Chapter Text
No sunlight touches the ground in the Ghost Realm. No moonlight penetrates the rooms of the Fourth Ghost King’s palace, either. The windows are dark, the interiors illuminated only by the faint flickers of magical light. Time stretches and contracts here, flows in ways that leave Chu Wanning uncertain of how much of it has passed since he died. Not seven days yet, that much he knows.
The sight of Mo Ran before him is a knife to the chest at first, a hot flash of anger next. Chu Wanning thinks he dreamed him up in that first moment, before he understands that it is not just his yearning which has reached beyond the grave to conjure up the one he wants to see the most. The person who stands before him is Mo Ran—alive, yet somehow here—waiting for Chu Wanning to speak.
What are you doing here? Chu Wanning wants to shake him, wants to keep asking him until he receives an answer that makes sense. The implication of Mo Ran’s presence in this place eludes comprehension. Chu Wanning is not a stupid man—he understands what Mo Ran means to say, understands intellectually what has brought him here, but the explanation defies reason.
It was not supposed to be this way. Mo Ran was supposed to be safe—Chu Wanning made sure of it. With every step he took, up the stairs that led to Sisheng Peak, that was the one thought that kept him going, long past the point when the steps became slippery with his own blood, his hands torn raw once he began to crawl.
I need to keep him safe, he kept repeating, throat clogged with blood and bile. I need to keep him safe.
Chu Wanning’s life was not good for many things, but it was good for this. If Mo Ran lived—if Mo Ran was kept safe—then it meant that it all would have been worth it.
Instead, Mo Ran is here, in the Ghost Realm, trying to undo death.
You silly boy, Chu Wanning wants to tell him, you should’ve left me here. That was the price I agreed to pay.
He wants to slap Mo Ran. He wants to kiss him—and there it is again, that ugly, perverse desire that twists Chu Wanning’s insides. It takes hold in him like a rot, spreading through his gut until Chu Wanning is just as ugly on the inside as he is on the outside. It is fitting, he thinks, disgusted with himself. What a joke of a man, to think about such things at a moment like this.
Mo Ran pleads, down on his knees, tears in his eyes, and Chu Wanning can only watch, frozen, without a sound.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran says, his voice breaking, “Shizun, please, just come with me.”
It would be probably better if Chu Wanning stayed dead. After all, he has served his function as Mo Ran’s shizun. He taught him, and kept him safe when it mattered. But Mo Ran had already made the decision for Chu Wanning when he descended into the Ghost Realm, because Chu Wanning knows that Mo Ran will never leave without him now. Chu Wanning could whip him with Tianwen, if only he still possessed his spiritual powers, he could cast Mo Ran out, denounce him as his disciple, and Mo Ran would still stay. No living soul comes to the Ghost Realm on a whim. No living soul comes to the Ghost Realm at all. That Mo Ran is here is a miracle as much as it is a curse.
In the moments of silence, Chu Wanning can still hear the slow, steady heartbeat that thunders between Mo Ran’s ribs. He can feel it where their bodies have touched—he can feel it on his tongue, in his throat, like Mo Ran’s heartbeat has now become a part of himself, filling the empty, cavernous space of Chu Wanning’s chest cavity.
The burning pain that comes with abrupt thaw spreads through Chu Wanning’s body like a wildfire, until it is the only thing he can feel, down to the tips of his fingers. And yet, he still stands frozen, like his deficient body does not know how to respond to kindness.
And then—voices, footsteps just outside the door, and then they’re running, leaping across the palace roof, hands clasped between them as they push and pull each other forward, as easy as breathing. In a fight, Chu Wanning understands Mo Ran better than anyone else, able to anticipate and match his movements. It is all the other moments where he stumbles, time and time again.
Their luck, as it always happens, eventually runs out. Chu Wanning knew their escape would not be easy, with his spiritual powers gone and the hostile environment of the Ghost Realm attempting to keep their souls here at any cost. But now, with the Fourth Ghost King’s sedan chair blocking their way and their pursuers closing in on them, Chu Wanning wishes more than anything else that Mo Ran agreed to go without him.
