Chapter Text
“Careful…” Feng Xin’s voice is strained, slightly nervous. “Be gentle…”
Mu Qing rolls his eyes, flicking to the next page with a flick of his thumb.
“You do realize he isn’t an actual animal, don’t you?”
Feng Xin glances back over his shoulder with a scowl—though not so severe as he used to be.
He’s kneeling on the ground, hands carefully tucked under his son’s arms, holding him steady as he reaches out, eyes wide and curious, cooing as he pats tufts of red fur.
Xie Lian sits up a little straighter from beside them, eyes bright as he watches the fox chirp softly, nuzzling its cheek into Xiao Feng’s hand, the toddler gasping and giggling with delight.
“San Lang would never bite him, Feng Xin.”
Mu Qing turns the page again, eyes narrowing as he struggles to focus on the words. “I guess we’re lucky that C—Feng Qiao never bit you .”
It’s hard to get into the habit of using the new name—better than a nickname that means mistake , but an adjustment.
Maybe not—but he did ram a needle into the bottom of Xie Lian’s foot once before, though he certainly wouldn’t remind his husband of that right now.
“…San Lang has always been quite good with children,” the prince smiles. “Far better than I used to be.”
Mu Qing's mouth turns up at the corners, a small snort managing to escape.
"I remember."
It's not that Xie Lian was ever unkind or impatient with children—but with the particularly young ones, he never seemed to know how to interact with them.
Looking back, Mu Qing understands why. He was raised in an environment where everything was formal all the time. Xie Lian could be silly, he could laugh and be childish and have moments of immaturity—but those were private.
He didn't know how to be informal around strangers, not even with small children.
Sometimes it came off as charming, others it was intimidating. In any case, Mu Qing can only think of one child who wasn't deterred by it, and eight centuries later the prince married him.
"...But he isn't bad with kids, I'll give him that," he finally relents, letting his book slump against his lap, giving up on reading for a moment.
Xie Lian nods, his gaze turning soft and warm in the afternoon sun, watching as the fox rolls onto its side, tail flicking.
He's technically only here because Feng Xin got it in his head that it might be good to get Feng Qiao a pet, but they wanted to teach him to be gentle.
Practicing with something more durable is a better alternative, and Xie Lian asked; so of course, Hua Cheng agreed.
And when he's sure Feng Xin and the ghost king aren't paying attention, he admits—
"I can see why he and Autumn Twilight have that kind of relationship. It's easy to imagine him as a..."
He doesn't say the word 'father,' not when he sees the look on Xie Lian's face.
Children, particularly in the last two years since He Bai's birth, have been a frequent, conflicted subject among the Heavens.
It's not that Heavenly Officials were ever explicitly forbidden from having them—not unless their cultivation path mandated it. It just wasn't done.
Shi Qingxuan didn't intentionally flout that tradition, either—their circumstances were incredibly rare and specific—
But even watching Mu Qing and Feng Xin look after Xiao Feng has shifted the conversation even further.
Of course, he must be thinking about it.
And he doesn't think that he'll ever have them.
Mu Qing has never spoken to Xie Lian about it, but he doesn't need to, to know how he feels.
That he wouldn't know what to do. That he would fail. And if there's one thing the Crown Prince still fears, it's grief .
Xie Lian doesn't want to lose them, so he thinks he'll never have them—and he feels guilty, seeing how naturally such things come to his husband, like he's depriving him of something.
Even Mu Qing knows that Hua Cheng would never feel that way, and even still—
Xie Lian is going to have them one day, one way or another.
He'll love them, they'll love him, and Mu Qing will count himself lucky to be an uncle.
Not because he thinks that Xie Lian doesn't know himself, or that every person who doesn't want children is bound to change their mind—
Rather, because he knows just how badly Xie Lian used to want them.
And while talking to children might not be his strongest skill, that doesn't mean he isn't nurturing.
Just the opposite.
Mu Qing doesn't think he knows how to nurture something without being resentful. How to feel affection without simultaneous distrust.
Even still, he's—
"You've always been good with children too, Mu Qing." The prince points out, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.
"...Good," Mu Qing mutters, picking his book up once again. "This child is plenty for me to deal with."
Mu Qing never foresaw himself being any child's best option at stability, but Feng Qiao's parents have masterfully dived beneath his expectations.
But he thinks he and the little boy might be suited to one another for that reason.
Neither of them are typically anyone's first choice—but they're also the ones who survived the longest.
"...Does he change into many other forms?" He mutters, looking to change the subject as Feng Qiao toddles about, reaching for his fur once more.
Xie Lian follows his gaze, watching the way the little boy stumbles, lunging repeatedly in fruitless efforts to grab the fox by the tale, his father scolding him over and over again.
Gentle. Be gentle.
"Not as often when he's around me, but yes."
