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Once upon a time, in a kingdom far away, there lived a humble washerwoman and her adopted son. The boy was small and gangly and the washerwoman terribly poor, her hands crooked and split from years of doing laundry. They had little food and less money, but as long as they had each other, their days were filled with simple happiness.
Shang Qinghua steps from the carriage, his long, red robes heavy and stifling. The air is frigid cold, the paving stones glossy with black ice. The great Northern Palace is little more than a haze of red through the thin crimson fabric of his veil. He lifts it out of the way, a cold sweat sticking under his clothes and cold nipping at his exposed cheeks. He drops it back into place and the precious gemstones that drip from the edges chime against each other, their cheerful tinkling making a mockery of his despair.
From behind the veil, the steps up to the grand gates look as though they stretch on forever—as sombre and cold as the dread in his gut—as he takes his first step towards his wedding.
Shang Qinghua fully expected a pared-down ceremony, especially given the short notice—but the wedding gifts that turned up at the family estate that morning were mind-boggling in splendour and scope, nothing short of what a bride far higher than his calibre would demand.
Robes spun from Glacial Cave Spider silk and accented with gold, huge quantities of incense, six roasted suckling pigs, and more solid gold jewellery than Shang Qinghua has ever seen in his life, including the heavy bangles adorning his wrists and the fine golden headpiece in his hair. Mobei-Jun had sent a customary lai see for the sake of tradition, but the envelope itself was empty—Shang Qinghua's bride price came instead in a heavy sandalwood chest, the quantity too great to fit into a single packet.
It’s a small price to pay for a life.
It's testament to Mobei-Jun's vast wealth that he’s managed to maintain such ostentatious grandeur for every wedding. The court, however, has clearly seen it all before. The after-ceremony festivities are lively and indulgent, and the guests throw themselves into the celebrations with fervour—but Shang Qinghua can hardly miss the tense undercurrent that runs through his wedding feast.
Seated beside his royal husband, Shang Qinghua feels more like one of the fine suckling pigs Mobei-Jun delivered to his father's estate than a bride.
The one person who doesn't look at him is his husband.
Mobei-Jun sits at the centre of the high table and gazes out over the festivities with as much life as a stone lion, his jaw firmly set and his eyes for everyone except Shang Qinghua. Not a glance. Not even once—not since the ceremony when he'd lifted the veil from his face, when they'd faced each other and bowed three times, when they'd interlocked arms and shared a cup of wine.
The brief moment their eyes met had made Shang Qinghua shiver, like the cold in that glare had shot a ribbon of ice straight into the marrow of his bones. Mobei-Jun's gaze was frigid, fathomless, totally inscrutable—and yet Shang Qinghua got the profound impression that he had immediately been found wanting.
He picks listlessly at his food. The last hours of his life and he can't even enjoy them, wedged between Mobei-Jun and a demon he doesn't know, and surrounded by an ice cold court who barely know his name.
Shang Qinghua gazes mournfully at the table, groaning under the weight of its bounty, and quietly sets his chopsticks down beside his barely-touched bowl. He picks at the highly embroidered sleeve of his wedding robe. It's cold as balls in here, even though the reception hall is full to bursting with warm, living bodies. Shang Qinghua sneaks a sidelong glance at Mobei-Jun. Well. Mostly warm.
This is going to be a very, very long night.
But the happiness didn't last. One day the washerwoman fell sick. She was no longer able to take any laundry, and the pair soon ran out of money. The boy was a devoted son and diligently cared for his mother. "Mother," he asked, "what do you want to eat? I’ll make it for you."
With no money for food, the boy resolved to take leftover congee from the kitchens of the lord. He was caught by some serving boys on the way out. "Stop!" they said, "That congee is ours!" They beat him until he was black and blue, forcing him to bark like a dog before they would let him go. The boy ran and ran, racing all the way home — but by the time he made it, his mother's spirit had already passed.
The furnishings in Mobei-Jun’s room are muted, washed out by golden candlelight. It would be beautiful if it weren't so cold.
Shang Qinghua huddles into himself miserably, hopping from one foot to another as much as he dares to keep the cold from seeping into his tired bones. He'd known, of course, that he'd be expected to spend the night with his new, terrifying, glacial husband, but a part of him had still hoped otherwise. It's not like any part of this is normal. Shang Qinghua lingers aimlessly in the centre of the room, feeling a lot like a mouse making its home in a tiger's lair.
The sound of chamber doors closing raises the hairs on the back of his neck. The tiger approaches.