He readies for a fight, but none comes. Instead, Mo Ran announces loudly that Chu Wanning is a married man.
Chu Wanning grows rigid, then furious, shoulders tense and back stiff as he berates Mo Ran. It is a ridiculous notion—that mockery of a wedding in Butterfly Town was nothing more than a puppet show, a crude imitation of the real life. It cannot mean that Chu Wanning is truly married—to Mo Ran, of all people. What a ludicrous notion, that Mo Ran would ever marry someone like Chu Wanning. It is Mo Ran who should be the one denying it all, not announcing it to the entire courtyard.
But if their conviction is all that is needed for them to be allowed to leave, then Chu Wanning will admit it, too, if only because he wishes fervently that were true. It is an unbecoming desire, a silly fancy, but the Fourth Ghost King does seem to be genuine in his lack of interest in those who have already been wed—as genuine as a creature of his sort can be.
At Mo Ran’s words, though, he licks his lips, a smile spreading on his face. “Ah,” he says, “so you drank the wine and did the bows, with ancestors above and the earth below, but can you say you are truly wed, with everything that tradition dictates? Was your Shizun a blushing bride when you took him to bed afterwards? Or is he still untouched?”
Chu Wanning flushes violently, sputtering at Mo Ran’s side. Mo Ran, for his part, seems to be stunned, too, eyes wide as he stares between the Ghost King and Chu Wanning. His face pales, and he says nothing, hands clenching into fists at his sides.
The Ghost King chuckles. “Ah, just as expected. So you married your Shizun, as you claim, but the two of you never stepped inside the bedchamber on your wedding night.” He shakes his head, looking between the two of them. “And here I was, thinking that we were having an honest little chat. You see, for you to be able to leave, you need to have fulfilled all of your marital duties. I wouldn’t try taking your little Shizun through the barrier while he is still a chaste man. I don’t think you would like the results much, gongzi. Just some friendly advice, while we’re talking.”
Dread fills Chu Wanning, like being suddenly submerged in ice water, penetrating all crevices of his body and leaving him frozen in place. The Ghost King surely cannot mean—he cannot mean…
“But, you know, I have grown a little bored here, I must admit,” the Fourth Ghost King muses, unaware of Chu Wanning’s growing terror. “Nothing this interesting has happened here in, oh, easily two hundred years. I have varied tastes, you know—I like watching just as much as I like…participating. So how about this, gongzi. You and your Shizun complete your wedding ceremony here and you will be allowed to leave as a married couple—if you have, indeed, been wed like you say—or I will keep the two of you here forever. I wouldn’t have much use for someone like you, except maybe as a servant, but your Shizun is very much to my tastes. Tell me, gongzi, does your Shizun’s mouth taste as sweet as it looks?”
On instinct, Chu Wanning covers his mouth with his hand, mortified. He feels sick to his stomach, put on display like cattle, all his deficiencies bared in the face of ridicule. He knows that he is old and unattractive, that his lips are thin and perpetually pressed into a dissatisfied line; there is no need to remind him that his face could curdle milk if he looked into the pitcher for too long.
He wants to bristle under the scrutiny, wants to turn around and search for another way out from this place, even though he knows they will find none, not until the barrier can be dispelled. He does not need to be there to witness Mo Ran twist his mouth in a grimace and tell the Fourth Ghost King that he would never kiss Chu Wanning, even if he were the last person left alive.
How humiliating it all is—a perverse mirror of Chu Wanning’s own twisted desires. Everything he has ever wanted, warped into a grotesque image that distorts the essence of his yearning.
Mo Ran, when he turns to face Chu Wanning, looks crestfallen. His face is pale, eyes wide in mute horror. He shakes his head, but the movement is so slight that Chu Wanning cannot tell if Mo Ran even realizes he is doing it.
“No,” he says, hoarse and wrecked, “no, there must be another way.”