The prince is a bit addicted to looking at his real face, something that seems to baffle Hua Cheng more than anything—but after a year of marriage, he's seen him in various shapes, sizes, species, and genders.
Every single one of them perfect, because each is his San Lang.
"...He got into the habit some time ago," Xie Lian explains. Doesn't explain why—Hua Cheng's feelings and struggles are his own, and he wouldn't share them with anyone else after being trusted so deeply.
Instead, he says;
"I wish I could do it as well as he does."
He sighs, winding a blade of grass around his finger. "It must be useful—”
"Some people are better suited to deception," Mu Qing shrugs, looking back down at his book. "You've never been one of them."
Shapeshifting is an art of survival, one that comes in many forms.
Blackwater is a shapeshifter too, but Hua Cheng isn't like him.
Crimson Rain doesn't lie so much as he omits. His ambivalence is far more likely to kill you than any falsehoods.
Rarely speaking, but always listening closely.
Xie Lian wouldn't know, he was in his second banishment by then—but when Mu Qing was a young god, they were often warned not to speak too loudly in mortal taverns. To watch out for stray cats on stoops, ravens on roof eaves.
There was a new calamity, bloodthirsty and cruel. One who had slaughtered thirty-three of them already.
The changing of forms that Xie Lian finds so endearing and admirable has often been a source of terror for the Heavens for centuries.
Blackwater's methods were slightly more insidious.
Stealing someone else's identity, carefully molding the edges around him until it fit him perfectly. Wearing Ming Yi's face in a flawless mask for centuries.
Every other word that fell from his lips was a lie.
And it wouldn't be an inaccurate metaphor to say that he infected the Heavens like a virus. His clones serving as deputies and servants in fifty different palaces. Each operating simultaneously, gathering information—sinking their claws in deeper.
Hua Cheng was a survivor of war and plague. A child tormented for his appearance. He learned to change his shape to gain anonymity, escaping prying eyes while his could see all.
He Xuan was killed by the things he did not know.
Things a poor man from a small shipyard wouldn't be privy to.
So, he became someone else. A deputy here, a civil god there. Cupbearers and scribes. The earth master.
But there are other types of shapeshifters. Other ways to be dishonest.
Mu Qing would know.
"...General?" A voice calls softly from over his shoulder.
He doesn't look up from his book, fingers tightening slightly around the cover. One of his deputies—and he sounds remorseful about interrupting.
That means there's work to be done.
"Yes?"
"...It would seem a group of deputy gods were ambushed by a flock of demons while on patrol. All of them made it back alive, and we're working to stabilize them, but..."
If he's here talking to Mu Qing—that means it's beyond their skills.
He sighs, snapping his book shut.
Xie Lian eyes him sympathetically, noticing the dark circles under his eyes as he stands up.
"Do you want me to go with you? I could—”
"And leave those two alone? No, you're better off here."
Xie Lian isn't sure if he means Feng Xin and his son, or Feng Xin and Hua Cheng.
Either way, he's probably right.
"...Alright," he nods, watching as his friend readies himself to follow his deputy back towards the newly constructed medical ward within the Heavenly Capital. "I'll tell them you were summoned back."
Mu Qing is thankful for that much—Feng Xin has rarely had a moment to spend with his son in the last few weeks, with Xiao Feng fresh back from a stint in Ghost City with his mother.
He'd rather slip away quietly than cut that short.
Fading into the background is its own form of shapeshifting. Carefully tailoring your voice and expressions until they become neutral and bland. Like nothing more than background ambiance.
No one can do that better than a servant.
No one can lie quite like a doctor, calmly saying, 'this might hurt a little,' before forcibly resetting the bones in a patient's leg, leaving grown men shrieking and writhing from the agony of it.
And offering a fake smile—that's another learned skill, hard won.
Somewhere that afternoon, between the mess of broken bones, torn flesh, and the constant outcry of patients as he methodically sews them back together—he finds himself wondering.
Why he can't change his shape into something more pleasing.
Not physically. Mu Qing wasn't always aware of his good looks—the price of going through puberty alongside Xie Lian, comparison always left him feeling hideous—but he is now. Especially recently, with people left utterly fascinated by the change in his hair.
But while he's learned to fade into the background, how to force a fake smile—when he breaks his silence, he can't completely replace the bite in his voice. Can't soften his edges or make his words less bruising.
Xie Lian can. He always has.
When you get to know him, it makes you care. Makes you want to protect him, even if he seems like the last person who needs it.
(And sometimes, he's the one who needs it the most.)
Mu Qing doesn't inspire that kind of sympathy or care—and that's fine.
He shouldn't need it.
Medical wards in the mortal realm once carried a smell of stench and rot, luring the vultures in with the expectation of death. Mu Qing can still remember standing beside the medical tents in Xianle—but it wasn't the screaming or the sight of the bodies that stuck with him.
It was the smell.
