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There are times when Shang Qinghua simply doesn’t know what to make of this world he has created.
Take earlier that morning, for example. He’d been slowly tiptoeing his way along a ledge halfway one of the Southern Realms’ dime-a-dozen mountains—and only panicking two-thirds of the way!—when he made the mistake of taking his eyes off the narrow path beneath his feet, and instead truly saw the magnificent vista before him. It wasn’t often he would earnestly take in the landscapes of Proud Immortal Demon Way, but whenever he did he would find himself almost blown away by the sights that would greet him.
From his position on the mountainside, the landscape below him had stretched out into the horizon, bright and absolutely teeming with life. This little scrap of the universe he’d built was filled as far as the eye could see with rolling hills and swooping valleys, and it was still only a small part of the world he’d come to call home.
It was those times in particular that Shang Qinghua couldn’t quite believe that none of this would exist without him. The thriving village he could see, and the surrounding fields already teeming with produce, wouldn’t have existed without the nights he spent daydreaming about the world of Proud Immortal Demon Way. Sometimes he wishes he hadn’t given in to the pressure and the need for money and had followed his original plan more closely, instead of letting it turn into the unapologetic stallion novel it had ended up being. Still, he’s often relieved that the system went ahead and incorporated his daydreaming nonetheless.
The actual reason he’s up this specific mountain, however, he’s less fond of. In many ways, Cucumber-bro accidentally turning Proud Immortal Demon Way into the queer masterpiece Shang Qinghua had never been brave enough to publish has proven to be a good thing. In others, it’s been a nightmare. An absolute and total nightmare.
Shang Qinghua’s current predicament is by far the latter.
With the absence of Luo Binghe’s ever-growing harem, the hundreds of ignored wives-to-be he’d once written have begun turning their attention to this world’s second most eligible heavenly demon. And whilst he can’t exactly fault them for their taste—Mobei Jun was, of course, his own personal favorite—he can undoubtedly find annoyance in the way that his king seems completely and utterly disinterested by any and all advances that have recently been coming his way.
Not because Shang Qinghua has some masochistic desire to see the man he has secretly loved since he was but words on a page getting married off to a sexy and powerful demoness—albeit one who would surely have far more to bring to the table than one sort-of-okay cultivator such as himself. No, no, it was because Shang Qinghua was the one who was having to deal with all these sexy, powerful, (and now angry!) demonesses! All because his king refused to even reject them to their faces! Shang Qinghua was, obviously, more than used to doing the Northern Kingdom’s dirty work, but he was definitely much happier with the dirty work that didn’t fight back, thank you very much. Nipping these wife plots in the bud before they could turn up at court with a full-fledged proposal was significantly more preferable.
Hence, his journey up this mountain. You see, these days Shang Qinghua had been hearing through his spy-filled grapevine that there had been a successful—and bloody—leadership challenge in one of the larger western demon tribes, but it wasn’t until an afternoon of tea with Cucumber-bro (and his looming shadow of a husband) that Shang Qinghua remembered the beginnings of wife plot seven-hundred-and-something. The newly minted leader of the leopard-demon tribe was originally supposed to come to Luo Binghe and beseech him for his help tracking down a rare mineral that, for whatever reason, needed to be used to create the new leader’s scepter. Of course, while searching for the mineral, they would wander into a cave that just so happened to be home to a rare and previously undiscovered flower, and, of course, it would turn out that exposure to the pollen would prompt an uncontrollable physical reaction—one that would prove life-threatening if not treated with…you guessed it, carnal relations.
The natural solution, as far as Shang Qinghua was concerned, was for him to take the initiative to seek out the mineral in advance. That way, by the time the demon darkened the Northern Kingdom’s frosty doorstep, there would be no need for any ill-fated cave romps, and no need for anyone to steal his king away put Mobei Jun in a bad mood for several weeks.
It seemed like a good idea at the time. He’d spent a few days poring over maps of the region and figuring out a safe route up to the cave, since sword flight would only get him partway up the mountain before the dense foliage and winding paths would need to be traversed on foot. He’d even gone so far as to consult with Shen Qingqiu, just in case his encyclopedic knowledge of the demon realm’s monsters extended to its geography—it hadn’t, but at least it also told him that he wasn’t likely to run into a horde of spiny-toed mountain tree frogs, or something. It was a good start, and one that only got better once he’d made his way through the village at the foot of the mountain. It hadn’t taken long for him to spot an apothecary who was making clear use of the more medicinal properties of said mineral, so he knew for sure he was on the right track.
And he had been, for a while. The climb up the mountain had been steep, but relatively simple, and aside from the perilous ravine he’d had to cross in the morning, the majority of the trip had been uneventful. It wasn’t until he began his descent into the sprawling cave system that he started to realize that this trip might not end up being as easy as he had hoped.
