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everytangbo · 6 months ago

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COLLECTION OF A LEECH'S RAMBLINGS:

Tang Bō stirred slowly—or at least tried—, the world taking form through the overwhelming yet soothing scent of plum blossoms, a sweetness tangled with a faint hint of baijiu. It enveloped him, weaving through his senses and lulling him into a rare, all-consuming peace. Strangely comforting. For once, there was no heaviness weighing down his mind—only warmth. His lips curled upwards at the sound of a pleased hum. Then he noticed the literal weight pressing down on him. Solid and grounding, it anchored him to the mattress in the best possible way. A sturdy arm wrapped firmly around his waist, their chests crushed together with a pressure that should have been stifling but wasn’t. Oh, and their limbs knotted together, intimately, like strands of a tightly woven braid, locking him in place with easy dominance. Only one person possessed the audacity to lay claim to him so casually.

"Chung Myung~"

The man’s head nestled snugly in the crook of Bō’s neck, his face half-buried against his skin, like a ruffled owl hiding from the sunlight. The thought made Bō’s smile widen faintly. Each exhale from Chung Myung brushed against his neck, warm and steady, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing a quiet assurance that seeped into his chest. He noticed, with emerging delight, the trail of drool trickling from Chung Myung's parted lips, meandering down Bō’s neck before disappearing into the mattress. He let out a soft snort—more amused than exasperated. Even asleep, Chung Myung had the audacity to be so damnably overwhelming. Like the ocean, vast and inescapable, filling him and hollowing him out all at once.

No room to escape, no room to breath anything but this scent, and their warm breaths mingling in the air.

The diary, he realized, still rested in Tang Bō’s hand, caught awkwardly between their bodies, its edge faintly digging into his ribs. The sharpness was a distant discomfort, overshadowed by the warmth draped over him. Reluctantly, he maneuvered his arm free, extricating the diary with painstaking care, like it was a fragile treasure. A quick glance to confirm its pages were unscathed was enough. Satisfied—and relieved, he placed it on the free side of the mattress, that fragile little treasure deserved better than to be crushed under Chung Myung’s obnoxiously heavy sprawl.

Perfect. Now with both hands free, nothing could stop him from the impending savagery he was about to unleash upon the revered sword saint, who shall undergo the dark arts of back-petting.

His fingers began their sinister descent across the length of Chung Myung's stalwart back. Viciously! Tracing the line of the spine in a simple, tender stroke of his fingers, nesting in the curve of the back. His dark fingers violently brushing against the ridges of his spine with a care both soft and reverent, as though he were handling something sacred. His other hand crept higher, with all the wicked intent to stroke the nape of Chung Myung’s neck, his fingers threading through the soft hair there before brushing lightly against the vulnerable skin beneath.

It was diabolical—devious, even—and Tang Bō relished every second of it.

Chung Myung, for his part, stirred faintly at the assault. His breath hitched, but instead of recoiling, the man leaned in closer, nuzzling deeper into Bō’s neck like a stubborn cat claiming its favorite perch. His grip tightened, purely reflexive, as if to warn Bō against any attempts at escape. At that point, the man could've started purring, he was impossible, even like this.

And yet, Tang Bō couldn’t bring himself to mind. His fingers continued their slow, insidious journey, memorizing the planes of his back. It was scandalous, borderline treacherous. If anyone could see him now, they’d say he was handling the Plum Blossom Saint with all the delicacy of a scholar leafing through ancient scrolls.

But this was savagery, pure and unbridled. The most dangerous kind. And yet, somehow, it left Tang Bō feeling a little more whole.Tang Bō closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the moment.

He let his hands rest on Chung Myung's hips, finally dropping the act.

There was no dread here, no claws, no chaos. None of the poisons on which he had been weaned on. Just the scent of plum blossoms, the weight of a man who held him without knowing the depth of what it meant, and the quiet hum of a morning that, for once, felt like a gift.

Tang Bō’s gaze dropped to the man’s face, softened in sleep, free of the usual bravado and sharp-edged humor. It was a face that didn’t belong in the chaos of the jianghu—a face that could almost trick him into thinking about quiet mornings and warm nights, of things he didn’t deserve and couldn’t afford to want. Chung Myung, just Chung Myung draped over him like a shield, all consuming in his presence, a weight Bō didn’t mind carrying.

He leaned his head back against the pillow, exhaling softly, his gaze tracing the cracks in the ceiling above. Mornings like this—so quiet, so still—felt more dangerous than any battle he’d survived. There was no defense against the ache in his chest, that insistent pull in his gut that clawed at him harder than any blade or poison ever had. But strangely, he didn’t mind. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break the spell yet.

If given a choice, Tang Bō thought wryly, he wouldn’t mind dying like this. Encased in warmth, locked in those insufferably possessive arms, pinned beneath a weight that somehow made him feel lighter. A treasure, kept close and jealously guarded—what a laughable thought. But the flutter in his chest betrayed him, and he closed his eyes against it.

The ache in his cheeks dragged him back, sharp and annoying, for smiling too much—again. He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling faintly between them. It was absurd how easily this fool reduced him to smiles and giggles he couldn’t hide. A part of him—some foolish, reckless part—wanted to press his lips to that jade face, to graze the line of his jaw or trail a kiss over his ridiculous nose. Or better yet, that insufferable mouth, which he knew would wear a pout even in sleep.

That would be ridiculous. Reckless.

Dangerous.

Still, as Bō’s grin widened, a sharp flicker of mischief sparked in his eyes. Oh— the sheer hilarity of it all. Chung Myung, fearsome Plum Blossom Saint, reduced to an overly possessive bedmate, tangled up like a child afraid to lose his favorite blanket. What a scene this would be when the idiot woke up. Bō could already picture the flustered outrage, the sharp bark of denial, the glorious embarrassment that would paint his face. He bit back a laugh, but the grin stayed, devilish and gleeful.

Tang Bō nearly laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all. The image alone was enough to make him want to grab a brush and ink, to immortalize this tangled disgrace in the margins of his diary, nestled right between the darker entries.

That rascal. Did he have any idea what this looked like? Walking into another man’s room in the dead of night, sliding into his bed uninvited, and then locking their legs together as if they were lovers caught in the hectic aftermath of some unwary fling.

Tang Bō smiled so wide he could already feel the pang on his cheeks, the corners of his lips twitching upward in amusement. As things stood, maybe they should just strip their clothes while they were at it —There was no room for modesty between them, after all, they've already seen everything there was to see. Yes, perhaps that would be the logical next step. The thought slithered through his mind, unbidden, and lingered far too long. It would be nice, idyllic even. Flesh against flesh. The taste of salt in his tongue, laying on bed, entangled in sheets... A motion both sweet and rough. And then—

No.

