He had to leave that room or he never would. He finally has his Overarching To Do List back, and that's really where he should be spending his time right now. He's fallen behind, surely, after a whole day without it.

He skitters down the hallway, clinging to the shadows even though he has more right than almost every demon here to be in this palace.

He slams the door to his office closed behind him, blocking out that whole interaction.

*~*~*

"You will help me." Mobei-Jun slams an empty sheet of parchment onto the table before Tianlang-Jun.

"Oh, will I?" He drawls. Mobei-Jun hates him. "And what will I be helping the peerless Mobei-Jun with?"

"Letters." The words are gritted out through Mobei-Jun's teeth. He is not the sort of man who asks for help.

"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear that, darling." Tianlang-Jun sprawls out further, clearly relishing this concession to his abilities. "Maybe it's the way that you were mumbling. I'm afraid you'll have to say that again."

Mobei-Jun begins to walk away. He has to clench his teeth, physically restrain himself, drag himself back. This is for Qinghua. Things have been better, ever since Tianlang-Jun started interfering and advising. It's been awful, but it's also been effective. More progress this week than the last few decades together.

Or, well, not really, is it? He has made progress on his own. When they met, Qinghua was nothing more than a trembling, terrified servant who would say whatever he thought it would take to make it through the next day alive. It was manipulative and brilliant, looking back, all the ways that he managed to wriggle his way into the important places of Mobei-Jun's life in a way that would make it all fall to pieces at his removal. The sort of thing that has made him invaluable as a member of Mobei-Jun's court.

Mobei-Jun had spent too many years treating him like the pathetic mess that he pretended he was. By the time he realized that Shang Qinghua was one of the only places in the world where he felt safe and calm, where he was secure enough to arrive at any time and fall asleep without a care in the world, they had already established patterns.

It's been years of Mobei-Jun picking through all their habits and patterns so he can find the things he does that push Qinghua into behaving like that old, terrified version of himself, instead of the terrified version of himself that he tends to just default into at all times of the day.

He did do that work. He did make that progress. Qinghua no longer flinches every time he moves too quickly or expresses displeasure. Qinghua allows him to cook for him almost every day. Qinghua knows to call on him when he needs help. Those are things that he built without the help of Tianlang-Jun. It had been enough to get them to this place. They eat together at times. They talk. They spend time together in the same places.

But, ever since that realization of safety, Mobei-Jun has been working toward something more. He desires Qinghua the way that a demon desires a spouse. He could live like this, but he would like to move forward. He had resigned himself to the impossibility of it.

Then Tianlang-Jun arrived.

Now, he has Qinghua in his rooms at night. He stands closer than he ever does, stares back when Mobei-Jun is staring at him.

He made progress before. He has made more progress with the influence of Tianlang-Jun. And so, he will ask for help. If this is what it will take, is it really all that bad?

"I need your help with writing a letter to Qinghua." He manages to say the words because this is what it will take for him to finally be allowed near Qinghua in that way. That is why he is doing all of this. With that perspective, it isn't even that awful, saying it all out loud.

"Well why didn't you say so right at the beginning?" Tianlang-Jun laughs, "Because I've known you've needed my help from the very first one that you sent."

Grit teeth. Breathe. This is for Qinghua.

He had not written out multiple drafts of any of his letters. They were the sort of things that he wrote as quickly as possible because he would stop himself if he thought about it for too long. Tianlang-Jun is right that Qinghua is a man of words. Mobei-Jun is most decidedly not that. He has never enjoyed expressing his thoughts and feelings aloud. Even the brief moments of writing these letters have been excruciating.

Excruciating enough that he remembers everything he wrote. He did not make multiple drafts, but he is able to replicate the letters easily, and sets the contents before Tianlang-Jun now. It might not matter. This might just be a technique to humiliate him. From all accounts, it would seem the Heavenly Demon is already reading everything he sends to Qinghua. Still, he write them out. In case Tianlang-Jun missed one.

It does not take Tianlang-Jun long to read through all that he has written. "I must say, I'm impressed. You give the appearance of being so stoic and stubborn, but this little Mobei-Jun is capable of learning." Tianlang-Jun holds up the most recent letter. "Look at this! A true effort to praise him for his hard work and to compliment his appearance! It's all still short and terribly phrased, of course, but you must have had a worthy teacher at some point, to make you this willing to listen."

The teacher was Qinghua. While he was almost the same age as Mobei-Jun, he had always seemed to hold the wisdom of many years beyond that, when he would advise Mobei-Jun on this or that. His mind for strategy. His ability to step into a room and gain a handle on the complicated interpersonal dynamics between every other person there. Mobei-Jun has only managed to make it this far into his rule because he learned early on to listen to whatever Qinghua tells him to do, and to comply. The fact that this also often causes Qinghua to smile at him, sometimes even praise him, only adds to the benefits.

"And how did your trembling little human respond, when you sent such a letter to him?"

Mobei-Jun refuses to be embarrassed by this part. He is the king of his lands, of the Northern Desert, second-in-command to the emperor of the demon realm. He does not feel embarrassment in front of anyone. Well, he occasionally feels it in front of Qinghua, but that is a separate situation, where his titles and accolades mean nothing at all.

"He believes that I am being blackmailed."