The first few twists and turns were relatively tame, with nothing interesting to see except the dancing light from his lantern bouncing off the condensation that was slowly dripping down the walls. The shadows were pretty and, more importantly, not life-threatening. It wasn’t until around fifteen minutes into his exploration that he started to fear things wouldn’t stay so simple for long.
A cloying scent had come to fill the air, and though he hadn’t paid it much mind when he first noticed it, it soon became clear that the roughening of the terrain below his feet was more than likely a sign of a sprawling root system creeping along the floors and beginning to climb up the walls. Even so, it isn’t until his foot catches on something below him that things truly become problematic. There’s the brief and unsettling sensation of something smooth curling around his ankle, and then he’s quickly being thrown off balance, sent falling to the floor in a pile of dust and limbs as he slides down the steep incline, and coughing up a storm as he does so.
Shang Qinghua, however, in all his years combined, had suffered many worse injustices, and so that alone might have been fine. He starts to pick himself up off the floor and brushes ineffectually at the dust now coating his robes as he does so, and kicks absentmindedly at one of the vines he’d tripped over. It’s not until he leans down to grab his lantern, a bit dusty but still lit, that the worst happens: the very floor below him crumbles, as if the vines he’d been kicking at were the only thing keeping the ground below him in one solid piece.
The sound is almost deafening. Rocks ricochet off the walls, the sharp cracks they create echoing into a cacophony of noise, and beneath it all is the slow rumble of the ground itself falling apart. Shang Qinghua has no choice but to fall with it, his fall being broken—or rather, hampered slightly—by the maze of crisscrossing vines that he now realizes must be woven throughout the entire cave system, almost as if whichever plant they belong to had laid claim to this place before the very earth itself.
After several long and painful seconds, Shang Qinghua crashes to the level below him, landing on a hard rock surface that, for now, seems unlikely to disintegrate below him. His chest heaves, his lungs working overtime in an attempt to find air amongst the clouds of dust and…pollen?
Shang Qinghua’s stomach sinks.
There, crumpled below his own rather crumpled body, is a bed of red-purple flowers, their long yellow stamens releasing puffs of a mustard yellow pollen in response to the disturbance.
So yeah, it turns out that, for Shang Qinghua specifically, the queer edition of Proud Immortal Demon Way is a fucking nightmare.
His lantern had snuffed out—or gone missing entirely—sometime during the second fall, and so Shang Qinghua is left feeling his way along the hard ground beneath him as he tries to find himself a wall to lean against. Already he can feel the heat creeping through his veins, a low pulsing beginning somewhere deep inside his chest and slowly moving outwards, until even his fingertips have started to feel as if they’ve been plunged into the molten depths of a roiling volcano.
This, he knows, is not good. Very much not good.
Finally, after what feels like hours of crawling, he finds the edge of the ravine he seems to have fallen into, and gleefully presses his warm skin against the cold-wet surface of the cave walls. It’s a blessed relief, but one that’s oh-so-short-lived. Before long it feels as if the furnace that is now his body has heated up not only the wall behind him but the entire cave around him, too. Even the air feels hot, and it’s like there’s no respite from the oppressive heat he feels. It’s as if he can see the heat, swirling in thick tendrils of fog, reaching into his very veins and lighting him up from the inside. Logically, he knows, that can’t be possible, but—but he can feel it, he can taste it.
Why did he think he wouldn’t fall victim to the same stupid plot devices he’d created?!
But all he’d wanted to do was make life easier for his king… Mobei Jun had shown no interest in finding a wife, and was more than happy to foist the minutiae of running a kingdom on an already overworked Shang Qinghua.
The last time Shang Qinghua hadn’t managed to divert a wife plot, he’d had to escort the scorned and bloodthirsty succubus woman back to her tribe, only to find himself held captive for an entire week before he managed to escape and make his way back to the Northern Kingdom. By the time he’d reached the castle, his robes half torn and hanging off his body, he’d accidentally interrupted a court session, and the burning fury in Mobei Jun’s eyes still haunted his dreams to this day.
So yes, whilst intercepting these wife plots before they could reach Mobei Jun was necessary, keeping himself out of situations that would be sure to anger his king was perhaps even more necessary!
Of course, Shang Qinghua would like nothing more than to summon Mobei Jun for…assistance. He imagines calling for him, his voice bouncing off the cave walls as he pants into the darkness, wanting—needing—the blessed relief of cool fingers against his scalding skin.
But no, Mobei Jun would surely sooner throw Shang Qinghua to rabid wolves than help him in this state. If anything, he’d probably just throw him at some already underappreciated servant, who’d more than likely take their frustrations with upper management out on Little Qinghua.
