some tidbits about my dragon!mbj moshang wip (spoilers for the fic, but it’ll be a while before it’s posted lol)
The first sentence of the fic is “This is bullshit.” said by Shang Qinghua
It’s in SQH’s pov
SQH is part of an adventuring guild, as are all of cang qiong peak
an ding’s role in the guild isn’t that different from in svsss honestly. they catalogue and organize monster parts, they deliver important materials, perform various labor tasks, and compile all the adventurers’ notes, especially the ones about monster types
there’s an important distinction between adventurer and monster hunter. cang qiong is primarily adventurers. they will always first try to communicate with any monster they find, and only fight them if necessary.
MBJ is, obviously, an ice dragon. he has a full dragon form as well as a half dragon form
Binghe is a werewolf because it just makes sense to me. SQQ spends full moons “managing” his husband. they are already married at the start of the fic. i might write a fic about them in this universe eventually
in the end SQH basically becomes a part of MBJ’s hoard. he visits cang qiong guild sometimes, and he still helps out with an ding related jobs, but MBJ always gets cranky when SQH is gone too long.
MBJ never says it outright but SQH is the most important part of his hoard. obviously.
MBJ and Binghe do know each other prior to the fic, but it’s not super important to the plot
prev here - can be standalone
Pining Mobei-Jun x Oblivious Shang Qinghua
Shang Qinghua needs a holiday.
He indulges the thought for a precious minute — expensed at a triple rate to two separate merchant families who have decided to inflict this paperwork-based headache upon him — before dismissing any idea of white sandy beaches and tropical drinks with little umbrellas in them. With his luck, he’d be eaten by some monstrous mutated version of the Delicious-When-Fried Flounder and then plucked from its stomach to answer some petty squabble for his king. He presses his fingers into the bridge of his nose with the telltale squelch of ink, the scent sharp and vaguely atmospheric as it mingles with the pipe smoke on his skin, and muffles a scream.
In his next life, he’s going to write a better ending for the poor downtrodden logistics department. He’s punched down too often in his previous life and this is his eternal punishment for his transgressions.
It isn’t just his own peak that’s been gathering work in his absence, like he doesn’t have better things to do than chase his martial siblings across the peak for an expense report, Cucumber-bro. A few of Mobei-Jun’s court have started passing over documents through artificial portals “for his approval” and he’s happy to be of benefit to his king in any way he can be, not just for the continuation of little things like breathing, but because Shang Qinghua is biased to all hell, author’s privilege. But…
Shang Qinghua coughs, presses his mouth to his elbow as his shoulders heave and his breath catches in his lungs, dark spots burning through his cut-off vision.
He’s fine. He’s not going to see Mu Qingfang; he’s got too much work to waste half a day sitting in his shidi’s office only to be told he needs to waste more time “resting” and to smoke less.
He reaches for his pipe. It’s a delicately carved piece, the handle cool to the touch despite the cherry glow from the bowl. He tips another few pinches of his mixture into it — some of the herbs demonic in origin, another gift from his king — and presses it down before he scrabbles for a match. At least he’d thought to include this much when he’d been writing, Cucumber-bro would have a cited list and when and where. Shang Qinghua bites down on bone and breathes in.
There’s the snap of a portal behind him, light spilling across his ceiling in blue and pink and purple, and for fuck’s sake!!
“I don’t have the time or the patience for anymore of your dog shit forms,” he snarls, keeping his gaze locked on the desk in front of him. He blows out a swirl of smoke, the edges blistering in the air. “When I get a moment to breathe I’ll come down there and rip them out by the roots, hell, I’ll burn them alongside your entrails for good measure, and we’ll all hope that the pitiful sacrifice will inspire your successor to not piss me off, you dumb fuck demonic piece of—“
Shang Qinghua turns and looks at his oncoming death.
Mobei-Jun closes the portal with a splay of his fingers, his claws dark, frostbitten at the extended edges. He folds his arms over his chest, only highlighting the exposed swell barely contained by the low-cut of his robes. His claws remain out, indenting into his palms. Shang Qinghua flicks his gaze up to Mobei-Jun’s face and flinches at the intense stare, a sticky colour high in Mobei-Jun’s cheeks. His jaw is tight, matching his posture, and there will be no easy escape from the oncoming bloodshed.