What a mess.

What a wretched, godforsaken mess.

He shouldn't think like this.

He shelved the thought —like all the times he did before.

Tang Bō couldn't stand the idea of disgracing him like that. The sheer idea came as blasphemous in his mind. For all the things one could ascribe to his character, lewd wasn't one of them. Would he call Chung Myung pure? Far from it; the idea itself was laughable, Taoist Chung Myung would never be pure. But there was something untainted about him, some intangible quality that Tang Bō preferred to leave unmarred. Whatever it was, it felt wrong to sully it —And yet, despite his better judgment, the longing lingered. Not to defile, but to connect. To reach for an intimacy that had always seemed just out of grasp.

His gaze lingered on the man atop him.

What a wretched excuse of a taoist. There was nothing ascetic about him—about the solid arm curled possessively around Bō’s waist, the weight of his chest pressing them together, or the quiet vulnerability of his face softened by sleep.

Oh, if those righteous prudes could see him now. The untamed swordsman, wrapped around the Dark Saint. And wasn’t it something? this ridiculous taoist, with his brazen disregard for rules and his maddening lack of self-awareness, had somehow become the only person capable of invading both his space and his silence. Lucky bastard, he mused. Or maybe unlucky, depending on how you viewed things.

Bō’s fingers resumed their quiet exploration, brushing against the ridges of Chung Myung’s spine with a touch that balanced on the knife’s edge between reverence and mockery. His other hand toyed again with the soft hair at the nape of Chung Myung’s neck, his movements unhurried, deliberate.

“Hah,” he whispered to himself, the word barely audible as his fingers traced a path over Chung Myung’s shoulder blade. “If he’s going to cling like this, maybe I should charge him rent. Or just send a dowry. However it works for clingy taoists.”

Chung Myung shifted, his body instinctively pressing closer, as if even in sleep, he sought to close the space between them. His breath was warm against Bō’s neck, his head tucked snugly into the crook like it belonged there. What a fool. What a brazen, reckless fool.

“What a mess,” Bō murmured, his voice laced with mockery and affection as he let his eyes drift closed again. “What a wretched, delightful mess.”

Again Chung Myung stirred reluctantly, the haze of sleep clinging to him like morning dew. He fought to stay in the cocoon of unconsciousness, lulled by the lazy, sardonic touch of Bō’s fingers tracing idle patterns against his back.

"Bo-ya" Chung Myung mumbled, and Tang Bō couldn't tell for the sake of him, whether the call was delivered or instinctual.

"About time, Brother~" came a low whisper, brushing against the shell of his ear. Willing to sacrifice that beautiful arrangement to delight in the man's exquisite reactions. "You're crushing me."

In the end, Chung Myung was just himself in his wake, wild and untamed.

—continue on ao3—

#tang bo's diaries #tang bo #chung myung #tangchung #rotbb #rotmhs #fanfic

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everytangbo · 6 months ago

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“The Plum Blossom Saint, champion of the righteous sects, sworn enemy of decorum, clinging like a vine to the poor Dark Saint. His breath tickled my neck, his leg hooked possessively over mine, and not a shred of shame graced his features. A taoist—hah! If that’s what passes for asceticism these days, perhaps I should join a shaolin and reap the benefits.”

—Collection of a leech's ramblings—

#tang bo's diaries #red diary #tang bo #chung myung #tangchung #rotbb #rotmhs

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everytangbo · 6 months ago

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Chapter 2- published.

Epilogue- WIP

CM🤝TB

Sharing braincell

#tang bo's diaries #writing shenanigans #tang bo #chung myung #tangchung

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everytangbo · 6 months ago

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「一剪梅」

"A single cutting plum blossom"

「舉酒欲邀明月醉」

"Raising wine to invite the bright moon to get drunk"

#rotmhs #rotbb #tang bo's diaries #tang bo #chung myung #tangchung #Red diary #///#One Cutting Plum blossom #A short poem I found #Seems fitting #Tang Bō is being mushy since Chung Myung gave him the diary

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everytangbo · 6 months ago

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Chung Myung has a weird concept of comedy

"The Insufferable Art of Mockery and Care"

Part 1

Chung Myung pushed the door open with his usual lack of subtlety, the creak loud in the otherwise still night. He was never one to tip-toe. The empty wine flask in his hand swung lazily, tapping against the doorframe as he leaned in. He had a reason—if anyone asked, of course.

“Ran out of booze,” he’d mutter, a shrug, a grin, and nothing else. Convincing enough.

He stepped inside, unbothered by the mess Tang Bō had left behind—papers scattered, clothes draped haphazardly over furniture, and more belongings than anyone could reasonably need. It was chaos, but Chung Myung moved through it like he owned the place. No hesitation, no missteps.

He’d memorized the room without trying, not that he’d ever admit it. Seven and a half steps to the left for bed. Five forward, eight to the right for the desk. The room was seventeen steps wide, nineteen long. He even knew which drawer held Bō’s fraying green ribbons, which shelf housed his medicinal concoctions, and where his pipes and brushes were buried under the clutter.

Anyway, He turned left, and walked five, six... Seven and a half steps.

Because sneaking in required reconnaissance. Obviously. He wasn’t here for sentimental nonsense. It was absolutely necessary. He was sneaking in after all. He's here to steal, not asking please. And now that he's in it, making sure Bō hadn’t managed to do something stupid in his sleep, like stop breathing.

So, checking on Bō was absolutely necessary.

It was the sight that rooted Chung Myung to the spot. The faint rise and fall of his chest. The journal was still in Bō’s arms, resting loosely over him, the embroidered silk cover catching the faint glow, wrapped in his hand. Bō’s features, usually twisted into something between annoyance and sarcasm, were softened in sleep. He looked… peaceful. Younger, even. The edges of his sharp personality smoothed out, leaving him looking like a forsaken sheep.

Chung Myung’s lips curled upwards. “Clingy leech,” he muttered under his breath.

Quietly, the empty wine flask finds a temporary home on the nearby table. His steps were deliberate but not cautious— He crouched by the bed, his gaze flicking between the journal and Bō’s face. For a moment, he considered prying the book free, but the way Bō’s fingers curled around it stopped him. Instead, he rested his elbow on the edge of the mattress, his chin propped on his hand, watching with an expression that would’ve been unreadable to anyone else.

The faint lines of exhaustion around Bō’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Nor did the way his brow furrowed briefly, as though even in sleep, something weighed on him. Chung Myung frowned, his fingers twitching slightly, the urge to nudge him awake almost overwhelming.