But with the stifling warmth of the air around him all but pressing him into the ground, even the spindly hands of a kitchen imp sound appealing…
Shang Qinghua has to make a decision before it’s too late.
He fumbles in his robes, now tossed haphazardly in a pile beside him—when did he take them off?—until his sweaty palm closes around a cool jade token. His distress token, the same one that’s given to every Peak Lord for times like this, when solo missions take a turn for the unexpected and they’re in need of backup. He’s hoping that whoever they send can get him back to Mu Qingfang in time for an antidote—he’s sure there is an antidote for this one, at least—or if not, then to Liu Qingge, who he knows has the unenviable combination of a high sex drive and criminally low standards. They haven’t messed around since their early Peak Lord days, but he’s pretty sure the other man isn’t off the market yet. Unless… He supposes there could be something going on with that snake demon they’re all pretending isn’t hiding out in Bai Zhan Peak’s densely packed forest? Shang Qinghua had always assumed that the only reason there would be a definitely treaty-breaking and supposedly dead snake demon on Bai Zhan Peak would be to start some sort of “Victims of Shen Qingqiu’s Wifebeam Support Group,” but perhaps… No, that’s impossible.
But still, if Liu Qingge isn’t up for it, then… Oh heavens, what if they send some of Shang Qinghua’s disciples and he’s too out of his own mind to tell them what to do? Would he be forced to traumatize his own disciples by undoubtedly coming onto them while they escort him to Cang Qiong? No, no, that’s unlikely—Shang Qinghua’s head disciple would sooner throw him off her sword than let him embarrass himself, and therefore her, like that. Plus, a Peak Lord distress call would hardly be attended by disciples. Shang Qinghua may not be famed (or even known at all) for his martial prowess, but he’s still a Peak Lord! No, if anything, it’ll be Yue Qingyuan, or if Shang Qinghua is really unlucky, Cucumber-bro.
Shang Qinghua leans back to wait and presses his face against the wall again. The other cheek he cools by pressing the token against it, the cool surface of the stone against his skin wrenching a groan from deep within his chest. He’d heard these were one-time use things, meant to burn up once the distress call had been made, but Shang Qinghua is too busy weeping at the stark relief of the cold stone to ponder the intricacies of summoning talismans. It had thrummed with energy the same way his token from Mobei Jun always did, during the somewhat embarrassing number of times he’d had to use it, so he assumes the distress signal has been received just fine. All that’s left now is for him to wait, and to—
Shang Qinghua looks down to see that the heat racing through his body has begun to concentrate in a rather…specific area.
And oh, how tempting it feels to try and take the edge off. He can’t remember if this is one of those flowers that punishes the user for getting off before heavenly demon papapa (curse PIDW’s orgasm denial fans for convincing him to put so many of those types of flowers!) but it’s so tempting to just risk it. Shang Qinghua can feel himself straining against the fabric of his underwear, and if he could see he’s sure a slight damp patch would already be beginning to show as the desire inside him builds.
But then, just as Shang Qinghua feels he’s seconds from combusting, there’s a tell-tale shift in the air around him, and the temperature inside the cave plummets. In a burst, lamplight illuminates the cave once more, and Shang Qinghua finds himself wincing at the sudden change in light and temperature. One harsh and one oh-so-welcome. He’s pretty sure he’s started to sweat, though whether from the suffocating heat or the strain of not touching himself, he can’t be certain.
He squints at the figure that’s just appeared, giving his eyes time to adjust to the sudden increase in brightness, and then blinks a few hundred more times just for good measure. Because there, standing by Shang Qinghua’s legs—Shang Qinghua’s very naked legs— is Mobei Jun.
“You’re not…” Shang Qinghua whispers, trailing off as his want-addled brain tries to take in the near-godly sight of Mobei Jun, the lamplight illuminating the blue sheen of his skin and a way that makes Shang Qinghua want to write poetry. Just as soon as he’s got off a few dozen times, of course.
Mobei Jun is looking at him expectantly, and it’s not until the other man’s eyes start to wander down Shang Qinghua’s still uncovered torso that Shang Qinghua’s brain catches up with the situation.
“...why are you here?” he finishes, voice falling in uncertainty.
Above him, Mobei Jun’s mouth flattens into a severe line.
“You would expect another?” He asks, his eyes flicking over Shang Qinghua’s less than presentable state.
Shang Qinghua leans back, his head thumping slightly against the wall. “I just… I want—I need—someone to help me. I need…” His head feels foggy once again, as if it’s been filled with cotton, but also as if that cotton has been laced with some sort of flammable aphrodisiac, devouring any thoughts and replacing them with sheer need.
