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No one really knows exactly how it began—or, if they do, they’ve smartly kept their mouths shut for the sake of the perpetrator’s life. It came completely out of nowhere, too. There was no great build-up, no little hints, not a single indicator to what could be happening down on the grass below. In fact, it was so abrupt, that when Mu Qing received the first prayer, he thought maybe the poor soul had just gone to the wrong temple somehow.
So, he ignored it.
Sure, it was a little irritating to be suddenly hit with a prayer that was very evidently not for him, but he’s dealt with worse, and the mortal woman had been weeping with no end in sight. So, he put it out of mind.
Then it happened again, though. And again, and again, and again, and again—
Eventually, it got to be too much to just be a simple mistake.
That was how Mu Qing discovered, at long last, what had been happening in temples supposedly for him in the mortal realm.
“Th-that’s—this is—that is not—how dare—! That’s not me!”
Feng Xin will swear until his never-to-come final breath he’s never seen Mu Qing’s face so red before. In fact, he wasn’t even sure the shade had existed before now.
“Yeah, they were way too generous with your figure,” he snorts, unable to stop himself from adding fuel to the fire.
It was definitely the wrong thing to say—not that he didn’t know that already, but still. There’s a small, strangled noise from in front of him before Mu Qing abruptly whips around, turning his back on the offending statue, with blazing eyes.
“You really wanna go there right now, Ju Yang?” he snarls.
Feng Xin holds up his hands. He can’t mask the smirk on his lips, though, and Mu Qing’s nostrils flare with righteous fury before he whirls back around. Honestly, neither of them are even really sure why Feng Xin’s there. Mu Qing intended on coming to see what was happening at his temples to explain the sudden influx of women, particularly distressed women, and next thing he knew Feng Xin was at his side asking where they were going.
“Don’t you have your own temples to check on?” Mu Qing asks, voice sharp, ignoring the prickling of humiliation warming his skin at the idea of Feng Xin looking so closely at the proportions of his new statue. At the idea of Feng Xin seeing him like that at all. The gentle smile carved into his statue’s face almost seems to mock him more the longer he stares at it. Something sharp and defensive curls in his chest. “Get out of here!”
“And miss this?” Feng Xin retorts, stepping up to stand right beside Mu Qing. “No way.”
The defensiveness only grows, threatening to lash out at the amused tone of his rival’s voice. Grinding his teeth, Mu Qing turns and shoves Feng Xin back, earning a sharp, surprised noise as he stumbles.
“Get out!” he snaps. The idea of Feng Xin seeing this—seeing something so—the thought of him seeing Mu Qing like that and…and laughing at him. The defensiveness in his chest curls into something worse, something pained, something suffocating. His throat tightens, a feeling he ignores as he shoves a startled Feng Xin back again towards the exit. “I thought you were scared of women! Why not now?! Get out! Get the fuck out!”
Behind him, the statue—the female statue—still smiles, soft and warm and mocking him, as he loses control of himself in his embarrassment. His face is burning, his fingers might be trembling, but he can barely tell. Feng Xin doesn’t move, eyes wide as he watches Mu Qing shout and shove at him with a heaving chest and desperate voice.
“Wait—wait—wait, I’ll stop—I’ll stop, I didn’t—” Feng Xin scrambles, fumbling over his words when he finally realizes he should say something.
Mu Qing doesn’t listen, still pushing him back more and more. Feng Xin grits his teeth, frustration bubbling up in his chest, and snaps. His hands surge out and snatch Mu Qing’s wrists, holding his arms in place, tight, between them. “Dammit, Mu Qing, wait!”
Finally, finally, Mu Qing stops. Chest still heaving, breaths coming heavy, his hands tremble just barely where they’re held between the two gods. Feng Xin takes a slow, deep breath, and exhales on a sigh. The silence that’s fallen over them is suddenly suffocating. A feather could fall to the floor and its impact would be deafening.
Feng Xin’s confidence falters.
“I didn’t…” he pauses, floundering for a few seconds. In the end, he settles with a small, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Mu Qing holds his mouth shut tight, lips pressed firmly together.
You never do, sits on his tongue heavy and loaded, but he doesn’t let the words fall between them. Instead, he averts his eyes and rips his wrists out of Feng Xin’s hands.
Feng Xin stares at him for a moment longer, then sighs again. He walks past Mu Qing, letting their shoulders brush, and stops just in front of the statue centered in the newly constructed temple. Mu Qing doesn’t move, doesn’t even turn around. His wrists still burn where Feng Xin had held him.
“It’s a nice statue,” Feng Xin comments absently, jerking Mu Qing back to the present. He spins around with anger flaring, ready for a fight, but… There is no teasing in Feng Xin’s tone, nothing but simple sincerity. The fire in Mu Qing’s eyes flickers out as he watches Feng Xin approach the statue. “Really, whoever made this really…”
When he trails off, Mu Qing finds himself holding his breath for the rest of the sentence. Feng Xin, however, doesn’t indulge him. He never does. Mu Qing takes a breath and lets himself look at the statue a little more objectively now that he’s gotten a bit of his embarrassment out of his system.
It…really is a nice statue—objectively.
The face is softer, but not enough to cut out his features completely, and even if he doesn’t like it, Mu Qing can’t deny that it is undoubtedly him.