Shang Qinghua squeaks with surprise when he turns towards the door and comes face-to-face with a broad chest—that's a lot of chest—as solid and unyielding as the cliffs that the Northern Palace teeters on. Mobei-Jun glares down at him with disdain, his lip curling.
Back in the human realm, Shang Qinghua had heard that the King of the Northern Desert’s stare could kill a man. It must be his good fortune that that's not true, or else the ice in Mobei-Jun’s gaze would freeze him solid.
His husband sweeps past and deposits himself languidly amongst the heaps of pillows, leaving Shang Qinghua shivering on his feet. His flinty gaze sweeps his newest prize up and down.
"Are you just going to stand there?"
"…Dawang?"
"It’s our wedding night," Mobei-Jun says curtly, "what do you have to offer me?"
Oh, gods. Shang Qinghua gawps at him. Does Mobei-Jun expect sex? The guy is hot — or, rather, cold, so, so cold, like every one of Shang Qinghua's wettest dreams manifested and deep frozen — but he also looks like he could snap him in half. Unsexily. He's not sure he can even perform under these circumstances. Surely this marriage doesn't need to be consummated…or is that Mobei-Jun's weird, demon kink? Fucking brides and then killing them? Shang Qinghua's brain speedruns through hundreds of horrifying possibilities.
Mobei-Jun's beautiful eyes narrow into slits. “Do you play sweet music?" he prompts.
"No."
"Do you paint beautiful landscapes?"
"…No."
"Do you dance?"
Shang Qinghua shrinks into himself, his cheeks burning with humiliation. "No."
"Then what exactly can you do to please me?"
It's a question, but it sounds like judgement summarily passed. Shang Qinghua feels ready to vomit, ready to cry. It's looking more and more like tomorrow's schedule starts with an early morning execution, followed by a light breakfast and maybe a spot of remarriage.
The rims of his eyes burn. He's a fourth son—not a particularly distinguished one, at that—not some highly-trained courtesan or a noble lady well-versed in the wifely arts!
"Well? Is there anything you can do?" Mobei-Jun snaps.
"S-Stories! I tell stories!" Shang Qinghua blurts.
"Stories?"
"Stories," Shang Qinghua repeats stupidly. "Fairy tales. Fables. That sort of thing."
Mobei-Jun cocks his head with a frown—but the frown is softer this time, contemplative rather than scornful. Or rather, Shang Qinghua thinks it is, because he's pretty sure none of the muscles in Mobei-Jun's face have actually moved. "So you're a wordsmith?"
Shang Qinghua tries not to grimace. Wordsmithery might be a little… generous for his regular fare, but he's grasping at straws here. If it takes a wordsmith, then a wordsmith he will be. He nods.
Mobei-Jun tips his chin up imperiously and reclines back against the pillows. "Well then, storyteller. Speak."
Fuck. Okay. That…actually worked. Shang Qinghua steels his shaken nerve and sheepishly crawls onto the edge of the bed, perching as far away from the demon as he dares. He takes a deep breath.
"Once upon a time, in a kingdom far away, there lived a humble washerwoman and her adopted son…"
After burying his mother, the young boy decided to pursue his fortune as a cultivator. His body was weak, but he was filled with innate ability. He left his old home and travelled for miles to seek a master in the famed Twelve Peaks of Cang Qiong.
The boy was a prodigal, once-in-a-millenium talent, but this very talent drew the envious eye of the boy's vain and arrogant shizun. The Peak Lord resented the boy's cultivation and his budding friendship with his only female disciple, whom he had raised and coveted for himself.
The devious villain resolved to sabotage the boy with false manuals and regular beatings. Only the boy's exceptional ability kept him from this terrible fate—but every improvement worsened his punishment, and every strike of the whip slowly blackened his heart.
"…And so the evil Peak Lord accepted the prodigy as his disciple," Shang Qinghua finishes. The candles in Mobei-Jun's chambers are burned to stubs, their lights flickering and low. He gives a few harsh swallows and tries to soothe his raw throat, his tongue like sandpaper. Mobei-Jun blinks at him as if awakening from a trance.
"Wait," he protests, "I want to know what happens after he reaches the sect. That's not a story."
"It's not the end," Shang Qinghua says.
"Then stay and finish it."
“…” Shang Qinghua shakes his head. "The night grows long, Dawang. You'll have to wait until tomorrow. Didn't your mother ever tell you bedtime stories?"
Mobei-Jun scowls. Shang Qinghua supposes that's his answer. He'd feel a little sorry for him if it weren't for the fact that both of them know that Shang Qinghua will never see another sunset. Mobei-Jun won’t get his ending. It's a petty victory at best, but petty victories are all he has left.
