Shang Qinghua had not written this.

No matter what Cucumber-bro may say, the depths of his depravity ran about as shallow as a sun-baked wash. It was as simple as this: he wrote what the readers wanted, and he wrote what would appeal to the widest possible demographic of male readers aged eighteen to twenty-five. Most of Proud Immortal Demon Way’s action consisted of missionary, slightly rougher missionary, and maybe doggy-style or feet, if he was feeling raunchy. He never even described the climaxes, okay, Cucumber-bro?! And who got off to their own writing?? Shang Qinghua wasn’t a pervert, or a kinkster, or anything more than a sad, basement-dwelling virgin. Really!

He would also like to state on record that he knew that Mobei-jun was cold. He knew! Shang Qinghua would go so far as to say that he knew almost everything about Mobei-jun, in one way or another. Where clothing was concerned, he knew Mobei-jun’s preferred length, cut, and fabric. When it came to dining, he was more than willing to send Mobei-jun’s least favorite foods back to the kitchens in the Northern Palace – in fact, he had begun to design the menu roughly half a decade ago after a string of similar incidents. As for Mobei-jun himself, Shang Qinghua could read every minute change in his king’s posture, even when his face seemed to be set in stone. He knew the exact angle that that long, straight nose protruded from his face, and he could probably estimate the length of his king’s eyelashes down to the háo (never let it be said that he didn’t have an eye for detail).

Being taken in as a consort – his king’s first consort – was a surprise, but it wasn’t because he didn’t know Mobei-jun! If anything, it was closer to a reflection of his own failings. How could he not fail? He was scummy, low-tier canon fodder, and Mobei-jun was the second-highest rung on the male power fantasy ladder! Even in the arena of scum villains, Cucumber-bro had him beat tenfold.

So, despite the fact that Shang Qinghua wasn’t a pervert, he had begun to wonder exactly when Mobei-jun planned to deflower him about a month into the arrangement. After all, it was only natural! He wanted to at least be sufficiently prepared. He had been looped up in Mobei-jun’s arms at the time, separated from his skin by only a thick barrier of blankets, heat talismans, and furs.

Aside from his new title and the voluntary bed-sharing, becoming a consort had changed almost nothing about their relationship. Shang Qinghua still transcribed meetings, handled finances, and ran the household. Mobei-jun still hit him when he didn’t remember not to, made pulled noodles from time to time, and dragged Shang Qinghua around by the collar of his blue-fringed dress robes. All things in their proper order. Still, if he was being honest with himself, being pressed up against Mobei-jun’s impressive pectorals while his king slept made Shang Qinghua feel a bit closer to a stuffed animal than a first consort. It wasn’t that being ravished would be more dignified, but at least it was what he had expected! And with Mobei-jun playing the role of his master and superior, it wasn’t like he could take initiative. They had been getting along better, but Shang Qinghua still knew his place.

. . . So maybe he wasn’t a pervert, exactly, but sue him for being a bit pent up. Mobei-jun’s pecs were inhumanly sculpted, anyone would get a bit hot (cold?) under the collar for them eventually. He was man enough to tally himself among the casualties.

Now, in month two, he was startled awake from an anxiety dream about Mobei-jun’s impotence by the System’s dissonant not-voice blaring into his subconsciousness.【Scenario pusher unlocked,】It said at a volume wholly unsuited to the early hours of the morning.【Invest 100 B-points for the chance to cash out on 500 B-Points! Don’t miss out on this unbeatable deal!!】

It took a second for the words to compute, but when they did, he was nearly capsized by a surging tide of indignation. Unlocked?! Then why did he have to pay a hundred B-Points? What was this, a pay-to-win gambling game?! Scenario pusher for what?

【You are being given the exclusive opportunity to reduce your C-Points! Don’t miss out! ＼(≧▽≦)／】

Just – just what was a C-point? He was too tired for this. Too tired, and too squished. The room was still dark, and he was serving as his king’s little spoon, so close that he worried he’d disappear into the chiseled gap between Mobei-jun’s pecs.

Either unknowing or uncaring of his plight, the System chirped,【C-Points refer to Celibacy Points. Your C-Points are currently maxed out! Engage in papapa to reduce your C-Points!】

Shang Qinghua, struck by a sudden nausea, tried and failed to sit up. How coercive! How underhanded! How lewd! He knew he was a virgin, alright!? Wasn’t this just adding insult to injury? And, come to think of it, since when had the System stopped censoring him and started doing this!? How had he not noticed!? Was it like this for Cucumber-bro?

