Since this date had the potential to turn into a full-blown palace scandal if the wrong person happened to stroll by, I had to improvise. Carefully. Quietly. Strategically.
So, I asked Ming Yu to go for a scenic walk with me in the afternoon.
Simple. Innocent.
Just two people enjoying nature, no hidden agendas whatsoever. (Except for the many, many agendas hidden under my smile.)
I packed food, of course. My version of a picnic, ancient-style. Simple rice rolls—kimbap-inspired, because they were easy to carry, easy to eat, and, let's be honest, the only thing I could reliably make without causing concern for public safety.
He didn't ask questions. Just gave me that faint, amused smile when I handed him the wrapped bundle like I was handing over an imperial decree.
We walked along the edge of the outer gardens where the trees stretched tall and gold, their leaves fluttering in the wind like they were in on the plan. I let the breeze do most of the talking while he relaxed beside me, peaceful in a way I rarely got to see.
I told myself that part was enough.
But it wasn't.
When we returned, I casually guided him away from the main hall and down one of the less-traveled corridors—toward a room hidden behind a seemingly ordinary wall. One only a few people even knew existed.
Wei Wuxian's secret room.
Inside, I'd already prepared everything: oil, incense, a warm bowl of water, soft cloths, the best tea I could coax out of Wei Wuxian's stash. The scent of sandalwood drifted through the space like the world was taking a deep breath.
Ming Yu stepped into the room and paused, eyes sweeping over the setup—the tea, the warmth, the faint glow of incense curling toward the ceiling.
He looked at me. "What is all this?"
I smiled. "Today's your day. I just… wanted to do something special for you."
He blinked, slightly puzzled, like he wasn't used to being the one taken care of. But then he smiled—quiet, a little crooked.
The kind that made my heart do something very inconvenient.
I gestured toward the bed. "Sit down. And… loosen your robe."
He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amused suspicion in his eyes. "Are you serious?"
I gave a small nod, trying to look composed when my brain was already spiraling.
He didn't argue.
Just undid the sash and let the robe fall open as he sat down. And wow—
Dammit.
The muscles.
Why is he so well-proportioned?
This is unnecessary. The gods are so unfair.
I cleared my throat like that might help me spiritually recover. "Lie down on your stomach," I said, reaching for the oil. "You can cover your lower half with a blanket."
He obeyed, moving with that same quiet, fluid grace he always had. And somehow, that made it worse.
Once he was settled, I poured a small amount of oil into my palms, warmed it between my hands, and pressed my fingers gently against his back.
His skin was warm. His muscles tense. Ming Yu let out a soft sigh, his voice muffled by the pillow beneath him. "That feels… amazing."
I smiled, slow and quiet, letting my fingers continue their rhythm across the curve of his back.
"You've done so much for me," I said softly. "More than I ever expected. More than I probably deserved."
I slid my hands lower, across the tension in his lower back, pressing gently, watching the way his breath slowed under my touch.
"I just wanted to make you feel good," I added, not teasing—not playful—just honest.
Because it was true.
"The only thing missing here is some calm background music," I murmured, still working over the knots in his back. "But apparently we don't have that in this century unless I hire Lan Wangji to sit in the corner and play his guqin."
Ming Yu chuckled into the pillow. "That would be... dramatic."
I grinned. "I'd be dead before that happened. He'd stare at me once and I'd dissolve into spiritual particles."
I pulled the blanket a little higher, just enough to keep him modest while I moved down to his legs. My hands worked carefully over the tension in his calves, then along the length of his thigh, slow and steady.
He didn't say much—but the way his muscles eased beneath my touch told me everything I needed to know.
"How do you know all this?" Ming Yu asked, his voice slightly muffled but curious.
I smiled, fingers working gently down the curve of his calf. "Massage parlors are everywhere where I come from."
He made a small noise of understanding, until I added, "Not the red-light district kind."
That earned a low chuckle from him.
"I mean, those exist too," I said, half-laughing, "but I'm talking about the normal ones. It's basically a part of our health routine. Holistic, stress-relieving, muscle therapy... the whole thing. In my world, you're not fancy unless you get a deep tissue massage once a month and complain about it after."
"Sounds like a strange kind of luxury," he murmured.
"It is," I said. "But it works. Especially after, say… nearly dying in a battlefield and getting no emotional support from palace courtiers."
He let out another soft laugh, and I felt the last of the tension drain from his legs.
"Alright," I said softly, brushing my hands along his leg one last time. "Flip over."