Her hair is pulled back, and the robes she wears—while obviously carved to appear a bit more feminine—are the same as he wears, albeit with much lighter armor. She is posed with her head held high and proud, one hand resting upon the hilt of the sword carved at her waist with the other gripping the top of the sheath, as if ready to draw the sword from the scabbard at moment’s notice.
Yet, despite this battle-ready stance, her lips are drawn up at the edges into the faintest smile and her eyes are carved with careful precision and care to stare down.
So, yes, it is an objectively nice statue—lovely, really. Excellently carved.
However, Mu Qing cannot get past one glaring issue.
It is him.
“I’ve been around for how long, now?” Mu Qing grumbles, glaring at the objectively beautiful statue. “How long? And they—I’m a man! They know I’m a man! So why—?!”
“Who could ever understand the minds of mortals?” Feng Xin mutters in response, coming back around to stand beside him again. He crosses his arms over his chest, bemused look on his face as he stares up at the graceful woman in front of them. “At least they spelled your title right.”
Mu Qing scoffs but says nothing more. A deep frown wrinkles his brow as he stares. A heavy silence falls between them, the tension in the air slowly dispersing the more time passes. The longer he thinks on it, the more confused he gets.
“It’s just—I don’t understand,” he sighs, breaking the silence. He keeps his voice low, as if uncertain he really wants Feng Xin to hear him. “Why now? Why this? It doesn’t make any sense… I’m well established! I’ve got a reputation! I’m not—I’m not some new up and coming god, I’ve made a good name for myself, they know who I am—”
“Seriously, Mu Qing, don’t work yourself up over it,” Feng Xin tells him. “Who knows what made them do it? Is it really that big of a problem? Does it really bother you that much?”
Mu Qing falters.
Sure, it was more than a little distressing to descend to his newest, empty temple and find a statue of himself as a woman centering the building, but…does it? Does it bother him that much? Shi Qingxuan had a female form—still does, he reminds himself, still unused to the Wind Master’s re-entry of the Heavens. Ling Wen has a male form, as well, however rarely used it may be.
It’s not uncommon, really, for a god to be worshipped as a different gender than they originally presented as, and it’s not uncommon for them to lean into it, either. They could be rather flexible in that sense.
He just never thought…
He just never thought he would be one of those gods.
Then, though, he thinks of those prayers slipping through the rest. Thinks of the women must have knelt at this very statue, tears in their eyes, praying for someone to guide them, to save them, to bless them, to advise them, to protect them…
He swallows hard, something tight squeezing in his chest, and clenches his jaw. Dammit.
“Whatever,” he grumbles, “let’s go.”
Then, without waiting for Feng Xin, Mu Qing turns on his heel and storms out of the temple.
***
It’s actually quite easy to go on like nothing happened. Mu Qing listens to his new prayers, watches as more statues of his feminine counterpart pop up in his temples to be worshipped alongside him, listens carefully for any unsavory rumors…
Really, before he even knows it, he’s got quite the following of women seeking asylum and guidance at his temples, praying to this woman-form of himself.
It’s almost a month later, in the middle of a meeting, when he notices something different within him. Pei Ming is rambling on about some baby in a temple, hands to his temples as if to physically display his stress, and the rest of the Heavenly Official’s attending all seem ready for the meeting to be over. It’s not like anyone will notice if he’s not really paying attention.
So, he focuses on power thrumming inside of him—different from his usual energy, new and surprisingly strong. Brows furrowed, he prods at it, unaware of the way Pei Ming’s voice tapers out with a weak cough. In fact, it’s not until he notices the unusual silence that’s fallen over the room that Mu Qing even realizes something is wrong.
He looks up from the table with a frown, startling when he sees all eyes locked onto him—wide and stunned. Shifting slightly, Mu Qing’s frown deepens, uncomfortable with all the stares pinning him to his seat.
“What? What are you—” Mu Qing freezes mid-snappy-sentence, the words dying in his throat as his voice reaches his ears. What—what the fuck?! Mu Qing’s hands surge to his throat, his own eyes wide now, and his lips parted in silent distress.
That was not his voice.
Well, that isn’t completely right because it is—it’s got the same cadence and tone he always has, but it’s—it’s not—his voice isn’t that feminine. It’s not high, per se, but it’s certainly moreso than his voice!
“Who would’ve thought,” Pei Ming whistles, the first to break the silence, eyes wide as he stares. “General Xuan Zhen, why didn’t you tell us you’ve got such a nice form!”
A strangled noise pulls from his throat—one that sounds much too similar to a whine for his comfort—and Mu Qing abruptly shoves himself to his feet, fast enough to make the world briefly spin around him.
“I didn’t—I don’t—” he snaps his mouth shut, humiliation welling up inside him and tightening in his throat.
“Shut the fuck up, Pei Ming,” a sharp voice cuts in, biting and frozen. Feng Xin, Mu Qing realizes with a start, turning to look at him with wide eyes. Feng Xin isn’t looking at him, though. Instead, he’s looking across the long table they’d convened at to where Xie Lian sits, still caught in his shock. “Your Highness, we’ve covered everything necessary, haven’t we?”
Something complicated twists and knots itself in Mu Qing’s chest at the realization Feng Xin is trying to help him.
At Feng Xin’s words Xie Lian snaps back to the present and he nods rapidly.