On second thought, he didn’t particularly want to know the answer to that last question. Nope, nope, nope! The entire cultivation world already knew far more about Shen Qingqiu’s private life than anyone had ever bargained for, but that didn’t mean that Shang Qinghua wanted to think about it on his own time! Abort, abort!

In his scramble to escape his own thoughts, Shang Qinghua’s surroundings were thrust back into technicolor. He was still crushed, but now there was something pushing up against his lower back, cold even through all his layers. Was that an icicle? His brain just about short-circuited. Could it be – had he made the transaction without realizing it?! He attempted to squirm away, only to be pulled closer. In this new position, they were huddled tightly together, back to front. Mobei-jun nuzzled against his cheek, unfairly muscled arms like iron braces around his middle, that icicle against his back, and – was it his imagination, or was Mobei-jun colder than usual? Fuck all ten generations of your ancestors, System!! Spit on your mother’s grave!!

“My king,” Shang Qinghua said in a strangled voice. At this rate, he would get hard too, and then where would they be? Both of them . . . hard . . . in bed . . .

Snap out of it, Shang Qinghua, he chided. You didn’t write twenty-million words of smut just to get flustered by an icicle.

. . . Maybe thinking about Cucumber-bro’s sex life would be helpful, now that Mobei-jun was starting up a sinuous grind – how was it possible to be so hard at that temperature? He was a better writer than this! Nothing made sense, and the System had gone suspiciously quiet. Please, System, he pleaded. Go back to grifting, I’m begging you! I’ll unfuck your ancestors, I promise!

The fickle System said nothing, no matter how much he bargained with it in his head.

The situation was getting increasingly dire at an alarming pace. Shang Qinghua could feel his heartbeat in his throat and his cock, which was fattening up against his thigh. Was arousal a stage of grief? He squeezed his eyes tightly shut and wondered if he was going to be executed if he just reached down . . . juuuust a little bit . . . would Mobei-jun even know? This was! Just! Too! Much! He was only human! Sure, he had wondered when he was going to be deflowered, sometimes even enthusiastically! But imagining it was different than the real deal. If he could get so worked up over a little bit of dry humping against his back, wouldn’t he come in two strokes?

His eyes were still squeezed shut when the pattern of Mobei-jun’s breaths changed, but the surest indication that he was awake was the way that his hips jarred to a stiff halt. The room went still and silent, all aside from the sound of Shang Qinghua hyperventilating.

“My king,” Shang Qinghua raced to say, slipping into formality in his panic. “This consort begs your pardon. Would – would you be so inclined as to let this one go?”

Mobei-jun said nothing, and, perhaps more notably, didn’t move an inch.

Post transmigration, Shang Qinghua had come to regret certain executive decisions that he made over the course of his writing process for Proud Immortal Demon Way. For example: there was never any doubt that Mobei-jun was a badass, so did he have to be so closed off too? It just made him look awkward, and usually angry!! If Bing-ge got to be canon-divergent, so should Mobei-jun. And the worst part of it all? Some part of Shang Qinghua clearly liked this awful, humiliating stalemate, given the way that he was only getting harder. His breath hitched, a sharp exhale pitching up into a moan. He was going to be ravished, and all he could think about was how he was going to manage the household with a persistent limp, so preoccupied that he almost missed Mobei-jun’s question –

“Do you want it?” Low and strained with morning gravel.

Oh.

Well.

Though he had a backlog of any of daydreams, wet dreams, dry dreams, and quick breaks between daily tasks spanning months, he had never imagined having any say in the matter when it came time to put concept into practice. Something in him went soft and lax, sappy-sweet. His breathing slowed. Of course he’d have a say. Did he really think so poorly of Mobei-jun?

The question made it feel like the natural way of things, a sensible path forward for their relationship.

“My king,” Shang Qinghua said, a hint of laughter creeping into his tone. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Mobei-jun’s kisses felt like snowfall, burying him in an avalanche. Their mouths slotted together at an angle, and Mobei-jun licked like he was hungry, laving his claim over Shang Qinghua’s teeth and tongue. Beneath his king, Shang Qinghua had melted like putty, overwhelmed with sensation. He was shivering, he realized through the haze. The furs had fallen open, baring his sleep robes, askew.

