#background qijiu

[lorewritesstuff]

SVSSS Mermay au

Hello, it is 15 to midnight and I have so much to do tomorrow morning. So I'm making a SVSSS Mermaid au, H2O style, yippie. Moshang edition <3

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

There are things Shang Qinghua regrets. So so many things he regrets about his most (in)famous work he got transmigrated to after his... untimely... demise. From countless fuck or die plants, deadly monsters, or unending paperwork both of his unfeeling bosses hoist upon him, there are many things he regrets indeed.

(People will tell you Yue Qingyuan is a very polite and kind man. They are lying to themselves. Yue Qingyuan is just as much of a slave driver, heh, as Mobei Jun is. He will simply smile at your face while he heaps most of his work on you, so he can spend hours buying useless trinkets that his oh so dear Xiao-Jiu will throw back at his face.)

Yes, there are many things he regrets, but none so much as binging all of H2O: Just Add Water and adding water-activated mermaids to his story. Water-activated mermaids that he just so happens to be related to because his father simply couldn't keep it in his pants. Cucumber-bro--System rest his hating soul back in Shanghai or wherever rich people with way too much time on their hands to do anything but hate on poor hardworking writers live--would probably argue this is exactly what he deserves for his 'sellout ways' but no one said staying true to your original work sells for a reason! Besides, the underwater mermaid sex money allowed him to order the custom-order one-of-a-kind Mobei Jun mousepad! Cucumber bro and his vast collection of official LBH merch speak for themselves.

(Protip, if you don't want to be judged for owning stallion novel protagnost shirtless figurines, maybe don't use the same username on all of your accounts.)

Cucumber-bro's possible 5-page karma essays aside, being half-mermaid (merman? mereperson???) is a very inconvenient thing to be when your side gig is working for an ice demon. Who lives in the Northern Desert, which is covered in ice. Which is frozen water. You know, the thing that turns people into mermaids in the H20 universe.

Safe to say, having this vastly unexpected and unappreciated ancestry, you hack of a system, is a problem. One that just might cost him his life and sooner rather than later.

As if life wasn't hard enough as an An Ding disciple. Do you know how many water-related chores An Ding has? Fetching water, washing clothes, cleaning, carrying barrels of water from place to place, cooking, and many, many others that their own and other Peaks see to assign them daily for no reason but the shame of being on the servant peak, as the others call it. Like any of them would last a week without all the hard work An Ding does for them! Not to mention all the undesirable away missions and goods transport missions that happen during the rain season that are always heaped onto An Ding.

It is a (system-granted, though not cheap!) miracle Shang Qinghua has made it this far in life at all. 'A miracle whose effects are finally coming to an end, it seems', as Shang Qinghua eyes the rip that somehow managed to go through his many layers of clothing he wears whenever he visits (or gets dragged to more likely) Northern Desert.

And his day was going so well before this too! Mobei Jun's 2nd eldest (the first has been dead for quite a while at this point in time) brother couldn't postpone his fratricide attempts for a day when he wasn't there? It is rather rude of him, and he really did have his death coming for doing such a thing in such an out-of-the-way place with few witnesses besides Shang Qinghua himself. But his death doesn't change the fact that Shang Qinghua is now covered in little slashes through his clothing from where some stray daggers and sword swings pelted him with qi or ice. Or the fact that some of those daggers were indeed made of ice. Magical ice demon ice, but ice still.

Shang Qinghua is 26 years old (+/- two decades, technically), his protagonist was born 4 years ago, and he is going to die a whole decade before he gets to see his fluffy-haired little calamity attend the CQM trials because he has approximately 10 seconds before he is outed as a merman. In the middle of an ice field surrounded by nothing but ice and snow as far as the eye can see, and an overpowered (but still so very dashing even covered in the cooling blood of his kin) ice demon with a history of hating secrets and the unexpected.

There really isn't much time to think anything besides 'oh fuck' as the System greets him with a happy little jingle and [You got this host!] before he finds himself lying flat on the floor, flopping around as a fish on dry ground.

[apricotkin]

Mismatched mandarin ducks

svsss | pidw!sj & svsss!yqy | dimension travel au

It takes Shen Jiu several moments to realize that the darkness surrounding him is different than that of Luo Binghe's palace.