Instead, he sighed, rising to his feet. “Dumb egg...” he muttered.

Bō should have stirred by now. The fact that he hadn’t—still sunk so deeply into sleep—only underscored how long it must have been since he last rested properly. Days, probably. Maybe longer.

As if to prove a point, he plopped onto the mattress beside Bō without ceremony, the bed dipping under his weight. Bō shifted slightly in his sleep, murmuring something indecipherable as his fingers curled tighter around the diary. Chung Myung felt his chest tighten, a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name. He leaned back, hands folded behind his head, and stared at the ceiling, pretending the quality of the mattress justified his choice to stay.

Chung Myung didn't bother grabbing the new flask he’d supposedly come for. Instead, his eyes wandered back to Bō, the steady rhythm of his breathing filling the silence.

“Idiot,” he whispered. Reaching out, he brushed an invisible speck of dust from Bō’s sleeve, the gesture light, fleeting.

He glanced at the diary again, still resting against Bō’s chest, and smirked. There it was, the dark tint in his fingertips that comes and goes, the grim mark of his poison growing stronger within him. Those fingers curled around his diary with a protective grip like a child to his favorite toy.

The sight made the flicker of mischief in Chung Myung’s chest flare to life. He had an idea.

Without overthinking it—because think only made thinks worse, Chung Myung shifted slightly, Carefully, almost too carefully for someone as reckless as him, he shifted closer. His fingers brushed the edge of the journal, light as a feather, testing the waters. Bō stirred, letting out a faint sigh that made Chung Myung pause. For a moment, he considered let ut be, but his resolve won out.

Now, here's the trick; in any other situation the wise decision would be to hide one's presence. But this was Tang Bō. And Tang Bō wasn’t the sort of person you fooled with subtlety. The Dark Saint is not easy to fool, no.

Chung Myung smirked, his decision made. Instead of masking his presence, he did the opposite. His qi flared faintly, just enough to be noticed. It wasn’t aggressive, wasn’t loud—just a ripple through the air, the kind that could coax Bō in his unconscious state without startling him. Subtlety was overrated. The trick, with someone like Bō, wasn’t to disappear—it was to announce yourself. Just enough.

And, of course, only someone like Chung Myung could pull it off.

That's enough to calm the dumb leech down.

Slowly, deliberately, he tugged the diary free from Tang Bō’s slackened grip, careful not to disturb the man’s restless sleep. The moment it was in his hands, he stood quickly, as if lingering too long might make him reconsider. He strode over to the desk with purposeful steps, setting the journal down before pulling open the drawer where he knew Bō kept his brushes. His hand found the smallest one, no thicker than a hairpin, alongside a box of ink sticks and the ink stone nestled beneath them.

That’s when he realized the problem. He’d need water.

The closest thing he had was Bō’s stash of liquor. Without hesitation, he made his way to the cabinet, plucking a flask of baijiu from its shelf. On his way back to the desk, he uncorked it and took a sip, the burn trailing down his throat. Another sip followed—just to be thorough, of course—before he tilted the flask over the ink stone, letting a few drops fall.

He turned back to the desk, opening the little box of ink bars. His fingers hovered over the selection for a moment before plucking out the smallest stick of black ink. Classic. Simple. The perfect choice. He began grinding it against the stone in slow, rhythmic circles, watching the liquid darken with every pass. The scent of baijiu and ink had begun to mingle, sharp and distinct. Chung Myung paused, glancing over his shoulder at Bō. Still asleep, as far as he could tell. The moonlight spilling through the window painted Bō’s features in silver, his face as serene as it ever got.

Good.

For all his strange habits, Bō had an annoyingly sharp nose. He’d notice the scent of baijiu in the ink the moment he cracked open the journal again. Hell, he’d probably know it was him just by the brushstroke.

The thought was both amusing and mildly irritating.

Chung Myung dipped the brush into the ink, the bristles soaking up the dark liquid. He opened the journal to a random page, the faint crinkle of paper loud in the quiet room, and brought the tip of the brush to the surface.

Nothing.

He frowned, staring at the blank page as if it had insulted him.

Another sip.

Still nothing.

The words just wouldn’t come.

“Well, great,” he muttered under his breath, the brush hovering over the page. He could practically hear the old Sect Leader’s voice chiding him: Think before you act, boy.

But still.

He took another sip, leaning back slightly in the chair. The idea of putting the journal back crossed his mind, but it felt too much like giving up.

And giving up wasn’t in Chung Myung’s nature.

But still… damn it, what was he even trying to write?

How did Bō manage to write like a condemned monk? What was he supposed to write? His innermost thoughts? Ramblings? What kind of ramblings. It is so dumb. Why can't he keep his thoughts for himself? Freak.

Another sip.

Chung Myung wished he could get his hands on one of the older diaries for inspiration. But, of course, they were nowhere to be seen. What Bō-ya did with them after filling them up was a mystery Chung Myung had never cared to solve. Burned, hidden, or maybe shoved into some overly ornate box only someone as pretentious as Bō-ya would own. It didn’t matter. The point was, he had nothing.

Nothing but Tang Bō’s ridiculously oversized library. That pompous rat had been hoarding books like some self-styled scholar, as if reading a mountain of dusty tomes would make him look smarter—or more likable.

“Erudite my ass,” Chung Myung muttered, his eyes darting to the shelves stuffed with scrolls and bound volumes.

His gaze shifted back to Bō, still sprawled on the bed, his face so peaceful it was almost insulting. Chung Myung could sneak closer, take a blade, and stab him cleanly in his sleep. A little too cleanly, honestly. The idea made him scowl. Where was the fun in that? Bō-ya should know better than to drop his guard around anyone, no matter how bone-tired he was. Not that Chung Myung would harm him. Oh no. That would be too… considerate. If he ever planned to kill Bō, he’d make sure it was in a proper fight. No shortcuts, no cheap shots. He shook his head, his expression one of mock disappointment. “Hopeless,” he muttered.

If Bō didn’t waste so much time scribbling in these dumb journals, maybe—just maybe—he could stand a chance against him. But no, instead of honing his skills, he was always jotting down silly notes and drawing even sillier sketches. Writing Chung Myung’s name over and over, no less, like some lovesick maiden. Not that Chung Myung cared, of course. But still, what a waste of time. The fool could’ve spent all that energy sparring, or at least learning how to dodge properly. Instead, he kept compiling a completely unreliable record of their so-called “adventures.” As if they were worth preserving. As if Chung Myung needed some scraps of paper to remember.