“And yet you called for this king,” Mobei Jun intones, taking a step forward.
Shang Qinghua shakes his head, wincing at the twinge it sends down his spine. “I wouldn’t…” He whispers, desperate for his king to know that he’d never intentionally burden him with such trivial matters. Why Mobei Jun is here remains a mystery, but it’s a mystery Shang Qinghua is going to have to solve when he’s more lucid. For now, he just has to deal with this, just has to wait this out until he’s lucid enough to make it back to Cang Qiong. He groans as he presses a palm against the bulge in his trousers, feeling as if he could weep from the relief, and feeling even more so when he realizes how strong the desire is when it returns almost twofold.
A cold puff of air washes over his cheeks, caused by a derisive snort from Mobei Jun, who is now far closer to Shang Qinghua’s face than he remembers him being.
“You called for me, Shang Qinghua.” Mobei Jun says, plucking the jade token out of Shang Qinghua’s clenched fist. A jade token that is decidedly smoother and bluer than the one he thought he’d grabbed. Above him, Mobei Jun stirs. “Do you need help?” he says, setting down both jade and lantern to his right.
It takes everything in Shang Qinghua to try to say no, as desperate for release as he is, but when he opens his mouth to speak a low groan is all that escapes him.
“Please…” he whispers. Please take me back to Cang Qiong.
But instead of the stomach-wrenching freefall of portal travel, Shang Qinghua instead feels the toe-curling pleasure of a cold palm pressed against his throbbing length. A palm that notably does not belong to him.
“My King,” he gasps, his head falling back with a thump as he tries to bring his hands up to push Mobei Jun away. Instead, he finds himself grabbing onto the thick muscle of Mobei Jun’s biceps and crying out as the other man’s cold fingers work their way underneath whatever is left of Shang Qinghua’s single remaining layer.
Shang Qinghua wishes he could say he tries his best to resist the desire to throw himself at Mobei Jun, but in reality he simply lets his legs fall open and lifts his hips as Mobei Jun shimmies Shang Qinghua’s underwear down, smirking slightly at the sight of Shang Qinghua’s cock, flushed, red, and straining obscenely upwards, small beads of precum smearing against his stomach as it taps against the skin.
“Let this king help,” Mobei Jun murmurs, closing his fist around the base and swiping upwards with a single sure stroke.
“You don’t—” Shang Qinghua gasps, clutching so hard at Mobei Jun’s robes that they’re sure to wrinkle, “I meant—I thought…Liu-Shidi… or— ah!” He cries out at one particularly tight squeeze, Mobei Jun’s grip tightening and loosening so suddenly that Shang Qinghua can’t be sure he didn’t imagine it. But then, Mobei Jun twists his wrist just so, swiping a thumb over the sensitive head of Shang Qinghua’s dick, and all coherent thought is chased from his brain. Beneath him, Shang Qinghua cries out a garbled mess of words, please, and no, and fuck me.
The cool of Mobei Jun’s hand feels indescribable against the heat of Shang Qinghua’s most intimate parts, and every twist of the ice demon’s wrist has Shang Qinghua calling out for gods he’s not sure have ever existed in any world.
“You would call out another's name when this king is pleasuring you?” Mobei Jun growls, shifting his hand so slightly so that the sharp tips of his claws graze Shang Qinghua’s length in a way that sends frissons of heat dancing down his spine.
Shang Qinghua frantically shakes his head. “No, I—” he tries to speak, but ends up choking on a groan as Mobei Jun’s hand comes to a stop.
“You what, Qinghua?” Mobei Jun says with a smirk, the slight tilt in his lips making Shang Qinghua squirm.
“I—please…” he splutters, desperately trying to shift his hips to get some—any—friction. Mobei Jun simply takes his other hand and presses it against Shang Qinghua’s hip, forcing him to still.
“Please what? Who did you call for, Qinghua? Who is it you need?”
Shang Qinghua continues to shake his head fruitlessly, too embarrassed to say that he called Mobei Jun by accident, and too afraid to admit that he’s really the one he wanted all along. But soon, Mobei Jun’s hand begins to tighten, slowly, but with just a hint of threat.
“You, my king! You, always you.”
The smirk on Mobei Jun’s face melts into a smug little grin, his eyes half closed but filled with a sort of proprietary pleasure. “Well done, Qinghua,” he says, as his hand finally begins moving again
Any response Shang Qinghua might have been thinking of making is cut off as Mobei Jun brings his other hand off Shang Qinghua’s hip and slowly runs a single clawed fingertip up the length of him, gathering the leaking mess pooling at the tip. He looks down at it with hooded eyes, his pupils blown wide and yet his expression still somehow as unreadable to Shang Qinghua as ever.