"Ha! Okay, yeah, I can see where he would get an idea like that." Tianlang-Jun reads through some of the letters again. "'The meal you prepared for me was appreciated.' You do sound a little bit like you're being held at sword point."

"If you will not offer help, I will take my things and depart." Mobei-Jun is aware that he has signed up to stand her and be mocked. He is only allowing this because he believes there may be some helpful information, hidden within the rest of it.

"Of course, of course. So, your little human thinks you're being forced into saying these sorts of things. That doesn't bode well for you, kid. Have you ever said anything kind to him? In the whole time you've known him?" His voice is a combination of mocking and incredulous. Mobei-Jun returns to the now well-worn fantasy of ripping out his throat.

"I have." Certainly he must have. They've known each other for years.

"Name one time," Tianlang-Jun says, with all the smug challenge of someone who already knows that he won't be able to. It makes Mobei-Jun all the more furious to realize that he can't think of a single time.

"I have shown my regard for Qinghua in my actions." This is true. Mobei-Jun is not the sort of person to treat the person he cares for with little regard. He will never be that person. His regard simply takes the form of protection, coming when called, following instructions, listening to Qinghua when he talks, obeying when he asks for things to be different.

"See, this is exactly what I was talking about." Tianlang-Jun rifles through the letters again, probably for dramatic effect rather than any actual need to reread them. There are not so many words there that he would not already be aware of the content. Mobei-Jun wants to rip them from his hands, cast them through a shadow portal until his inadequacies are far from anyone's sight. "It's not just that your human is a man of words. Humans are people who enjoy words. It's a whole thing." He waves a hand lazily through the air, as if this should all be foregone knowledge. "They want to hear you tell them the things you like about them, that you appreciate them, that you think they're beautiful, that you care for them and want them. If you don't say these things aloud, humans don't understand them."

Mobei-Jun isn't sure that's true. There is only one other human he has some level of familiarity with, and Luo Binghe's Shen Qingqiu doesn't seem to share that trait at all. From what Mobei-Jun has witnessed, he would put any demon to shame for his tendency to speak with actions over words.

On the topic of Luo Binghe, though, that is a man who requires those kinds of words and affirmations. He may be part demon, but he's also part human, and he was raised by human. Does that mean that his tendencies should be taken as the model for all?

None of this matters. Tianlang-Jun is not some wise sage who knows the answers to the human race. In fact, Mobei-Jun can't recall any stories of him having interacted with humans much beyond the one that ended him in so much trouble. None of his words should be taken as truth. Instead, he should merely acknowledge that, whether or not Tianlang-Jun understands people, he does seem to understand Qinghua. And, once he is able to focus past the way that this fact rankles against his pride, Mobei-Jun needs to use it.

"I used words. You say that they are the wrong ones. Qinghua thought they were said against my will. This is the matter in which I am requesting your wisdom." He needs to get them back to the useful part of all of this. He doesn't have time to deal with any of the nonsense that Tianlang-Jun loves to hear himself spew.

"Of course he accused you of being blackmailed. Just look at the few letters you gave me. Listen to the words you say to him. You can't remember a single time you said a kind word to him. It won't matter which compliments you try to pick at the beginning. He won't believe any of them!" Mobei-Jun can feel the foreboding snarl creeping into his expression. There is ice crackling and crawling up the walls in the corners of the room. Tianlang-Jun pauses for a moment to look pointedly at the ice and then back at Mobei-Jun with a raised eyebrow. When Mobei-Jun refuses to acknowledge any of what he may be trying to communicate, Tianlang-Jun continues.

"It's like this. Think of what would happen, if there were another demon who had ignored you or undermined your authority for the past ten years. And then, suddenly, one day they bring a freshly killed corpse of a legendary beast to your feet, the clearest declaration of serious intent that someone could give. This same demon that has been an active threat to your standing and the stability of your position for the past decade. What would you do, with such a declaration?"

Mobei-Jun knows that this is a story meant to illuminate his own situation. Even so, Tianlang-Jun is looking at him expectantly, and he clearly wants an answer. Mobei-Jun will answer. Only because his mind is not made for these kind of metaphors and double-meanings and he will not understand until it is spelled out for him.

"I would think the trophy to be some kind of trick or poison. Perhaps an attempt to remove me from my current position."

"Exactly. And what if it was proven that it was none of those things? That this demon had suddenly and drastically changed their behavior from the past years? Would you think that some exterior force might be influencing or controlling them? That there may be some kind of blackmail involved?"

Mobei-Jun can feel the beginnings of understanding brewing in his mind. Still, it is clear that this is something Tianglang-Jun wants to follow to the end.

"The option would cross my mind."

"And what would this demon need to do, then, to convince you that this was a genuine declaration of intent? One they pursued of their own free will and interest?"

"I would not accept their declaration. I have no need for another consort."

"Right," Tianlang-Jun drawls mockingly. "But let's say that, hypothetically, you were going to let them convince you they were genuine. What would a demon like that need to do?"

It is hard, for Mobei-Jun to imagine things like this. He does not want to consider the courtship actions of anyone other than Qinghua. He does not bother himself with hypotheticals or the motivations of others. That is what Qinghua manages. Mobei-Jun learned long ago that Qinghua is simply better at it than he will ever be, and at this point is quite happy to simply go where he is led.