“Yes, yes, I believe—ah, Ling Wen will brief you all on anything we’ve missed—” he winces just barely at the soft sigh from the god in question a few seats away, “—but everything of import has been covered. How about we call it to an early close?”
Mu Qing wants to sag in relief, not missing the way His Highness’s eyes soften as they catch his own or the faint, reassuring smile that flickers at his mouth. Their relationship had improved by leaps and bounds since The Incident, and it’s always nice to have subtle reminders of it. Mu Qing allows himself a short nod in response, to which His Highness smiles truly back to, so much so that his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Just when it’s starting to get interesting,” Pei Ming sighs.
His mouth smartly shuts tight, however, when the grin on Xie Lian’s face takes a sharper turn and a single eyebrow raises upon turning to face him, as if daring him to continue.
“Alright, well, in that case—I have a husband to get back to,” His Highness declares, clapping his hands together. He’s gotten much more confident these days about his relationship with that Ghost King of his, and as much as Mu Qing can’t say he adores his choice of partner…it’s nice to see the prince he used to serve with that light in his eyes again.
A few gods groan under their breaths at the reminder of Crimson Rain and his relation to the Heavens, but with the meeting dismissed, Mu Qing wastes no time. He gives one more nod to His Highness, who smiles back and makes a short shooing motion with his hands. It’s all he needs to slip back and out of the room of gods, keeping his head ducked and steps quick as he makes his way back to his palace.
It’s hard to avoid his deputies, but not impossible. It’s his own palace—it would be worse if he didn’t know their routes and schedules like the back of his hand. Quickly enough, he finds himself in his personal quarters.
Once he’s alone, he heaves out a breath and lets his posture sag.
He takes a minute to just stand there like that, letting himself process everything that just happened. It’s not that he didn’t know he’d gain a female form from all the worship he’s been getting at those particular statues—he did. Distantly, he was aware of it. He just…didn’t really consider it a problem, or anything that would actually interfere with his life!
It’s not like he expected that he’d manage to accidentally and unknowingly shift forms in the middle of a meeting!
How the fuck does that even happen?!
Really, he had no plans to ever take this form—he knew it would be there, but he never planned on donning it, let alone so publicly…
Mu Qing lets out another short sigh and scans his room for any sort of reflective surface to use as a mirror. When he finally finds something, he props it up and steps back to really look at himself.
He looks just like that statue…
Carefully removing his armor, Mu Qing lets his curiosity get the better of him in the privacy of his own chambers. Once he’s down to just a simple single layer of inner robes, he rolls his shoulders and looks back in his mirror. He twists and turns, lips pursed and brows knitted in a frown, examining his thinly-clothed new body.
It’s not terribly different from his usual body, but this one is definitely much…softer. His hips are wider and his chest—ah, Mu Qing feels a light warmth spread over his face as his eyes fall upon the fabric stretched over the unfamiliar breasts weighing upon his chest. What Feng Xin had joked about proportions a month ago had been…well, even through his robes he can tell they’re a decent handful, to say the least.
Flushing deeper, Mu Qing tears his eyes away from his chest and tries to focus on other things. He straightens up a bit, pushing back his shoulders and lifting his chin, to pose in the mirror. It is not an…unpleasant sight, he realizes with a few blinks.
Really, this form isn’t unappealing. He never spent much time imagining how he would look as a woman, but even if he had, he certainly never expected to look so—well.
The rush of confidence he gets staring down his own reflection is unexpected, but not unwelcome.
Unbidden, his eyes flit down once more, and he finds himself pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. It feels wrong to look, to acknowledge the new parts of him, but still, his eyes are drawn once again to them.
Mu Qing takes a deep breath and starts rationalizing.
The thing is…it is his body, isn’t it? So, it’s not like it’s wrong to want to know what it looks like, right? It’s not breaking any rules or acting in any way unsavory, it’s just simple curiosity. And really, he’s just looking. He wouldn’t do anything in this body that he wouldn’t do in his original body, and he’ll have to change clothes in this form sometime, so it’s better to know now rather than be surprised later.
Plus, it’s not like anyone will know.
This, embarrassingly, is the thought to finally spur him on.
Mu Qing glances briefly at his door. Right. Now is as good a time as any, right? Steeling himself, he shoots his deputies a quick message through the communication array not to bother him for the time being.
He waits another moment after relaying the message, just to be careful—absolutely not because he’s nervous. He’s not Feng Xin, he’s got absolutely no problem with women’s bodies! He’s just—he’s never really—why is he defending himself?! Mu Qing tugs the ties loose on his robes with a little more force than necessary.
The robes loosen and his breath catches. He tells himself again, one more time, that he’s not doing anything wrong—he’s just looking at his own body. Then, swallowing hard, he lets the thin fabric of his inner robes start to slip down his shoulders. His heart pounds in his chest, the very same chest his eyes are locked onto, pink staining his face.
His robes get about halfway down his shoulders, the curve of his breasts just starting to come into sight, when the door to his chambers slams open and the last person that he would ever want to catch him like this bursts into the room.
“Mu Qing!” Feng Xin shouts, eyes wide as he looks around the room. “Are you al—”
The word dies out with a small squeak when Feng Xin’s eyes finally land on the scene in front of him. Mu Qing’s arms instinctively scramble to cross over his half-exposed chest, rustling and wrinkling his robes in the process.