He whimpers at the sensation of Mobei Jun’s fingertip circling his head, deliciously slow whilst the other hand resumes its rhythmic stroking motions, but any further sounds are cut off as Mobei Jun brings up his finger, now damp with precum, and pushes it inside Shang Qinghua’s mouth.
The taste of his own desire explodes across his tongue, intermixed with a hint of sweat and what can only be the tangy taste of the pollen that still lingers in the air… Distantly, Shang Qinghua thinks that it should be humiliating, but he can’t find it in himself to care.
The thing is, Shang Qinghua knows, the fact hidden deep down within the cobwebby recesses of his pollen-addled mind, that this pollen is not supposed to affect heavenly demons. And yet there’s something in the wild set of Mobei Jun’s brow that has Shang Qinghua wondering if he’s misremembering something. Because if not, then why would—
“Ah!” Shang Qinghua whimpers as the hand on him speeds up, and the change in pace has Shang Qinghua babbling nonsense as his head falls back, his pleas being uttered almost silently in the air above him.
Mobei Jun leans forward and pulls Shang Qinghua’s earlobe into his mouth, his sharp teeth grazing the edge of Shang Qinghua’s soft flesh. Shang Qinghua squeaks and the feeling, and within moments Mobei Jun is doing it again, worrying at Shang Qinghua’s earlobe with his too-sharp fangs.
Shang Qinghua’s fists continue to clench tighter in the fabric of Mobei Jun’s robes as he tugs slightly, pulling the other man closer—to do what, though, even Shang Qinghua doesn’t know.
Mobei Jun lets go of Shang Qinghua’s ear with a soft sigh before leaning back, his hand still rhythmically stroking Shang Qinghua. He mumbles something that to Shang Qinghua’s pollen-addled mind sounds like “beautiful” before diving forward again and latching onto Shang Qinghua’s neck, the feeling of teeth on somewhere so vulnerable wrenching a cry from deep within him.
He slowly makes his way down Shang Qinghua’s neck, alternating between teasing nips and deep, open-mouthed movements that almost feel like kisses. Once he reaches Shang Qinghua’s collarbone, he bites down with force, the sharp points of his teeth almost breaking the skin. Shang Qinghua wails at the sensation, his chest tightening at the thought of being marked by Mobei Jun, and soon the dual hot-cold sensations of his own fire against Mobei Jun’s blessed cold are sending him careening over the edge with a final cry. He spills over Mobei Jun’s still-working hand, the demon refusing to stop his ministrations until Shang Qinghua is all but whining from overstimulation.
Mobei Jun pulls back slowly, sitting on his heels and looking at Shang Qinghua with an unreadable expression once more. If Shang Qinghua had to guess, he’d say it almost looks…smug? His chest is heaving, more than it should be from the exertion of a brief and unexpected handjob, but other than that there’s nothing to suggest Mobei Jun might be feeling any sort of way about whatever just transpired.
Shang Qinghua holds Mobei Jun’s gaze for several long moments as the reality of the situation dawns on him. The mind-addling heat of the pollen hasn’t gone away entirely—the conditions hadn’t been met, after all—but Shang Qinghua feels lucid enough for a sensation of icy horror to start creeping through his veins. Apologies come spilling from his mouth before he’s even had a chance to think them through. “My King!” He whispers, trying to scrabble forwards but only succeeding in falling against the other man’s hard chest. “I’m sorry, I…I… I didn’t—We’re not—”
“Speak properly, Qinghua.” Mobei Jun barks, making no move to push Shang Qinghua away from him. “What aren’t we?”
Shang Qinghua thinks for a moment. What can he say that would explain how honored he is to have been helped by one so perfect as Mobei Jun, but that he’d never in any of his lives have expected such a thing? Eventually, he settles on: “...bonded, I guess?”
There’s a long pause. Shang Qinghua watches as a thin layer of ice slowly begins to creep along the floor and finds himself shivering at the sensation of the rapidly chilling air against his sweat-slick skin. But almost as soon as it started, the ice stops. “Get dressed,” Mobei Jun barks, throwing Shang Qinghua’s robes at him. “I’ll take you to the help you so clearly desire.”
Shang Qinghua dresses himself in stilted movements, the heat in his gut beginning to build again but no longer thrumming with the life-or-death urgency from before. His head remains fuzzy, but he can feel his mind getting clearer with each passing breath.
“My King,” he murmurs, stepping forward once he’s semi-presentable once more. Mobei Jun spins on his heel and rakes his eyes over Shang Qinghua slowly. His gaze pauses at Shang Qinghua’s neck for a brief moment before he purses his lips and cuts open a portal, unceremoniously pushing Shang Qinghua through.