He tries now. To imagine what it would be like, if someone who had been a threat to him started to suddenly behave in a blatantly romantic manner. What would have to change for him to believe it was their genuine intention?

It's impossible. He would send the demon away at the first indication of such a thing. He has made his efforts to court Qinghua clear to the entire court. Anyone who would dare to do something as disrespectful as interrupt an active courting with one of their own would be banished from the court before they could make anything close to a point. If he didn't kill them where they stood, for the slight against Qinghua's honor. Interrupting an ongoing courtship would be tantamount to saying that Qinghua did not deserve the king's full attention. This entire premise is impossible to think of.

Qinghua, then. Perhaps it will be easier to imagine this way. He had cooked a meal for Mobei-Jun the night before. This represents a shocking change in behavior patterns from the past few years. Mobei-Jun is tempted to take it at face value but, thanks to his more recent comments, it is more likely that this was the result of some kind of blackmailing or exterior influence.

What would it take for Mobei-Jun to start to believe that Qinghua was doing this of his own free will? He would need to continue doing so, even after Tianlang-Jun is shown to not be influencing his actions. He would want to see him do so with the kind of shaking panic that comes from his moments of vulnerability, rather than the kind of shaking panic that arises when he is being forced into doing something and he's angry about it.

"It would need to happen more than once, and appear genuine."

"Exactly! Good boy!" Tianlang-Jun praises, as if any approval other than Qinghua's has ever mattered to Mobei-Jun. "So, since you clearly need your hand held to get there, that's what your human needs as well. For years, I would bet you've only been trying to court him in a demonic fashion. I bet you've even challenged the poor coward to spar. For humans, they don't court like that. It's just threatening. So you've been threatening him for years, and then you suddenly start sending him letters declaring your admiration of him. Of course he's going to be suspicious."

"You are suggesting that I simply need to speak genuinely and remain constant."

"I never thought you'd get there. Are you proud of yourself?" Tianlang-Jun has kicked his feet up on the desk before him, lounging like a king surveying his conquered lands.

Mobei-Jun does not wait around for him to continue to inflate his own ego. He turns and walks from the room, even as he hears Tianlang-Jun talking cheerfully to himself.

"Why, thank you, great Tianlang-Jun. Your incredible wisdom regarding the humans is everything I need to finally pursue the man of my heart. Where would I be-"

Mobei-Jun moves outside of hearing range long before he is finished with whatever useless drivel he has to offer. He has another letter to write.

*~*~*

It has been almost a full day since Tianlang-Jun had last sought Shang Qinghua out, and instead of relaxing, it's just winding Shang Qinghua up tighter and tighter. He's jumping at every footstep and watching around every corner. He has The Overarching To Do List to manage, as well as his daily to do list that he's drawn from it, but he left so much space in his daily timetable for the flexibility he'll need for the unpredictable spontaneity of Tianlang-Jun's. Now, it's only early evening and he's almost to the end of his daily list, which means there's still about eight hours of time left to get work done, and nothing he planned to fill it with, which is also only contributing to the sense of panic.

Shang Qinghua has always been an anxious person. When he was living his first life, it mostly showed up in his being quiet and allowing himself to fade into the background, hiding away from the world. His family had all clearly moved on to others, and he had more than enough to keep him home, with all the writing he had to do. Better to avoid anything outside his front door. He was still anxious, but it was less of the shaking-trembling-begging for his life kind, because he never put himself in any kind of situation that would bring any of that out.

It's strange, to have lived solidly into adulthood and then have your spirit and mind transferred into that of a young child. When he first got here, his body wasn't even a year old! He hadn't ever thought about just how much babies can't do! He couldn't focus his eyes, couldn't walk, couldn't even hear a lot of the things people were saying. He just had to lay there for days on end and wait for the people in his life to look after the body he was in.

His tongue wasn't clever enough to know how to form the words to go with his thoughts. Even if it had been, Shang Qinghua knew better! As the creator of this world and an incredible purveyor of angst, he knew exactly what happened to people who stood out as strange or different. The kind of rejection they faced. It's good for building tragic backstories! Not as good when you're a baby transmigrator.

He did know for sure that he was in the world of PIDW. That he was a transmigrator. But that was only from the System in his head cheerfully telling him so. For the first decade of his life in this world, Shang Qinghua had to pretend to be just a normal child, and the only entity he could speak to regularly was his own tormentor and captor.

It would have made for a really incredible character arc. Even just thinking about it, there are so many narrative themes in there that are ripe for the picking. If it were happening to a fictional character, he could have done something amazing with the story. Since it was happening to him instead, and he actually had to live through those years and years before he could speak to anyone else with the level of cognitive functioning happening inside his head, it was the worst thing ever. He used to spend hours and hours at a time going over every single detail he could remember from his book, because it was suddenly a lot more relevant to his life and he had to hold onto it until it all actually started to happen. Which wouldn't be the case for several more decades. He had to settle into the long haul of remembering things. Also, it gave him something to do inside his mind, so that he didn't lose his mind while pretending to be a young toddler.

It lead to a different kind of panic, too. Oh, how much he missed those old days in the modern world, when he could simply lock himself inside his house and avoid any confrontations or encounters with the things that made him panic in the first place. In this world, in PIDW, he really hit his stride in the trembling, panicked babbling and shaking that he knows has become something of a signature by now. You try being in his shoes! He had to live every day of his childhood afraid that he would be kicked out onto the street for giving himself away before he was old enough to actually take care of himself!

