Work Text:
This is a particularly unfair time, Shang Qinghua thinks to himself, to be having an existential crisis. Not that his life—either of them, really—is ever fair.
But for now, in the midst of it, all Shang Qinghua can do is grit his teeth tighter with every garment Mobei-jun removes, and curse his racing, terrified thoughts.
He is not afraid of Mobei-jun. He hasn't been for years. The fear and despair simmering within him has nothing to do with the gorgeous, stubborn demon currently tossing his bracers to the ground.
Any sane person would be laser-focused on Mobei-jun, his tall, regal figure limned in moonlight as he stands at the edge of an icy lake. As he disrobes at the edge of a lake. Is he going for some sort of midnight swim? Whatever his motivations, he is undoubtedly stripping, and it's not— He doesn't belong to Shang Qinghua. Shang Qinghua cannot have him.
Shang Qinghua's eyes certainly track every new bit of Mobei-jun that is revealed, even as his mind whirs. His king removes his last robe, baring his broad shoulders, his wide back and thick waist, and when he turns slightly to drop the fabric to the growing pile already on the ground, Shang Qinghua has to bite back an involuntary sound.
Shang Qinghua, like, he knew. He has been aware of the thick, curly hair that covers his king's chest for ages. For decades. He… thinks about it often. At night. When he is alone.
He had not known that the same tantalizingly soft-looking hair covered his king's midsection as well, that it grew even darker and thicker as it made its way down Mobei-jun's belly, disappearing into his—
"Trousers," Shang Qinghua chokes, because Mobei-jun is shucking out of those as well. Mobei-jun casts a brief look in his direction—damned demonic hearing—but luckily does not call Shang Qinghua out on his traitorous mouth, nor does he end Shang Qinghua's pitiful life for the shameless way he is staring.
"Shang Qinghua," Mobei-jun says. Shang Qinghua's jaw squeaks worryingly in his head when he unclenches it.
"My king?" Holy shit, Mobei-jun is naked, just like. Wholly, not a scrap of clothing on him anywhere, naked. When had he ditched his boots and socks? Is Shang Qinghua losing time? Is he qi deviating?
Even his king's thighs are hairy. His calves. The very tops of his feet. This time, Shang Qinghua barely stops the pathetic whimper trying to push from his throat.
"Come," Mobei-jun says nonsensically. Shang Qinghua's confusion must show on his face—either that, or he looks every bit as miserable as he feels—because Mobei-jun tsks his tongue and beckons him closer.
A sturdy, perfectly-arched foot dips into the water, and when Mobei-jun looks again over his shoulder, his hair falls beside his cheek, hiding his expression in shadow.
"Ah," Shang Qinghua somehow forces out. "Do you wish for me to attend you as you bathe?"
It's staggering that he managed to speak, much less make sense. He will, if he survives this, take time to be proud of himself later—perhaps reward himself with those spicy pork buns they sell at his favorite restaurant near An Ding.
Unfortunately, right now, the dark, coiled ball of dread in his gut is swelling, making his breath come fast and spreading goosebumps over his skin despite the thick, furred cloak he wears.
Because Shang Qinghua didn't write this. Shang Qinghua had never, not once, written that Mobei-jun was covered in hair. Ostensibly because his stallion novel audience wouldn't have liked it, but, more truthfully, because Shang Qinghua did like it—does, always has—and it had felt too personal. Like giving something of himself away.
He has always, always been attracted to bears. And literally no one, from his previous life or his current, has any reason to know that.
Fact: Yes, when he pictured Mobei-jun in his thoughts, he was, to the tee, his ideal man. Which, naturally, meant hair.
Second fact: That information has never existed outside the confines of Shang Qinghua's mind.
There is a theory, or maybe just the hint of an idea, that has been whispering at the edges of his thoughts since he transmigrated. He is typically able to ignore it, or dismiss it as being foolish or self-important.
But this situation—more than the contradictory and dangerous world he is living in, more than the grueling and largely thankless work he is forced to do for An Ding, more than the initially brutal treatment he received at the hands of Mobei-jun, more than his most vicious anti-fan receiving an unexpected and flawlessly blissful happy ending…
This—this dream— has been harvested from the privacy of his own mind. The System somehow knows.
Shang Qinghua's transmigrated life is not a 'second chance'. It is not an opportunity to redeem himself, or do something worthwhile.
Watching Mobei-jun—flawless, beautiful, his body bared to the moon as he motions Shang Qinghua forward—erases every last shred of doubt. The System created Shang Qinghua's greatest and deepest desire, led Shang Qinghua around by the nose with it for decades, and is now flaunting, in full and perfect detail, what Shang Qinghua will never, ever have.
This world was not created for Luo Binghe, nor for Cucumber bro or any of the other people living here. This is a specific, meticulously detailed Hell, brought into existence for the sole purpose of punishment. For Shang Qinghua's suffering.
