Shang Qinghua comenzó a escribir ‘Camino del Orgulloso Demonio Inmortal’ a los 20 años, ganando un lector obstinado que busca enamorarlo, perdiendo a su hermana y tomando la responsabilidad de criar a su sobrino llevándolo a vivir una vida caótica.
Una coincidencia traerá en el futuro a Mobei Jun de regreso en su vida, su querido lector ahora convertido en Editor, para la desgracia de Shang Binghe que no quiere compartir a su padre.
Shang Qinghua comenzó a escribir ‘Camino del Orgulloso Demonio Inmortal’ a los 20 años, ganando un lector obstinado que busca enamorarlo, perdiendo a su hermana y tomando la responsabilidad de criar a su sobrino llevándolo a vivir una vida caótica.
Una coincidencia traerá en el futuro a Mobei Jun de regreso en su vida, su querido lector ahora convertido en Editor, para la desgracia de Shang Binghe que no quiere compartir a su padre.
A los 20 años, la vida de Shang Qinghua cambió drásticamente cuando su hermana decidió salir del ojo público y pedir su ayuda. El embarazo de Su Xiyan y comenzar su carrera como escritor novato, terminarán desencadenando todo tipo de sucesos.
Entre un fanático que parece decidido a enamorarlo, una súbita pérdida y quedando a cargo de su sobrino, las cosas no podrían ser más caóticas en su vida.
Viviendo lejos de la ciudad y todo lo que conocía, intentando mantenerse a flote como escritor novato y padre soltero, sin imaginar lo que el futuro lejano puede depararle cuando un nuevo editor llegue a su vida. O regrese a ella, para la desgracia de Shang Binghe.
AU Moderno, Escritor SQH, Editor MBJ, Explícito, Kid Fic, Papá SQH, LGJ es un buen tío, Time Skips, Todo pasa en 16 años, Relaciones Pasadas, Reencuentros (?), Baby LBH, Teen LBH, +
My pice for moshang mini bang 2021 and great fic written by @sexy_apocalypse! Don’t miss this story, moshang with god!Qinghua just hits different @EventsMoshang
In this mountainous country the snow falls readily, and the hardy pines withstand the winter storms. Shang Qinghua was delighted to come across this patch of land, dotted with trees that wear white shawls along their many arms. His boots crunch as he makes his way through the snow, his breath coming out in visible gray puffs.
Mobei-jun follows behind him at a short distance. He does this sometimes, just follows Shang Qinghua like a particularly loyal pup. Some dog, Shang Qinghua thinks, looking over. Huge and imposing, looking as though you could break a tree trunk over his head and he wouldn’t be the slightest bit dazed. But he still tails Shang Qinghua silently, unsmiling. His eyes have a kind of spark in them, though, and Shang Qinghua knows well by now that it’s not a spark anyone else has the privilege to see.
Shang Qinghua crouches in the snow and rolls a snowball slowly in his hands. Does he dare? It’s not as if his king isn’t aware of every movement he makes. He can feel those cold eyes on him. But when he glances over to where Mobei-jun stands in the snow, dark cloak a monolith against the whiteness everywhere, the temptation is just irresistible. “My king!” he calls out. “Look alive!”
And he lets the snowball fly.
It hits Mobei-jun squarely on the chest. Mobei-jun looks down, briefly, at the spot of impact, and then back up at Shang Qinghua’s face. Confusion hovers in his eyes.
Shang Qinghua slaps his hands on his hips, elbows bending. “Well?” he says. “Now you get to hit me back!”
Mobei-jun looks even more confused.
“With a snowball,” Shang Qinghua coaches. “Just reach down and roll one up. Then try to catch me!”
Pensive, Mobei-jun stares at him for a moment. Then, carefully, he kneels down and takes a clump of snow in one broad hand.
Shang Qinghua shrieks and runs.
He hides behind the skinny trunk of a nearby tree, but Mobei-jun is there before he can blink. The snowball plonks against his ribs. It stings, and the “ow” is out of Shang Qinghua’s mouth before he can stop it.
Mobei-jun pulls back, horror in his eyes.
Shang Qinghua laughs. “Don’t try to kill me with it,” he lectures. “Just try to get me covered with snow.”
“Why?” Mobei-jun asks.
“Because it’s fun! But my king, you’ll have to give me a handicap because you’re much quicker then–” and Shang Qinghua lets fly the snowball he’s been hiding in his left hand the whole time. It explodes with a satisfying thud against Mobei-jun’s shoulder, caking his right side with snow. Shang Qinghua erupts with a shriek, as if he were the one hit, and dashes across the snowy landscape to hide behind a different tree.
This time, Mobei-jun doesn’t immediately follow him. Instead he walks slowly, boots crunching in the snow, toward Shang Qinghua’s hiding place.
Assuming his king has got the gist of the game now, Shang Qinghua squats and rolls up another snowball. He tosses it at the approaching Mobei-jun. It misses. Shang Qinghua makes another.
Mobei-jun is getting closer. This time Shang Qinghua hits him low in the belly. Mobei-jun actually staggers back a step, which seems odd. He’s been hit by far more powerful things than snowballs before and stood his ground. Shang Qinghua hurls again, hits again, and again Mobei-jun takes a step back before resuming his approach.