And then! He had to go join his sect, because the System liked to pop up and hold his own death over his head like the sword of Damocles (another metaphor he can't say out loud because no one in this world knows what that is).

In the sect, he had to become head disciple and then sect leader. More pressure from the System. But don't get attached to anyone! Because he was going to have to betray the sect in just a few more years, and that was going to kill a whole hell of a lot of his sect siblings, and he couldn't let any attachments get to the point where that would be even more painful than it already was.

Work for the king of the northern desert. He's going to kill you in a few years. He can come into your room whenever he wants. Be a double-agent. Don't get caught by anyone in the human realm. Win over a bunch of demons that have a lot of very good reasons to never want to listen to a human speak. Use your knowledge of PIDW to figure out what you need to do next. Don't give away your status as a cultivator or you'll be killed right away.

Is it any wonder that he got such a terrible reputation? Anyone else in his situation would too! Is it any wonder that he started to develop a habit of running over the details of this world over and over in his head whenever he needed to calm down, since it wasn't safe to have it written down anywhere?

He didn't bother to spend much time remembering Tianlang-Jun, since he hadn't been part of the final draft. Just the outline. He didn't think it would be necessary, and he needed to leave space in his head for all the other details that were going to be important to staying alive.

Yeah, he knows it was a mistake. No one needs to tell him that now. He would really like anyone with strong opinions on this to think about what it would be like for them to be stuck as a baby again and have to remember every little detail about a story they wrote, mostly in a caffeine-fueled fugue state. And then keep all of that in mind for the next several decades.

The point is: Tianlang-Jun fell off his radar. This wasn't a problem at all until all of a sudden it very much was. He had thought he would just sleep away Shang Qinghua's lifetime under a mountain! That's what he had ended up doing in PIDW, and it only changed once Cucumber-Bro came in and fucked up all the narrative tension.

So, really, it's all Cucumber-Bro's fault, and it's important to Shang Qinghua that everyone else knows that too.

Assigning blame doesn't actually help with the problem at hand, though. The problem, which is that he still hasn't heard from Tianlang-Jun all day. That's not a good fucking sign. It's not that he left the court! Shang Qinghua saw him sitting up there right next to Mobei-Jun during dinner tonight. They were talking with their heads bent together for the whole meal. Well, okay, it was really more that Tianlang-Jun was lounging into Mobei-Jun's space and rambling on and on. But! Mobei-Jun wasn't ignoring him! Sometimes he would make vague comments or noises! That's basically him showing rapt attention! Shang Qinghua would like to be informed about shifting alliances and relationships between VIPs in this court, please and thank you! Where is the very good boy that he trained up to be a ruler and tell him these sorts of things?

A servant walks into Shang Qinghua's office and hands him some of the mail that has arrived in the evening. Usually, Shang Qinghua is not in his office when this happens, because he is off doing the many other things on his to do list for the day. This is another terrible disruption in plans! Now he has to look the demon in charge of mail for the palace in the eye, even though he's been explicitly avoiding doing that due to all the extra work he makes for her every single day!

He thanks her. She is very polite back. More than most demons in this palace are to their resident human. Shang Qinghua feels even worse than he did at the start of this.

The letters are easy to sort. There's not even that many of them today. Just a few details to shift around on his map of important people. A few colored dots to add to his color coding system. A few things to shift around on The Overarching To Do List.

He could pull a few more things off the Overarching To Do List and add them to what he needs to do today. That feels like inviting disaster. As soon as he lets himself be confident that Tianlang-Jun is not going to disrupt his day, that's when the Heavenly Demon will strike. This is the way that Shang Qinghua's luck works. He's only halfway convinced that it's due to the System trying to create moments of narrative irony.

There are a few pieces of personal correspondence, there at the bottom of the stack. One from Cucumber-Bro, mostly including a rant about the newest updates to Resentment of Chunshan, written in the Chinglish shorthand they use, as if he's ashamed to let anyone see him have strong feelings about literally anything in the world at all.

There's also, part of a new pattern, a letter that is clearly from his king. Shang Qinghua braces himself for whatever could possibly be inside. There's no way to predict, after the rollercoaster of the past few. Is it going to tell him to kick Tianlang-Jun out of the castle? Is it going to tell him that he has pretty eyes?

Qinghua, it reads, rather than allow him to continue down his newest anxiety spiral.

I want to make hand-pulled noodles for you every day that you want them. If you decide you do not want noodles, then I want to know what else you like and learn to make that too.

Your King

Huh.

It's.

Huh.

It's somewhat like the one from the night before. It's more words than his king almost ever strings together.

It's also-, huh. It's hard to explain what's so different about this one from the other ones. It feels more...believable? Like it really was his king who wrote it. The words are phrased the way that he would say them, if he were to say something so incredibly out of character.

The words are also incredibly...something. Soft? Vulnerable, maybe? He would almost describe them as romantic, if this were the sort of thing he had written in a novel for a super reserved character to say. Mobei-Jun, implying that he might want to continue cooking for Shang Qinghua. That he enjoys serving him in that way. That he wants to keep working to make him happy. That would be a romantic thing to say, if he were looking in from the outside.