The Fourth Ghost King raises an eyebrow. “What, you don’t want your little Shizun to know the sweetness of the marital bed?” he mocks. “He died like this, untouched, and you would still deny him, even in death? Besides, gongzi, I was being serious. That’s the only way your beloved can leave this palace intact.”
At the words, Chu Wanning feels his throat closing around the stone that has lodged itself permanently deep inside it. Beloved. What a farce.
Perhaps it would be better if Mo Ran just left. There must be some way for Chu Wanning to convince him that leaving him here is the best—the only—thing he can do. Perhaps the Fourth Ghost King would let him go, if Chu Wanning went to his knees and begged him. Chu Wanning is a proud, unyielding man, with the thinnest face on earth, and easily humiliated, but he would beg for this.
But then Mo Ran looks at him, full of determination, and says, “Shizun…” in a voice that breaks on the word.
“No.” Chu Wanning takes half a step back, then realizes that their hands are still linked. Mo Ran’s palm is a warm, sturdy presence. His hands are so big. “Mo Ran, you should go. Just leave me here. It’s all right, your Shizun understands.”
He desperately wants to touch Mo Ran’s cheek, reassure him somehow that it is for the best, because Mo Ran looks like he is about to cry. His eyes are glassy and red, and he presses his lips together like he is trying to stop them from trembling.
“Shizun, I won’t leave you here.” Mo Ran shakes his head, refusing to break eye contact, and Chu Wanning feels the back of his neck grow hot at the scrutiny. “You’re not telling the truth, I can tell. You don’t want me to leave. You don’t want to stay here, either.”
And that is the worst thing—the thing that makes Chu Wanning feel every bit the pathetic, wretched man that he is. Mo Ran is correct. Deep down inside whatever passes for his heart, Chu Wanning does not want Mo Ran to leave, and he does not want to stay here, either. How selfish, he thinks, that in the end cannot let Mo Ran go. All the effort he’d gone to, trying to keep Mo Ran safe, and for what? For Mo Ran to finally find out how much Chu Wanning has been lusting after his disciple, like a man without shame or conscience? For this to sever the bond between them, when Mo Ran inevitably leaves, too disgusted to face Chu Wanning after going through with this?
In the end, though, none of that matters, because Chu Wanning knows two things with absolute certainty. One, Mo Ran will never leave without him of his own free will. And two, Chu Wanning will always do what he must to protect Mo Ran.
His heart is pounding when he takes a step closer, eyes fixed ahead, past Mo Ran’s shoulder. Chu Wanning cannot bear to look at his face, afraid of what he would find reflected there.
“Not here,” he says at last, turning his gaze to fix the Fourth Ghost King with a defiant look. His face is burning, and he can taste bile at the back of his throat, but he cannot waver now. “I will— If Mo Ran wants— Not here.”
The Fourth Ghost King laughs until his belly shakes with it. “Well, of course not. Do you see a marital bed anywhere here?” He gestures around the courtyard like Chu Wanning is a particularly dim-witted child. “Don’t worry, there is a bedchamber with a marital bed prepared in the palace at all times, just in case any of my beauties particularly catches my fancy.”
Chu Wanning shudders. Was he to be one of those beauties—and what a laughable description of him that is—led to the marital bed to serve the Fourth Ghost King like a spouse would? The crimson of his robes suffocates him at the thought; the brocade, heavy with embroidery, weighs him down.
“Well, gongzi?” The Fourth Ghost King shifts his gaze to look at Mo Ran, whose face is a picture of wretched misery, torn between what must be aversion and his sense of duty. “What say you? Your bride has agreed already. Would you still deny your poor Shizun?”
Chu Wanning closes his eyes, unable to look at Mo Ran in that moment. Whatever sign he gives, though, must be taken as his assent, because the Fourth Ghost King claps his hands and says, “Excellent! You, there, lead them to the bedchamber! And you two, remember to put on a good show!”