Ming Yu glanced at me over his shoulder, eyebrows raised.
I gave him a look—half innocent, half challenge. "Trust me."
He did.
Slowly, he turned onto his back, settling against the pillows. The blanket shifted with him, still draped over his hips, and I adjusted it without looking like my brain was short-circuiting.
Because it was short-circuiting.
He was relaxed, his hair loose, lips parted slightly from the comfort of it all—and the gods had truly taken their time with this one. Every inch of him was lean strength and quiet composure, and I was supposed to keep my cool while kneeling beside that?
This was where it started.
My plan.
Not just to pamper him. Not just to make him feel good.
This was step one in Operation: Seduce Ming Yu and Possibly Make Him Forget Shen Kexian Exists for the Next 12 Hours.
I poured a little more oil into my palms, rubbed them together to warm it, and slid my hands up the length of his thigh—slow, smooth, deliberate.
Not rushed.
Not innocent, either.
This was the moment I crossed the line from comfort into something more.
Chapter 100.5: Operation Soft Seduction (continue)
I started working my hands a little higher.
Just enough to test the edge. Slow, firm pressure along his upper thighs, fingers brushing a little closer than strictly necessary—accidentally, of course.
Here and there.
A slight touch. A drag of my knuckles. The kind of almost-contact that left more in its wake than a full caress ever could.
Then I slid back down again—completely professional.
Mostly.
His breath caught. Just for a second. Barely audible, but I felt it. The shift. The awareness.
When I looked up, he was watching me. That knowing look—the one that said he absolutely knew what I was doing and was far too composed to call me out for it. Yet.
I gave him the most innocent look I could muster. Tilted my head slightly, as if to say, Is something wrong?
He didn't say a word. But the corner of his mouth twitched—just a little. Like he was amused. Intrigued. Maybe even tempted.
I let my hands drift higher again—fingers slow, deliberate, skimming along the edge where the thigh met the hip.
Another light brush. Another almost. And again, just a little closer than before.
By the third pass, I didn't even pretend I wasn't doing it on purpose. His breath hitched—barely—but enough. His composure was cracking in tiny, quiet ways, and I was there to feel every one of them.
"Mei Lin," he said at last, voice low and thick. "You're teasing."
My eyes flicked up to his, the faintest smile curling at my lips.
"Just relax," I said, smooth as silk.
I let my hands slide even higher, gliding along the sides of his hips. I didn't touch him directly—yet—but I didn't need to. The tension in his body told me exactly how close I was.
The blanket did little to hide how much he noticed. Still, I kept my movements slow, controlled. Like this was all part of some innocent massage routine and not the beginning of something more.
The next pass… I didn't accidentally brush him.
This time, it was intentional.
A light, gliding stroke of my fingertips over him—barely there, just enough to graze, to promise.
Ming Yu shuddered beneath my hands, a flush rising across his cheeks almost instantly. His breath stuttered, eyes fluttering closed for half a second.
"Cruel," he murmured, voice thick and breathless.
I smiled, just a little.
"Shh," I whispered. "You're supposed to be relaxing."
But I was anything but relaxed. Because the way he responded—his restraint, his softness unraveling thread by thread under my hands—made something ache deep in my chest.
Another pass—slow, deliberate, just enough pressure to tip him over the edge of restraint.
This time, he moved. In one swift motion, Ming Yu shot up, catching my wrist mid-stroke. His eyes were darker now, hunger softening into heat, and before I could blink, he pulled me down into a kiss—firm, full of everything he'd been holding back.
I let him kiss me. Let him take just a little. His hand curled around the back of my neck, his lips warm, wanting, reverent.
But then I pulled back—gently.
"No, no," I whispered, brushing his hair back from his face with my free hand. "You lie down."
He blinked, breathing uneven now.
"Today is all about you."
And when I guided him back against the pillows, he didn't argue. He let me guide him back down, his breath still uneven as he sank into the pillows.
I slid the blanket aside just enough, my hands trailing over the warmth of his skin, slow and deliberate. I took him in my hand—gently—my fingers wrapping around him with care, not urgency. There was no rush.
Just pressure. Warmth. Intention. I began to move—massaging, teasing, the pace unhurried, steady. Reading every breath, every shift in his expression. His muscles tightened under my touch, and then—
A soft sound escaped him. Low. Breathless. A moan that barely left his throat.
I kept my rhythm steady—slow, precise, edging him just enough to keep him on that breathless threshold.
Then I eased the pressure. Just slightly.