And then, well, Your King. Huh. That's fucking. Huh. Shang Qinghua has been calling Mobei-Jun My King since long before he was king of anything. Part of that was just a matter of practicality. The Mobei family does not name their children. They have to fight for rankings and then they get the honor of being addressed by their title. It's just another part of what makes the competition for the throne so harsh and terrible. It's a great little character development detail for a book character. A terrible thing to do to an actual teenager who has no connections or support in the world.

When they had met, there was very little else to call Mobei-Jun. He had no name, and Shang Qinghua needed something to call him so that he could better beg for his life. My King had been what he called him, sometimes, when he was thinking about him while writing PIDW. Like, his favorite character. His king. You know. It's not weird. It's writer stuff. He did way weirder shit than that. He's a successful writer. Shut up.

When he had first actually called the teenaged Mobei-Jun that, it had clearly done wonders for his case not to kill him. Mobei-Jun was already going for the throne at that point, and no one in his family or the demon realm believed he would be successful. It had made him puff up a little, with pride, every time Shang Qinghua said it.

And then, well, then several decades passed, and they kept right on knowing each other. And, slowly, the title shifted from just a substitution for a title to something more affectionate. Something closer to a name. Maybe even a nickname. Shang Qinghua would never say that it's sometimes even like a pet name, because he doesn't want to die, but it does feel like that. He says it like that, sometimes. Just for something that he can hold in his own heart. A secret between him and himself.

All this to say: Shang Qinghua has been calling Mobei-Jun My King for as long as he's known him. In all of that time, Mobei-Jun has never referred to himself as Your King.

It's different. It's a different kind of possession. A king owns all of his subjects. Any of his subjects could call him my king. A king doesn't belong to any individual subject, though. It's a one-way possession.

Shang Qinghua can't stop staring at that signature. Your King. As if the power between them isn't the heinous level of unbalanced that it very much is. He knows that it is. It always has been.

Your King.

He's never called himself that. He would never have a reason to.

It should sound like something forced again. It should have Shang Qinghua hunting him down and accusing him of being blackmailed again. Clearly, there should be no other explanation for this.

But someone else, someone coming in and forcing him to write these words, they wouldn't know to have him say that. They wouldn't know why that would be so significant. If this were Tianlang-Jun telling him to say these things, he was stuck under the mountain the entire time My King was developing into something significant between the two of them. These days, it can fly under the radar as a perfectly normal and respectful form of address.

Someone looking in would never know all that it means to them. There would be no reason for anyone other than Mobei-Jun to even think to write something like that. Which means, impossibly, that it was Mobei-Jun who chose each of these words. Who said these things.

Shang Qinghua has to do something about this. He wants to go and confront him again, but it would probably just lead to a similar embarrassing showing as the night before. Sputtering and struggling for words while his king stares down at him with vague bemusement. It's always good and terrifying and heart-stopping to see him, but he doesn't know what he would say. Hold the letter up in his line of sight and demand that he explain himself again? There's nothing to explain. It's an incredibly straightforward letter. He wants to demand that Mobei-Jun sit down with him for several hours and unpack every single potential hidden meaning and subtext and ulterior motive with him.

But his king is not the type of man to think like that. Mobei-Jun, impossibly, simply says the things he is thinking and feeling and puts no more thought into it than that. Even more impossibly, often he doesn't say anything at all.

Usually, it's a safer bet to just watch the things that he does rather than the words that he is saying. That's how Shang Qinghua manages to keep close enough tabs on his opinions of other members of the court to write his speeches and give him his to do lists. Mobei-Jun is a very good listener until the moment he doesn't want to do what you told him to do, and then there's no moving him.

He says what he means, when he speaks at all. He speaks with actions over words. Going to pursue a further explanation would reveal nothing, because there was likely no further thought to the letter than what is before him. Should Shang Qinghua try something like that, too? Using his actions over his words?

Shang Qinghua does not work like that.

But Mobei-Jun works like that. What could Shang Qinghua do, then, to show him that this, whatever the fuck it is, was appreciated? How can he use a kind action to also work to gain some kind of clarity about what could possibly be going on here?

He cooked for Mobei-Jun, the other night. It seems like Mobei-Jun likes that, when they cook for each other. He said in the more forced-sounding letter, the night before, that he had appreciated the meal.

Shang Qinghua knows that some people in the court might look at all of this and get the wrong idea. It's a demon tradition, you know. One of the ways someone can declare intent for someone else. Cooking a meal for them. Some people look at Shang Qinghua and Mobei-Jun and assume it must be like that, between them. Really, it's just something that started after Shang Qinghua almost ran away that one time, and then continued because his king seemed to gain some kind of satisfaction from it.

They've been just friends up until now. Not even really friends, actually. Shang Qinghua would never say something like that out loud. More like...partners? Partners in crime, maybe? They've known each other for so long. They've worked together for so long. They understand each other.

It hasn't been anything more than that, between them. But this letter, it's blurring the lines. A lot. Shang Qinghua is really having to work hard to think of any kind of platonic or, he doesn't know, some kind of cosmically-connected coworkers situation explanation for any of this.

He wants to make noodles for Shang Qinghua for the rest of his life. If he stops wanting noodles, he wants to learn how to make the things he does want. What is Shang Qinghua supposed to do with that? The longer he thinks about that part, the more it's sticking in his brain too. The Your King snagged in his mind first, because what the fuck, but actually, he would like to know what the fuck is happening with literally every part of this letter, because it's going to do his head in.