By the time Shang Qinghua retires to the Consort’s quarters, midnight has already come and gone.
He plummets face-first into the pillows without disrobing—but despite his bone-deep exhaustion, he can't find any peace. All he can think about is which unfortunate wife slept in this bed the night before, only to be executed the very morning that Shang Qinghua had been making his approach. He wonders whether his own corpse will be returned to his family, or whether he belongs to an ice-cold and indifferent Mobei-Jun even in death.
He drifts, dissociating more than sleeping, until, with detached resignation, he realises that he can hear birdsong outside his window.
Well, he thinks, that's it then. It doesn’t feel real. In a few hours, if that, he will walk out to his death—although, actually, he's not sure how that goes. No one has told him the details. He slides off the bed, onto the floor, and stares off into nothing.
He never got to try the roast duck last night. He pats his stomach, then squeezes it, imagining the salty, crispy skin—the thick, creamy layer of fat between the skin and the meat, the rich, gamey flavour. He only has a little stomach, after all, it wouldn't have taken much to fill it, and maybe it would serve Mobei-Jun right if he vomited his guts out just before he died.
He starts to giggle, and then he can't stop laughing—because if he doesn't laugh, he'll cry—laughing because he never got to try the duck and it's his favourite.
Shang Qinghua sits on the floor, swaying gently, until a brisk knock on the door brings him to his senses.
"Consort Shang," comes a voice he doesn't recognise, "Junshang awaits your presence."
His empty, withered stomach sinks a little further. He hadn't expected to have to face Mobei-Jun before he died. A part of him wants to refuse. He has nothing to lose but face, and it's not like he had much of that to begin with. Why should he go quietly?! Mobei-Jun should have to come here and scrape his body off the floor himself!
Shang Qinghua seethes with the thought as he follows the demon steward in silence. Okay, so he goes quietly. So what? He only goes because he's tired and hungry, and because he knows that Mobei-Jun would really do it.
His father's face probably matters too, although he's beyond caring. But he'll definitely be putting up a fuss later! Let no one say that Shang Qinghua got sent to his death like a pig to slaughter!
They end up outside the room that Shang Qinghua has spent more time in than his own in the brief time that he's been here. The lavishly appointed rooms look different in daylight. Last night, his view had largely been confined to the four posters of Mobei-Jun's bed. Beautifully intricate carpets woven with images of fantastic beasts in fine threads of blue and gold overlay the rich, dark wooden floors that gleam with polish. Sheer blue silks drape across the panelled windows and dull the edge of the frigid, icy air that lurks outside, casting the sunlight in a cool blue glow. Ornately carved furniture, fine lacquer, cavernous space at least thrice as large as his own bedroom in his father's estate—Shang Qinghua absorbs it all in awe as he steps over the threshold. And this is only the reception room!
"Junshang is dining in his chamber," comes the voice of the steward through the door.
Shang Qinghua grimaces, his feet dragging as he ventures into Mobei-Jun's inner sanctum. The king sits before a low table resplendent with food, the claw-carved feet practically groaning under the weight. It looks much like a smaller version of his wedding spread. In the centre of the table sits a bubbling hotpot cheerily piping out fragrant steam.
Such luxury appears to have little effect on Mobei-Jun's mood. The two make eye contact for the barest second and Shang Qinghua immediately regrets it.
"Eat," Mobei-Jun commands, gesturing to the unused table setting opposite. Shang Qinghua looks from him down to the heavily laden table and back. Is this…his final meal?
And under the eyes of Mobei-Jun, too. Any other time the demon's icy glower would kill his appetite, but right now, Shang Qinghua is hungry enough to eat a horse.
He loads his bowl with dumplings, braised duck, stewed mushrooms and cold jelly, and fills the bubbling hot pot in the centre of the small table with noodles and lotus root. He barely ate yesterday, and the first explosion of flavour that hits his tongue is nearly enough to make him cry. Mobei-Jun watches him in silence until Shang Qinghua has finished his first bowl and is busy helping himself to a second.
"It's tomorrow," he says as Shang Qinghua ladles broth into his bowl. "Finish the story."
He freezes with his spoon hovering over the hotpot. Mobei-Jun stares at him expectantly. Honestly, Shang Qinghua hasn't even thought about the story since last night. It isn’t even one of his better ones—he just made it up as he went along. He finishes topping up his bowl and sits back. Mobei-Jun doesn't strike him as the kind of man who's accustomed to being told no, and Shang Qinghua has already denied him once.