No, what Bō-ya needed was to step up his game.

He adjusted his grip on the brush, dipped it into the baijiu-infused ink, and scrawled a few deliberate strokes across the open page.

«Bō-ya, if you’re reading this, stop wasting time. Go outside, fight someone, or at least find a new flask of wine. You're no fun when you’re sulking».

He let out a quiet puff of air, and a self-satisfied smile. Good enough. He liked the idea of Bō stumbling across them someday, when Chung Myung wasn’t around to explain or justify himself. Let him stew in it, glaring at the empty air as if Chung Myung’s ghost had come back to pester him. But this needed a bit more. His smirk widened as his eyes drifted back to Bō’s so-called “personal archive.”

With a sigh, Chung Myung set the brush down on the ink stone and wandered over to the so-called library.

Chung Myung squinted into the dim light, the moon casting just enough glow to make out the spines of Tang Bō's meticulously arranged—of course they were—library. The man really was insufferable. Manuals on medicine, botany, foreign techniques, and even some untranslated gibberish. His fingers brushed over basic clan texts, obscure external techniques, alongside dreary nonsense. The next section wasn’t much better, some dusty copy of the Tao Te Ching, the Analects, and the Book of Changes. Ugh. He nearly gagged.

Then, something caught his eye. A small, worn volume that stood out slightly—probably something Tang Bō revisited often. Chung Myung grabbed it and tilted it toward the moonlight, only for his lip to curl in disgust at the title.

No. No.

'That damned monkey!'. His voice was low, venomous.

He glared at the book, then at Bō, then back at the book. That damned monkey. Chung Myung could almost hear the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, mocking him from the pages. He resisted the urge to shred it to pieces. “Wouldn’t be a loss,” he muttered. Tang Bō had probably memorized the whole thing anyway, the pretentious bastard.

He grunted again. He sincerely doubted that darn 'great sage, equal to heaven' would have much patience to write in a diary either! No, he probably wouldn't go to the trouble of— of making such an elaborate prank. He will show him, he'll show Bō-ya too—. Chung Myung could do far better.

Yes. He put it back and moved forward, his fingers grazed the spines of the books, —careful to not stumble in his mess— tountil his eyes landed on another book, one he saw him reading not that long ago «The Plum in the Golden Vase» .

“Now that sounds promising,” he said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He flipped it open to a random page, eyes scanning the lines.

A second passed.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

The book slammed shut, and Chung Myung clenched it tightly as if it might explode in his hands. His face burned. He resisted the overwhelming urge to hurl it at Bō’s sleeping form.

“To think you read this—in front of me!—with a straight face!” he hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at Bō’s unconscious figure. “You absolute lunatic.”

Bō shifted slightly in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible, and Chung Myung froze. But the bastard didn’t wake. Of course, he didn’t. Sleeping like a log, as if mocking him even in his dreams.

Tang Bō was certainly a test to his patience —one of those that marks a man for life, one of those that seems like a joke at the expense of one's sanity—. But if there was one man who could pass the test, it was none other than Chung Myung.

So he shoved the book back onto the shelf, only to grab another at random: «The Carnal Prayer Mat».

He didn’t even bother opening it. He tossed it aside like it had personally insulted him.

“This is a waste of time,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. He could feel the heat still lingering in his cheeks, and he hated it. Giving up was sounding more appealing by the second—at least there were no witnesses to whatever ridiculous color his face had turned.

Still.

Still, he glanced back at Bō, who remained blissfully unaware of his turmoil, and scowled. “You’re lucky you’re asleep, Bō-ya,” he said through gritted teeth. “If you were awake, I’d—”

He cut himself off, letting the threat hang in the air. Not that he had any intention of following through. Not tonight.

He picked another one—a scroll this time. Poetry, of all things. A snort escaped him. Of course, Bō would have poetry tucked away like some melancholy scholar. Pretentious rat. But fine. This would do.

He walked back to the chair, his movements deliberate, almost ceremonious, as if he were a notary preparing to sign an important document. Or, more fittingly, an underpaid copyist grudgingly accepting his lot. He dipped the brush with careful precision and unrolled the scroll, skimming the lines for something halfway decent.

His eyes landed on a verse:

Longing runs deep

Like boundless sea

Beautiful memories drift afar

Like heavenly clouds.

The corners of his lips curled as a thought struck him—a mischievous, undeniably petty thought. Bō loved his books, his words, his perfect little archive. What better way to make his mark?

«This diary is yours» Chung Myung muttered under his breath, the grin spreading, «but this page is mine. And you can’t do anything about it.»

With a quick flourish, he scrawled beneath the borrowed verse:

«Galling runs deep

Like boundless hives

Disastrous memories cackle at night.

Like pesky monkey.»

He chuckled, low and quiet, the sound vibrating in his chest. The absurdity of it wasn’t lost on him—leaving little jabs like this, as though Bō would ever admit to needing them, let alone appreciating them. Still, the idea of his words lingering in Bō’s thoughts like an unwelcome echo was too tempting to resist.

“Serves him right," he muttered, leaning back with a self-satisfied smirk. “He’s too used to silence when I’m not here.”

he noticed Bō had shifted slightly in his sleep, one hand now resting on the empty space where the diary had been. For a fleeting moment, Chung Myung’s amusement faltered. Despite the sharp edges of his personality, Bō looked—fragile, almost. Vulnerable in a way that made something tighten in Chung Myung’s chest.

But only for a moment. He shook his head, grumbling, “Don’t get soft, idiot,” and flipped a few pages

It took him longer than he’d have liked—those blasted poems with their blasted rules—but he managed another entry. Satisfied, he leaned back in the chair and tapped the brush against the ink stone.

He could already picture Bō’s reaction when he found the additions. The exasperation, the muttering, the inevitable glare. If nothing else, it would keep that bastard thinking about him, even when he wasn’t around.

And wasn’t that the whole point?

Chung Myung leaned back in the chair, rewarding himself with a long, well-earned pull from the flask. The liquor burned pleasantly, spreading warmth through his chest and limbs, dulling the faint stirrings of something softer he refused to name. It was the booze, of course. Only the booze. That’s why he was acting all mushy, he told himself firmly.

Grabbing a rag from the floor—a piece of fabric so far removed from soap and water it probably had its own ecosystem—he wiped the excess ink from the brush, and cleaned the mix of ink and booze from the stone—It seemed like a waste, but he was conscious of not drinking it—. Satisfied, he tossed the rag back into the chaos surrounding him and shoved the scrolls and supplies into their respective places with the carelessness of someone who’d never had to clean up after himself.