Shang Qinghua lands on the ground with a wet squelch, finding himself ass-first in a puddle as the rain comes down around him in thick sheets, inhibited only by the dense foliage of Bai Zhan peak’s sprawling forest.
To his right, a set of serpentine eyes peer out at him from the darkness.
“I take it we’re all still pretending you’re not here?” Shang Qinghua asks, pushing himself to his feet and fruitlessly swiping at the dirt now covering his robes.
“Yes please, Master Shang,” the creature hisses, and Shang Qinghua finds himself laughing joylessly into the air.
“Why not?” He says, stomping off in the direction of An Ding Peak. “What’s one more peak with a pet heavenly demon, after all?” He kicks petulantly at a dying stump. “Well, good luck with your recovery, I guess. Tell Liu-Shidi to do his paperwork properly this month or I’m reallocating his training dummy budget.”
And with that, Shang Qinghua makes his way back to An Ding peak, determined to spend the next few hours burning off the rest of his fever and decidedly not masturbating about whatever the fuck just happened to him in that cave.
Okay. Maybe masturbating about it a little.
—
It takes two weeks for Shang Qinghua to realize he’s being avoided.
At first, Mobei Jun’s absence in the palace could be explained. He’d sent a perfunctory message via a servant, informing Shang Qinghua that he was going on a hunt and ordering him to rearrange any court hearings for when he returned. The letter gave no indication of when he would return, because of course it didn’t, but Shang Qinghua had long grown adept at rearranging the ice demon’s schedule in accordance with his fickle whims. He’d been an awfully spoilt teen, and Shang Qinghua could admit he’d done little to make sure the adult Mobei Jun would have any more respect for the time of those in his kingdom.
If anything, it meant that Shang Qinghua didn’t feel quite as bad about spending his evenings holed up in Mobei Jun’s private cold springs, one hand on his dick as the other pressed into the now-fading bruise left on his collarbone, entertaining fantasies about being the royal consort and having the right to display such a shameless mark outside of the privacy of his own quarters.
But then the hunt ended, and despite Mobei Jun’s return to the palace, the ice demon was nowhere to be found.
Usually, Shang Qinghua could barely walk three feet in the Northern Kingdom without being called to attend summons from Mobei Jun for one reason or another. Yet the week since Mobei Jun’s return had been suspiciously quiet. Shang Qinghua wouldn’t want to admit it out loud, but he kind of misses the other man.
But then, things start getting weird at Cang Qiong, and Shang Qinghua finds himself preoccupied with things more pressing than his king’s ever-fickle mood swings.
First, there’s an attack on Bai Zhan peak. There isn’t a single building left unharmed, with many of the storage rooms being found in a state of absolute disrepair. It almost looks as if the entire peak had been burned to the ground, if it weren’t for the clear lack of any fire damage.
But perhaps, most mysteriously, is the fact that not a single person on the peak was harmed. Instead, almost everyone slept through the attack, with the alarm only being raised when Liu Qingge’s Peak Lord residence literally collapsed around him, as if it had been built of nothing more than rotting hay.
Of course, An Ding goes on high alert, fearing that this mystery assailant may well have been after the dozens of scrolls filled with sensitive peak-related information that Shang Qinghua keeps squirreled away somewhere on the mountain. He feels completely confident that any attacker wouldn’t be able to find them, but he still doesn’t want An Ding peak torn to shreds as part of the process.
As expected, two nights later An Ding’s talismanic alarm system registers an intruder. They appear to have entered at the base of the mountain, and Shang Qinghua sends a quick summons to Liu Qingge and Yue Qingyuan before going to wake his head disciple. Hopefully, he thinks as he shakes the young woman awake, they can get this sorted out without having to involve any of An Ding’s younger and less battle-hardened disciples.
But all thoughts of a mysterious attacker are driven from his mind when Shang Qinghua reaches An Ding peaks eastern gate.
Instead of an army, or even a single overconfident attacker, Shang Qinghua finds himself staring at a heaping mass of monster carcasses piled higher than even the tallest evergreen trees around him.
“Shizun…” his head disciple whispers, turning to face him. “What, uh… What are we supposed to do with this?”
Shang Qinghua sighs. As if he needs yet another logistical nightmare to deal with, on top of sorting through the ever-growing repair list for Bai Zhan. In the distance, he can see the glow of two swords flying towards the peak. He turns to his disciple, “have Liu-Shishu send for some disciples to make sure that all these monsters are truly dead. I’ll report to Zhangmen-shixiong, and then send for Peak Lords Shen and Mu to help catalog these…gifts.” His disciple snorts at Shang Qinghua’s tone. “Maybe we can get something useful out of them, at the very least.”