But then…if Mobei-Jun gets his ending, what use does he have for this poor, sacrificial husband?
Shang Qinghua takes his time selecting a plump mushroom from one of the dishes. He pops it in his mouth and chews slowly. "I can't."
Mobei-Jun inhales sharply. "Why not?" he demands.
"Bedtime stories are for bedtime," Shang Qinghua protests, "you'll have to wait until this evening."
The petulant king glares at him and Shang Qinghua's guts quiver, but he stands his ground. His grip on his chopsticks turns white with the effort when Mobei-Jun opens his mouth to argue and he cuts him off:
"A storyteller needs time to work his craft, Dawang. I could make up some ending now if you force me, but you won't be satisfied. Wait until tonight and I'll have the whole day to make a good story."
Mobei-Jun's eyes narrow further, but his mouth snaps shut nonetheless. He curtly picks up his chopsticks, his jaw set, and begins putting food in his bowl with more force than necessary. Shang Qinghua raises his bowl to his mouth and sips his broth to hide his small, triumphant smile. Fine. Let him throw his little tantrum. Whatever it takes for Shang Qinghua to see the end of the day.
"Tonight," Mobei-Jun snaps, "you will finish the story."
Shang Qinghua nods obediently, schemes already sprouting in his mind. When breakfast is over, he scurries back to his bedroom and orders ink and paper from the servant. Then he scrambles onto his bed and lets his hair loose, shoving aside the pillows until he reaches the bare wood of the bed frame. At the very least, he won't be being executed today. That's one day more than he thought he had. He takes the sharp end of his hairpin and carves one single, lonely notch into the headboard.
The boy begged and begged with tears in his eyes, but his villainous shizun wasn’t moved; he harboured a deep hatred for the boy, and he was glad to be rid of him. All around them the yawning chasm that split Juede Valley spat fire and sulphur.
"Now I see your true colours," he said, pushing him closer towards the edge and ignoring his pleas. Then, with a firm shove, he cast the half-demon into the Abyss.
"Why did the disciple not simply eat his evil shizun and become Peak Lord?"
"Wh—That's… not how it works."
"Why not? He could have digested his martial body and absorbed his power. That's how I became king."
Okay. Well. Shang Qinghua files that horrifying piece of information away for later.
Mobei-Jun continues, "The disciple should have killed his master and asserted his dominance, as all students eventually must. If he had been raised as a demon he would have known that, and his story wouldn't have ended so pathetically."
"Dawang, the story isn't finished."
"How could a scrawny half-demon possibly survive in the Endless Abyss?"
"You'll see… tomorrow."
Many years passed with no sign of the boy until, gradually, the memory of him faded away. His evil shizun was happy to be rid of him and gladly pretended that he had been slaughtered by demons, comforting his young female disciple in her grief while coveting her in his heart.
Little did he know that the Abyss had awakened the boy's Heavenly Demon blood, accelerating his cultivation until it was far greater than his own. The boy fought his way tooth and claw through the horrors of the Abyss with nothing but his wits and his insatiable desire for vengeance.
Then one day, deep in the belly of an ancient beast, the boy stumbled across the poisoned chalice that would make his fortune. The Xin Mo sword was the stuff of myth and legend, bestowing its wielder with untold power — but it offered a dark exchange, feeding off the cultivation of whoever held it. Countless men had been driven to insanity by its insidious whispers, none of them strong enough to tame its lust for spiritual energy. The boy pulled Xin Mo from the bones of those who came before him, and the sword snuck its blackened tendrils into his mind.
For the first few days of his strange marriage, Shang Qinghua gets barely any sleep. When he can think, he preoccupies himself with planning, laying down manic drafts for the next phase of the story like a thing possessed—
When he can't, he sits on his bed consumed with anxiety and waits for the axe to fall. Except it doesn't. One week goes by, then another, until somehow—miraculously—it's been several months and Shang Qinghua is still alive.
Every day, Shang Qinghua goes about his business; every night, he feeds Mobei-Jun a little more of the story and carves another notch on his bedpost. He buries his head in accounts, the part of Mobei-Jun's reign that his husband cares for the least. Outside of their nightly meetings, summons to breakfast, and sitting in on his court, Shang Qinghua does not see a lot of his husband. Perhaps Mobei-Jun is just forgetting about him.
The rest of the court, however, does not. Shang Qinghua starts to feel conspicuous with how he draws eyes wherever he goes. In the warmer months, the temperature lingers at a balmy handful of degrees above freezing—warm enough for Shang Qinghua to swaddle himself in furs and sit outside to write.