What he mistook for the trenches of the netherworld turns out to be the dark halls of the Qiong Ding Peak Lord residence – intact, quiet, very much unburnt. A dream world– or another dimension, perhaps.

read it on ao3 here

aka the first installment of a fic series where ghost!sj travels to the svsss 'verse and meets svsss!yqy. this will focus on both pidw and svsss 'verse qijiu and deal with their grief (not a fix-it, btw)

[apricotkin]

Unpreventable (the only mercy that can be offered)

svsss | sy & yqy | canon divergence, mcd

The screen dims, but remains where it is, and Shen Yuan finally looks past it to meet Yue Qingyuan's half-lidded eyes. Shen Yuan's hands tremble – a minute flinch – yet his hold on the other remains firm. Shen Yuan swallows. Tries to arrange his face into something properly resembling Shen Jiu's sneer. He– he doesn't want to do this, but – he's powerless against the System.

read it on ao3 here

[apricotkin]

misstepping in a long-forgotten dance

bottom yue qingyuan week day 3 | diplomacy

<- previous post | next post ->

cross-posted on ao3

he wakes up and opens his eyes to

an unfamiliar ceiling; an unfamiliar body;

an unfamiliar life. he doesn't know the year

nor his name nor his occupation. all he has

is a sparsely-furnished room, a sword

sheathed by his bed and a mighty headache.

he sits up. studies the unfamiliar ties

of his unfamiliar robes. checks for blood–

there isn't any (at least that is relieving)

stands up– wobbles a bit –

and goes to search for clues

(to recover at least something)

there isn't much to, not with how spartan

the room is even despite its size. there are

letters addressed to Yue-zhangmen

he studies the strokes; traces a finger over

the mountain of the Yue. tastes it

on his tongue. he's that Yue-zhangmen, then

despite not remembering anything,

he'll have to be him. the letters get stacked

into a neat pile; he looks over the jewelry–

and there's so much of it, earrings and

pendants and shimmering guan crowns

all dusty; dented; scratched.

glances down at the dark sheath; if it

wasn't important, it wouldn't have been

placed by the bed. takes it into his hands;

the sheath is colder than he'd have expected

it to be. still, that doesn't stop him

from carefully drawing the blade.

light. so much light captured in a one sword

frigid; biting; merciless; the mightiest of all

he feels something rush through his body;

as if something had seized his veins

and pulled, as if it tried to unwind

his bones and organs and soul alike

he doesn't remember much

of what happens later. isn't even sure

that he exists, not when he's lost

in that too-bright abyss;

he's even less of a person

than he remembered waking up as.

it continues on, longer and longer

until time itself disappears

until he's unmade down to his foundations

stripped of anything physical or mortal

hands grab his lapels (do they even exist?

does he exist?) and he's gasping for air.

another wave of foreign energy

sent through him; he doesn't fight it

has no strength or will to, not when he knows

that it wouldn't matter; not when he feels

so very weak. what sense is there to fight

a current when it's already dragged one down?

yet– he surfaces. draws air into aching,

exhausted lungs – opens his eyes (again)

(he still doesn't remember his name

besides that too-formal Yue-zhangmen)

to see a man crouched by his side,

robes smelling of herbs; the sword's sheathed

this one cannot even imagine why

Zhangmen-shixiong would do such a thing

the man says, surely, the entire sect

must have missed out on why

he's chosen this exact day to be suicidal

ah, so the sword was off-limits.

so he sits up and apologizes

(the words so familiar on his lips)

asks the man's name; he supposes that,

being Yue-zhangmen, he should really

uphold diplomacy for the unnamed sect's sake

and for his usual self, as well

the man stares at him, surprised. takes

his wrist; sends some more of that energy

through his veins. finally tells him that

he's lost his memories due to some plant

(he's already figured out the memories part)

and introduces himself as Mu Qingfang

and as he's looking down at hair strands

that haven't been gray before the sword,

his door slams open, loud in the silence

a whirl of exquisite qing fabric;

long sleeves and hurried steps

and a face tightened with anger.

what did he do to cause such a storm of qi?

the newcomer demands. Mu Qingfang's eyes

flick to the sheath; back to the man;

Zhangmen-shixiong has lost his memories

he answers, somewhat hesitant, and

unsheathed Xuan Su, which is tied to his soul.

the words almost echo in the silence

not just a silence– the total absence of sound

and there are hands on his lapels (again)

and the harsh tone of this one would've

never expected Yue Qingyuan to be

such a reckless fool desperate for power.

(and amidst the tirade all he's able to think of

is that the beautiful stranger

has gifted him his name of Yue Qingyuan)

he catches Mu Qingfang's Shen-shixiong

catalogues that address; thinks of the sect

and Yue-zhangmen. thinks of diplomacy

and so answers this one apologizes

to Shen-shidi for any impulsivity

an angry red blooms on the man's cheekbones

and– even when Zhangmen-shixiong

isn't himself, he still chooses to say

useless, worthless apologies

he wants to respond to that –

he doesn't know how to. is unable

to soothe Shen-shidi's anger, to avoid

stoking it further. he doesn't really

have the energy– flags almost physically,

sits back down on the bed not to fall.

assessing the facts – i cannot fix this

without knowing what has been broken

(but there's still a vague curiosity;

a desire to get to know the other

to unearth the reason for that anger

and that faintest of flushes).