Two weeks later, once the Bai Zhan repairs are fully underway and Shen Qingqiu has gleefully categorized every monster unceremoniously dumped at the foot of An Ding peak, Shang Qinghua finds himself giving a status report at a long-overdue Peak Lord meeting.
“And though we haven’t yet figured out the identity of the intruder, for now we believe them to mean no harm. Nevertheless, An Ding advises that all peaks stay vigilant, and please keep accurate inventory logs so we can see if anything has been stolen.”
Yue Qingyuan stands and gives Shang Qinghua a small smile. “Thank you for your report, Shidi. Cang Qiong is grateful for your diligence.” He turns, then, to Mu Qingfang and invites the other man to take center stage. “Mu-Shidi, have you—”
At that moment, the doors swing open, and a frigid rush of air blasts through the chamber, stopping Yue Qingyuan mid-sentence.
Shang Qinghua watches, his eyes as wide as saucers, as Mobei Jun, dressed head to toe in official royal finery, stalks through the room and comes to a stop beside Shang Qinghua.
From the front of the room, Yue Qingyuan peers at him curiously. “Your Highness,” he says, bowing politely—a sight that would be shocking in and of itself if it weren’t for the even more unbelievable sight of Mobei Jun returning the bow.
But the next words from Mobei Jun’s mouth are perhaps even more shocking. “I apologize for the interruption, Sect Master.” Mobei Jun says evenly. “I have come to challenge the Bai Zhan peak lord, by way of physical fight, for the right to Shang Qinghua.”
A series of things happen at once. Shang Qinghua and Liu Qingge both splutter incredulously, the latter shooting up from his seated position, sending the desk in front of him clattering to the ground. To the right of the room, Shen Qingqiu barely swallows a barking laugh, managing to hide his face behind his fan but making no attempt to disguise his shaking shoulders. There’re gasps from the direction of Mu Qingfang and Qi Qingqi, and the sound of Wei Qingwei slapping his thigh in either surprise or enjoyment—perhaps both, knowing the man.
Shang Qinghua wants to shrivel up and die.
Unfortunately, before he can somehow achieve both self-implosion and manage to corral Mobei Jun out of the room, Liu Qingge decides to speak up.
“Though I would welcome the chance for a tournament of physicality, I have no claim over Shang-Shixiong. And nor would I want to,” he adds, looking down at Shang Qinghua with an expression that really isn’t necessary. No need to rub salt into the wound, Shidi!
From beside Shang Qinghua, Mobei Jun stiffens. “You have slept with him, have you not?” He grits out, the temperature in the room dropping to match the chill in his voice. “You seek no responsibility for that?”
Liu Qingge scoffs. “I have lain with most people in this room, at one point or another,” he says plainly. “Am I to claim a right to all of them?”
Mobei Jun takes a threatening step forward. “So, you don’t wish to fight?”
Liu Qingge meets him step for step. “I did not say that.”
The tension in the air is palpable, and Shang Qinghua glances at the single open window with a longing glance. If only he could escape out of it and run off into the forest, becoming just another of the cryptids of Cang Qiong Mountain Sects various peaks. Forest living might actually be kind of fun, he thinks to himself, since as far as he’s aware trees don’t have any administrative needs for him to—
“If this fight is to go ahead,” a voice calls out from across the hall, accompanied by the swish of a fan being tucked into a sleeve, “should it not be Zhangmen-Shixiong who receives the challenge?” Shang Qinghua tries his hardest to glare actual physical daggers into Shen Qingqiu’s smirking face, but to no avail. “He is, after all, Shang-Shidi’s boss.”
Liu Qingge spins on his heel, swiveling to face Shen Qingqiu with a look of sheer incredulity. One that is matched, though on a much less expressive scale, by Mobei Jun.
“If it’s all the same to the honorable Sect Master, I would be more than happy to face this one in battle,” Mobei Jun says lowly, jerking his head towards Liu Qingge.
There’s a long silence as Yue Qingyuan simply pours himself another cup of tea, holding it in front of his nose as he waits for it to cool. Everyone in the room has their eyes on him, except for Shen Qingqiu, who Shang Qinghua notes has managed to sneak out sometime between dropping his last bombshell and now.
“I got an interesting letter from the Northern Kingdom a few weeks ago,” Yue Qingyuan intones calmly, sipping on his tea as if he’s commenting on nothing more than some unseasonable weather.
All heads turn to look at him expectantly, and Shang Qinghua is sure he sees the other man smirk a little behind his cup.
“It requested information about the feats of excellence required in order to formally court a Peak Lord.”