He chooses one of the smaller courtyards, nestling in amongst decorative demonic bushes that look half like artful landscaping and half like deadly weapons. Not that it does him any good. As soon as a clutch of noble ladies catch sight of him, they begin tittering amongst themselves from the veranda, sneaking glances at him when they think he's not looking.
His cheeks and ears burn, and not from the cold. He knows why they gossip. No other spouse has ever made it beyond the morning after, let alone as long as him. He suppresses a private little smile and loads his brush with ink. If only they knew that their formidable king spends his evening hanging on his every word while Shang Qinghua weaves a story of palace intrigue, of fantastic monsters and impossible escapes, until the fairytale hangs like a magnificent tapestry.
Fervent nights of passion? Bewitching Mobei-Jun with his sensual skills? Ha! The closest to passion that Shang Qinghua gets is when he drops in a steamy scene or two about the Demon Emperor and his latest conquest. Mobei-Jun loves those.
Shang Qinghua jots something down, then just as quickly scribbles it out again. Is the Emperor on his 35th wife, or was it his 36th? He can never remember. It doesn't matter—Shang Qinghua's golden protagonist son will push down 3,000 sisters if that's what it takes to keep him alive!
The fires at Cang Qiong Mountain Sect burned for days, the smoke for even longer. The first woman that the boy claimed for his harem was his childhood friend, the beloved disciple of his evil shizun. He remembered her kindness to him and spared her life while he rained down bloody vengeance on his former sect, taking her and another shimei renowned for her beauty as his wives. He turned his childhood friend into his Empress, and his childhood home into little more than a charred pile of corpses and ash.
In the end, it's not Mobei-Jun who shatters the illusion.
Shang Qinghua knows how the Palace whispers. He makes it his business to know. A favour here, a greased palm there, and he soon has steady trickles of news filtering through to him all through the day. Most of it is inconsequential, banal; the ambassador from the South caused a stir with his dirty bed sheets, the Sha clan has a new Saintess. And some of it is not. If there's anything Shang Qinghua has learned from his father, it's that power is the smart man's game.
So when an offhand comment drops into his lap about how one of his itineraries appears to have been misplaced, he knows better than to chalk it up to human error. Or demon error, as the case may be. Shang Qinghua might be sheltered, but he's no fool.
He doesn't have to dig far. Demons are hardly known for their unwavering loyalty, their servants even less; a little carrot and stick and a reminder of who their king is and one Lord Wei's servants sing like canaries. He must not be well-liked. Shang Qinghua didn't even have to remove anything vital.
He sends Lord Wei's servants on their way with Mobei-Jun's seal of protection and some human trinkets for their troubles. Lord Wei takes no time to find in his dossier. Prominent at court until the death of his daughter, it was his youngest who'd found herself unfortunately wed—and unfortunately dead—by Mobei-Jun's hand.
Shang Qinghua has always heard that demons aren't much for trivial things like loving family relationships. Perhaps Lord Wei didn't get the payoff he'd been hoping for. In fact, his influence has been on the wane since… well, according to these documents, it would be right about the time that…
…Right around the time that Shang Qinghua was married.
Shang Qinghua slumps back in his seat with a grimace. He's always known that he slept that first night in the bed of the bride who came before him. Now he knows which one.
It appears that Lord Wei knows how to hold a grudge. The more that Shang Qinghua digs, the more disturbing patterns come to light until he’s staring down at nothing less than the sequence of Mobei-Jun’s death. And his own, if he’s not mistaken. Gods, he wants to be mistaken. Demons certainly don’t do revenge by halves.
Shang Qinghua scratches his head with the butt of his pen. If Mobei-Jun died, wouldn't that be good for him? It's been months now, but the threat of being yet another number on the unsexiest of body counts is never far away. All it would take is one bad day and Shang Qinghua could end up as little more than a memorial tablet gathering dust. So many daughters far more esteemed than him have ended up that way at Mobei-Jun's behest, including Lord Wei’s—he'd sympathise with the guy if his grudge against Mobei-Jun didn't also extend to Shang Qinghua as his longest-lived spouse.
Somehow, he gets the feeling that his sympathy is unwelcome.
Shang Qinghua has no intention of surviving Mobei-Jun only to fall at the hands of someone else. Between a father who gave him up to certain death, a husband who could execute him at any moment, and jealous lords who want his head in vengeance, Shang Qinghua's pickings are pretty slim.