He waited just long enough for the ink to dry, fanning the pages with his hand and giving them a final light blow for good measure.

Finally, he picked up the diary again, his grip firm as he made his way back to where Bō still lay sound asleep. So blissfully unaware, as if nothing Chung Myung did could possibly be perceived as a threat. The fool. The man would be wise enough to keep a weapon under his pillow—or at least one eye open— ready to charge against anyone bold enough to walk into his chambers. But not him, Bō-ya had to go and trust him, of all people.

"Sucker," he muttered under his breath, crouching next to the mattress. "I’m the last person you should trust.”

He crawled onto the mattress, tucking it gently against Bō’s chest. To his amusement, Bō instinctively curled around it, holding it close like some cherished talisman. Chung Myung smirked.

"You look stupid," he muttered, his voice low enough not to disturb the sleeping figure.

He propped himself up on one elbow, gazing at the faint rise and fall of Bō’s chest. He didn’t have a reason to linger—not really. His work here was done. And yet, he didn’t move.

Before he could overthink it, he let himself fall back, his head hitting the pillow with a soft thump. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, but Bō didn’t stir. Chung Myung closed his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching into a faint smirk.

Falling asleep here wasn’t part of the plan, he told himself. But plans were overrated anyway.

Chung Myung stretched out on the bed beside Tang Bō, his movements slow and deliberate, careful not to disturb him. He told himself, yet again, it was the mattress—no matter how much Bō insisted it was the same guest room mattress, this one was different. It had to be. A mattress this comfortable could lull anyone into complacency, and that was his excuse. A better mattress, good wine, and absolutely nothing else.

“Clingy leech,” he muttered, glancing at Bō.

There he was, lying so still, the diary tucked securely under his arm like it held the secrets to the universe. He looked peaceful in a way that felt out of character, his usually sharp edges softened by sleep. It was almost unnerving—almost.

With that, Chung Myung let his eyes close, the quiet comfort of the moment wrapping around him like a blanket. Falling asleep there wasn’t part of the plan, he told himself. Just a consequence of good wine, a comfortable bed. Just the bed. Just the wine. Either way, Chung Myung wasn’t going anywhere.

A grin tugged at his lips, smug and self-satisfied, but beneath it lingered something softer. Something quieter. Satisfaction, perhaps, or a fleeting contentment he didn’t want to examine too closely.

A minute passed.

And then another.

Chung Myung cracked one eye open, mischief sparking in his gaze as he glanced at Bō again. The poor fool had no idea what was coming. With the precision of someone plotting a flawless ambush, he shifted slightly, his arm sliding just enough to create a space between himself and the headboard. Subtle, casual—nothing overt. Just enough to make the perfect little nook should Bō unconsciously roll towards him.

He let out an exaggerated sigh, his voice low and just audible enough to brush against the edges of Bō’s sleep. "What a soft mattress… no wonder he hogs it.”

The diary nestled against Bō’s chest wobbled as he stirred faintly, a drowsy grumble slipping from his lips. His hand twitched, brushing the fabric of Chung Myung’s robe before retreating back to the safety of sleep. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Chung Myung’s grin widened, his teeth flashing like a predator ready to pounce. Perfect.

He reclined further, angling his body just right to create a gentle slope. If Bō rolled even a little, he’d have nowhere to go but closer. Maybe his head would end up resting against Chung Myung’s shoulder. Maybe. The idea was tantalizing in its absurdity. The Dark Saint, so fearsome, clinging to him in his sleep like a child clutching a security blanket.

The thought alone nearly made him laugh

"What a sight that’ll be in the morning," Chung Myung thought, already imagining the flushed look of horror on Bō’s face when he realized what had happened. The mess he'll be! Hilarious.

Chung Myung tilted his head to the side in mock innocence. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. Just sleeping. If Bō wanted to inch closer, that was entirely on him. Still, he couldn’t resist one last nudge.

“Bō-ya~,” he murmured, his voice a low hum of amusement, the sing-song cadence teasing even in the quiet. “If you’re going to cling to me, at least make it comfortable. My shoulder’s not bad, you know.”

The words were quiet, barely audible, but the suggestion hung in the air like a trap waiting to spring. Bō shifted again, his brow furrowing as if he were resisting some unseen force. But then, slowly, inevitably, his body leaned into the space Chung Myung had so thoughtfully provided.

There it was. A small victory in the war of mischief. Bō’s head came to rest lightly against Chung Myung’s shoulder, his breath warm and steady against the fabric of the robe. One arm, half-curled from sleep, slid across Chung Myung’s chest, draping there with a casualness that spoke of trust or oblivion— as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Chung Myung froze, savoring the moment, the corners of his lips pulling into a grin so wide it hurt. “Hah,” he whispered to himself, triumph laced in the quiet exhale. “Gotcha.”

The warmth radiating from Bō was almost disarming, and for a brief moment, Chung Myung felt... soft. It was an unusual sensation, this stillness, this quiet vulnerability. He didn’t push it away, but neither did he dwell on it. This wasn’t sentimentality, he told himself firmly. No, this was all about the morning. The mortified glare, the flustered excuses, the inevitable sniping. That was the goal. That was the prize.

But as the minutes stretched and the steady rhythm of Bō’s breathing filled the room, something shifted. Chung Myung, despite himself, found his own body relaxing, his chin dipping lightly to rest against the crown of Bō’s head. The smirk softened into something less sharp, less knowing. A strange sense of comfort crept in, one he didn’t name and certainly didn’t question

“This’ll be hilarious in the morning,” he mumbled again, though the thought was distant now, blurred by the pull of sleep. The quiet of the room wrapped around them like a blanket, lulling him into a calm he didn’t expect. His eyes fluttered closed, and without meaning to, Chung Myung allowed himself to sink into the moment, his breathing syncing with Bō’s. Chung Myung drifted into a dreamless sleep, his world narrowed to the warmth of the man beside him.

“Clingy leech”, he mumbled one last time.

#Self rb #THIS WAS MEANT TO BE SHORTER!#*SHORTER*#And im not even finished!#Ahhhh #One last chapter to make #This time it'll be shorter

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everytangbo · 6 months ago

Text

"The Insufferable Art of Mockery and Care"

Part 1

"Myung-Myung asked if I write a lot about him. I know he hasn't read this one, but it's a matter of time… Never thought I'd be hiding evidence.”

[And so he did, not only hiding the diary, but refusing to start a new one out of sheer self-awareness. Chung Myung didn't missed it.]