“What are you doing?!” he exclaims, ignoring the pitch his voice has risen to.
Feng Xin just gapes. Like a fool.
“I—I didn’t—you—what are you—” he inhales sharply, his eyes going wider than before, visibly stunned. “Mu Qing, were you—”
Mu Qing’s face flares with color.
“Get out!”
“But what about your cultivation?” Feng Xin asks, not getting out.
It takes Mu Qing a second to get what he’s implying. When he does, however, his hands fumble where they’re pulling his robes back up and the flush on his face burns at double the heat.
“That is not what is happening here!” he shouts, “what the fuck is wrong with you?!”
“What was I supposed to think?!” Feng Xin snaps right back, voice breaking just barely four words in.
Mu Qing, too flustered by the entire encounter, barely even notices. He ties his robes closed tightly, tighter than they’d originally been. Of all the times he could have walked in—of all the things he could have seen. He doesn’t want to cry, but he doesn’t not want to cry.
“Not that I was touching myself!”
Mu Qing ignores how much warmer the heat on his face burns at his own words, ignores how un-intimidating he must be now, ignores how much his glare must look instead like a pout. And, oh Heavens, he certainly ignores the way Feng Xin absolutely refuses to look anywhere below his chin. Mu Qing swallows thickly, arms crossed over his chest.
“And what if I was, anyway?” he continues, the words falling from his tongue before he can even think about what he’s saying. He sees more than hears Feng Xin inhale sharply—watches the sudden jump in his chest and the way his eyes flicker wider just for an instant. It spurs him on more than it should, arms still tight around his body. “What if I was touching myself? Am I not allowed to? Is it any of your business?”
“I—what?! No—I just—I thought—fuck, Mu Qing,” Feng Xin swears. “Were you really…?”
Mu Qing grits his teeth. “No, you idiot! I was not! Have all those prayers finally gone to your head? Have they finally deluded you so that’s all you can think of? Last I checked, General Nan Yang, I don’t usually have the body of a woman, so—since I obviously need to be pardoned—please forgive me for looking at my own body!”
His voice, albeit more feminine than either are used to, is filled with the same burning vitriol as whenever they fought. For some reason, though, Feng Xin isn’t immediately firing back in the same way. He hesitates, falters, wavers.
And Mu Qing gets a wicked thought.
A truly awful, filthy idea, the origins of which are unknown even to himself.
His lips curl up, flashing a devious grin, before they drop, and he cocks an eyebrow.
“It’s not wrong to look, Feng Xin,” he tells him, voice sharp and haughty and laced with a confidence he didn’t know he could have. Oh, shit, oh, fuck, what’s gotten into him? What is he doing? “Or are you just bitter that you can’t?”
He waits, head tilted, for Feng Xin to retort—for him to snap back. He waits for him to fire off some shitty insult and scatter, for him to deny Mu Qing’s words as if even the thought of letting the accusation go uncorrected disturbs him.
And he waits.
And waits.
And waits.
Feng Xin doesn’t deny it, though. In fact, he doesn’t say anything. He stands across the room, in front of thankfully shut doors, with his hands balled so tightly at his sides his knuckles whitened and his jaw clenched. And he just…stares. Eyes burning with—with something Mu Qing can’t put a name to, he just stares.
He doesn’t look away from Mu Qing’s face, but he doesn’t quite meet his eyes. The longer the silence draws out, the hotter the air around them grows. Mu Qing swallows hard and fuck—he watches as Feng Xin’s eyes flit down to his throat before snapping back up to his hairline, the tips of his ears the faintest shade of pink.
Mu Qing inhales sharply, and in the silence, it sounds like a scream.
“You…”
The words die on his tongue. It doesn’t matter, both already know what he was going to say. Feng Xin, finally, looks away. He turns his head, looking very intently at the floor beside Mu Qing instead of at him.
“I thought you were scared of women,” Mu Qing says weakly.
The reaction is almost immediate. Feng Xin scoffs, rolling his eyes in a way that Mu Qing knows was picked up from him, and looks back at him, and ah—there it is. That’s the Feng Xin he was used to.
“You’re not a woman, you’re Mu Qing,” Feng Xin tells him, very sure of himself. Mu Qing opens his mouth, ready to retort that his body was a woman’s right now, when Feng Xin continues with a softened voice. “I couldn’t be afraid of you…”
Mu Qing sucks in a breath.
Any other time he would have jumped on the words, taking them as provocation. Any other time he would have turned it into a fight. After all, he couldn’t be afraid of him? What’s that supposed to mean? Is Mu Qing not strong enough? Does he think he’s that much better than him there’s no reason to be afraid? A million of little needles would prick his skin as he reared back in a defensive attack.
The way Feng Xin said it, though, was much too soft. Too uncertain. It didn’t feel like a provocation, like a jab at him or his abilities, but an admission. A confession that was never meant to reach the light of day. And really, from the look in his eyes, Feng Xin was just as surprised as Mu Qing was by it.
This time, it’s Mu Qing who looks away.
The air around them shifts, the tension becoming something charged and dangerous. If he tells Feng Xin to leave, Mu Qing knows in his heart he would this time, and they would act like this never happened. They could go back to their normal bickering and fighting and dancing around each other and—fuck, that’s not what Mu Qing wants.