Beside Shang Qinghua, Mobei Jun’s chest begins to puff up slightly.
“Of course,” Yue Qingyuan continues, “I informed this mysterious sender that feats of excellence may be a staple of demon culture, but in the human world, a bride price is more commonly negotiated.”
Shang Qinghua’s left eyebrow hasn’t even finished twitching at the phrase “bride price” before Liu Qingge is speaking up, sharp as always when the subject matter concerns slaying beasts. He turns to Mobei Jun. “So, you’re responsible for the slain beats deposited at the foot of An Ding peak.” He sounds almost begrudging as if he doesn’t want to respect Mobei Jun but can’t help it in the face of a successful hunt.
Shang Qinghua spins on his heel. “That was you? My king! Do you know how long that took to clean up?!! My disciples smelled of rotting meat for two whole weeks!”
There’s an almost imperceptible downtick in Mobei Jun’s jaw. “Qinghua did not like it.”
Shang Qinghua splutters. “My king, what did you expect me to do with them?!”
There is no answer forthcoming, and Shang Qinghua slowly begins to get the feeling that there’s something he’s missing.
“I also mentioned,” Yue Qingyuan continues, as if Shang Qinghua’s little outburst hadn’t just occurred, “that it’s common in human betrothals for permission to be sought, generally from the father of the intended spouse.”
Shang Qinghua watches in horror as Mobei Jun nods, a sharp, jerking movement, and turns to face Yue Qingyuan once more.
“I wish to ask, in the absence of familial relations, that Sect Master Yue permit me to court Peak Lord Shang, with the express intent of marriage.”
Shang Qinghua pinches himself. And then once more for good luck. As a final attempt, he turns to lock eyes with Liu Qingge, whose open-mouthed expression of shock tells Shang Qinghua that he isn’t, in fact, hallucinating.
It would appear that the man of Shang Qinghua’s dreams is, in fact, actually standing in the middle of the Peak Lord meeting hall, almost certainly breaking the conditions of the Human-Demon Realms peace treaty, asking his boss if he can have Shang Qinghua’s hand in marriage.
“Ah,” Yue Qingyuan says, tapping at his knees, “whilst it is true that I may be considered ‘in charge’ of Peak Lord Shang, I assure you that is only in terms of sect business. The person you ought to ask, Your Highness, is standing beside you.”
Mobei Jun nods again, and this time he turns to face Shang Qinghua directly.
“Shang Qinghua, will you—”
Shang Qinghua slaps a hand over Mobei Jun’s mouth, cringing inwardly at the indignant shock that crosses his king’s beautiful eyes, and leans in.
“My King,” he whispers, “not here.” He moves his hand away from Mobei Jun’s mouth, and instead brings it down to lace his fingers with Mobei Jun’s own. “Take me home?” He asks instead.
Within moments, the familiar rush of portal travel surrounds Shing Qinghua, and he finds himself bouncing slightly as he’s deposited on the soft furs of Mobei Jun’s private bedroom. He wiggles contently, enjoying the feeling of the fabric around him, and watches as Mobei Jun’s eyes darken appreciatively. He’d portalled himself to the edge of the bed, but soon he’s climbing over Shang Qinghua, placing his arms on either side of his head.
He’s utterly gorgeous from this close, Shang Qinghua thinks in a daze. The gentle blue of his skin is utterly magical, and Shang Qinghua finds he can’t wait a moment longer. He links his arms around Mobei Jun’s neck and pulls the man towards him, a soft sigh and a whisper of “come here” all that escapes him.
But then, when their mouths are but mere inches away, Mobei Jun stops.
“Your answer, Qinghua?” He murmurs, nosing at Shang Qinghua’s cheek.
“Oh, my king,” Shang Qinghua answers, “yes. A thousand times yes.”
Shang Qinghua crashes their mouths together, relishing in the surprised noise it draws from Mobei Jun as he all but grins into the other man’s mouth. It takes a moment for Mobei Jun to catch his bearings, but once he does he surges forwards, pressing Shang Qinghua down into the soft furs of his bed.
“I won’t hold back this time,” Mobei Jun promises, already mouthing at the soft skin of Shang Qinghua’s neck.
“I’m counting on it.” Shang Qinghua responds with a laugh, shifting slightly so that the long column of his neck is even more exposed. “But you know, my king, jewelry is considered much more traditional.”
Mobei Jun bites down with a low growl, drawing a gasp out of Shang Qinghua. “You can have all the gifts you want, but this will have to do for now.”
“Okay, my king.” Shang Qinghua says on a sigh, desperately happy for what feels like the first time in a long long while. “Make me yours.”
Mobei Jun simply smirks against his neck. “You already are.”
- fin -