There was a point where Shang Qinghua had thought that showing more skin would be key, and so he had ended up freezing his ass off in their sleeping chambers, hair down, gauzy robes open to display a slice of his (perhaps less-than-enticing) musculature. There was a point where he had thought that it was working, when Mobei-jun had turned around, fingers twitching around his hairbrush until it was frozen solid in his grasp, but then Mobei-jun had turned tail and left, brush shattering on the floor. He had only slid into bed some hours after midnight, spending the night with his back to his neglected consort, who was still, stubbornly, playing dress-up.

It had gone on like this for a week and a half before Shang Qinghua had received a fine sleep set tailored to his proportions dyed in the colors of the northern clan, folded up on his side of the bed.

Shang Qinghua had slept naked that night, and was rewarded for his efforts with an empty bed. In the morning, Mobei-jun’s eyes were ringed with sleeplessness. Shang Qinghua wasn’t proud to say that the warfare probably would’ve gone on for quite some time, had Mobei-jun not devastated his court to the point of Bing-ge’s intervention.

Back then, Shang Qinghua had decided that Mobei-jun found his body repulsive, but he was quickly learning otherwise. Gooseflesh rippled over his skin, following Mobei-jun’s fingers and mouth. He took like a tidal wave, washing over Shang Qinghua’s body and drowning him in sensation, what he clearly lacked in skill being made up for in passion that took and took and took some more. Shang Qinghua mused that he’d probably be burning half to death, without Mobei-jun to keep his temperature regulated.

He squirmed as Mobei-jun’s tongue circled around a nipple, coaxing it up into a pebbled peak. The slight scrape of teeth made his mind go empty. He found himself quite liking it, spilling obscenities like the leaky roof in the west servants quarters that really – he really –

He finished almost fully dressed, with his king latched and suckling, and thought he might die from the embarrassment. He – he wasn’t a teenager. He wasn’t the sort of person to –

–

– Oh, who was he kidding? The evidence was sticky in his pants, cooling quickly. Denial wasn’t a good look on him.

Shang Qinghua shoved his king’s head away before it could all prove to be too much. It was already too much – was every demon a sex god? Did Bing-ge know? Shang Qinghua could keep a secret – not that there was anything to keep, necessarily. It was more than likely that he was just a virgin, the likes of which had never been seen in this world or any other.

“Give me a second,” Shang Qinghua said. His voice was rougher than it had been, pitched lower, and Mobei-jun seemed to rumble deep in his throat. Pleased, or murderous? He could appeal to either. “Sorry. We can go again. Or I guess there are lots of other ways to do it, if you can’t wait. I have,” he counted off on his fingers. “Hands, thighs, mouth, uh, armpits? Feet? I don’t know what you’re into. I’m all yours, but I think we need to prepare if you want to use the backdoor. I uh – I did some reading.”

Mobei-jun’s eyes were wide, his pupils blown. He got like this, when he had too many choices, frozen and indecisive, more often in his personal life, as he had quite a straight spine in his professional life. Fondness threatened to consume Shang Qinghua, and it was all he could do to drag his king back up his body, capturing his lips in a comparatively gentle, open-mouthed kiss, icicle against his thigh, steady weight bracketing him in protection of the world. Their pace slowed to something lazy and familiar, more suited to the morning. He supposed that they were long past the point of familiarity, by now.

“What would I do with your feet?” Mobei-jun asked from where he was crushed up against Shang Qinghua’s mouth.

Shang Qinghua couldn’t help but laugh, stroking a fond hand through his king’s inky-black hair. He was filling back out nicely, and he would probably be harder if he wasn’t so cold, cold like secondary arousal, chilling him to the point of numbness that ached in his bones and made him want.

“I’ll explain later.” He soothed a circle into his king’s hip with his other hand. “Why don’t we get you out of those clothes?” He hoped that the way he slid his hand up Mobei-jun’s flank could be considered seductive. At least he knew (with absolute certainty) that Mobei-jun was hard and throbbing, so it couldn’t be hurting anything. So much for impotence, right? Mobei-jun nodded his permission.

The next part of their routine was familiar from when Mobei-jun came home, dead-to-the-world tired and/or injured, and had to be stripped. It happened more often than Shang Qinghua would’ve liked, and so he fussed more than Mobei-jun should’ve liked, taking his vindication where he could. Mobei-jun slept lighter than he dressed outside their chambers, but the concept was the same – arm by arm, torso, legs, fabric sliding away to reveal pristine skin, cold and sculpted. Shang Qinghua paused at the icicle, beading over with pearls of moisture that had frozen into spherical droplets of milky-white ice. That had to hurt. That had to really, really hurt. Had he done this?