Granted, Mu Qing isn’t even really quite sure himself what he wants. He’s never…never allowed himself to think this far. Feng Xin enters his mind, and he shoves him out, scared of what his brain would conjure up in the image of the man who haunts him worse than a damn ghost.
He’s never let himself imagine this.
Oh, sure, once or twice, locked up in his room on rougher nights, he’s laid in bed and pretended the blankets around him were familiar arms, but that—that was between him and his subconscious. That doesn’t count. That was never something he would act on. Feng Xin and him…they don’t do that.
They don’t do this.
But now, Feng Xin is looking at him like that and he—he doesn’t want to push him away. He knows it’s crazy, knows it’s ridiculous, and maybe later he’ll blame it on the heat of the moment getting to his head, but damn, he’s tired of dancing.
Mu Qing steels himself and pulls at the ties of his robes with harsh, quick, only slightly fumbling motions. Feng Xin lets out a loud, strangled noise.
“Mu Qing?! What are you doing?” His hands twitch at his sides, as if caught between moving and staying. Mu Qing pauses, holding his robes closed and in place.
For the briefest moment, he asks himself the same thing. What is he doing? What the fuck is he doing??? Fucking undressing for Feng Xin?? Was his room a brothel now? Should he do a few turns and give him a good show? What is wrong with him?! But—he doesn’t stop. Mu Qing juts out his chin, with more confidence than he really has at the moment and glares.
“You wanted to look,” he sneers, “so look.”
His arms fall to his sides and the loosely held robes fall open. Shivers run down his spine at the feeling of thin fabric sliding down his shoulders and arms as he bares himself to Feng Xin in all the ways he never dared think he could.
“Oh, fuck!” Feng Xin yelps. “What are you doing?!”
His hands fly to his face, covering his eyes in a flash, and Mu Qing has to tamp down the bubble of annoyance that surges within him at the sight. He is baring himself in so many ways here! And Feng Xin’s first reaction is to cover his eyes?! Mu Qing’s fingers twitch at his sides, half tempted to pick up his robes and wrap them tightly back around his body.
“So, you won’t leave, but you won’t look, either?” Mu Qing asks, sardonic tone masking his own faint hurt.
“Did you hit your fucking head or something?” Feng Xin retorts, eyes still covered. “What’s gotten into you? This isn’t like you!”
He’s right, it isn’t like him. It isn’t like him, at all. Shit, Mu Qing has no idea what he’s doing.
Still, Mu Qing crosses his arms over his chest—or rather, under his chest, the action only serving to push his breasts up and together—with a stern frown on his face, right as Feng Xin peeks through the cracks between his fingers.
“If you’re not scared of me, why are you acting like I’m such a horrific sight?” Mu Qing presses forward, not backing down. “What? Is my body not good enough for the eyes of a Sex God?”
It’s getting chilly, the cool air of his room pricking at his skin and perking up parts of him he does not have the face to acknowledge even in his own mind. Ironic, really, considering he’s standing half-naked, with only pants covering his lower body, in front of his age-old rival. Still, the point is, he can’t wait forever for Feng Xin to make up his mind.
Honestly, if he takes any longer, it’s going to start getting embarrassing…
“God of Sex, Mu Qing, please, order matters,” Feng Xin croaks out. He still, still doesn’t look, though! He peeks through his damn fingers, like he’s fucking scared to look any closer, and that’s it! That’s it!
Oh, that is it.
“For a God of Sex, you’re such a prude!” Mu Qing finally snaps, mocking the title and ignoring the way his voice pitches up higher and higher, cracking on such.
It’s mortifying! He’s putting himself out there like this, and Feng Xin won’t even look at him properly! Worse yet, if he didn’t want to, he would just yell at Mu Qing and leave! So, he wants to, and he’s peeking, but he won’t just look!
“Oh, for the love of—”
Patience stretching thin, Mu Qing stomps forward and grabs Feng Xin’s wrists. He ignores the startled cry from the other general and wrenches his hands away from his face, his own face surely a vibrant shade of red that hasn’t even been discovered yet.
“Look at me, dammit!”
And he does. A strangled noise forcing its way out of his throat, Feng Xin looks.
There’s not much else he could do, really. Although, both of them know he could easily get himself out of Mu Qing’s hold…he doesn’t. Instead, he finally, finally, looks.
Mu Qing’s chest heaves with labored breaths, rising and falling at a quick and unsteady rate. Feng Xin watches, eyes wide and rapt with attention. Oh, gods, it’s somehow worse than when he wasn’t looking… Almost subconsciously, Mu Qing drops Feng Xin’s wrists and takes a step back.
Ridiculously, the longer Feng Xin stares, the more he finds himself growing self-conscious.
“Don’t—don’t just stare, say something, you idiot,” he orders, but it comes out weak and with not even half the bite it usually would have.
A beat passes, tense and awkward.
Then, almost too quiet to hear, Feng Xin mumbles, “soft…”
Mu Qing blinks.
“What?”
Eyes flitting up to Mu Qing’s face, then quickly away from him entirely, Feng Xin clears his throat. His lips part, as if about to speak, then close again. Mu Qing watches—waiting—confused, as Feng Xin steals one more glance at his breasts before turning his gaze upward.
“I said,” he pauses, clearing his throat once more. “They look…soft.”