“My king,” Shang Qinghua manages, his voice strangled in his chest before it could start walking. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Who did Qinghua think he was speaking to if not this king?” Mobei-Jun doesn’t move, only holds himself straighter. His lip curls over his teeth and why did Shang Qinghua give him fangs as well? He knows why. It’s fucking hot and Airplane is a weak-willed man.
Shang Qinghua doesn’t want the demons in the record department to die. He also doesn’t want to die, not yet, not here. He can’t afford to bleed out over his forms when he went to all the effort to get them organised and catalogued. A handful of the lower deputies are friendly with him and the steward — an imposing cat demon with four arms covered in a thick layer of speckled fur — will dutifully look away from Shang Qinghua when he’s sneaking around her domain which is basically friendship. “Ah, it would be of limited importance to you, my king. What did you travel to see this servant for? Can this servant be of assistance?”
“Qinghua.” Mobei-Jun leans forwards, a glacier carving free and beginning to descend on a hapless trembling village below. “This king wishes to know who has been visiting this servant in his absence. He needs to know.”
Shang Qinghua blinks as Mobei-Jun’s voice tightens, the words gritted out behind bared teeth. Anger would be understandable, Shang Qinghua is Mobei-Jun’s spy, his valuable resource to wield and to have a chance that another demon from his court would try to steal him away or injure him would be a logistical concern. But… he knows what Mobei-Jun looks like when he’s angry, the way Shang Qinghua’s breath would fog on the arm and the alert the System would ping across his field of vision.
This isn’t anger.
“A few demons from the record department have been passing forms over for my approval, my king.” Shang Qinghua’s grip tightens on his pipe, swallowing back the sour tang of smoke.
Mobei-Jun relaxes in fragments, his claws retracting as he lowers his arms to his side. A shame, really. “This king… apologises to Qinghua. He did not mean to interfere with Qinghua’s duties.”
Shang Qinghua is missing something, the gap pressing against the soft space of his gums like a lost tooth. Writing Proud Immortal Demon Way had been a labour of love and just a labour at the start, begging for pennies for exclusive chapters in his freezing apartment wih bare cupboards so he could keep his internet on, and he can’t remember exactly what he included and what had just been a passing thought. But Shang Qinghua knows for certain that Mobei-Jun is his favourite character and he’ll keep him safe until the end.
“Please don’t apologise, my king. It’s fine! I’m happy to assist in any way I can.”
Movie-Jun hums, plucking a small pouch from his belt and dropping it into Shang Qinghua’s reflexively outstretched hand before he portals away.
The bag contains fresh herbs, already cut fine enough to smoke. Shang Qinghua tips out the ashes and refills his pipe, breathing out smoke that blurs blue and pink and purple. It’s not a holiday, but it is somehow even better.
Final fic for this set! Pining Mobei-Jun x Oblivious Shang Qinghua feat a realisation. First, Prev.
Fuck, he’s late!
Airplane scrambles for the alarm buzzing on his dresser, already trying to detangle his legs from the blankets — too many, his skin tacky with sweat — and shove his feet into slippers. He still needs to edit the next chapter and start the one after that, there’s a reader poll and comments and he needs to check his bank account to see how far he can stretch it for the bills this week and—
Shang Qinghua yelps as a cold hand brushes against the back of his neck before he’s lifted by the back of his robes, the blankets drawn from the knot around his thighs, and he’s dropped back onto the bed. He bounces slightly, the expected shriek of springs or the thump of the floor beneath absent. “My king?”
Mobei-Jun doesn’t crouch down to Shang Qinghua’s level, but there’s a decrease all the same, a deliberate shift of his shoulders, a curve of his spine. In any other cultivation space, he would seem out of place, but in Shang Qinghua’s combination bedroom-study, he’s complimented by the silver smoking pipe on his desk, the carvings an old legend from the Northern Desert; the hunk of gemstone he’s using as a paperweight and the larger piece that acts as a doorstop; the plants in varying stages of desperate drowning abundance thanks to the milder weather and copious in comparison sunlight.
“Qinghua did not answer.” Mobei-Jun’s scowl deepens, his fangs indenting his lower lip. He’s braided his hair back from his face, a thin chain twisted alongside the strands and encircling his head. “This king grew concerned.”
The modified banishing stone buzzes once more on the bedside table. Since Mobei-Jun discovered that members of his court had been using the artificial portals to hand work over to Shang Qinghua, he’d altered the runes burnt into the foundations to restrict portals to just one room, barring entry unless Shang Qinghua permits it.