At once, Chu Wanning and Mo Ran are led to a large, opulent room where the ever-burning lamps chase out the darkness of the Ghost Realm. The center of the chamber is occupied by an ornate marital bed, carved intricately and lacquered with a red so dark it nearly looks black where the light slides off the carvings. Chu Wanning has been hoping to retain at least some semblance of privacy and modesty, hidden away from the Fourth Ghost King under the canopy, and hidden away from Mo Ran’s eyes by the low light, but there are two lanterns on the raised shelf at the back as well, flickering with the same ever-burning flame, illuminating the entire inside of the bed.
There is wine, too, and two cups, as well as a platter of dried longan fruit, like a mockery of the marriage ceremony. The only thing missing is the dragon and phoenix candle.
Behind them, the Fourth Ghost King is being carried into the room by his servants, and at last he leaves the sedan chair to lounge on the divan instead, a beautiful man with full, lush lips and long lashes seated in his lap, feeding him fruit and kisses in turn.
Chu Wanning swallows bitterly, fully aware of his own inadequacy. He knows that Mo Ran would never do this were their circumstances not so dire, and here Chu Wanning is, unable to provide him with even a modicum of experience in return. The only thing he can do now is try to make it as good for Mo Ran as he can, with what meager understanding of pleasure Chu Wanning possesses. Then, perhaps, Mo Ran can close his eyes and pretend it is Shi Mei under him—beautiful, gentle Shi Mei—and not his frigid, ugly old shizun.
He overheard a senior disciple call him that once—frigid—and Chu Wanning supposes that it must be true. There is nothing at all appealing about Chu Wanning, and least of all his disposition. He knows the kind of person he is—cold, aloof, unlovable. Xue Zhengyong is the only person who seems to genuinely enjoy his company, but Xue Zhengyong is a kind man, and easily pleased. There is Xue Meng, too, but father and son are often grown from one mold, and it is no different in this case.
Some other members of the Fourth Ghost King’s entourage pile inside the room, excited at the prospect of a spectacle of this kind. Chu Wanning shudders. He did not expect there to be so many. He thought, naively, that perhaps it would only be the Ghost King and whoever of his harem he decided to bring with him. Some of that panic must register on his face, because, as they come to sit gingerly at the edge of the mattress, Mo Ran takes Chu Wanning’s face in his hands, forcing him to look straight at him.
“Just look at me, Shizun, all right?” Mo Ran says in a tone like he is talking to a spooked animal. Chu Wanning bristles, but he does not break eye contact. “There’s no one else in this room. It’s just you and me. So don’t look away and pay attention to me.”
Chu Wanning closes eyes that have begun to stung all of a sudden. His throat is so tight he can barely draw air, and he realizes, with a startling kind of clarity, that he is shaking. Trying to calm down his breathing is a futile endeavor, but Chu Wanning makes an attempt nonetheless, until the trembling subsides somewhat, though never fully goes away.
“Well, then?” the Fourth Ghost King says. “Get on with it, give us a show!”
“Remember,” Mo Ran repeats, not bothering to acknowledge him at all, “just look at me and pay attention to me, all right? No one else, just me.”
As if Chu Wanning could ever take his eyes off Mo Ran.
In those days after Chu Wanning had realized his shameful infatuation, he often caught himself following Mo Ran with his gaze and felt everything grow rigid inside him at the realization each time. You must be so obvious, he used to berate himself. Everyone must know the kind of filth you’re thinking. It was difficult to train himself out of that unconscious habit, and now Chu Wanning is once again staring straight at Mo Ran, unable to look away.
Beside him, Mo Ran takes a shaky breath and brings his hand up to cup the side of Chu Wanning’s face, a gentle caress that makes Chu Wanning want to cry. He needs to be strong, though—he needs to endure it for Mo Ran’s sake, this unendurable tenderness that threatens to rend him apart. He can then lick his wounds in solitude once they are back in the human realm, where Mo Ran cannot see how much Chu Wanning wanted all of this.