Tang Bō, often mistaken for careless due to the disorderly state of his quarters, was anything but. Even amidst the chaos, his sharp eyes missed little. Anyone who dared to spend time with him would quickly realize it was a misguided judgment. No, even within the chaos, the man's acumen was more than formidable. His apparent indifference was no more than a clever veneer. Even amidst the scattered tools, opium pipes, and stacks of parchment, nothing escaped his notice. His eagle-sharp gaze immediately caught a foreign shade of red fabric tucked on one of the cluttered shelves.

It wasn’t subtle, and that alone made him wary. His steps carried him swiftly to the shelf, his senses alert. If this was some audacious prank—or worse, an attack—he’d be ready. One hand hovered close to the blade tucked at his side while the other reached for the object. His fingers brushed against silk. The soft, unmistakable texture made him pause. He pulled it out anyway, breath hitching slightly as the fabric unraveled under his touch.

The color was striking—cinnabar, maybe carmine. A vivid shade he couldn’t ignore. The embroidery, though slightly askew from being hastily folded, revealed a crane and a turtle entwined in a simple yet elegant design. Now he was intrigued, but still cautious.The depiction wasn’t some mass-market trinket; no, this had the faint weight of deliberation behind it.

The silk wrapping was... sloppy, haphazard, almost careless, as if whoever had bundled it had no patience for proper presentation. But that, in its own way, intrigued him more than a perfect presentation would have. He recognized the intent, however clumsy, hidden beneath the folds. It took only a slight tug to undo the silk, which fell away in soft folds, revealing the object within.

The sight stopped him cold.

A logbook.

Not just any logbook, though. His defenses, so carefully maintained, crumbled as he took it in. The cover was breathtaking—a deep pink, bordering on carmine, its surface faintly shimmering as if kissed by sunlight, vibrant under his dark fingers, and the texture was impossibly smooth under his calloused fingers, an intoxicating contrast that made him hesitate to grip it too tightly, lest he damage it.

His thumb instinctively traced the stitched binding, marveling at the craftsmanship. Six holes, not the standard four, held it together, the dark green thread crisscrossing with precision. He couldn’t help but notice the shade of the thread—Tang green. His green. The edges of the spine were lined with a darker silk, adding a sturdiness that whispered of longevity, much like the crane and turtle on the wrapping.

Tang Bō flipped it open, and the sound of the pages shifting under his hands was oddly soothing. The xuan paper within was unmistakably high-quality, the kind reserved for serious calligraphy and painting, not the cheap scraps used for practice, far too fine for his idle notes or careless doodles. It was the type of material meant to preserve, not discard.

His gaze lingered on the book, which felt less like a tool and more like a relic. Every detail spoke of intention, precision, and care. This wasn’t something found by chance or some reckless purchase he’d made in a haze of opium. It was commissioned—crafted specifically for someone.— It felt strange in his hands, like something too pure, too deliberate to belong to him.

And Tang Bō, as keen as he was, up to that point had completly overlook the logbook title, written in a penmanship he has familiar with, 'Collection of a leech's ramblings', he scoffed at the sight. His scoff was loud and sharp, cutting through the silence of the room.

Only one person. Only one person had the audacity, the gall, to pair such a mocking title with such an opulent gift. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Chung Myung.”

Tang Bō was livid. So livid in fact he felt a smile drawing upon his face and a soft warm on his cheeks. That infuriating bastard.

So absorbed was he that he ignored the subtle footsteps that could be heard from the hallway. As subtle as a strutting peacock.

His fingers curled protectively around the journal, clutching it closer to his chest as if it might slip away. His face burned, the warmth spreading from his cheeks to his ears. Before he could stop himself, his free hand absently gathering the discarded silk wrapping. He felt ridiculous, cradling the thing like it was precious, yet he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

His door slide open.

The crane and turtle stared up at him, their meaning teasing at the edge of his mind. Repeating in his mind the old tale. He closed his eyes and sighed, the weight of the journal oddly comforting against him.

Yet that stupid title. He felt livid.

Livid enough to smile.

"That was fast..." Tang Bō whipped his head around, spotting Chung Myung leaning casually against the doorframe, holding a bottle from Bō's private stash in a hand, a self-satisfied smirk plastered across his face. His posture alone exuding brazenness. "Well?"

He asked, though the glint in his eyes suggested he already knew the answer. Tang Bō tightened his grip on the journal, glaring at him.

“You—” He struggled for the right words, torn between berating him and… whatever else was clawing at his chest. “You think this is funny?”

Chung Myung shrugged, his smirk widening. “A little.”

Bō stopped a few paces away, glaring at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that?”

Chung Myung raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “What’d I do now?”

Bō held up the journal, shaking it slightly for emphasis. “This.” He jabbed a finger at the title. “Do you have any idea how insufferable you are?”

Chung Myung took a slow sip of his wine, utterly unfazed. “Pretty sure you’ve told me before.”

“And you keep proving me right.”

“Come on,” Chung Myung said, leaning back against the tree with a smug grin. “It’s a nice journal, isn’t it? You’re holding it like it’s your firstborn.”

Bō opened his mouth to retort, but the words died on his tongue. He glanced down at the journal, realizing with some embarrassment that he was holding it close, his fingers clutching the edges protectively. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go.

“It’s too much,” he muttered, his voice softer now.

Chung Myung waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. You needed something better than that old rag you’ve been scribbling in. Consider it an upgrade.”

Bō looked at him, searching for any hint of mockery, but all he found was a quiet sort of pride. Chung Myung didn’t say it outright—he never would—but the effort behind the gift, the careful thought that went into every detail, spoke volumes.

“You’re insufferable,” Bō said again, but this time there was no bite to his wor ds.

“And you’re welcome,” Chung Myung said, his tone maddeningly smug, his eyes flicked to the journal in Bō’s hands, the way he held it close. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not—” Tang Bō began, only to realize with horror that his lips had, in fact, curved upward. “For the record, the title’s still awful.”

Another low sip. “Awful, but true,”

Tang Bo stride closer. "Mhp. You're the one coming here eating our food, stealing my wine, taking over my bed, using our supplies. And I'm the leech?"

Chung Myung smirked, dismissing any grievances with a hand. "You're the one clinging like a leech when I'm around."

Tang Bō rolled his eyes, a gesture so dramatic it might’ve knocked his head back had he put any more force into it. “A leech?” he muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm. “If I’m a leech, you’re the idiot who keeps feeding me.”

Chung Myung didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re the one clinging to me like your life depends on it.” His smirk grew wider, like a cat toying with its prey. “Case in point—you're still holding that journal like a baby.”

Tang Bō felt the weight of the journal in his hands, his fingers curling tighter around it instinctively. Damn him, he thought. Chung Myung always had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things while making it feel like a joke.