Shang Qinghua scrambles from his bed, tripping over his own feet once more, only for Mobei-Jun to reach out and steady him with one hand to his chest. It’s a balm to Shang Qinghua’s overwarm being, his clothes clinging to the line of his spine, the crease of his thighs, and he can’t help but lean into it, for a moment. Mobei-Jun’s eyes widen before his gaze twitches away from Shang Qinghua to the bed behind him.
“You kept this king’s cloak?”
Oh. Yes. He had.
Shang Qinghua straightens reluctantly — half of his wardrobe is demonic in make so the cloak had been slightly more than an absent thought to take with him — and he turns to look at his bed. He’s got a few pillows (several), a handful of blankets (many), and stretched along one end where Shang Qinghua’s head had been, bunched up where he had tangled his hands into it and held it close, lies Mobei-Jun’s cloak.
“This servant apologises?”
“This king did not notice its absence. Qinghua is welcome to keep it.” Mobei-Jun doesn’t look away from the bed. Ice crystals bloom over his shoulders, exposed in the drastic low-cut of his shirt, a thin chain and the grace of a deity that hates Shang Qinghua keeping it up around his chest. Thin lines of silver embroidery bleed with the frost, crystals beginning to blur the outlines of a hulking monster and the smaller figure hunting it depicted across the hem. Airplane knows that scene; he’d agonised over the description for it for three hours and resorted to scrawling stick figures on a napkin for the sake of two lines of description as Luo Binghe swept through the Northern Desert Palace. It doesn’t mean it wasn’t important, the first true kill of the demon prince who would be Mobei-Jun, and Airplane remembers every piece of it.
Shang Qinghua bows, the movement halted by Mobei-Jun’s fingers pressing beneath his chin, delicate enough to not break skin or even give the impression of trying to. “My king?”
“This king has a question for Qinghua, and a gift.” Mobei-Jun reaches into the folds of his cloak and draws out a small bundle wrapped in a brightly patterned cloth.
“My king is too good to this servant,” Shang Qinghua murmurs as sections of his brain fizz into static as Mobei-Jun withdraws his hand from his chin. Shang Qinghua carefully undoes the cord holding it together. “Gloves, my king?”
They’re finely made, Shang Qinghua’s honed sense of quality bleeding through from hours of scrolling through items he’d never be able to buy but would bookmark all the same, and a more practiced edge from An Ding Peak. They’re a densely woven fabric in dark blue with a pattern picked out around the cuffs and the knuckles, a regional design from the Northern Desert. Shang Qinghua pulls them on and groans at the pressure against his joints, an ache he’d been ignoring for months carefully alleviated and he didn’t even have to go see Mu Qingfang. How did Mobei-Jun know?
“Thank you, my king,” Shang Qinghua sighs, flexing his fingers and oh, a full range of motion, how he’s missed it.
“Qinghua accepts the gift?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good.” Mobei-Jun’s grin is sharp, revealing a devastating set of fangs. “This king will announce the continuation of his courtship to the court.”
Okay.
Wait, what?
“A courtship, my king?” Shang Qinghua’s heart rate spikes. Luo Binghe’s future might be unfolding differently to how he’d written it but he doesn’t think that stealing one of the protagonist’s possible future wives would work out well if the original plot comes crashing down. And also, just who the fuck has Mobei-Jun been courting and Shang Qinghua hadn’t noticed? “With who?”
Mobei-Jun tips his head to one side, staring down at Qinghua with his brow furrowed. “With Qinghua. Did this king not follow human customs correctly?”
Oh.
Oh, fuck, those had been dates. Shang Qinghua is an idiot. He’s the creator of the universe and an idiot and he’s being courted by Mobei-Jun.
“No, no.” He’s babbling, waving his hands as he speaks and he barely knows what he’s saying, only that he’s saying something because that’s what he does, and his creation, the best thing he could have ever created in a world that was never meant to love him does. “—upwards of several times, my king, and this servant can only apologise for—”
A hand on his head, broad and faintly clawed and still so blessedly cool. “Does Qinghua accept this king’s courtship?”
“I do.”
“Then he shall be queen, no longer a servant.”
He wonders, not for the first time but the first in a truly practical sense, what it would be like to kiss Mobei-Jun. “If my king could lean down?”
It’s a little awkward; with Mobei-Jun’s fangs to consider (still hot as fuck) and he runs cool enough that Shang Qinghua sticks to him, but it’s perfect all the same.