Assassination would be the easiest solution. His fingers itch to send the order even as he thinks it—but something holds him back, a certain reluctance that reminds him of his position.
Demons are by no means squeamish about assassins—his king used to be one, after all, travelling through the shadows to strike quick and fast without mercy. Shang Qinghua has heard tales of his cold ferocity. But Shang Qinghua is no demon, nor a treasured spouse. If Mobei-Jun heard that he'd been quietly ordering assassinations of seemingly loyal lords, wouldn't it be natural for him to start to question Shang Qinghua's value?
No. Shang Qinghua puts down his pen and steeples his fingers under his chin. He can't be the one to dispose of Lord Wei. His position is too fragile.
By the time that evening rolls around, the gears in his brain have spat out a tenuous solution. He makes his way to his husband's quarters with weak knees and sweaty palms. When he slips inside, the room is already hazy and perfumed with the smell of sweet cinnamon incense.
Shang Qinghua finds Mobei-Jun pacing in his bedroom. The moment that his husband catches sight of him, he drops expectantly onto his bed with an accusatory glare.
"You're late," he says.
"Sorry, Dawang," Shang Qinghua replies, eking out a comfortable nest for himself in the pillows. "I got caught up in paperwork." He keeps his distance today.
Mobei-Jun huffs. But he doesn't pry, just as Shang Qinghua expected—the fine details of Mobei-Jun's luxurious existence bore him to death, and Shang Qinghua's stories always have something far better to offer.
He clears his throat and picks up where he left off. "It had been only a few months since the wedding of the Demon Emperor to his newest wife, the humble huli jing, when trouble arose within the harem. Loyal servants became enemies, while enemies proved themselves loyal servants, and the foul winds of treachery blew through Huanhua Palace. The Emperor hastened to—"
Mobei-Jun scowls. "I thought that the Demon Emperor was hunting the Blue Mountain Copperhead Hydra?"
Shang Qinghua waves away his words impatiently. "He was doing that. He's taking a detour."
"How does he know about what's going on in the Palace?"
"…" Shang Qinghua despairs. Dawang, what's with all the attention to detail! Can't you just suspend your disbelief for two seconds so this beleaguered servant can save your life!
"One, uh…one of his wives called out to him in a dream! Yeah, that's good. She called out to him and he heard her using his dream powers. Then he cut a portal with Xin Mo and returned to Huanhua Palace."
Mobei-Jun looks less than satisfied, but he keeps his complaints to himself. He looks down pointedly at the space between them and then back up. Shang Qinghua pretends not to notice.
"As I was saying," Shang Qinghua says, "the Emperor hastened to his beloved wife's palace, where she sat with tears brimming in her beautiful fox eyes. Four fluffy tails surrounded her like clouds, and in her hand she clutched a single scrap of paper. 'Junshang, my beloved husband, this wife has stumbled across evidence of a conspiracy to overthrow you.'"
Mobei-Jun's pointed ears perk up. His gaze never wavers from Shang Qinghua while he speaks, but the drumming of his claws against his thigh and the way that he restlessly rolls a pillow tassel between the fingers and thumb of his right hand give away his excitement.
"'As your power grows, so does resentment towards you. Lord… Pei is enraged that you honoured such a lowly demon by taking her as a wife and now esteem her higher than his own daughter, who wastes away in your harem as if she were dead.'
"The huli jing showed the Emperor evidence of his documents being stolen, as well as Lord Pei's correspondence to his household. As the pieces slotted together, the Emperor kept his face calm, more a fox than the fox herself, even though he burned with rage. His wife illustrated how Lord Pei and his six closest confidants at court planned to converge on the Emperor in the courtyard the next morning and lure him into an array that would temporarily compromise his spiritual energy, then kill his beloved wife before him to push him into a qi deviation. These lords were individually powerful, and would combine their centuries of cultivation to kill the Emperor."
Mobei-Jun goes deathly still, his thumb pausing where it had been toying with the tassel. Shang Qinghua's stomach leaps into his throat. Fuck, fuck, he’s messed up, he’s overstepped, he’s screwed, so screwed—
Mobei-Jun is on his feet quicker than Shang Qinghua’s brain can even process the need to scramble away, his face like thunder. But he doesn’t come for Shang Qinghua. He sweeps past, cloaked in a veil of killing intent so strong that even Shang Qinghua’s negligible human cultivation can pick it up, and melts into the shadows quicker than the time between one blink and the next. Shang Qinghua’s stomach hurts. He wraps his arms around his tummy, sitting alone in the middle of the vast, empty bed.
