Work Text:
Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky, when designing his perfect man, had always known what shape he would take. The height, the proportions of long legs, a jawline to cut glass and eyes to match the shine of blue off a steel blade. He always dreamed of being one of those elegant men, who could enter a doorway and the room goes silent with the silent charisma of confidence. Unshakeable, untouchable from a slow-panning gaze to the width of shoulders like a raptor’s wings. Or a black jaguar in the dark, the muscles beneath glossy fur in fluid motion. Impressive, deadly, refined.
(Jaguars were sexy, cars were named after them so of course they exude luxury.)
It took transmigrating to his own world for Airplane to realize that perhaps his fixation with the sex-dripping long-legged broad-shouldered men of the tsundere variety was more to do with his wanting to be with them rather than wanting to be them.
Enter one Mobei Jun: his prized creation. His very own perfectly sculpted and entirely unplanned for King with a smolder of scalding ice and a temper to match.
Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky had designed this supporting character after the vicious grace of a panther. Simmering sexuality and appeal like no other supporting character ever dreamed.
Shang Qinghua was the one who got to appreciate the work, and oh god, did he. (Was it entirely narcissistic to offer blessings of thanks to one’s past self? Yes. Did he care? Hella no.)
Mobei Jun was, in a word, perfect.
And sometimes that caught Shang Qinghua by surprise, though such a thing was both obvious and glaring him right in the face each and every moment the frosty King was in his thoughts (which was constant as there was something addicting to the bubbling sensation in one’s chest making it difficult to breathe at the sight of a regal noise - the flash of pale eyes swimming in demonic black.)
So, his own creation became his destruction as Shang Qinghua once again fell to surprise. Breath caught in unworthy lungs as the broad width and heavy length of Mobei Jun’s body was settled against his own scrawny torso. The chill back was too large to fit perfectly in the cradle of his chest - Shang Qinghua’s legs splayed obscenely wide to accommodate the mass while Mobei Jun head rested back on his shoulder. Perfect and at peace against him.
Shang Qinghua’s arms were stretched as far as they could go over Mobei Jun’s shoulders, clutching the book with the numb grasp of fingertips. He’d been reading in bed, back tucked against the furs and pillows collected, when his King made his entrance. Taking one look at the blinking Shang Qinghua before stripping off his fur mantle, cloak and boots dropping with matching thuds . Shang Qinghua had parted his lips to ask if he should put up his book? The look in his King’s eyes sweeping him in approach - sending a heated thrill to pool low in his belly - but Mobie Jun was quiet, save for a low grunt. Pulling Shang Qinghua’s legs apart as the cultivator could only yelp and be smothered by the weight of the demon lord rolling back to lay against him.
Turning him into a chaise couch and without a word swiftly drifted off to sleep.
It is. In a word. Impossible to keep reading when the perfect man is asleep in your arms.
Shang Qinghua wants to write endless volumes on the length of Mobei Jun’s lashes, how the light shines off his cheekbones like glaciers reflecting the ocean’s color in vibrant hues.
How is he supposed to continue functioning with the weight of muscle smothering his frame, every detail of Mobei Jun like polished firm stone that’s soft to the touch? Cool and without imperfection from the peek of an ankle to the ink-swipe of bold brows.
Shang Qinghua’s heart flutters, which is a thing he only ever wrote about and often assumed would feel like indigestion. Nope! Wrong about that because his heart is a flock of birds being shaken from a grove of trees. Wild and without direction, a chaotic eruption of wings that are anything but graceful as they smack into each other in panic at this LITERAL INTERPRETATION OF EVERYTHING HE WANTS.
“You’re noisy, even when you think.” Mobei Jun’s voice purrs from his chest and into Shang Qinghua’s body beneath - and that is simply unfair. Shang Qinghua was not prepared for how sexy a voice could actually be when it belonged to the person who held dearest.
(Oh man he really was a swooning maiden wasn’t he? Fuck yea and proud!)
“Sorry.” Shang Qinghua whispers, book lowering as he’s clearly not going to be getting much reading done.
“Do you not enjoy your book?” Mobei Jun’s temple is at his cheek, the bright scent of chilled winter mint and iron, something he’s grown so used to and couldn’t imagine no longer having in this life.
“It’s good.” He answers, focusing more on the hand which is large and cool, tucking beneath his knee and lifting Shang Qinghua’s leg so it frames the side of Mobei Jun’s ribs - becoming an arm rest for the demanding demon lord as he lounges.
“Read to me.” Mobei Jun orders, soft but with little room for argument. The smallest turn of his chin and the pale brow bumps his lips like a cat demanding attention.
More fluttering heart nonsense, is it actually possible to die from this?
“Sure, just one thing.” Shang Qinghua doesn’t wait for Mobei Jun’s expected “hn” of answer before pressing the book open to the broad chest. Needing both arms to curl around those shoulders and encircle the demon of impressive size best he can. Cursing designing Shang Qinghua the way he is - wishing he were bigger to better hold his King.
He doesn’t know if Mobei Jun feels safe in his arms, or if he’ll ever understand how Shang Qinghua feels when it’s typically the other doing this - but maybe he can get the picture.
“Thank you.” He whispers, nuzzling the line where blue-black hair meets cold skin. Finding his King is purring in response, pleased and accepting of the affection.
He doubts Mobei Jun has any idea what Shang Qinghua is thanking him for - as there are so many things. ( for letting me stay, for wanting me here, for giving me a place to belong )
“It’s a really interesting book.” He picks up the book in one hand, difficult to maneuver, but Mobei Jun’s already captured the opposing wrist in his grip. Keeping Shang Qinghua’s palm splayed across his heart. Letting the man pluck at the open hem of his robes and smooth odd shapes where pale skin is exposed in a tantalizing v. “It’s about an old kingdom to the west and there’s this absolute wreck of a princess-”
“Hn.” Mobei Jun grunts, clearly not paying attention to the words but absorbed in their sound. Eyes remain shut as he relaxes deeper into Shang Qinghua’s hold, letting the mortal be the only living creature to ever be trusted this way.
And not just because Shang Qinghua created Mobei Jun, but because he loves him, is he grateful for the honor.