Xiang Fei(SQH) has a super short ceiling so Mobei Jun has to crouch down, especially with their height difference now, to get a real look at his hubby😆🥹🫶
I had a bit of difficulty trying to figure out what to put in the background, especially for the perspective and what Xiang Fei’s room would look like, but a dark room also works too, with a bad lightbulb😅😆
Mobei Jun would be so happy to see his hubby actually looks like, being such a soft bean though he definitely shocked Xiang Fei half to transmigrating again by crawling through his monitor, poor guy😭
My comms are currently open with links in my pinned post to my ko-fi and carrd, and feel free to dm me with any questions or requests if you’re interested🫶
If Shang Qinghua would rewrite the world again, he wouldn’t bother including An Ding Peak. It felt necessary the first time around, an easy way to silence the literary course critic on his shoulder who squeaked through the early chapter doubts about the logistics of things, where did the peaks get their food, general safeguarding practices around flying swords, a generic catch-all for all the mundane day-to-day workings, an overworked and underappreciated department. Jokes on him.
“—and that’s not even factoring in the claim made by Qiang Xia about the state of her stock. If she decides to stop trading with us and renegotiate then we can expect an increase of forty percent.” Zhì Huì makes another lap of Shang Qinghua’s office, steps over the same pile of reports that she had originally walked around, and returns to her haunt at his other shoulder. “What do you think?”
Shang Qinghua is on his third day of a headache, his fourth day of sleeping at his desk, and his second favourite threat to his past self for spending hours slouched over a keyboard. He doesn’t answer her immediately, pressing his hands behind his hips and leaning back until something catches and releases, a set of guttural cracks echoing from his spine. Zhì Huì flinches, scowling as she adjusts her grip on the report to better use it as a potential weapon. Clearly been spending too much time around Shen Qingqiu.
“If Qiang Xia wants to fuck around, then she can find out.” Shang Qinghua straightens, turning to meet Zhì Huì’s gaze. She’s one of his better disciples, exactingly blunt with a press of her thumb on the scales and one of the few he can spare to chase Bai Zhan disciples around the peak to try and get them to explain what ‘mission-critical requests’ meant to them and why three packs of fresh rose petals wasn’t it. His curses get a blink and another tally added onto a chart in the disciple quarters, their own personal version of a doomsday clock. Shang Qinghua stands, a wash of static skittering down his leg and he braces one hand on his desk as he turns toward the window. It’s shuttered, a thin band of light slowly creeping across the ceiling towards a dark mark etched into the wood.
Fuck.
Shit.
Okay, it’s fine.
…Fuck.
Shang Qinghua claps his hands together, ignoring the debris tipping off the side of his desk, the uneasy swirl just behind his eyes. He’s spent longer than this crouched in front of his computer screen, bleeding out onto a blank word document for the sake of scraps thrown his way, worse somehow than hopping into a bin to search for his next meal because he is witnessed because of it.
He has so much to do. Dying hadn’t alleviated the weight of his to-do, only altered it slightly.
Another glance at his ceiling, sunlight wavering closer to the mark.
“We have some contracts with the Huang family. It’s not quite the same prospects as Xia, but if we also reach out to Pan’s trading post out on the outskirts—” He wrote this shit, it isn’t insider trading if he created the marketplace in the first place “—as they’ve been wanting to get a foothold.”
Zhì Huì’s stylus scrawled across the wax tablet at her waist, her tongue clamped between her teeth. She’s barely breathing in case it disturbs the ideas condensing in the air like a storm cloud, a few strands of hair coming loose from the tie at the nape of her neck and sticking to her cheek.
Another glance at the ceiling. Shang Qinghua is running out of time. He’s worked himself to the bone, balancing the reports cascading over his desk from An Ding peak and every petty power struggle that the merchants want to engage in with the tower of assassination plots and other general dick-measuring that the demons want to try with their king’s, with Shang Qinghua’s king’s, human spy. He’s sick, he’s done. He wants air conditioning and enough caffeine to nuke his stomach and make him regret the life choices he hasn’t even made yet. “Okay. I’m done for the next few hours.”
Zhì Huì nods once, her gaze flickering between Shang Qinghua and her tablet. He can’t even guess at what she sees as she looks at him; an imposter wearing a stolen shape of his own fucking creation, like seriously, Shang Qinghua, of all his characters, fucking why?