“…”
Mu Qing does not thank every god in the Heavens he did not spontaneously combust in that moment, because then they would know something happened—however, it is a very near thing. Instead, he takes a deep breath to center himself and mulls over his next words for a minute or two.
“Do you…” he hesitates, biting his lip. At his sides, his hands clench tightly into fists before flexing open. Feng Xin looks over when he fails to finish his sentence and he can’t bring himself to meet his eyes. Then, at long last, he forces out a strained, “do you want to touch them?”
Feng Xin startles, looking at him with wider eyes than before. “What?”
“What, do your ears not work anymore?” Mu Qing snaps, face burning. He would not be saying it again! He can hardly believe he said it even once! What is wrong with him?!
“No—I—” Feng Xin cuts himself off abruptly, faltering. Then, swallowing hard, he asks, “…can I?”
Mu Qing looks away. A silent, tense few seconds pass, before he finally gives a short, jerking nod. He hears Feng Xin inhale sharply but refuses to look back. The mortification and shame creeping up in him wouldn’t be able to take it. This, of course, he realizes soon enough was a rather large oversight on his part, leaving him unable to ascertain just when Feng Xin will move.
A small yelp rings out when two firm, familiar hands, brush over Mu Qing’s skin. Horrifyingly enough, as the sound echoes in Mu Qing’s mind, both frozen still, he realizes the yelp came from him.
Oh, fuck, he’s never living this down.
Feng Xin clears his throat, smartly not commenting on the sound, and returns to his task.
The feeling of Feng Xin’s hands cupping his breasts is…well, it’s certainly not a bad feeling. He holds his breath, biting his lip, when Feng Xin gives one a gentle squish, and looks back in front of him.
Feng Xin doesn’t even seem to notice the attention returned to him.
His eyes are wide as he stares at the two mounds in his hands, lips parted, with the faintest flush upon his cheekbones. The sight makes a rush of something surge through Mu Qing’s spine. Pride, maybe? Smugness?
He’s not quite sure.
What he does know, however, is the look on Feng Xin’s face as he feels him up is borderline intoxicating.
Mu Qing tries not to squirm under the new sensations. Feng Xin isn’t rough, though, like maybe he would think him to be in the past. He keeps his touches light and gentle, but curious all the same. For a moment, Mu Qing almost forgets this isn’t Feng Xin’s first time seeing a woman’s body.
The bitter taste in his throat, however, upon remembering makes him wish he could forget.
Before he can think about what he’s doing, Mu Qing’s mouth is moving. “Well, are they as soft as they look?”
Feng Xin blinks. His hands, which had started to gently squish and squeeze Mu Qing’s breasts in a way that had him struggling very much not to melt into a puddle of goo in his grasp, stilled.
Then, after a few little experimental squeezes—one particularly firmer than the rest, making Mu Qing bite the inside of his cheek to keep from embarrassing himself—Feng Xin nods.
“Yeah,” he confirms. “Very…very soft.”
An awkward silence settles over them after the words. Neither move, but neither speak, either. Mu Qing tries very hard not to squirm where he stands, but the longer Feng Xin’s hands stay on the newest part of him, the more his insecurity grows.
In the end, he can’t hold it back. In the end, he’s the one to break the silence, and risk ruining the moment of peace they’d finally found.
Mu Qing avoids Feng Xin’s eyes, face burning. “Feng Xin?”
An answering distracted, but inquisitive hum is his only response.
Mu Qing takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.
“Would you still do this if I wasn’t…?”
He can’t finish off the sentence. His jaw closes with a click and he swallows hard. If the answer is no…he doesn’t know if he could bear it. To know that Feng Xin only wants to be so intimate with him—because this, to Mu Qing, who has never let another touch him like this before, this is intimate—to even think that Feng Xin only wants to be so intimate with him because of this new form…
Something in his chest tightens and twists, painful and ugly.
A few excruciating moments pass. Then, the hands on his breasts recede and Mu Qing all but wilts on the spot. Ah, he’s ruined it, hasn’t he? Ruined it with his insecurity, just like everything else… If he’d just kept his mouth shut—
Calloused, familiar hands cradle Mu Qing’s face, drawing a soft sound of confusion from his throat, and turn his head to face the man in front of him. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts. He refuses to meet Feng Xin’s eyes.
“Would you let me?”
Mu Qing stops breathing.
His eyes, wide, finally flit up to meet Feng Xin’s and if he wasn’t already holding his breath, he’s sure it would have hitched in his chest at the seriousness of his gaze. His lips part, but no sound leaves them. A thumb brushes over his cheekbone, achingly tender in the gesture.
“Mu Qing,” Feng Xin murmurs, “Mu Qing, Qing’er—”
The air trapped in his lungs leaves him in a trembling rush, only for him to suck in another sharp breath immediately in its place when a forehead presses forward against his own.
“I—” Mu Qing starts, but even the single, monosyllabic word comes out choked and garbled. Feng Xin stares at him, though, with nothing but patience in his expression. It’s suffocating—Mu Qing is suffocating. He gasps for air, gasps a breath he doesn’t truly need, and forces out a rushed, “I would let you do anything.”
The full body shudder the words elicit from Feng Xin makes the mortification flooding Mu Qing’s entire being all the way to the core of his very soul much more bearable.