One that he's eradicated over the years, mandating new protocols around sanitation and patient care—but it's been replaced with something different.
This sharp, sterile scent that fills his nose after an afternoon of work.
The skin of his hands dry and chapped from washing them over and over again. Clinging to his robes until he can't even smell himself anymore.
He always changes before he leaves. Allows the soft, newly pressed fabric to breathe a little humanity back into him.
"...General, do you want to rest here? We could make up a bed for you—” One of his deputies offers, watching with faint concern as Mu Qing fastens his cloak.
Dark eyes turn to stare at him coldly.
"Why? My palace is minutes away."
Half an incense time by foot, far less than that when he travels by sword.
The deputy shrinks back, bowing his head in apology for the suggestion.
"I'm sorry, sir. You just seemed...fatigued. Please enjoy the rest of your evening."
He doesn't look up and doesn't see the way his general winces.
Suddenly hyperaware of his sharpened edges once more.
Even when he makes it back to the palace grounds—he doesn't go back inside immediately.
Finding the same oak tree where he and his friend rested hours before.
Returning to his place on the ground, leaning back against the trunk. Wondering how the rest of the afternoon went—if someone lost their temper, or Crimson Rain lost patience with the entire affair.
Fishing around in his sleeves until he finds his book once again.
The moon is full and clear, enough for him to see the words on the page clearly. Away from any nagging distractions or responsibilities, listening to nothing but crickets in the trees, soft, distant cries of owls from their nests.
He never noticed how unnaturally silent the old Heavenly Capital was, not until they built here, in the ruins of Xianle.
There were no birds. No humming cicadas. There wasn't even wind.
It was a beautiful, peaceful cage.
But now he's here, in the still and the quiet of the place he once called his home, and he—
He squints at the pages, his brow creasing with frustration.
He's here, but he can't focus. Heaviness tugging at his eyelids, thoughts dragging him away every time.
It makes his mouth twist with annoyance—his chest tightening with frustration, because—
He just wants to read a book . After spending the entire day up to his elbows in work. And he can't seem to...
What should be so hard about reading a damn...
At some point, his head tilts back, the base of his skull resting against the tree—fingers growing slack as the book slips from his hands, landing in his lap with a gentle thud.
It isn't peaceful rest. It's fitful and tense, his eyebrows knitted, even in his sleep.
Dreams disjointed and confusing. Shifting too quickly from one scenario to the next, always falling frustratingly short of any conclusion.
The kind of sleep that he often has—leaving him waking with a headache, and little rest.
But not this time.
This time, he stirs when he feels gentle pressure against his cheeks—a familiar sensation.
Leather gloves, soft and well worn.
'A'Qing?'
His eyes snap open with a start—and the face is familiar, but not the one from his memories.
"You fell asleep here?"
Mu Qing's mouth twists, pulling back to contain the emotion bubbling up in his throat, eventually answering—
"Obviously."
The word comes out so annoyed , but not because of him—he just wanted to—
"Alright, be an ass about it," Feng Xin grouses, rolling his eyes.
He picks up Mu Qing’s book from where it had fallen off to the side, pocketing it before slipping his arms beneath him—
“What are you doing?” Mu Qing asks flatly, feeling himself being lifted from the ground.
“You think I’m gonna let you sleep here?”
“I don’t need you to carry me,” he grumbles, not because of Feng Xin—more so irritated that he probably only had one hour of downtime today, and he slept through it—
“I know that.”
“Then you should put me—”
“Would you just shut up? I want to.” Feng Xin snaps.
Mu Qing falls silent, his mouth hanging open as the martial god pulls him onto his back. He could carry him in his arms with ease—if he didn't know that Mu Qing would throw a fit over being held like a damsel in distress, hissing and screaming.
After a moment or two though—Mu Qing starts to relax into the feeling of Feng Xin's hands gripping under his knees, squeezing his thighs around his waist to stay steady, resting his chin on his partner's shoulder.
Staying quiet just long enough for Feng Xin to glance back.
"...What? You're not that pissed that I'm trying to be ni—”
"You used to carry Xie Lian like this."
The god falls silent, eyebrows raising—like he barely remembers it.
"I did?"
It almost pisses him off that Feng Xin has nearly forgotten.
Mu Qing has rewound those memories over and over, countless nights spent in the periphery, hands clasped tightly behind his back as a feeling he refused to acknowledge as jealousy brewed in his gut.
"Whenever he fell asleep while we were in the gardens."
Which was practically every night before Xie Lian's first ascension.
"...Oh," Feng Xin looks forward, setting off across the palace grounds. "Yeah, you're right. He used to fall asleep all over the place."
The gardens, the training field—even in the baths, which led to a mildly embarrassing near drowning incident, but Mu Qing was the only one who saw that.
"You used to carry him all the way back to bed, just like this." Mu Qing explains, kicking his feet slightly in confirmation.