***

the next day, sunlight dapples bright spots

atop the scrolls; paints Shen Qingqiu's silks

(such an elegant sight, the Qing Jing scholar

concentrated on his work). they sit together

pore over those scrolls; he finds himself

enjoying these quiet, still moments

(still no clue about their history–

but they have paperwork to do, and

Shen Qingqiu has reluctantly offered

to guide him through the essentials

we cannot allow the sect to take blame

for Zhangmen-shixiong's idiocy, he'd said)

surprisingly, the scrolls and the

special array seals aren't difficult to parse

muscle memory; his hands reach

to take his brush by their own volition

surprisingly, Shen Qingqiu stays almost silent;

doesn't say much and focuses on writing

(he would've expected a bit more

anger or scorn); the other lifts his head

only to stare at the gray in Yue Qingyuan's hair

a wordless, taut look

full of some hidden, intense emotion

that he cannot parse due to not knowing him.

evening pierces Cang Qiong's highest peaks

bursts to flow down mountain slopes

covers the valleys below;

the light in their study is dim when Shen-shidi

puts down the brush; looks at him;

announces we're going to get drinks.

he doesn't know him; he should refuse;

he thinks of a determined hand writing out

characters, back straight all the while

and– it's diplomacy, to foster good relations

(it's a personal yearning to get to know

his shidi even a little more)

and they're flying down to some town;

he's too unsteady atop his spare sword,

so Shen Qingqiu holds his hand as they go

and they're sitting down in some inn

(the other has rented a private room;

it would be unbecoming otherwise)

and he studies the warm tint that candlelight

brings to Shen Qingqiu's silks

(if he were a painter,

he'd try to capture that moment)

those fabrics shift as his shidi

settles a wine jar atop their table

and then his head's spinning

(did his past self even drink?)

he tastes wine on his lips

glances at Shen Qingqiu,

at the too-tight hold of the other's cup

you seem to know me; tell me about me

(and about yourself, too – a mystery

of a person). and, well, if whatever

they have going on benefits the sect–

then he doesn't want to make matters

anyhow worse, for him and for his shidi

and for that unknown entity of Cang Qiong.

but as the world spins around him even more,

all of it suddenly becomes– too much

too rough. overtakes him

akin to the mightiest of waves

how can he react; give back; give himself over

if he doesn't even know who he properly is?

an abyss in his heart; it rushes up

stings his eyes with too-hot tears

and he lets them fall as he freezes in place

not fight, nor flight, just–

an absence of anything

as he's overwhelmed and so utterly lost.

and– a pause. silence falls, rough, merciless

he thinks he can see Shen Qingqiu

almost-gaping at him, so much surprise

in the other's eyes. he should–

probably apologize for not being

a good shixiong; a good anything

instead, all he's able to do is cry even more

double over under the weight of such emotion

maintaining diplomacy – what a joke

in this state, he cannot maintain much

not relations, not even his health

(gray strands stand out against the black)

and he closes his eyes (shuts them)

spilling more moisture down his cheeks

so stupid of him, but he really doesn't

wish to face his shidi's reaction

not when he probably should've ignored

the gaps in his memory; focused on the other.

he doesn't know what the future–

what the next minute – will hold

doesn't know how to be

Yue Qingyuan nor Yue-zhangmen

doesn't even know how to reach out

to get to know whoever he is.

[apricotkin]

silent unions doomed by fate

bottom yue qingyuan week day 5 | political marriage

<- previous post | next post ->

cross-posted on ao3

phantom fires still bite at his

stainless, unwrinkled Qiong Ding hems

when he walks along the peak's paths

unseeing; the scorching light of the blaze

still stark against his eyelids

every time he closes his eyes.

he's given up on sleep; has resorted to

applying powders beneath his eyes

(no-one is allowed to know that

Qiong Ding's Yue Qingyuan is fracturing;

that Yue Qi's ghost sinks its clawed hands

into the wounds and presses).

he isn’t anyhow confrontational

not when it comes to his shizun

never when he sees Ju Liaotian's frigid gaze

but – a single stubborn thought remains

if Xiao Jiu's gone, what use is there

for me to remain alive?

and it takes little effort to sneak past

Wan Jian's guards; venture into their libraries

and look for accounts of cultivators

having accidents when fighting,

failing to control the bond between them

and their swords; dying in the process.

everyone should've been content

Xuan Su without a wielder;

Shizun free to choose another head disciple;

the vestiges of Yue Qi finally at peace,

buried beneath cold earth,

looking for Xiao Jiu at the Naihe Bridge.

instead– he shoots up in a Qian Cao bed

and his soul thrums

with even more wrongness than before,

and there are immortal-binding cables

around his chest in a tight weave;

the taste of defeat on his tongue

Ju Liaotian sweeps into the room

(assesses the damage;

surveys Yue Qingyuan's state

with the coldest of eyes, unthawing

or, rather, turning into even harsher ice)

countenance embodying the tian in his name

(calm, indifferent, unperturbed;

all that which makes a good Sect Leader

all that what Yue Qi has always lacked

that Yue Qingyuan has strived to emulate)

so, he looks to the other man

and braces himself for anything to come

he isn’t sure what Shizun's thinking of him

(he can guess– failure and a let-down;

the most grand disappointment,

they're all things that Yue Qi –

that Yue Qingyuan – has been his whole life)

he tries to– minimize

straightens as much as he can

(his bones creak in protest)

forces his turbulent qi to calm

(his soul screams)

and says this unworthy one

awaits Shizun's instruction.