The evil Peak Lord spat out a mouthful of warm blood, glaring at the Demon Emperor through his one good eye. Even with both his arms reduced to stubs, his pride was too great to recognise the wound he had left in the Demon Emperor’s heart. “I always knew that you were no more than a beast in child’s clothing. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
There was not an ounce of regret in his voice, no shame whatsoever. The Demon Emperor realised, then, that his shizun truly was the worst kind of scum, an irredeemable villain, a man who would never renounce his wrongs.
He sighed and placed his hand on his shizun’s leg. “Shizun, why don’t we send the Sect Leader a gift?”
Shang Qinghua doesn’t see the bloody outcome of his story. He doesn’t need to. Mobei-Jun’s reputation precedes him, and floods of whispers come pouring in until Shang Qinghua is inundated from the safety of his rooms—whispers of bodies found torn apart in their beds and the terrible cost of disloyalty.
Shang Qinghua shivers and burrows into his cloak more deeply, his breath fogging up the air before him. He snuffs out his last candle. Somehow, even though he knows it doesn't make any sense, the air always feels a little warmer when Mobei-Jun is around.
He hurries to his bedroom, his mind full of thoughts about the cosy, brick-heated bed and fluffy sheets that await him. Barely has he piled onto his bed, ready to burrow under the covers, that he contorts with a scream, two unwavering, luminous eyes watching him from the shadows. The darkness coils around itself until it becomes the solid form of a man.
"Dawang," Shang Qinghua breathes, "what the fuck.”
Mobei-Jun cocks his head, his eyes shining unnaturally bright. Rust tinges the air, coppery and metallic.
"Tell me about the Blue Mountain Copperhead Hydra," he says.
"What?" Shang Qinghua asks intelligently. His pulse starts to jackhammer as Mobei-Jun saunters towards him in the dark, stalking out of the shadows and into the serrated shafts of moonlight.
"The Demon Emperor was searching for the Blue Mountain Copperhead Hydra," he says, "you never finished telling me about it."
"Oh. Um. Yeah, I guess I didn't. Do you—ah—okay haha you're really close now, Dawang —you want me to finish it now?"
"Mn," Mobei-Jun hums, dropping onto all fours and crawling up the bed. Shang Qinghua's mouth goes dry. Mobei-Jun's eyes never leave him, pinning him in place like he's a fine morsel just waiting to be devoured.
Shang Qinghua clears his throat. “Okay. Uh. After dealing with his enemies, the Demon Emperor spent many nights victoriously papapa ing his beloved huli jing until her — okay, okay, fine, I’m getting to the hydra—ah, where was I… oh yeah, the Demon Emperor was deep in the mountains in search of his prey—”
Mobei-Jun pushes Shang Qinghua’s robes aside without a thought, splaying his palms over exposed tracts of sensitive skin. Shang Qinghua jumps and trips over his words at first contact, the muscles in his inner thighs and abdomen jumping involuntarily.
“— ey, ah, uh—something something, following its tracks, uh, he came to a cave… a large cave from the outside, but inside it looked like a great boudoir carved from the natural lapis of the w-walls… inside he found not a hydra but a beautiful young woman clothed in snakeskin, her bare breasts heaving…”
Short, black nails and silver-tipped metal claws trace light, barely-there paths up his thigh and make it difficult to think. The pads of Mobei-Jun’s fingers are cool against his warm skin, and the difference in temperature leaves tingling trails that linger with the feeling of his touch.
Mobei-Jun nuzzles into the soft pouch of his belly just above his mound, inhaling his scent. He nudges Shang Qinghua’s legs wider and wider by increments until his whole bulk is neatly settled in between.
They’re both breathing deeply for different reasons—Mobei-Jun doing…whatever he’s doing, and Shang Qinghua on the verge of hyperventilating.
He balls his fists up in the silk sheets to stop them from visibly trembling while he tries to focus on telling the story, Mobei-Jun’s wicked ministrations, and praying to whichever god smiled on him today all at once. He doesn’t know if this is going where he thinks it’s going, but if it’s going, then it’s going to drive him mad. He can already feel heat gathering between his spread legs, and it takes all he has to fight the urge to visibly squirm against the wetness starting to pool in his underwear.
Mobei-Jun is Shang Qinghua’s husband. He’s terrifying. He’s everything Shang Qinghua could ever have conjured in his wildest, horniest dreams. He’s in between his legs.
Shang Qinghua smothers his anxieties ruthlessly. Mobei-Jun is his husband, even if that's only in name. If his days are numbered, then he absolutely deserves to fuck his super hot, extremely scary spouse at least once! It's about time Mobei-Jun put his tongue to use and gave Shang Qinghua a little quid pro quo!