“Get some sleep, Shizun.” She bows once and leaves the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Shang Qinghua abandons his desk, his one constant in this shitstorm, and staggers the few steps to his bed, kicking a loose pile of papers out of his way. His king should be arriving soon, his arrival marked on the ceiling after one too many close calls with other disciples or Peak Lords now that he has forced his way through the ranks. It is a sequence they plot their lives around, a singular constant like the moon hanging heavy in the sky, a more constant companion for Shang Qinghua than the sun these days. He’ll sit and wait for his king. Close his eyes for a few minutes.
Just a few.
There’s a hand in his hair, carefully skirting around the shell of his ear as the person, the man, thigh solid beneath his cheek, woodsmoke clinging to his clothes, carefully works through the tangles he finds. Shang Qinghua shifts, grumbling some nondescript complaint at the slight sting in his scalp, and the man stops.
Wait.
What?
“My king!” Shang Qinghua yelps, throwing himself upright. It’s a scramble, limbs deadened by his impromptu nap, the desire to just stay where he is like he’s napping beneath blankets with the air conditioning going just because he fucking could, but he’ll never recover from it if he does.
Mobei-Jun watches him carefully. “This king was delayed,” he says, his voice tight. “He apologises for making Qinghua wait.”
The sun slants across the ceiling, several feet from the dark mark. Shang Qinghua doesn’t know how long he’s slept for, he can’t remember the last time he slept that well. “My king, this servant begs your forgiveness for missing the start of our meeting! He never intended to make you wait—“ Shang Qinghua apologises on reflex, his mouth moving and words spilling forth as he studies his king beneath lowered lashes.
There’s a faint flush on Mobei-Jun’s face, anger beneath the surface or the warmth of the Peak, if he had to guess. Shang Qinghua lowers his face to the bedsheets. He’s going to have to change them if he ever wants to sleep again, dammit.
Still, it was the best sleep he’s had since he woke up in this world, and it’s all because of his king.
Og Shang QingHua and Mobei Jun Angst Dynamics again, I came up with the og sketch AGES AGO but never fully got onto it… until now!
I really adored the og sketch alot even though it was super scribbly and loose, it based off all those kissy poses, but i decided to go a bit more angsty for funzies… I just the love the frenimies dynamic with only this couple apparently, cause Qinghua being an evil little scheming gremlin behind Mobei’s back while he’s figuring out whether or not to trust his advisoris just beautiful! Can you tell i’ve thouht about this a lot, Idk they’re just so fun to draw hehehehe.
direct follow on from here
Pining Mobei-Jun x Oblivious Shang Qinghua
“You were amazing, my king.” Shang Qinghua muffles his yawn with the back of his hand, something faintly sticky and sweet smeared across the back of it. Trays of food were escorted around the gathering, a deliberately constructed variety of bites to whisper stability in the minds of the guests, and Shang Qinghua may have sampled one or two. Or three. Or four.
He was peckish! It might’ve been half a lifetime before this one but he isn’t about to pass up free food that someone else is paying for. He’s had a peak at Mobei-Jun’s books and, apart from someone in the treasury beginning to lightly skim off the top which he’ll sort out for his king, Mobei-Jun could afford it.
“Qinghua enjoyed his time?” Mobei-Jun asks, shrugging out of his outer robe and stepping behind an engraved screen. The room is mostly how Shang Qinghua had pictured it with some of the dimensions shortened for the sake of realism. Luo Binghe had never needed to enter Mobei-Jun’s private quarters, so it had remained an idle daydream Airplane indulged in, along with thoughts of his landlord dropping dead and that a winning lottery ticket would be tucked into his takeaway box. One side is dominated by the bed, slightly sunken and covered by a scattering of pelts and furs. Some are familiar to Qinghua from several hours before and his thoughts stumble over the implications that the furs Mobei-Jun tipped onto his head are from his king’s bed.
Must be because he knew they were functional to stop him from freezing. Yeah. Okay then.
Shang Qinghua coughs, tears his gaze away only for it to lock onto the screen. Fuck!
“Yes, my king. This humble servant thanks you for the opportunity.” Airplane had never really done the whole corporate thing, but he’d gathered the basics of looking like he was engrossed in something while eavesdropping in school and whatever coffee shop was cheapest when he couldn’t stand the sight of his apartment for a second longer. It was still cool to see the demons he’d made in person, terrifying as some of his more fantastical descriptions might have been. Glowing tendrils for hair had been hauntingly ethereal for wife number five-hundred-and-something-he-had-bills-to-pay-shut-up-Cucumber-bro, but mildly terrifying in practice as the pair almost seemed to float across the main hall like a pair of haunted puppets, their eyes hidden in the shadows cast by their hair, their shape in constant fluctuation. Nightmare fuel, but safe for his king.