When was the last time someone cooked for him? Before Mobei-Jun? He'd eaten at the dining hall when he was spending more of his time on An Ding Peak, but that wasn't a personalized meal. That was just the same meal that disciples took turns making for the whole peak. There wasn't any heart behind it.

It would have been when he was a child in this world, but even that had been such a strange and distant time. Being doted upon by parents, parents he was mentally older than, parents he could never speak openly to. There was a strained distance there. He knows it confused them, the whole time they were alive. Their strange, distant child who never behaved quite the way they expected him to. Their child, who knew, the whole time he was growing up, exactly when and how his parents were going to die. He did everything he could to make their lives easier. There is nothing he could have done differently.

Before that. In his first life. Instant noodles and energy drinks and bao from the convenience store down the street, when he thought he would shrivel up and die if he didn't actually leave his studio apartment. Scrounged together meals before that, when both of his parents had already split, were off trying to build families that would work this time, leaving him alone to cook for himself before he ever learned how.

When was the last time someone made a meal for him? For Shang Qinghua, in all that he was?

Has someone ever done that?

Fuck. It's some fucking dark shit tonight. This is why he stays busy with lists. No one wants to live in thoughts like this.

But fine. Fuck. If this is what it's like between them, then does it really matter if there is or isn't some hidden meaning underneath it? Does it matter if he means it as friends or coworkers (or lovers)? The idea of something more glows within him with a brightness Shang Qinghua can't look at head-on. He has never learned how to exist around the reality of something like this.

Because, the horrible truth is, all of this with Mobei-Jun is so much more than he has ever had in either life.

And so, really, it doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter what he means by the letter. They'll figure that out. Eventually. And any explanation will be more than he's ever had before.

Right now, though, he has to do something. Do something that might make Mobei-Jun feel one hundredth of the overwhelming glut of emotion that Shang Qinghua is feeling right now.

*~*~*

Mobei-Jun opens the door to his room. It's late, later than he ever even thinks to stay up. He was already awake, though, and a fire is burning huge in the fireplace. Just in case. Just in case he comes back again. Mobei-Jun wants him to be comfortable here.

Qinghua only needed to knock once. Mobei-Jun knows what it sounds like when he does. He has a frenzied, anxious, light way of rapping his knuckles against the door. Sometimes, when he spends days away at his cultivation sect, Mobei-Jun imagines it and goes to answer the door to no one.

Qinghua is here, now. It's what Mobei-Jun was expecting to see, so it takes another few moments for him to realize what else he is seeing.

Qinghua is holding a dish piled high with noodles and sauce and vegetables. Zha jiang mian. The same dish he made for Mobei-Jun just the other night, to eat in front of everyone in the court.

"Ah, My King," he stutters. There is a bright flush on his cheeks. Mobei-Jun wants to scratch them open and lick up the blood. He doesn't.

"Qinghua."

"Yes! Ha ha, it's me. Yep. I noticed earlier tonight that you didn't eat very much at dinner, and I thought that might be because you didn't really like what they were serving for dinner, since it was a lot of northern game and you tend not to eat much of that when they have it, not that you eat much of anything else anyway." He's speaking at a rapidly increasing pace, seeming to become more panicked the longer that Mobei-Jun does not speak. "And, well, I thought about the other night, and how you did end up eating all of the thing I made you, so I thought that you might still be hungry and there's nothing I have to do tonight anyway, so I thought that I could cook for you and maybe that would be better than going hungry all night but if that's not the case then I can just go and leave you to do whatever important things you need to be doing right now."

Mobei-Jun does not bother to acknowledge that last part. Ridiculous. He would be sleeping if Qinghua were not here right now. He much prefers this.

He also does not speak because his tongue is frozen to the top of his mouth.

When Qinghua cooked for him, before, it was very blatantly due to some kind of pressure or blackmail from Tianlang-Jun. Mobei-Jun was still happy to accept it, because it happened in front of the entire court, and so even if Qinghua didn't mean what he was saying, at least the rest of the court would get the message to stay away from the two of them.

This, though. Shang Qinghua generally tells Mobei-Jun the truth, especially when his mouth runs away with him like this. He will still withhold things, of course, but the words that he says are truthful.

He said that he noticed that Mobei-Jun did not eat at dinner. That Mobei-Jun prefers food when it is prepared by Qinghua. He thought Mobei-Jun might be hungry, and so he cooked for him.

Mobei-Jun is going to tear out his heart and hand it to Shang Qinghua. That feels like the only action that would appropriately convey what he's been trying to say. An appropriate reaction to something like this. Qinghua cooked for him. Because he wanted to and he thought Mobei-Jun would enjoy it.

Mobei-Jun gestures him deeper into the room. Gestures him toward the chairs near the fire, again. He's replaced the pelt that was there before with that of a Great Mountain Burrow Timber Wolf, with thicker, warmer fur that wraps around your feet when you step on it. There's a quilt as well, commissioned to be made of the heaviest, finest fabrics. It's draped over the chair that Shang Qinghua sat in last time and has spent the last few hours warming before the fire.

When Shang Qinghua sits down, he does this little shiver, nestles down into the warmth of the fire and blanket and rug. Something possessive and satisfied floods Mobei-Jun. Good. Qinghua is comfortable in his space. It's worth the slightly-dizzying heat that makes a blue flush come to his own cheeks.