Feng Xin’s eyes flit down towards his mouth, his own lips parted a fraction. Suddenly, Mu Qing is all too aware of the skin he’s wearing. His heart pounds in his chest, which is all too bare and still so new. He knows he’s half-naked, but now, here, he really feels naked. Feng Xin starts to lean in, slow—cautious, giving Mu Qing enough time to pull away if he wants and—
Mu Qing does.
It’s not—this isn’t—he doesn’t want—not like this. It’s the only thought running through his head as he pulls back from Feng Xin, hands on his shoulder. Not like this.
Feng Xin’s confidence falters but Mu Qing doesn’t fold. Instead, he presses his hands over Feng Xin’s eyes, ignoring the confusion that takes over. He takes a breath, steadying himself and focusing hard on what he wants. With how high his nerves are, despite the fact he’s used to changing forms for his Fu Yao disguise, it takes longer than he intends this time.
Soon enough, though, he removes his hands from Feng Xin’s face, not looking as he does. His chest feels infinitely lighter now and it’s more relieving than he imagined it would be. Though, something in the back of his mind tells him he…really isn’t too displeased with his new form.
Still, however, it’s much better to be standing there as himself in front of Feng Xin, vulnerable and open and just...him.
“Okay,” he whispers.
He steps back into place in front of Feng Xin again, this time in his own skin. The nerves bubbling beneath the surface don’t fade, but they cool to a simmer when Feng Xin’s hands return to their place on his face. It’s the simplest touch, but it means more than any words could.
He still wants him; he still wants him even now. Even in this body. In his body.
“Okay?” Feng Xin repeats back.
Mu Qing nods, barely, just enough for Feng Xin to feel. Then, before either could give into their nerves and back out, Feng Xin leans in and there are lips against Mu Qing’s. Mu Qing inhales sharply, his eyes widening, at immediate contact.
Feng Xin doesn’t press him any further, though.
His lips stay still against Mu Qing’s, waiting for him to make the next move if there was to be one. They’re…soft. When Mu Qing hesitates a moment too long, Feng Xin starts to draw back.
Panic flares inside Mu Qing and his arms dart out to wrap around Feng Xin’s shoulders. One hand falls limp between his shoulder blades while the other presses firmly to the back of Feng Xin’s neck, holding him where he is. He only watches Feng Xin’s eyes widen for a second before shutting his own tight.
His heart pounds in his chest, rapid and demanding to be heard, and his skin buzzes with a strange sort of anxious excitement. Clumsy, uncertain, he presses forward, pushing his lips firmer against Feng Xin’s. His heart nearly skips a beat when he feels them briefly turn upward in a faint smile before the hands cupping his jaw slide down and rest upon his still-bare waist.
A shiver runs down his spine at the contact.
Feng Xin doesn’t try anything, though. He just…holds him. Just kisses him. Slowly, Feng Xin guides him through the kiss, with a gentleness Mu Qing never wants to forget he’s capable of.
It’s entirely new to Mu Qing and he can only pray it’s the first of many. Pray there is never a last. He has lived eight-hundred years and a few more without this feeling, but he’ll be damned if he lives another day without now that he’s had it.
Ah, he should apologize to His Highness.
He understands the appeal now.
He never wants to part from this man, gods, he never wants to be apart from this man. They can fight for hours on end for all he cares, as long as he gets to end that fight with this. Fuck, fuck, why didn’t they do this sooner?
Ah, no, he knows why. It’s not like either of them would ever thing the other… Well, Mu Qing certainly didn’t think…
He gasps against Feng Xin’s lips, suddenly remembering he is not a ghost and does need to breathe but so terribly unwilling to part even for a second. Gasp of air filling his lungs, he presses back against Feng Xin with more insistence than before, with more fervor, more urgency.
Eight hundred years, they could have been doing this for eight hundred years. Could they have been doing this for eight hundred years? What else could they have been doing for eight hundred years?
Mu Qing’s head spins at the thought, which hits him like a carriage at full speed, and he makes a small, whimpering sound into the kiss that he will never confess to, even with a sword to his throat.
He should really ask His Highness how he saved his cultivation after… Mu Qing cuts off the thought abruptly, overwhelmed by the myriad of feelings and desires swarming him.
As if sensing his inner chaos, Feng Xin draws back. Despite the desperate voice in the back of his head begging him to, Mu Qing doesn’t try to chase him. Instead, he takes the opportunity to inhale deeply and try to steady his breathing.
“Mu Qing?” Feng Xin asks, quiet.
“I’m fine,” Mu Qing chokes out.
Feng Xin hums, brushing his thumbs over the skin of his waist in an action that Mu Qing isn’t entirely sure is even conscious. One look at his face is all it takes to know he is completely unconvinced.
It’s not totally a lie, though! It’s just…really, there’s no way he can just come out and admit that one, simple, fairly fucking chaste kiss shook him so deeply to his core that he was already considering new cultivation paths.
“We can move slow,” Feng Xin tells him.
Mu Qing is surprised by the amount of relief that washes over him at the assurance. Soft lips press to his own once more for a brief moment, before Feng Xin rests their foreheads together.
“I wouldn’t make you do something you’re not ready for,” Feng Xin promises him. He pauses, then amends, “or that you just don’t want. We don’t—we don’t have to do any more than this. I don’t…I’ll never expect you to break your cultivation for me.”