His hips shifted instinctively, a soft whimper barely slipping past his lips as his hands clenched the blanket beneath him. I watched him unravel in controlled fragments, each one pulling him closer to the edge, then tugging him just short of it.
Not yet. Not until he wanted more. Until he asked for it.
"Mei Lin, I… um…" His breath caught as he shifted slightly beneath me, eyes hazy with need. "A little faster… please."
I smiled, slow and wicked, leaning in just enough for my words to brush across his skin.
"We're going nowhere," I murmured, teasing. "There's no rush."
He flushed deeper, the red creeping all the way to his ears. Then he let out a soft, breathless chuckle. "You enjoy torturing me, don't you?"
I didn't answer with words.
One hand continued its steady rhythm on him—firm, focused—while the other began to drift lower. Slower. Circling carefully toward the place untouched.
The moment my fingers grazed the edge of that hidden place, his entire body flexed in response.
"Wait—Mei Lin, not… there." His voice cracked, laced with both embarrassment and disbelief.
I paused, leaning over him, my face just above his.
"Ming Yu," I said softly, "do you trust me?"
His eyes flicked to mine, still dazed, still searching. "Why do you ask? Of course, I trust you."
"Then relax."
He opened his mouth again, probably to argue.
"But—"
"No but," I whispered.
My hand didn't move yet. I waited, giving him a heartbeat. A breath. Letting trust settle over hesitation. And when he stilled beneath me, eyes wide and lips parted—
I circled my thumb around it—slow, deliberate, curious.
Ming Yu's breath hitched sharply, and he immediately brought a hand up to cover his face, the tips of his ears turning crimson.
"Mei Lin…" he groaned, muffled. "That was… too embarrassing."
I leaned over, smiling into his shoulder. "Does it not feel good?"
He hesitated, then muttered, "It feels… strange."
His voice was high with tension—uncertain, but not resistant.
I tilted my head, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. "Then stop arguing," I whispered. "Just let go."
He didn't respond right away—but his hand didn't stop me either.
This is it.
I reached for the small cloth-wrapped bundle resting beside the bowl of warm water—my secret weapon, soaked and ready.
My improvised tool.
You should've seen the look on the ceramic maker's face when I first handed him the sketch. I'd tried to keep a straight face while explaining curvature, dimensions, surface smoothness, and temperature resistance like I was ordering a ceremonial teacup and not… this.
Last time I went to him, it was for Yuling's fertility vials—he'd already looked at me like I might be crazy.
This time? He didn't ask.
He just shook his head, muttering something about "strange girl with strange hobbies" under his breath while crafting the item in silence.
The result sat warm and ready in my hand now. Smooth dense ceramic, the length of my palm, a few centimeters thicker than my fingers, with a slight upward curve at the tip—just enough to find everything I was aiming for.
I pressed the tip of the warmed ceramic gently against his skin, circling slowly—closer to the entrance, but not pushing. Just introducing. Testing.
Ming Yu's eyes flew open.
In a flash, he jerked upright, breath sharp, his body taut with alarm. "Mei Lin—!"
I placed a calming hand on his chest, steady and gentle. "Relax. I won't hurt you."
His gaze searched mine, wide with both shock and something softer—uncertainty, maybe even fear. "Mei Lin… what is that?"
"An improvised tool," I said, honest but calm. "Something I made. Something that's… for you."
He looked like he had a hundred questions but couldn't find the words for any of them.
I kept my voice low, soothing. "Trust me. If it doesn't feel good, I'll stop immediately. No questions. No pressure."
For a moment, he didn't move. Then slowly—so slowly—he nodded.
Trust. Absolute and unspoken.
I poured a bit more oil over the tool, letting it coat the smooth ceramic before guiding it back to him. My fingers circled the entrance again—slow, teasing, gentle.
My other hand never stopped its rhythm, keeping him grounded while coaxing his body further open.
When I finally eased the tip in—slowly, carefully—his breath hitched sharp in his throat.
His whole body tensed, not in pain, but in sheer, overwhelmed sensation. His skin was already flushed before, but now? He looked like every inch of him had gone pink—neck, ears, even the tips of his fingers.
Probably from embarrassment. I chuckled softly—inside, of course.
There was something dangerously satisfying about the way he couldn't even look at me right now, like surrendering this much was more than he knew how to handle.
But he was still here. Still trusting me. And I was completely in control.
"Tell me if I hurt you," I whispered, voice softer than my hands.