His tone isn't hostile, just distant. Difficult to discern what he's thinking, or why he brought it up.
But Feng Xin has a decent guess.
"...Well, you better get used to it." He shrugs, his tone slightly gruff. "No free rides for anyone else."
Mu Qing bites his lip, refusing to smile.
"What about A'Qiao?"
Feng Xin pauses, his brow creasing.
"...Just you two, then."
"Dianxia's feelings might get hurt."
"As if Crimson Rain would ever let me do that again."
He has a solid point there.
Mu Qing is one of the few people who can place his hands on the prince, and only because he's already had to do so for medical purposes. Hua Cheng has never said it wasn't allowed, but—
They all know .
"Besides," his hands squeeze under Mu Qing's knees. "My hands are full."
Mu Qing's teeth dig into his lip sharply enough to draw pain—and Feng Xin's tone turns to teasing sarcasm.
"Speaking of—lay off of the cakes already, you're gonna throw out my back."
It's an indirect way of expressing concern—because Mu Qing has lost so much weight lately.
Not intentionally. Most of it dropped from him after his Qi Deviation, a foreseeable side effect—and he's struggled with gaining it back.
Which isn't surprising, he had to fight to gain weight and muscle as a teenager. As a god, it came easier.
It would kick back in if he was sleeping and eating the way he should, and he knows that—
But the last two years have been so busy , recovering from the last war, dealing with new outbreaks of monsters and demons in the wake of Mount Tonglu, working on treatments for Xiao Feng
But physical appearance has little to do with his martial strength. If it did, someone slim figured like Xie Lian wouldn't be able to beat someone of Pei Ming's stature in wrestling without breaking a sweat.
And since it wasn't affecting his performance—he let it slide.
Feng Xin knows better than the browbeat him over it now, after trying and failing to force him to sit down for proper meals too many times.
But he can get away with needling, and seeing that adaptation to his behaviors makes Mu Qing feel...
Oddly...perceived.
He presses his face into the side of Feng Xin's throat, arms tightening where they dangle around his neck.
"Shut up," he mumbles, mildly muffled, but...
He also presses a kiss there. So soft and discrete, it might be easy to miss.
But not for Feng Xin, who has spent the last eight centuries fixating on every brush of contact between them, caught between conflicting emotions and sometimes overwhelming want—
And Mu Qing has never done something like that before.
He's kissed him—but never so passively or softly, with only the intention of showing affection.
It's enough to make the man grow quiet once more, holding his knees a hair tighter as he climbs the steps to their palace, the doors opening wide for them.
"Need a bath?"
"Already took one," Mu Qing mumbles, not lifting his face from Feng Xin's throat—but he can sense his disappointment.
These days, they nearly always take their baths together. One of the few acts of intimacy that comes easily to Mu Qing.
It felt daunting, the first time they did it—sitting as stiff as a board when he felt Feng Xin's chest against his back, but—
But nothing ever happened.
Just like he promised—and he's kept his word every time since.
Winning trust over and over.
"...I might want another one in the morning," he adds, it would be reasonable enough to take one after falling asleep on the ground like that. "Too tired right now."
Feng Xin nods in acknowledgement, carrying him up the steps, towards their residential wing.
"Is A'Qiao already asleep?"
Feng Xin sets him down on the edge of the bed, stepping back to fidget with the straps of his armor. "Yeah. I have two deputies on duty with him tonight. Told them not to bother me unless it was an emergency. Does that make me a bad parent—?"
Mu Qing bats his hands away, reaching over to unbuckle his armor himself, fingers moving quickly and efficiently across the straps.
It might look simple to take on and off, but armor like that typically requires the help of a deputy or servant.
Mu Qing has always handled his own armor by himself—a habit from his days as a mortal cultivator.
Mei Nianqing never appointed anyone to assist him with that sort of thing. It would have been beyond the pale to assign someone to a servant.
But now, he likes helping Feng Xin strip his pauldrons and vambraces at the end of a day. Watching the way his partner relaxes as each piece is set aside.
"No," he murmurs, leaning back. "You're tired."
Feng Xin stares at him, mildly exasperated.
" You're tired," he points out, not defensively, but because it's true. Mu Qing is fucking exhausted—
His knee sinks into the mattress, only to be stopped by a foot pressed firmly against his chest.
Eyes fixed on the shape of Mu Qing’s calf; his robes having slipped down enough from the angle to expose the skin of his legs—
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing!” He responds immediately, like a child caught stealing sweets—eyes snapping up to meet Mu Qing’s.
It takes him another moment to remember that he wasn’t doing anything inappropriate, and that’s when he clears his throat.
“I mean—I’m getting in my own damn bed! What are you doing?!”
“No, you’re not.”
“Hah—?!”
“You haven’t washed up!” Mu Qing glares.
“You’re not getting sweat and dirt and god knows what else in my bed—”
“Just how dirty do you think I am?!”