Something warm spreads over Mu Qing’s chest at the serious, sincere words. Affection, he realizes. It’s affection. Love. It’s warm, all-encompassing, dizzying love, and his heart is swelling with it.
“You’re making a lot of assumptions about what this means for us,” Mu Qing finds himself teasing before he can think better of it.
He regrets it almost immediately when Feng Xin stiffens in his arms. His throat tightens, chest seizing with panic at the flicker of hurt that crosses Feng Xin’s face. No, no, no, no, he didn’t mean that.
“Ah, yeah,” Feng Xin laughs, but it’s forced. He wrenches himself out of Mu Qing’s arms and takes a few steps back, shoulders tense. “Right, because you—I just thought—after what you said—but you don’t—right. Yeah.”
Feng Xin glances back towards the doors and Mu Qing flies into action. He snatches his inner robes off the floor and roughly tugs them back on, tying them loose and quick. Then, before Feng Xin can even think of fleeing, he grabs him by the wrist and tugs. Feng Xin yelps, eyes wide as he tumbles right back into Mu Qing’s—now clothed—chest.
While he’s still stunned, Mu Qing lets go of his wrist and instead loops his arms back around his shoulders. In a mirror of their previous pose, one hand hangs down between his shoulders. This time, however, the other grips the back of his head and pulls it forward until their foreheads are firmly pressed together once more.
Now, Feng Xin has nowhere to look but at him.
“I do,” he swears. “I really do, Feng Xin, I—I’m not—I’m really not good with…with this.”
Feng Xin blinks.
“It was a stupid joke,” Mu Qing continues, furious with himself for saying it. “It was a stupid joke, but before—when I said…I-I meant it…”
“You meant…?” Feng Xin croaks, brows furrowed tightly.
Shit, is he really going to have to say it again? It was hard enough the first time! Mu Qing chokes back a dismayed noise and steels himself. It’s worth it, he’s worth it.
“I would let you…do anything,” he whispers, eyes closed tightly. Then, even softer, “even break my cultivation.”
The noise that comes from in front of him is garbled, strangled, and barely human. It is nothing if not an indicator Feng Xin heard him perfectly clear and Mu Qing is quite ready to run away, now, actually.
“Not…now, I mean, I just mean—” Mu Qing struggles to clarify. “When I’m—when we’re ready.”
When Feng Xin still doesn’t reply, even to that mortifying confession, Mu Qing forces open his eyes only to be met with the most flustered version of the other general he had ever had the honor of seeing. Feng Xin stares, eyes wide, cheeks flushed the gentlest shade of pink all the way to his ears and lips parted in a silent ah.
Mu Qing exhales. Gathers all of his courage and confidence in one place, then he murmurs, “A-Xin…”
He doesn’t get the chance to say anything else. The moment the name falls from his mouth, another pair of lips are on his for the third time this night, more desperate than either of their previous kisses. Mu Qing starts, yelping, before easing into it and melting into the body against his own.
The desperation fades quickly, transitioning into something slower and lazier. It’s a bit better than their first, both more confident in their movements. Neither as hesitant. When they finally part this time, it’s with quiet pants echoing in the silent room. The silence lasts for all of two seconds before Feng Xin huffs out a laugh and drops his head to Mu Qing’s shoulder.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” he grumbles.
For once, Mu Qing doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans his head slightly to rest atop the back of Feng Xin’s.
“I really thought I’d misread this whole…thing,” he continues to ramble on. “I thought I really fucked up.”
A pause.
Then, “is this real?”
Mu Qing can’t help the way his arms tighten around Feng Xin at the question. It’s a fair one. It doesn’t feel real, that’s for sure. Never did he ever think they’d… Mu Qing breathes, exhaling slowly.
“As much as I’d like to forget the events leading into it,” he says, a bit of a wry tone to his voice before he softens it to something more sincere as he adds, “it’s real.”
Feng Xin hums.
“Oh, good,” he sighs. “I would hate to wake up and have to fight you after this.”
“We’re still going to fight.” Mu Qing snorts.
With a grin, Feng Xin straightens up. “Yeah, but now I can do this.”
Mu Qing tries not to laugh when Feng Xin grabs his face and places a firm kiss to his lips, quick and chaste, before he pulls away.
“Who would have known the great General Nan Yang is such a loser when he’s in love,” Mu Qing mocks, although his voice lacks any real bite.
Feng Xin huffs out another short laugh, but he doesn’t retaliate. The moment settles over them, all of the anxiety and adrenaline finally calming down and fading. He wonders, distantly, if they ever would have gotten to this point without that first female statue of him. Wonders if they would have gotten to this point if Feng Xin hadn’t walked in on him exploring his new form.
Maybe someday they would have, he concedes, but he has a feeling it wouldn’t have been nearly as soon. It wouldn’t have been nearly as easy. Because gods, this had been so—so easy. So simple. They just…fell into place in each other’s arms, like it was what they were made for, and Mu Qing can’t even bring himself to be irritated by the ease of it all.
He doesn’t know when they migrate to his bed, doesn’t know when Feng Xin strips down to his own inner layers to match Mu Qing, and doesn’t know when he curls up on Feng Xin’s chest, but he does know one thing.
There’s no place he would rather be.
Ah, two things.
Maybe, just maybe, he should thank whoever built that statue…