"Dawang, ah…it's really hard to concentrate when you do that…"
"Keep talking," Mobei-Jun commands.
“Yep, okay, sure. No problem. Not difficult to do at all. Where was I?”
“The Blue Mountain Copperhead Hydra is a busty woman,” Mobei-Jun offers.
The tips of his metal claws dig into Shang Qinghua's plump thighs and hold them open, spreading his folds with his few unclawed fingers until Shang Qinghua unfurls before his hungry eyes. Mobei-Jun purses his lips and blows a steady stream of icy air against Shang Qinghua's bare slit.
"Hah!" Shang Qinghua yelps, immediately trying to close his thighs and curl around himself, but Mobei-Jun's uncompromising grip keeps his legs spread. The sudden change in temperature makes his body seize; the tickling, teasing gust of cold air against his dick makes his cunt weep. Mobei-Jun's keen, predatory eyes miss nothing, and it's both mortifying and dizzyingly hot to be laid waste before him like this.
Shang Qinghua watches Mobei-Jun's slit pupils dilate as they follow the stream of clear fluid that Shang Qinghua can feel dribbling from his hole and pooling onto the sheets. He blows cool air onto Shang Qinghua's cock again until he's squirming against fine silk, whimpering and mewling, his pussy overstimulated and desperate for touch all at once.
"Don't stop," Mobei-Jun grouses.
"That's—mn—that's my line," Shang Qinghua mumbles.
Mobei-Jun's tongue unfurls from his mouth, freakishly long, and that definitely shouldn't be as hot as it is and where the hell was he hiding that and Shang Qinghua doesn't care because suddenly it's on him, undulating from side to side up the whole length of his slit until his pussy is enveloped by slippery warmth.
It's both cooler than a tongue should be and warmer than he expected for an ice demon, just a tad below his body temperature like the shock of cold hands in winter. His thighs reflexively try to clamp shut around Mobei-Jun's head. His husband's tongue delves between his sticky lips and quickly locates his hole. Shang Qinghua's belly clenches involuntarily, jerking his shoulders off the bed, when the forked tip teases the sensitive rim of his cunt.
Then it thrusts inside him without decorum or warning, filling him in a fraction of a second. Shang Qinghua's back bows in a beautiful arch and he stuffs his mouth full of the bed sheets to muffle his helpless scream, biting down on priceless silk with all the force he can muster. It's unlike anything he's ever felt, the comparatively cool length of Mobei-Jun's tongue fighting against his internal heat as it strokes and searches and fills the walls of his cunt. It feels like cool relief, an icy panacea to the feverish heat making him pant and sweat.
Shang Qinghua braces a foot against Mobei-Jun's shoulder for leverage, the studded bangles around his ankle tinkling, and tries his best to grind back against the softness of his tongue. He tries to forge on with the story, desperate not to give Mobei-Jun a reason to stop, but his narration descends into a babbling, delirious mess.
"Ah, ah! Dawang, I really can't, I — mmm, ah, mmm —I can't keep going…"
"Then don’t," Mobei-Jun growls. Then he seals his lips around Shang Qinghua's chubby cock and sucks.
Shang Qinghua whites out, his cunt clenching around emptiness. He might be howling, or begging, he can't tell—his mouth is definitely moving, but the noises feel far away. His legs seize as he comes, the first hot gush of his climax soaking Mobei-Jun's lips and chin.
Guttural, baritone vibrations reverberate against his sensitive flesh when Mobei-Jun moans appreciatively. Shang Qinghua claps a hand over his mouth to stifle the frankly pathetic noises escaping his lips, but Mobei-Jun's prehensile tongue strokes him to overstimulation until he's twitching and whining.
Only when he smacks weakly at the demon's head does he stop, sitting up and wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. He watches Shang Qinghua through lazy, half-lidded eyes, his pupils devouring the ice blue of his irises.
Shang Qinghua mumbles wordlessly as he's enrobed in a pair of cool, strong arms, the temperature of Mobei-Jun's body soothing his overheated skin. He rubs his cheek against Mobei-Jun's chest without thinking, warm and fuzzy and satisfied.
"Dawang," he slurs sleepily, "I didn't get to the end of the story."
The sharp tips of Mobei-Jun's claws carefully thread through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp. Mobei-Jun huffs, the sudden cold gust of his breath tickling Shang Qinghua's cheeks.
"Finish it tomorrow."