He didn't speak—just shook his head quickly, his palm still covering his eyes like if he saw the look on my face, he might combust on the spot.
Gods, he was beautiful like this.
But then, as I eased the tool just a little deeper, another thought hit me—and my internal monologue promptly spiraled.
Wait. Where is the spot??
I mean, I knew there was one. There had to be. Every source I'd ever seen—modern or otherwise—agreed: there's a place, somewhere in there, that drives a man absolutely insane.
But… how deep?
How far?
Left? Right? Up??
And of course, now that I was mid-action, mid-intimacy, mid-this entire situation, my brain decided to stage a mild panic.
Do I just... probe around for it? Like some ancient world treasure hunt?
Great. Amazing. My plan to make Ming Yu feel like he'd reached heaven on earth had suddenly turned into an archaeological expedition.
Still, I wasn't backing out now. I adjusted my grip, softened my pressure, and thought: Well. Let's find it.
I moved slowly—pushing the tool in and out in a careful rhythm, each motion shallow, patient. My other hand stayed steady on him, grounding him, comforting him.
With each pass, I rotated the angle just slightly. A tiny shift to the left. A little more upward. I watched his face like a map, tracking every breath, every twitch of his fingers, every subtle shift in his muscles.
He didn't seem uncomfortable. No pain. No tension. Just that flushed, beautiful silence.
Then—on one pass—I rotated just a bit more and pushed in, gentle but firmer.
His entire body jerked.
Not in retreat, but in startled reaction. I froze instantly. "Does it hurt?"
He shook his head, breath ragged. "No… it… um…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Couldn't.
His face was red down to his chest, one hand still covering his eyes like the heat of it might be too much.
Bingo.
The place that unraveled him. With that, I pushed in again—slow, precise, hitting that same spot with just enough pressure. Ming Yu gasped, his back arching slightly, a low moan slipping out before he could catch it.
I smiled—quiet, satisfied—and pulled back just a little, only to press in again, circling the edge of that sweet spot like I was drawing runes into him. My other hand moved in time, adjusting its grip on him—tighter now, firmer, more deliberate. I wasn't teasing anymore.
Without realizing it, Ming Yu propped his legs up slightly, instinctively shifting—offering more.
Granting me better access without a single word. I smiled to myself, that small flicker of triumph blooming quietly behind my ribs. I adjusted my angle, moving the tool a little faster now, keeping the strokes controlled but more deliberate, circling right over that place I knew he couldn't resist.
"Ah… Mei Lin…" he gasped, voice strained, breath catching hard in his throat.
But still—he couldn't finish the sentence.
His hips twitched beneath my hand, trying to follow the rhythm of my grip on him, eager and restless, until I pressed the tool in deeper and—
There.
He shuddered violently, the motion rippling through him like his entire body couldn't decide if it wanted to collapse or keep chasing the feeling.
"Mei Lin… I—I'm close," he gasped, voice barely holding together.
I didn't slow down.
I moved the tool faster, angling each stroke to rub firmly against that sensitive place deep inside him. My other hand tightened, sliding along the length of him—hot, hard, pulsing against my palm.
His breath came faster now, ragged and uneven, every muscle in his body straining under the weight of sensation.
And then—
With a sharp, helpless moan, his hips jerked forward, chasing the wave of release as it crashed over him.
He came hard—spilling into my hand, across his stomach, breath hitched in his throat as he trembled beneath me.
His legs flexed, chest rising and falling like he'd just crossed some invisible line he never expected to find.
I stayed with him through it all—steady, warm, still gently holding him as he came undone in the space I made for him.
I moved carefully, slowly easing the tool out, mindful of his oversensitivity.
He let out a soft, shaky breath as I reached for a warm cloth and gently began to clean him, taking my time—not just to care for him, but to let the moment settle around us.
His chest rose and fell beneath my hand, skin still flushed, hair damp at his temples.
"I'm seeing stars," he murmured, voice low and half-dazed.
I laughed under my breath. "That good, huh?"
Before I could say anything else, he reached up, hand catching mine and pulling me down onto the bed beside him.
His lips found mine in the next breath—warm, hungry, still trembling with aftershocks. The kiss wasn't rushed. It was grateful. Deep. Like he didn't have words for what just happened, so he was pouring it all into me instead.
When we finally broke apart, his forehead rested lightly against mine.
"You," he whispered, "are going to be the death of me."
I smiled, heart fluttering as I brushed a strand of hair from his cheek.
"Then I guess I'll make sure it's a beautiful one."