“Dirty enough!”
“But you just said we were taking a bath in the morning!”
“Because I already took one tonight!”
They glare at one another—both knowing that Mu Qing has a limited number of places where he feels secure, that their bed is one of them, and Feng Xin won’t force his way in against his wishes.
But he also hates sleeping away from him, having gotten back in the habit.
“…” Grumbling and swearing under his breath, he loses their staring contest. Standing back up, and skulking towards the door that leads to the baths.
He’s infuriated, but Mu Qing sits up and watches him go.
An almost imperceptible smile on his face.
He might be too tired to take a second bath himself—but he’d have to be half dead not to change into his night clothes. Unfastening the pins from his hair, carefully brushing out every tangle until it shines, falling smoothly down his back.
By the time he’s finished, Feng Xin returns. His own hair is damp, barely even combed, pulled back up and away from his neck.
Bare chested as he drops back into bed beside him with an undignified, pointedly annoyed grunt.
“Don’t be such a baby,” Mu Qing rolls his eyes. “You’d think I asked you to—!”
He’s cut off with a small yelp as arms wrap around his middle, yanking him over until he’s pulled against Feng Xin’s chest, the man completely wrapped around him.
It really shouldn’t be a surprise—he does this every single night—but his tendencies to manhandle are always so abrupt and forceful, Mu Qing is never entirely prepared.
Still…he doesn’t mind.
“…Your hair is going to be a rat’s nest in the morning,” he mumbles.
"You already said we were gonna take another bath in the morning," Feng Xin points out, burying his face deeper into Mu Qing's hair, not satisfied until his nose is pressed against the nape of his neck, making the silver haired man shiver. "I'll fix it then."
Another decent point made within the hour. He might just be breaking a record.
"...Fine," he mutters, fumbling around for a pillow, pulling it against his chest—his cheek resting against Feng Xin's bicep.
You'd think he'd be uncomfortable, twisted around him like this.
Mu Qing can only sleep when he's positioned just so , unless he's so exhausted that it's ceased to matter. Feng Xin compensates for that fact by tangling himself around whatever position the general happens to get comfortable in first.
At first, Mu Qing mistook that for stubbornness. That Feng Xin was damned and determined that he was going to hold him, no matter how difficult Mu Qing decided to be about it.
But it isn't that.
He'll hold him all night, and when he wakes up in the morning, too.
Feng Xin expresses himself often, clumsily—but earnestly. Makes graceless attempts at showing that he cares—and Mu Qing rarely believes it, no matter how badly he wants to. Even if in his mind, he knows it's true.
But he believes it here, when they're like this.
Because no one has ever held him this way.
He feels it when sleep comes for him again, claws sinking deep as it stubbornly pulls his mind back to slumber.
And this time, it isn't fitful. No nightmares or dreams that move too quickly.
It's peaceful and still.
And when he wakes up to rays of sun coming in through the window—
He immediately knows that something is off, because he isn't tired.
Not nearly as tired as he should be.
Mu Qing lifts his head, feeling an annoyed grunt against the side of his neck.
"...How late is it?"
Feng Xin mumbles something un-intelligible pulling him back down.
"Feng Xin..." he frowns, peering towards the window—finally starting to notice that the sun has risen well over the horizon. "Did...you stop one of my deputies from waking me up?"
They're always quiet. They never wake Feng Xin, the only thing that does disturb him is Mu Qing untangling himself every morning at sunrise. But he's quiet. He lets Feng Xin sleep as long as he wants to, unless they're working together that day.
"I sealed the doors."
It takes Mu Qing a moment to process that, his eyes slowly widening with indignation.
"...You did what?!"
And he must have lost his mind, because he doesn't even apologize, arms tightening around Mu Qing's ribs.
"I. Sealed. The. Doors."
"What the fuck?!" He wanted him to explain it, not repeat it like he was prepared to make his last stand or something! "The morning's already halfway gone! I'm probably already behind—” He hisses, wriggling and wrenching his way free.
"—You're not—”
"—people are going to be wondering where I am—!”
"They're not."
"—you could have just gone back to sleep after I left , dammit! And what about Feng Qiao?! He's probably hungry and he needs a—!"
Thud!
Mu Qing finally stops talking or trying to escape—only because he's been flipped over onto his back, with his wrists held down against the mattress.
Golden eyes glaring down at him fiercely.
"First of all, you little psycho —I did something you're too damn stubborn to ever do, and I fucking delegated your paperwork to your deputies, which is their actual job! You'd think after eight hundred years, you'd be used to people working for you!"
Mu Qing opens his mouth—but Feng Xin isn’t finished.
“Second—you don’t have any other work relating to your martial duties, because we’re in charge of the same damn territory, and my deputies haven’t reported a problem!”
He closes his mouth again, eyes wide.
“Feng Qiao is fine , I told you last night I had assigned people to look after him—because you needed to fucking sleep!” He glares.