Okay, so he’s definitely doing this for Shang Qinghua’s benefit. Shang Qinghua can’t help but find this more than a little endearing. He tosses a few loose bits of snow and retreats to yet another tree. Mobei-jun follows. But about twenty feet from the tree, he halts and just stands there, like a massive black statue, and waits.
Shang Qinghua pauses mid-rolling of a snowball. “My king?” he ventures, peeking out from behind the tree.
Mobei-jun is quiet, but his eyes catch Shang Qinghua’s as if to say, go on.
“All right,” Shang Qinghua says with a laugh, “but you’re asking for it.”
He rolls up a neat row of snowballs, half a dozen altogether, and takes two in his hands, letting them go one after the other. They both hit their target. Mobei-jun takes two steps back, one for each hit, and his huge frame seems to waver, as though he might be blown over by a breeze. Either this snow has magical properties or … Shang Qinghua catches his breath. …or he’s playing with me. He’s not sure which option is more impossible.
He tests his theory. The third snowball is lobbed gently, and lands with no sting on Mobei-jun’s hip. Mobei-jun looks down at it, then wavers again. Then he turns his gaze to Shang Qinghua, and the message in that gaze is unmistakable. Do it again.
Shang Qinghua is delighted. Mobei-jun doesn’t have a sense of humor as a rule, and yet there can be no doubt of what he’s doing. Laughing aloud, Shang Qinghua pelts him with the remaining snowballs, one-two-three, and claps his hands in joy when Mobei-jun feigns injury and falls to one knee, then flat onto his back in the snow.
“My king,” Shang Qinghua calls out. “I had no idea you could be this much fun.”
He expects Mobei-jun to sit up and give him a death glare. After all, a demon king admitting to such pedestrian pleasures would be embarrassing in the extreme. But Mobei-jun lies motionless, his cloak splayed out against the snowy field, edges flapping in the wind.
Maybe there’s magic in the snowballs after all, Shang Qinghua thinks with some distress. He clambers out from behind his tree and hurries toward the felled figure. “My king?” he cries, falling to his knees beside Mobei-jun’s still form. “Are you all right?”
Mobei-jun is still. His eyes are closed. His vestments are covered in crumbling white.
“My… king?” His skin is still its usual icy pale – can’t tell a thing with his complexion normally like that. Shang Qinghua leans down further, straining to sense whether he’s breathing. Carefully, he shifts a rare unfettered strand of hair to the side so he can better access Mobei-jun’s nose and mouth. Yes, he seems to be still breathing…
…and his eyes are open.
And he’s got one hand on the top of Shang Qinghua’s head.
“My–” is all that can get out of Shang Qinghua’s throat before the demon king pulls him down into a kiss.
Mobei-jun’s other hand clamps onto Shang Qinghua’s lower back, holding him there. His lips are warm despite the freezing temperatures. He kisses Shang Qinghua for a long moment. Somewhere above, a bird cries out in a crude caw. The winter breeze touches Shang Qinghua’s cheeks.
Shang Qinghua can barely draw in breath when Mobei-jun finally lets him go. He stares, trying to put together what has just happened. Mobei-jun did all of that – to get a kiss? “My king–” starts to issue from his lips, but his thoughts get tangled up and what ends up coming out is an undignified “No magic snowballs?”
Still just a breath away, Mobei-jun tilts his head just so, confused.
“I mean – I thought –” Shang Qinghua straightens up. “You couldn’t be – so the only other possibility was –” He tries to pull his thoughts together. “My king, were you – teasing me?”
Mobei-jun doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls himself up off the ground and pulls Shang Qinghua up to his feet alongside him. “There’s snow on you,” he says, looking displeased, and bends to brush off the snow that’s caked at Shang Qinghua’s knees.
Shang Qinghua’s face goes hot. “There’s – on you too,” he says haplessly, and tries to pat off some of the snow on Mobei-jun’s shoulders and chest. He can’t reach very well, and it’s in vain anyway: When Mobei-jun straightens up, he shakes the remainder of the snow off of himself in a single movement.
“You fought well,” he says, serious as the grave. “You felled me.”
His expression is too somber. Shang Qinghua bursts out laughing. “I suppose I did!” He puts his hands on his hips and preens like a rooster.
Mobei-jun watches him with a wary eye. “Don’t think too much of it,” he warns.
Shang Qinghua ponders a Mobei-jun who is the laughingstock of the demon world for purposefully losing a snowball fight. It’s hilarious. “Haha, don’t worry, my king, I’ll keep this just between us.” He pats Mobei-jun on the shoulder.
Those icy eyes shift, darting down toward the place of contact. He grimaces. Shang Qinghua pulls back with a rueful chuckle and pulls his hand behind his back meekly.
Mobei-jun clears his throat. “I suppose this entitles you to a favor,” he says.
Afavor. Shang Qinghua hadn’t even thought of it. Now, his brain starts prickling with ideas. He should make Mobei-jun give him a foot massage. Bathe with him. Make him more handmade noodles. He should make Shang Qinghua king for a day.
But no. He’s already created an entire world. And although the noodles were good, it was clear Mobei-jun hadn’t ever cooked before. His king’s hands are too cold for a foot massage, and Shang Qinghua is afraid he’d melt in the bath. He shakes his head clear of the ideas and smiles brightly up at Mobei-jun’s stern face. “I suppose I’ll be satisfied,” he says, “with just another kiss or two.”
“You have earned the spoils of war,” Mobei-jun intones, and draws him close again.