“I’m sorry,” Mo Ran says, and something inside Chu Wanning breaks. When he next draws air, his entire chest hurts like his ribs have caved in. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Shizun,” he keeps repeating, nearly in tears, punctuating each word with a soft kiss pressed to Chu Wanning’s cheek, his temple, the shell of his ear, the curve of his jaw. “I’ll make it good for you, I promise. I won’t hurt you, I would never hurt you, you have to know that, all right? Whatever happens, I could never hurt you.”
Chu Wanning can only nod, afraid of what sound would come out of his mouth should he open it. Mo Ran has nothing to feel sorry for, not when he is doing this for Chu Wanning’s sake—not when he would surely rather be with anyone else. If anyone should apologize here, it is Chu Wanning himself, but the words refuse to form on his tongue. Such a thin face, so much pride, and for what? He cannot even tell Mo Ran that he takes none of the blame for this, cannot reassure him that none of it is his fault.
Instead, he lets Mo Ran do whatever he wishes, sitting rigidly at the edge of the bed, pressing his lips tightly together to stop the moan that threatens to spill when Mo Ran begins to kiss a warm, wet trail down Chu Wanning’s neck.
He never expected this much tenderness—he thought that Mo Ran would want to get it over with as quickly as possible, touch Chu Wanning as little as possible and look at him just as much, but perhaps Mo Ran is doing what he has been told. He is giving the Fourth Ghost King a show. It makes sense, then, that he would play the part of an infatuated, attentive lover. Maybe this is how he imagined his and Shi Mingjing’s wedding night. Perhaps Mo Ran is already playing out a fantasy, one in which Chu Wanning is a convenient prop.
It is a bitter thought, made all the more bitter by the fact that even so, Chu Wanning still cannot bring himself to regret it. He despises the circumstance, recoils at the thought of being watched like this, but he cannot deny that he craves Mo Ran’s touch, in whatever form it may come.
Mo Ran’s touch, as it turns out, comes in many forms. He traces the shell of Chu Wanning’s ear with the pad of his thumb and presses kisses to the side of Chu Wanning’s neck, until Chu Wanning begins to tremble, his cock stirring beneath his robes. Slowly, Mo Ran undoes the sash around Chu Wanning’s waist and pushes the outer, heavily embroidered robe off his shoulders, letting it fall down to the floor. The second layer follows, leaving Chu Wanning only in a half-translucent, gossamer inner robe that opens the moment Mo Ran tugs at the delicate string.
Chu Wanning looks away, incapable of meeting Mo Ran’s eyes. He knows what he must look like—pale and bony, a shriveled stick of a man, too angular to pass for anything resembling handsome even in the low light. How lustful he must look, kneeling like that on the bed with his cock, hard and flushed, exposed for everyone to see. He moves to cover himself on instinct, still refusing to meet Mo Ran’s gaze.
Perhaps this is the moment Mo Ran realizes that he cannot go through with this after all. The humiliation would kill Chu Wanning twice over, but he could not blame Mo Ran, either. He understands that he does not make for an appealing sight, and he is certain that he will make for an even less appealing bedmate.
But Mo Ran leans towards him and places another kiss on Chu Wanning’s cheek, whispering into his skin, “You don’t have to take this off.”
Oh, Chu Wanning thinks, of course.
He shrinks into himself all at once; his shoulders hunch as he attempts to cover as much of himself as he is able, his cheeks burning with shame. Of course Mo Ran wouldn’t want to see him completely naked if he could help it. Of course it would be better to leave the last layer on, so Mo Ran does not have to look at Chu Wanning’s unattractive body.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran breathes, close enough that Ch Wanning can feel the warm air fanning his face. Mo Ran reaches for the arm that Chu Wanning is holding across his chest and gently pulls it away from his body. “Shizun, don’t hide yourself from me. I’m going to kiss you now.”
Before Chu Wanning can react, Mo Ran closes the miniscule distance between them and presses his lips against Chu Wanning’s mouth. And there it is, his first and only real kiss, plucked by the only person Chu Wanning has ever wanted to touch him. It is, by all accounts, a horrible kiss. Chu Wanning remains frozen, his lips stiff and unyielding, his mouth firmly shut tight. Mo Ran’s lips burn against Chu Wanning’s skin, the kiss a brand that will mark him forever, even once Mo Ran is long gone from his sight.