“I’m a grown man, I take care of mysel—!”
He squirms, and Feng Xin pins him again.
“You’re delusional! You’ve barely slept in a week—that isn’t taking care of anyone! I don’t care if I have to lock you in this room for the rest of the fucking week—you are going to REST!”
There really shouldn’t be anything endearing about this.
There shouldn’t .
Being pinned down and scolded like a child, with Feng Xin snarling in his face.
That should piss him off. It should infuriate him. It always has before.
And yet…
He’s staring up at him, eyes blown wide, lips parted in an expression Feng Xin doesn’t know what to make of.
Half expecting Mu Qing to start screaming at him again—or try to bite him, but—
But he doesn’t.
He cranes his neck, lifting his head just far enough to crush their lips together. A bruising touch, but one that Feng Xin chases after when he sinks back down.
Hands loosening around Mu Qing’s wrists, half expecting to be pushed away, or for this all to have been a distraction tactic to get Feng Xin to let him go, but—
Instead, Mu Qing’s arms slide around him, pulling him close. Lips fierce against his, stealing his breath.
They used to be so clumsy about this. Part of Mu Qing almost thinks Xie Lian is better off for having never had a relationship like this as a teenager.
He remembers how their teeth used to clack together—how he always forgot to close his eyes or breathe .
Once to a mortifying degree, nearly fainting in Feng Xin's grip—leaving the older teenager to panic, shaking his shoulders as he tried to make sure no one found them like that—
But they've come far.
The benefit of kissing one person for so long, is they know exactly what you like.
Feng Xin knows how Mu Qing loves it when he grips his jaw, controlling the angle and depth of the kiss.
Mu Qing knows that, if he slides his fingers into Feng Xin's hair, nails scraping at his scalp—the general will shiver and groan.
A sound that turns irritated as his teeth scrape over Mu Qing's bottom lip, sucking until it throbs.
They part for a moment, breathing hard—and Mu Qing's brow furrows.
"What? I stopped complaining—”
"You still taste so good," Feng Xin mutters, his tone distinctly annoyed as he obliviously sends his lover into orbit. "Who tastes that good right after they wake up?"
Mu Qing chokes, the words caught in his throat.
The answer is mint leaves. He tends to chew them while he's working, easing the sharpness of the smell of blood and sterile air—and the taste lingers for quite some time.
He doesn't often think about it in this context, or the fact that Feng Xin would notice enough to care, but—
'You still taste the same.'
Feng Xin has this maddening tendency to say things that Mu Qing holds onto for centuries at a time.
Replaying the words over and over in his head, picking apart every single syllable.
Sometimes, it's because he said something unintentionally cruel. Others—
Others, it's like this.
The kind of words that leave him drowning in hot water, frantic under a wave of sudden heat.
The sound that leaves his throat as he pulls Feng Xin back in makes the general's eyes grow wide, then slide shut again.
Sinking into the taste of him, the feeling of cold hands and sharp nails against his shoulders. The sounds he makes, the way he breathes .
Knowing that one of two things will happen before long.
He might get pushed away with an apologetic stare, even though Feng Xin would never be angry with him, or—
Legs squeeze around his hips, twisting until they're flipped over.
Or, this happens.
He ends up flat on his back, Mu Qing's weight settling over his hips—palms splayed across the bare skin of his chest, digging in.
And it's hard .
Because he knows when he opens his eyes, he'll see a halo silver hair, shrouding him like starlight.
He'll see impossibly dark eyes that always have a gravity to them, dragging him in.
And he'll—
Feng Xin cracks one eyelid open, and immediately regrets it.
Of course, he's biting his lip, his robes slipping slightly to the side, exposing one bare shoulder.
It’s so hard .
Hard to lay still, hard not to grab him by the waist and squeeze too tightly. Hard to do nothing more than grit his teeth and groan when hands squeeze the muzzles of his chest, digging in.
"Can I..." Feng Xin swallows dryly, eyes fixed on his collarbone. "Can I touch you, this time?"
Dark eyes snap down to meet his, contemplating just long enough to make his heart lurch—
"No."
And as strange as it might sound—Feng Xin loves how easily and firmly Mu Qing denies him.
After he knew what happened—his greatest concern was always pushing Mu Qing further than what he was ready for, of his lover only going along with him out of a desire to please him.
But Mu Qing never worries about pleasing him—and the only one who pushes him is himself.
As a result—their relationship (physically speaking) has grown to be distinctly lopsided, even if that's how Mu Qing wants it.
They do this often enough—but Feng Xin has never had the chance to touch him. Not like that .
There are certain places where he is not allowed to put his hands—and he's never forgotten that, keeping them balled into fists against the surface of their bed, his breaths shallow and tense as Mu Qing sinks down, lips brushing over layers of hardened muscle.