***

a grand hall, screens of gilded gold

silks with the finest embroidery

a figure lounging in finery and splendor,

his robes glimmering with embroidery,

sure in his wealth and power,

and a man in simple robes steps up

says Gongzhu, news from Cang Qiong

their Sect Leader's planning to

replace his disciple – that Yue Qingyuan –

for not bonding with his sword properly;

he just doesn't know how to do so

without making trouble for himself</em>

silk layers shift; the figure hums

(an ancient snake that he is,

poison is still strong in his fangs)

dismisses the spy with a wave of his sleeve

we'll profit from this trouble of his

he muses consideringly, after all,

it isn't often that such grand opportunity

is able to come by. he leans forward

over a scroll; writes out a missive;

stamps it with a finely-made seal;

ah, Ju Liaotian, my offer's too enticing

for you to consider refusing.

he thinks back to the rumors in the sect;

recalls the hushed reports of

Gongzhu, Su-guniang was last seen

exiting Huan Hua and not wearing our colors;

charts out whispers of a demon lord

appearing in the jianghu.

you've picked the wrong person to betray,

he thinks, and– the price shall be paid;

a shame about the Xuan Su Sword

but, hm, what sense even is there

to use a damaged weapon? no, it's better off

to melt it down; reforge it into something new

he'll let the girl have

her final breaths of freedom

sneak around with that demon of hers

the snare will close – and she'll remain

within the gilded courtyards of Huan Hua;

Tianlang-jun betrayed and vanquished.

he summons an attendant

and orders him to start making preparations

for the grandest of weddings;

Huan Hua, after all, cannot afford

to be seen as anyhow frugal,

not even when the marriage would be a sham.

sunset bathes the sky in red

an auspicious color of festivity and blood

as he strides to the windows; looks out

at the glittering arches of Huan Hua roofs

soon, that red will be celebrating

a happy wedding; a demon lord's demise.

the sight makes something

dangerously content unfurl within him;

as much as he hides away beneath opulence,

he's no stranger to crimson soaking his hands;

they have to strike before Tianlang-jun does so

(Ju Liaotian's lost the sight of that).

***

what a pair we must make, she thinks,

bitter; the red ropes around their wrists

a mockery of the red string of fate.

(she spares the briefest of thoughts

for his famed cultivation;

what's happened to the Xuan Su Sword?

how come he's now like so,

red cables, and talismans atop his sheath,

lacking in qi and power and freedom?)

she can guess at the truth–

sect politics, that's all there is to it;

an agreement between two powerful men.

their wedding passes by in a haze

she doesn't think of much at all

(one persistent thought– i'd have wanted

another to do the bows with me

he'd light up with an unserious smile

and speak, boisterous, of human customs)

but there are too many schemes

to let something as fickle as fate win;

so she goes along. does the bows

and heads to their private chapters

with her newly-ordained fujun

who looks halfway to fainting all the while

her heart skips a beat; resourceful as she is,

she calculates several ways to take him down

(she'd never trust a cultivator not to plot)

in the end, she doesn't need to;

he speaks of their union's arranged nature

and, very quietly, of his heart being taken.

Cultivator Su surely relates to this, he says

a knowing look in his eyes, so this one

just plans to get himself drunk

and attempt to have a good night's sleep

there's still red rope around his wrist,

just like hers; she reaches for the wine, as well.

the pavilion they're given for married life

is in the heart of Huan Hua–

but its wooden doors creak with age

its carvings absent of fresh lacquer

she lights the few candles they have;

and he pauses to stare at the setting sun.

he's up early in the morning,

glances at her and asks in a quiet voice

would it be okay for this one to put up

a shrine with a memorial tablet?

she considers this. not easily accessible;

they mustn't see your weak points.

and the shrine gets arranged in his study;

a small, almost ascetic thing

absent of much decoration

that she knows Huan Hua would strive for

she watches him inscribe a name on the tablet

two characters, with the steadiest hand

(he leaves all the proper offerings beside it;

spends long evenings gazing at that name

in soundless contemplation)

and all she's able to pray for

is heavens, may i never erect

a similar shrine for Tianlang-jun.