Mobei-Jun’s inner robe lands to the side of the screen, his shape barely visible through a crack where the screen folds.
“My king?” Shang Qinghua squeaks, pressing his hands to his face and peering through the gap in his fingers.
Mobei-Jun stretches, lifts his arms over his head as he does so, and he’s still wearing his jewellery, a tangle of leather cords around one wrist woven with tiny bones and teeth, and a silver cuff on the other. His claws are sharp, indenting the flesh of his palm before he flexes them with a small snick as they extend an inch. “Qinghua watched this king as he promised? He has information for this king.”
Right. Okay. Focus. He can do this. He just needs to pretend like the most beautiful man in two worlds isn’t stripping in the same room as him.
“The Gelu tribe are going to try and launch a coup before the end of the year.”
Mobei-Jun stills, a sudden absence of the gentle rustle of fabric, the clink of metal. Shang Qinghua’s breath fogs the air in front of him, his knuckles beginning to ache with the cold.
“Explain.”
By the time Luo Binghe rose to power, the tribe had been crushed to barely more than a branch family and one eligible daughter for him to add his harem, but the coup had been a bloodthirsty one, and Shang Qinghua would rather not be collateral in that if he can help it. He’s not as calculating as the original goods.
“They’ve brought more members of the clan than would be expected, a four hundred percent increase from the previous year's celebration.” Shang Qinghua shifts his weight from side to side, lowering his hands to worry at the end of his sleeve. “Several of them split off from the main event to survey the local area of the castle, while the majority were entirely focused on you.”
“Not uncommon,” Mobei-Jun murmurs, stepping out from behind the screen. He’s forgone his shirt and robes entirely, dressed in a loose pair of trousers sitting low on his hips, and Shang Qinghua could die the happiest man alive right here, right now. He moves towards the bed, sitting on the edge, and begins to separate his loose hair into sections to braid it.
Fuck’s sake, focus!!
Shang Qinghua wrote something miraculous when he wrote Mobei-Jun.
“The gift they brought looks like a Purple-Glowing Lily but it isn’t.” Shang Qinghua takes a few steps, turns back on himself and starts to pace. His words stumble out faster, his hands splayed in front of him as he tries to explain. He might have forgotten the specifics, but the world is still his, and System be damned, he’ll keep Mobei-Jun safe until his own destruction. “It is a Violet-Grasping Lily. Closely related, but harder to find so at least they’ve put some serious effort into keeping you in one place to murder you?”
Mobei-Jun hasn’t looked away from him, his eyes dark beneath the fall of his hair. His braid is loose between his fingers, strands falling free as Shang Qinghua makes another circuit.
“It won’t activate until the command word is said and given their location, I would think that they’ve picked a regional word.” It’s what Shang Qinghua would do, what he will do once he manages to grow the clipping he took when Mobei-Jun had passed him the gift as he had with every piece of tribute handed over. “And when it does, it will plunge roots into the ground, break stone and ice to do so, and it will thread leaves through your skin to hold you in place.”
“Qinghua is sure?” Mobei-Jun stands in one fluid motion, crossing the distance between them in a matter of seconds and Shang Qinghua can’t say for sure if the other man portalled just to get there quicker, the air heavy with frost.
“Yes, my king.” There will be blood on Mobei-Jun’s claws by morning, bright green with the tang of old pipes, and it will be partially because of Shang Qinghua. He waits for the guilt and feels nothing but deliberate satisfaction.
Mobei-Jun presses a clawed finger beneath Shang Qinghua’s chin, his heart stuttering as he rises up onto his toes to avoid the chill, the pressure against soft skin. “If Qinghua is lying…”
“Never, my king. This servant would never lie to you.”
OG flavour MoShang, similar to my pair of drawing of them kissing pieces😆🫣
Idk why but absolutely also love angsty back stabbing moshang, its so much fun to draw this dynamic and honestly… sassy sqh has so much pretty privilege😅😌✨ Boi is too sassy petty for his own good istg!!
Anyways, this Moshang dynamic is the one i live for, and also them being soft obviously but angst is fun from time to time
Comms are open, if interested check out my carrd and ko-fi linked in pinned post or send me a dm if interested!💛