Working his way downwards, until he slips down between Feng Xin's knees, halfway disappearing underneath the covers, robes slipping down just so over both shoulders, hair falling loosely all around him.
Hands perfectly steady as they tug at the silk ties near Feng Xin's hip.
The first time Mu Qing did this, Feng Xin, as usual, did not see it coming.
They were in the middle of an argument over something completely forgettable. Something to do with Xie Lian—as usual.
And Feng Xin doesn’t even remember exactly what he said.
All he knows is—whatever words left his mouth—they sent Mu Qing flying at him, shoving him against a wall, unceremoniously dropping to his knees in front of him.
The sight was so shocking, so satisfying —Feng Xin nearly finished on the spot.
Like everything else, he’s become more graceful with practice. Pulling his robes down from his waist, freeing him from his confines.
It’s gone so fast, he’s only half aroused—but all it takes are long, elegant fingers wrapping around his cock to change that.
Feng Xin hisses, his head sinking back against the pillows.
“Your hands are so fucking cold,” he mutters—rocking his hips into his hand nonetheless.
Mu Qing stares up at him with that wide, ever intense gaze, eyes slowly sliding down his body.
Unfortunately for him (or fortunately, depending on who you ask)—the typo in Feng Xin’s temples is rather apt.
As a medicinal god, Mu Qing has seen more naked men than he would ever want to—and he’s not come across one bigger.
It scared him half to death, feeling it pressed against his back the first time they bathed together. They had changed in front of each other before, but they never looked, and they never touched .
And with so many years of unbroken tension—
Obviously, Feng Xin was affected by it. And the minute Mu Qing noticed that...
He feels so stupid, so shitty about it now—but he couldn't help but think he was going to do something about it.
He didn't think it mattered that he didn't want to, or that he would be frightened—because that had never mattered before .
But Feng Xin never did anything. Never spoke a word about it. He's never been frustrated or angry when Mu Qing tells him to stop.
Because that's who he is. That's who he had always been—and the moment Mu Qing remembered that, he felt so fucking guilty for doubting it.
Since then, knowing that Feng Xin won't touch him unless Mu Qing lets him, that they can stop whenever he wants...
It means this feels less like jumping from a cliff, and more like slowly easing his way into the water.
His free hand pushes his hair behind his ears, eyes glancing back up to meet Feng Xin's once more.
"...If you make me choke, I'll fucking bite you."
He says that like Feng Xin has ever made that happen, when it's always been Mu Qing who—
Then, his lips part, beginning the slow, methodical process of swallowing him down, and Feng Xin enters a quiet hell of his lover's making.
Not because it isn't good—because it's too good. Mu Qing doesn't do this halfway, or reluctantly—
It feels like he's sucking the soul right out of him, and all Feng Xin can do is try his damnedest to stay still and not die .
Because if he does accidentally jerk or push his cock just a little further down Mu Qing's throat than what he would like—he might actually bite it off.
And he hates that knowing that makes it just a little more exciting, a strained moan falling from his lips.
He wasn't always so good at it—the first time they did this, it was wet, messy, and faltering, with Mu Qing pulling off every time Feng Xin started to get close. Not to torment him—but to catch his breath.
Now, his cheeks hollow out around him, lips dragging up and down in a relentless rhythm, insistently swallowing more and more of him down, dropping his jaw to accommodate the girth of it, eyes sliding shut.
Feng Xin didn't sequester him this morning with the hopes of some kind of reward. He certainly didn't pin Mu Qing down and yell at him thinking it would end up like this , but—
It's hard to predict when exactly Mu Qing is going to touch him.
There’s never any rhyme or reason to it. If there was a way to tell, Feng Xin would have figured it out by now—
But damn , if it isn’t better every time. The muscles in his legs are trembling from the effort it takes to stay still. And it’s worse when he opens his eyes.
When he looks, and he sees Mu Qing swallowing him down, cheeks flushed, eyes half lidded. Hair slipping into his face, and—
Without thinking, Feng Xin reaches out, tucking it back behind his ear in a careful, lingering touch.
One that prompts Mu Qing to meet his gaze.
Feng Xin’s fingers freeze behind his ear.
It’s not that he can’t touch him at all—he can kiss him, his hands can wander. But when they’re like this—there’s the unspoken expectation that he keeps them to himself. He half expects Mu Qing to slap him away, but—
Instead, he lifts one hand from where it was resting against Feng Xin’s stomach—grasping his, and—
He places Feng Xin’s hand against the back of his head, allowing his fingers to intertwine in his hair.
The general’s heart lurches as he wrenches his gaze away.
“Fuck…”
His fingers squeeze tightly, the muscles in his torso taught as his heels dig into the mattress.
And he knows that he isn’t going to last. Couldn’t be expected to, not with Mu Qing’s mouth working him so aggressively. Looking at him like that. Feeling his hair under his hands.