A breath shakes wetly from his chest. He braces his hands on his knees. He is tired. He is so fucking tired.
"Shang Qinghua?"
Shang Qinghua, with great effort, uncurls himself, and finds Mobei-jun less than an arm's length away, his hand outstretched, flexing. As if he was going to grab Shang Qinghua's shoulder, but hesitated at the last second.
"Even your forearms are hairy," Shang Qinghua chokes out, half-hysterical. "My king, why did you— What are we doing here?"
His king's face, while always impassive, goes deliberately blank. "Why is Shang Qinghua weeping?"
"No, nope, don't do that. I asked first. Answer my question."
Mobei-jun, uncharacteristically, drops his gaze to his feet. "I thought—" Cutting himself off, he gestures behind him. "We are bathing."
"What?" A laugh, harsh and mirthless, startles from Shang Qinghua's throat. "If you think I am dipping so much as a fucking toe in that water, you're out of your naked, beautiful mind." Mobei-jun's expression is priceless; the demon looks as though he's been slapped. "It's basically ice! Fuck, would we need to break a hole in it first?"
"It's…" Gods above, Shang Qinghua wouldn't believe it if he weren't seeing it for himself, but his king looks sheepish. "It was suggested that I—" Mobei-jun cuts himself off again, tilting his gaze upward and drawing attention to the sky. Shang Qinghua's eyes widen. He's been so caught up in his thoughts—and Mobei-jun's body—he hadn't even noticed the auroras.
"You… brought me here to bathe in an icy lake because of the northern lights?"
Mobei-jun growls, petulant, and crosses his formidable arms over his chest. "I was told it would be romantic."
If brains could make dial-up sounds, Shang Qinghua is certain he'd be hearing them. He is virtually never speechless, but it seems his king has managed it.
"Shang Qinghua," Mobei-jun says, and he sounds pained. He won't meet Shang Qinghua's eyes. "If you do not like it, I will take us home."
"Just to be clear," Shang Qinghua hears himself say, "you brought me here intending for us to bathe in this lake, beneath the northern lights, because it is romantic."
Mobei-jun does not respond.
"And 'romantic' is something you would like to be. With me, specifically."
The look Mobei-jun darts at him is almost shy, and a tiny spark of hope kindles within Shang Qinghua.
"My king," he says, moving a half-step closer. "I need you to use your words."
Shang Qinghua can practically hear the gears grinding in his king's head; the man turns away, facing the lake, and Shang Qinghua holds in a shriek of frustration. "If I gave you my qi," Mobei-jun says, low, "then you would not feel the cold."
Okay, that is incredibly sweet, but fucking hell, where is all of this coming from? "You realize if you turn away from me like that, I'm just going to stare at your ass." Mobei-jun stiffens, but does not turn around. "Your very fine, muscle-y ass. Your fuzzy, cute ass."
"Shang Qinghua," Mobei-jun strains out.
"Your very bite-able ass."
"Shang Qinghua!"
Shang Qinghua laughs, helpless with it. "My king, please. Either make yourself clear, or put me out of my misery."
Gods above. Mobei-jun peeks. The King of the Northern fucking Desert is peeking at Shang Qinghua over his shoulder. "Shang Qinghua would like to bite this king's ass?"
"Oh my god," Shang Qinghua mutters under his breath, and removes his cloak, throwing it to the snow-covered ground. "Get over here and do the qi thing, then, so I don't freeze my fucking balls off."
Stepping closer, Mobei-jun places a fingertip against Shang Qinghua's forehead, and the cold, the wind, everything falls away. "I will keep you warm," he says. Haltingly. Almost as if…
"Oh no," Shang Qinghua giggles, grasping Mobei-jun's hand before he can pull away. "Did… Did someone tell you to say that?"
Mobei-jun jerks his head sideways, chin jutting up. "Perhaps."
"Yeah, oh my god. Yeah, yes, hey, it worked, it's working, okay? Consider me properly and romantically seduced."
"Shang Qinghua will lay with this king?"
Snorting, Shang Qinghua continues to strip out of his garments. "I mean, I'm not 'laying' anywhere out here in the freezing tundra, but." He grins, looking up at Mobei-jun through his eyelashes. "I could be convinced to try out a bed, later."
Shang Qinghua cannot categorize the sound that emanates from Mobei-jun's chest, some sort of whimper-growl thing, but he is given no time to do so before he is swept into Mobei-jun's arms.
"We will return immediately," Mobei-jun snaps, a portal yawning at their feet.
"My king, my cloak!" Shang Qinghua shrieks. If he grasps needlessly at his king's thickly haired forearms, that is his own business.
"I will buy you another," comes Mobei-jun's reply, rumbling against his chest, and the auroras are eclipsed by Mobei-jun's shadows.