Bō huffed, stepping closer, the silk wrapping clutched awkwardly in his free hand. “Speaking of this—what’s with the crane and turtle? Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Chung Myung blinked, and for a fleeting moment, there was something behind his gaze that Bō couldn’t quite place. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by feigned indifference. “What about it?”

Bō jabbed a finger at the embroidered design. “Don’t play dumb. You picked this on purpose. Crane and turtle—. Is there something you wanna say?”

Chung Myung raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as though the concept had never crossed his mind. “Bah, a dove and a gecko, what difference does it makes whatever vermin it has? You're reading too much into it.” He shrugged, leaning against the doorframe with that infuriating nonchalance. “I told the tailor to pick something that looked nice. Maybe they were feeling inspired.”

“Liar.” Bō’s accusation came fast, sharper than he intended, but he wasn’t about to let it go. “You’re not that clueless.”

“You’re assuming I care about that nonsense.” Chung Myung took another sip from the bottle, the glint in his eyes betraying his amusement. “Maybe I just thought it looked pretty. Ever consider that?”

“Pretty?” Bō’s voice cracked, half an incredulous scoff, half a laugh. “You expect me to believe you picked out this—” he shook the silk for emphasis, “—because it was ‘pretty?’”

Chung Myung tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, something he disguise by taking a longer sip. “Why not? You’re always scowling, so I figured you could use something cheerful.”

“Cheerful,” Bō repeated flatly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.” Chung Myung stepped closer, Bō could smell the liquor more acutely —damn his sharp nose, damn he didn't hate it—.

"Who's talking?" Chung Myung's tone dropping into something more familiar, more teasing leaning just slightly forward. “If I’d given you something plain, you’d complain. If I gave you something flashy, you’d say I was trying too hard. This?” He gestured lazily at the journal still in Bō’s hands. “It’s perfect because it’s already making you squirm.”

Bō flushed, the warmth creeping from his chest to his face, and he cursed himself for it. “I’m not squirming,” he muttered, averting his gaze. But even as he said it, his grip on the journal remained firm, his thumb tracing the green threads almost unconsciously.

“Sure you’re not.” Chung Myung’s grin widened, and he reached out, tapping the journal lightly with a finger. “Just say you like it”

“I—” The protest died in his throat. Bō glared at him instead, but it lacked the bite he intended. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Because it bears repeating.”

Chung Myung chuckled, stepping back and lifting the bottle in a mock toast. “I’m glad we’ve established that you’re predictable, clingy, and ridiculously oversentimental. The trifecta.”

Tang Bō opened his mouth to retort, but the words didn’t come. Instead, the warmth in his chest swelled, pushing past his bravado, settling into something… soft. Foreign. He hated it, and yet—he didn’t. Not entirely.

He was, in fact, a clingy leech. And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind.

With a resigned sigh, he clutched the journal tighter and muttered, “For the record, if I’m a leech, it’s only because you’re stupid enough to let me stick around.”

Chung Myung’s laugh was light, carefree, and entirely unbothered. The wine in his breath hitting more intensely. “You’re not wrong.”

Bō didn’t miss the way Chung Myung’s gaze lingered, just for a moment, on the way he held the journal close to his chest. And though the infuriating bastard said nothing more, Bō could still feel something hanging in the air between them.

He stared at the title again. He was, in fact, a clingy leech, if only for him. While Chung Myung, he turned around, unable to keep his own smile at bay.

#Self rb

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everytangbo · 6 months ago

Text

"The Insufferable Art of Mockery and Care"

Part 2

“Ran out of booze,” he’d mutter, a shrug, a grin, and nothing else. Convincing enough.

Anyway, He turned left, and walked five, six... Seven and a half steps.

So, checking on Bō was absolutely necessary.

Chung Myung’s lips curled upwards. “Clingy leech,” he muttered under his breath.

Instead, he sighed, rising to his feet. “Dumb egg...” he muttered.

Bō should have stirred by now. The fact that he hadn’t—still sunk so deeply into sleep—only underscored how long it must have been since he last rested properly. Days, probably. Maybe longer.

Chung Myung didn't bother grabbing the new flask he’d supposedly come for. Instead, his eyes wandered back to Bō, the steady rhythm of his breathing filling the silence.

“Idiot,” he whispered. Reaching out, he brushed an invisible speck of dust from Bō’s sleeve, the gesture light, fleeting.

The sight made the flicker of mischief in Chung Myung’s chest flare to life. He had an idea.

And, of course, only someone like Chung Myung could pull it off.

That's enough to calm the dumb leech down.

That’s when he realized the problem. He’d need water.

Good.

The thought was both amusing and mildly irritating.

Nothing.

He frowned, staring at the blank page as if it had insulted him.

Another sip.

Still nothing.

The words just wouldn’t come.

“Well, great,” he muttered under his breath, the brush hovering over the page. He could practically hear the old Sect Leader’s voice chiding him: Think before you act, boy.

But still.

He took another sip, leaning back slightly in the chair. The idea of putting the journal back crossed his mind, but it felt too much like giving up.

And giving up wasn’t in Chung Myung’s nature.

But still… damn it, what was he even trying to write?

Another sip.

“Erudite my ass,” Chung Myung muttered, his eyes darting to the shelves stuffed with scrolls and bound volumes.

No, what Bō-ya needed was to step up his game.

He adjusted his grip on the brush, dipped it into the baijiu-infused ink, and scrawled a few deliberate strokes across the open page.

«Bō-ya, if you’re reading this, stop wasting time. Go outside, fight someone, or at least find a new flask of wine. You're no fun when you’re sulking».

With a sigh, Chung Myung set the brush down on the ink stone and wandered over to the so-called library.

No. No.

'That damned monkey!'. His voice was low, venomous.

“Now that sounds promising,” he said, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He flipped it open to a random page, eyes scanning the lines.

A second passed.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

The book slammed shut, and Chung Myung clenched it tightly as if it might explode in his hands. His face burned. He resisted the overwhelming urge to hurl it at Bō’s sleeping form.

“To think you read this—in front of me!—with a straight face!” he hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at Bō’s unconscious figure. “You absolute lunatic.”

So he shoved the book back onto the shelf, only to grab another at random: «The Carnal Prayer Mat».

He didn’t even bother opening it. He tossed it aside like it had personally insulted him.

Still.

He cut himself off, letting the threat hang in the air. Not that he had any intention of following through. Not tonight.

His eyes landed on a verse:

Longing runs deep

Like boundless sea

Beautiful memories drift afar

Like heavenly clouds.