Feng Xin has learned the hard way that he has to give him ample warning, that if he cuts it too close, the outcome can be somewhat disastrous—
“I’m close,” he gasps, knuckles white, heels digging into the bed. “ Fuck , I’m—”
But Mu Qing is sluggish to respond, and Feng Xin can feel himself pulsing in his throat, his stomach tightening as his climax starts to rush toward him, and—
In a moment of blind rush, his fingers tighten in Mu Qing’s hair, yanking as he pulls him off and to the side.
Just in time, groaning and panting as his body tenses, eyes rolling back into his head as the pleasure washes over him in waves.
A sluggish haze overtakes him for a moment—the way that it always does.
Using a discarded robe from the day before to wipe off his stomach—something that Mu Qing would normally grumble about, calling it filthy, but—
He’s quiet.
When he looks down, he finds Mu Qing wiping his chin with the back of his head—lips shining and swollen, eyes unfocused.
It feels sort of like floating, buzzing filling his ears. Not in a bad way—just quiet and easy.
Scalp tingling and warm, where fingers yanked at him.
Which is why he’s confused when he hears Feng Xin swear under his breath, grabbing him by the shoulders, pulling him back up.
And in an instant, he’s back to being held against his lover’s chest, fingers grasping under his chin, tilting Mu Qing’s face up to examine his expression.
“Did I hurt you?”
That’s what he asks, but that isn’t what he means. Paraphrasing his concern to skirt Mu Qing’s pride.
What he means is Did I scare you.
Mu Qing can shatter stone with his bare hands. Wields sabers others can scarcely lift. In the Battle of the Heavens, he was the only one besides Hua Cheng to harm Jun Wu.
He isn’t fragile—but he does get scared.
So, so scared.
“…No,” he rasps, voice fractured and hoarse from his attentions, still slightly disoriented.
He always feels that way, when they do this—a pleasant kind of distance between his mind and body. Not so painfully aware of himself.
Feng Xin nods, hugging him close, fingers tangled in Mu Qing’s hair, one arm tight around his back.
He already asked if he could touch Mu Qing before, and his partner said no. He doesn’t ask again.
He thinks it might feel too real if Feng Xin touched him too. Too present.
But it’s good enough like this. Cheek resting against Feng Xin’s chest, listening as his heartbeat evens out.
Did I scare you?
No one’s ever bothered to ask Mu Qing that before—and he loves Feng Xin for it.
And he’s also deeply ashamed that he needs to.
Logically speaking, he was always aware of the fact that adjusting to the changes in his life would take time.
Having Xie Lian back in his life. Helping Feng Xin raise his son. But those things feel natural. Doable.
The change in his relationship with Feng Xin feels daunting.
Not sharing a bedroom—that’s easier than sleeping alone. Not spending every day with him—because that’s easier than being pent up and irritated after too much time apart.
It’s what happens behind closed doors—and often the lack of it—that seems so vexing.
Not because Feng Xin expects anything—just the opposite.
Because now, he knows .
Mu Qing doesn’t know how much he would have told him if it hadn’t come up on its own. Part of him wishes that it never did.
Maybe it wouldn’t have if—only a few months after they moved into their new palace—Mu Qing hadn’t realized that the notes he needed for the next morning had been left in the library.
A logical place to store it—and the one room in this place Mu Qing has refused to enter.
But he needed it. Everyone had gone home, and Feng Xin wasn’t back yet, so—
So, Mu Qing tried to go and get it himself, thinking it would be fine. He’s been in other libraries before, but—
None that were styled the way they were back in Xianle.
By the time Feng Xin did return—Mu Qing had locked himself in. Sitting back against the door, unable to catch his breath, incoherent from the tears.
Refusing to unlock the door. To get up from the floor.
To think , and it was only when Feng Xin threatened to kick the door down in a panic that Mu Qing admitted it.
A conversation had between sobs and hyperventilation through a locked door—but Feng Xin knows now.
In some ways, that’s good.
He understands—and he doesn’t push.
In other ways, it’s not as good.
Because he understands—and he doesn’t push. Saying things like he’s fine if they never have that kind of relationship. That there’s no hurry.
Mu Qing appreciated that as much as he hates it—and it’s all so slow .
He's never been a patient person. He isn't good at smiling and letting his mind wander like Xie Lian. He can't be like Blackwater and hide his impatience behind boredom and feigned disinterest.
Mu Qing grows sharper when he wears thin.
Can't sand himself down into someone less complicated or frustrating.
Normally, he could pass this frustration off onto Feng Xin—because he does everything slowly. He chews over every thought and decision like a dog with a bone.
But Feng Xin isn't the problem.
It's him .
For a time, just the fact that Mu Qing had learned to stomach—and even enjoy—touching Feng Xin seemed like enough of an accomplishment for the time being. Even if he never allowed him to reciprocate, even if it never went further than that—
It was some form of progress.