Mobei-Jun is holding the food now. He's not quite sure when that happened. He must have taken it when Qinghua came through the doorway. Now, he goes to sit in the chair across from Qinghua. They are tilted toward each other, just like he imagined they might be when he rearranged the room. He starts taking small bites, savoring the rudimentary texture and flavor of the dish.

He does not eat human cuisine often. When he does, it is prepared by the finest chefs in the land. This food is not nearly of the same quality, and that makes it taste all the better. Qinghua is not an experienced chef. He does not know how to cook many things. And yet, this is the second meal that he has prepared for Mobei-Jun to eat. It shows a significant departure from his usual patterns and habits. This was something intentional. Something purposeful.

It should feel uncomfortable to sit and eat while the other person has nothing to consume. If Mobei-Jun were willing to share a single bite of the treasured thing that Qinghua made for him, he might. For them, though, this is not much of a departure from the norm. Mobei-Jun rarely speaks while Qinghua rambles on and on, and so having a mouth full of food will not make much of a difference at all.

He's not speaking right now, instead sitting pressed back into the quilt on his chair and staring nervously at Mobei-Jun while he takes his first bites. Mobei-Jun tries to look pleased, so that Qinghua will know that his gift is appreciated. It's unclear how well that does or does not work.

Sometimes Qinghua gets like this. All tensed up and shaky while they are in the same space. Silent, but as if all the words are building up inside of him because he is not saying them out loud. It makes Mobei-Jun want to bend him over a surface and fuck him until all the panic is gone from his body. Until his words can flow freely and easily again.

He does not do this. Instead, he merely waits. Soon enough, the words will build up too much, and Qinghua will choose to fill the silence, and they will continue in their old patterns.

"Right, ah, My King is probably wondering what I am doing here." Mobei-Jun cannot help the somewhat smug smile that comes to his face at that. Just as he knew would happen. Because he does know this man, better even than Tianlang-Jun, who likes to come in and claim to be such an expert in humankind.

"I know I said earlier that there's nothing to do. But, you know, obviously, there's always something to do, so if My King wants me to leave him alone or let him sleep, just say the word and I can shut up and go away." Mobei-Jun does not say the word. "I've been going through the Overarching To Do List, but I already got through my list for the day, because I keep waiting for Tianlang-Jun to show up and make everything difficult, and I accounted for that in my schedule, but then he didn't even have the decency to show up. It's guys like that who get off on being strange and unpredictable that I can't stand. He doesn't even have a goal or anything, I don't think! He just wants to make people's lives harder and, as soon as he feels like people are starting to catch onto his patterns, he goes and changes them."

"I want him to leave," Mobei-Jun contributes, in between bites of his meal, because it is the truth and it seems like it will make Qinghua happy to hear it.

"Yes!" Qinghua sits upright in his seat, pointing in enthusiasm, happy to have someone agreeing with him. It makes Mobei-Jun want to agree with anything else that Qinghua has to say. He has felt like this many times before. "But, My King, we have to let him stay as long as he wants. A Heavenly Demon like that, we can't afford to make him angry." Mobei-Jun knows this. He also knows that he is regularly tempted to try and kill Tianlang-Jun. He makes a note of the determination in Qinghua's face right now, as something to recall when he is about to lunge at the interloper in his court. "Plus, someone like that thrives on going against the norms and expectations! If you make it obvious just how badly you want him to leave, he'll only stick around longer. It's like a younger sibling who is bothering you."

Mobei-Jun's half-siblings were never so kind as to merely "bother" him, and if he had ignored them, he would be dead. Qinghua, as far as he has been made aware, does not have siblings. They both nod along to this metaphor anyway. Mobei-Jun does not care about what the motivation or reasoning is. He will do this because Qinghua asked him to and because he trusts Qinghua to always know what the best move is for him to make.

They sit like that for several more minutes. Qinghua is talking, mostly about his frustrations with the members of the court, or his intentions for upcoming diplomatic interactions. Mobei-Jun interjects now and then with his vague agreement, as that is all that is required of him to keep his kingdom thriving.

Instead of listening properly, he finds himself distracted. It is rare, that he sees Qinghua in firelight. This is a grave oversight that he will need to correct as soon as possible. There should be lit fireplaces and lanterns throughout this entire castle, so that Qinghua always looks like this.

He is so small, Qinghua is. Mobei-Jun can lift him with one hand. He's done it before, back when he thought that sparring would win him over. Back when they were in danger and he did not trust Qinghua to move himself fast enough. He's squashed himself down into the chair, and the more he speaks and the longer he sits before the fire, the more comfortable he looks. The jittery panic is soothed into calm confidence, the way he only looks when he's so wrapped up in what he's saying that he forgets to be nervous.

Many of the demons in this realm, and almost all of the humans that Mobei-Jun has met, have deep black hair. He understands that many see this as a mark of beauty. And yet, that hair would not glow the way that Qinghua's does in the firelight. Brown now shot through with strands of red and ocher and yellow. His hair is always a little bit unruly and difficult to contain in his bun and now, at the end of the day, there are pieces hanging loose around his face. The firelight is in his eyes too, bringing out notes of gold and honey, pooling deep in the dark brown and settling there like stars in the sky.