The corners of his lips curled as a thought struck him—a mischievous, undeniably petty thought. Bō loved his books, his words, his perfect little archive. What better way to make his mark?

«This diary is yours» Chung Myung muttered under his breath, the grin spreading, «but this page is mine. And you can’t do anything about it.»

With a quick flourish, he scrawled beneath the borrowed verse:

«Galling runs deep

Like boundless hives

Disastrous memories cackle at night.

Like pesky monkey.»

“Serves him right," he muttered, leaning back with a self-satisfied smirk. “He’s too used to silence when I’m not here.”

But only for a moment. He shook his head, grumbling, “Don’t get soft, idiot,” and flipped a few pages

And wasn’t that the whole point?

He waited just long enough for the ink to dry, fanning the pages with his hand and giving them a final light blow for good measure.

"Sucker," he muttered under his breath, crouching next to the mattress. "I’m the last person you should trust.”

He crawled onto the mattress, tucking it gently against Bō’s chest. To his amusement, Bō instinctively curled around it, holding it close like some cherished talisman. Chung Myung smirked.

"You look stupid," he muttered, his voice low enough not to disturb the sleeping figure.

He propped himself up on one elbow, gazing at the faint rise and fall of Bō’s chest. He didn’t have a reason to linger—not really. His work here was done. And yet, he didn’t move.

Falling asleep here wasn’t part of the plan, he told himself. But plans were overrated anyway.

“Clingy leech,” he muttered, glancing at Bō.

A minute passed.

And then another.

He let out an exaggerated sigh, his voice low and just audible enough to brush against the edges of Bō’s sleep. "What a soft mattress… no wonder he hogs it.”

The thought alone nearly made him laugh

"What a sight that’ll be in the morning," Chung Myung thought, already imagining the flushed look of horror on Bō’s face when he realized what had happened. The mess he'll be! Hilarious.

Chung Myung froze, savoring the moment, the corners of his lips pulling into a grin so wide it hurt. “Hah,” he whispered to himself, triumph laced in the quiet exhale. “Gotcha.”

“Clingy leech”, he mumbled one last time.

#tang bo's diaries #tang bo #chung myung #tangchung #non diary #rotbb #rotmhs #fanfic #continuation #return of the blossoming blade #return of the mount hua sect

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everytangbo · 6 months ago

Text

"The Insufferable Art of Mockery and Care"

Part 1

"Myung-Myung asked if I write a lot about him. I know he hasn't read this one, but it's a matter of time… Never thought I'd be hiding evidence.”

[And so he did, not only hiding the diary, but refusing to start a new one out of sheer self-awareness. Chung Myung didn't missed it.]

The sight stopped him cold.

A logbook.

Only one person. Only one person had the audacity, the gall, to pair such a mocking title with such an opulent gift. The realization hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Chung Myung.”

Tang Bō was livid. So livid in fact he felt a smile drawing upon his face and a soft warm on his cheeks. That infuriating bastard.

So absorbed was he that he ignored the subtle footsteps that could be heard from the hallway. As subtle as a strutting peacock.

His door slide open.

Yet that stupid title. He felt livid.

Livid enough to smile.

He asked, though the glint in his eyes suggested he already knew the answer. Tang Bō tightened his grip on the journal, glaring at him.

“You—” He struggled for the right words, torn between berating him and… whatever else was clawing at his chest. “You think this is funny?”

Chung Myung shrugged, his smirk widening. “A little.”

Bō stopped a few paces away, glaring at him. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that?”

Chung Myung raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “What’d I do now?”

Bō held up the journal, shaking it slightly for emphasis. “This.” He jabbed a finger at the title. “Do you have any idea how insufferable you are?”

Chung Myung took a slow sip of his wine, utterly unfazed. “Pretty sure you’ve told me before.”

“And you keep proving me right.”

“Come on,” Chung Myung said, leaning back against the tree with a smug grin. “It’s a nice journal, isn’t it? You’re holding it like it’s your firstborn.”

“It’s too much,” he muttered, his voice softer now.

Chung Myung waved a hand dismissively. “Nah. You needed something better than that old rag you’ve been scribbling in. Consider it an upgrade.”

“You’re insufferable,” Bō said again, but this time there was no bite to his wor ds.

“And you’re welcome,” Chung Myung said, his tone maddeningly smug, his eyes flicked to the journal in Bō’s hands, the way he held it close. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not—” Tang Bō began, only to realize with horror that his lips had, in fact, curved upward. “For the record, the title’s still awful.”

Another low sip. “Awful, but true,”

Tang Bo stride closer. "Mhp. You're the one coming here eating our food, stealing my wine, taking over my bed, using our supplies. And I'm the leech?"

Chung Myung smirked, dismissing any grievances with a hand. "You're the one clinging like a leech when I'm around."

Bō huffed, stepping closer, the silk wrapping clutched awkwardly in his free hand. “Speaking of this—what’s with the crane and turtle? Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

Bō jabbed a finger at the embroidered design. “Don’t play dumb. You picked this on purpose. Crane and turtle—. Is there something you wanna say?”

“Liar.” Bō’s accusation came fast, sharper than he intended, but he wasn’t about to let it go. “You’re not that clueless.”

“Cheerful,” Bō repeated flatly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.” Chung Myung stepped closer, Bō could smell the liquor more acutely —damn his sharp nose, damn he didn't hate it—.

“Sure you’re not.” Chung Myung’s grin widened, and he reached out, tapping the journal lightly with a finger. “Just say you like it”

“I—” The protest died in his throat. Bō glared at him instead, but it lacked the bite he intended. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Because it bears repeating.”

Chung Myung chuckled, stepping back and lifting the bottle in a mock toast. “I’m glad we’ve established that you’re predictable, clingy, and ridiculously oversentimental. The trifecta.”

He was, in fact, a clingy leech. And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t mind.

With a resigned sigh, he clutched the journal tighter and muttered, “For the record, if I’m a leech, it’s only because you’re stupid enough to let me stick around.”

Chung Myung’s laugh was light, carefree, and entirely unbothered. The wine in his breath hitting more intensely. “You’re not wrong.”

He stared at the title again. He was, in fact, a clingy leech, if only for him. While Chung Myung, he turned around, unable to keep his own smile at bay.

#tang bo's diaries #tang bo #chung myung #tangchung #Red diary #This was meant to be a Christmas present!#Its still December here! I didn't fail guys!!!#Theres a second and sorter part coming #But i couldn't get it ready.#rotbb #rotmhs #Merry Christmas #Late #And happy new year 🎉✨#Non diary

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