“You need to tell me when something hurts,” Shang Qinghua scolded the blue pallor of Mobei-jun’s erection, clicking his tongue. “It’s my job to keep you comfortable, remember? Let me take care of you.”

If it was even possible to be harder, Mobei-jun managed admirably, another bead of moisture beading and freezing at the icicle’s tip, dislodging a pearl onto the covers.

“You like that?”

A hesitant nod. Mobei-jun sat back on his calves, gripping the blankets and looking away. “Yes,” for clarity’s sake.

It was – cute. Somehow. The rules of the universe should not have allowed a giant, frigid demon lord to be giant, frigid, and cute. Shang Qinghua would have pinched his cheeks, if not for the flashbacks it would give him both. He settled for leaning forward and pressing a chaste kiss to Mobei-jun’s huadian instead, long and lingering.

“Is there any specific way you want me to take care of you?” He asked in the voice that Mobei-jun responded to best – patient, but expectant, breath ghosting over his king’s pinched forehead.

“. . . I don’t know.”

“Is there anything you’ve fantasized about?”

Mobei-jun shrugged.

“Tell me.”

There was something about this exchange that made the first time feel like the first time – the night pearls washing over bare skin, Mobei-jun’s hands settling on Shang Qinghua’s still-clothed hips, shy, but wanting. The exchange of fantasies with foreheads pushed together, thighs in soft fabric bracketing a straining erection.

“My mouth,” Mobei-jun began, voice starting and stopping. “On you.” Shang Qinghua knew when to be patient. Kept his peace. “Everywhere.”

“What else?”

“That robe.”

“You looked like you wanted to rip it up.”

“I did want to. While you were still wearing it.”

“Naughty.”

Mobei-jun only nodded, nudging his face up for another indulgent exchange of kisses.

“I wanted you to start it,” Mobei-jun offered, unprompted, and well – it was awfully soon, to be so hard again, but Shang Qinghua managed.

“I’ll start it next time, okay?”

Something shifted, tripping forward, and the next time Shang Qinghua was coherent, his clothes were in ribbons. The sound he made when Mobei-jun’s mouth closed around his length could only be described as undignified, and well, maybe he wasn’t actually all that coherent after all. Mobei-jun was lapping him up like a man starved, kissing anywhere he could reach. The cold was decadent, keeping Shang Qinghua in aching stasis on the edge. Fingers skated across skin. Time ceased to exist. Shang Qinghua’s hands were balled into fists in Mobei-jun’s hair, and his king was purring like a cat, and at some point, the night pearls had been replaced with sunlight. He couldn’t say that he had been paying close attention. He couldn’t pay close attention to anything but that tongue – cold, inhumanly long, soft as velvet. Those hands – paradoxically gentle and demanding, grasping and kneading. Eventually, he came with a whine, vision whiting as he went completely lax, all but melting. Mobei-jun licked him into overstimulation as he spasmed his way through his own orgasm, and Shang Qinghua would schedule some other time to be guilty about that. It could wait.

The morning thereafter was a series of fragments. Mobei-jun managed to procure a tub of hot water, he wrapped Shang Qinghua up in his softest things and carried him, flank to chest, to the bathroom. He couldn’t touch anything hot enough to steam, but he could comb and oil Shang Qinghua’s hair while he floated through the air high above, basking in the silky-soft afterglow. Surely it was okay to be selfish, if his king was signing off on it, if he’d never not been selfish. Who was Shang Qinghua to look a gift horse in the mouth? He was wanted so much it melted his king’s icy exterior. He could be smug about that. He left a spray of kisses across his king’s face, and then, as soon as he was able, on the flaccid shaft of his cock, which didn’t stay flaccid for long.

Two weeks later, in the glow of warm post-coitus, the system blared a series of notifications.

【Congratulations! Valued customer has lost his virginity!!】

It began, and then proceeded to rattle off point values.

【+100 B-Points!】

【-100 C-Points!】

【+10 Big Dick Energy Points!】

【C-Points are now at 0!】

Shang Qinghua, still softening inside of his king, was in a good enough mood to dismiss them without comment.