He looks happy. He looks comfortable. He looks like the most beautiful thing Mobei-Jun has ever seen.

Mobei-Jun is helpless to do anything but listen as Qinghua talks. As the night grows later, his conversation wanders. Qinghua speaks not just of the tasks he must do and the kingdom they run together, but of his most recent conversations with his human friend, Shen Qingqiu. He speaks of his dreams for the future of their kingdom, and not just politically, but aesthetically, culturally. He paints pictures with his words in the air between them.

It grows later, and when Qinghua starts to become self-conscious about how much he has spoken, Mobei-Jun fetches him tea to soothe his throat.

It grows later, and the fire has crackled its way down to embers between them, and Mobei-Jun is discovering even more ways that shadows can catch and cling to the angles of Qinghua's face.

It grows later, and Mobei-Jun is awake so far past when he normally is, and the night is sparking through him like magic, and he can't believe he gets to have this. He never thought he would have something like this. A place to be calm. A place to be safe. A person who would never run out of new things to tell him.

"Tell me a story," Mobei-Jun murmurs. It is so late in the night that it is now well into morning. The words should come out as a command, but instead they are soft and warm. Qinghua should be panicked and confused and embarrassed at such a request, but instead he smiles like a candle held between two cupped palms.

"Once upon a time." He says the words like he's casting a spell. Like he's telling a joke. "There was an ice prince and his servant."

He speaks for hours. They have never done this. Mobei-Jun does not know how he knew that Qinghua would have a story to tell, but it flows out of him like he does not even need to think to find the next word. He spins a story of an ice prince and his human servant and the brilliant adventures they go on together. He tells how, again and again, they save each other from danger, the ice prince with his fighting prowess and the human with his quick words and unwavering loyalty.

When it's all put together like that, Mobei-Jun can't help but notice the ways that they really are something like a story. From the outside. A cultivator that found a demon and saved his life, even though there was no reason he should have done that. A demon that found safety and comfort and warmth for the first time ever. A human who learned how to live in a realm so far from the one he was born into. A king that learned to trust his advisor with every part of the kingdom and every word from his mouth.

They should be enemies. Or, if not enemies, then certainly not this. They should never have a reason to speak like this. There should be some terrible distance between them that Shang Qinghua would never dare to cross and Mobei-Jun would never even think to challenge.

They shouldn't have this. They do, and it is the warmest thing that Mobei-Jun has ever known.

He brews more tea, brings a steaming cup to Qinghua when his throat goes scratchy and hoarse from all the speaking. Qinghua tries to wrap up the story a few different times, but Mobei-Jun can see the way that he's still bursting with more to add, more words to say, and all it takes is a single follow-up question or inquiring hum and he'll continue on with another chapter of this fantastical story.

It's a silly thing. A child's pastime. There is something warm and intimate in doing it anyway, in allowing himself to truly enjoy it.

They sit before the fire and Mobei-Jun is being cooked from the inside out, with how warm his room is. There is a deep flush to his cheeks and the frost that always lines the edges of his hair has melted, leaving something like sweat clinging to his temples.

It goes on and on, stories spinning out into the darkness, and Mobei-Jun will always listen to every word that Qinghua has to say, even the ridiculous ones, especially the ridiculous ones, because he wants to understand him better than anyone in the world has ever understood another person before. Is that too much to ask?

The moon makes its way across the sky and Qinghua never stops talking but his sentences start to trail off into fuzzy, half-finished thoughts. He keeps being interrupted by his own yawns.

Qinghua is a cozy, sleepy-eyed thing, his eyes heavy and liquid where they blink out at Mobei-Jun from across the fire. When he yawns, his entire face scrunches up like a small animal's might, and sometimes a small noise, like a squeak, will come out too. It makes Mobei-Jun want to build a terrible tower and lock him up on the highest floor, so that no one in the world would ever be able to see or touch him again. Only Mobei-Jun.

This plan would not work, because Mobei-Jun wouldn't know how to go about commissioning a high tower like that without the help of his closest advisor, and Qinghua is not the type to build something like that without asking endless questions about its purpose, and Mobei-Jun is not a good liar. Particularly not when the person he is lying to has known him for more of his life than not.

When he falls asleep, it is a soft, mumbling thing. Qinghua's sentences trail off into quiet, shapeless syllables and then into snuffling snores. He had curled up into a small ball in the chair an hour ago, and now his head rests against the back of the chair while his arms wrap around his legs.

He is so small.

Mobei-Jun is tired too. It's a miracle that Shang Qinghua fell asleep before him, considering the fact that he is almost universally awake long past the time that his king goes to sleep. It is a unique and treasured opportunity. Mobei-Jun goes to gather another quilt from his own bed, because the fire is burning down and it will likely get cold as the night goes on.

When he wraps it around the balled-up form of Shang Qinghua, he makes a small huffing noise and nestles into it further. There is something cracking at the center of Mobei-Jun's chest. He didn't know it was possible to feel this way toward another person. He doesn't know what to do with this new knowledge of himself.

And so he does what he always does, when feeling too many things. Mobei-Jun goes to sleep.

Read Part 3 here (x)

#svsss #svsss fanfiction #my writing #svsss fic #svsssaction #scum villain #scum villian self saving system #moshang #mobei jun #shang qinghua #tianlang jun

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