He tries to reciprocate once it becomes clear that Mo Ran will pull away unless Chu Wanning shakes himself out of his stupor, but it is a clumsy, ungainly thing. His lips move, but it cannot be all that pleasurable, the movement only a pale imitation of the way Mo Ran licks and sucks at Chu Wanning’s mouth. The hot, wet pleasure of it sparks like a firework down the column of Chu Wanning’s spine, and he makes a noise at the back of his throat, forgetting for a moment where he is.
The shame of his own inexperience sits like acid at the bottom of his stomach, leaving a sour, bitter taste in his mouth every time he swallows. He must look ridiculous, a grown man overwhelmed by the slightest touch and incapable of reciprocating that pleasure in any meaningful way, but he presses on. The sooner they are done with it, the sooner they will be free, and then Mo Ran will never have to look at Chu Wanning ever again.
So Chu Wanning presses clumsy kisses to Mo Ran’s mouth and tentatively moves his hands to untie Mo Ran’s robes as well.
“Shizun, it’s all right. Don’t worry about me,” Mo Ran says, taking a hold of Chu Wanning’s hands. “I’ll take care of everything, you don’t have to do a thing, I promise.”
The rejection stings, but Chu Wanning can be stubborn, too. “Let go,” he commands, watching as Mo Ran immediately pulls back, then pushes Mo Ran’s outer robe off his shoulders. “And don’t speak nonsense.”
Mo Ran gives him a strange look, then leans in to kiss him again. It is less careful than those first few kisses they shared; this time, Mo Ran kisses to claim, teasing Chu Wanning’s mouth open at the same time as he pushes him gently down onto the cushions. The mattress is much softer than Chu Wanning is used to, the bed piled with quilts and furs for comfort, but be does not mind. Mo Ran leans over him, his eyes so dark they seem black in the low light. He is only wearing a pair of trousers now, revealing his broad shoulders and the toned expanse of his abdomen. Chu Wanning’s mouth goes dry at the sight.
Slowly, still pressing kisses to any sliver of exposed skin he can find, Mo Ran nudges Chu Wanning’s legs open to crawl between them. The moment Mo Ran rests some of his weight against him, Chu Wanning goes rigid beneath him. This surely cannot be— That is not Mo Ran’s— It cannot be—
He must make a sound—some kind of sound, wretched and alarming, because Mo Ran stills above him, confused for a moment before understanding seems to dawn on him. He angles his hips away, whispering, “I’m sorry, Shizun, this disciple is really sorry, it’s just that this is—”
It is understandable, Chu Wanning supposes, his mind still reeling. Mo Ran is still young, and a warm body is a warm body, if one only closes one’s eyes. It is no wonder, then, that he would be affected, even if it means nothing beyond momentary arousal.
“Come on, xianjun, give him some relief!” the Fourth Ghost King jeers from his spot, and the moment is broken, reality crashing over Chu Wanning like the furious waves of the tide in storm. “Can’t you see how he’s straining in his trousers?” He shakes his head. “Aiyah, what an unfeeling spouse your Shizun is.”
The last thing is addressed to Mo Ran, but it is Chu Wanning who nearly recoils with the force of the blow. The Fourth Ghost King is right, he supposes. He has been just lying there the entire time, burning under the curious eyes of the onlookers, trying to hide his own arousal and ignoring Mo Ran’s growing need all the while.
Chu Wanning reaches out with his hand, pressing his palm against the prominent bulge tenting Mo Ran’s trousers, then snatches it away just as fast. Mo Ran’s cock is a hot, solid weight under his hand, and Chu Wanning hates how his whole body flushes at the very thought of Mo Ran putting it inside Chu Wanning’s body. The prospect terrifies him and excites him in equal measure; there must be something wrong with him, for Chu Wanning to think these things with no shame or restraint, for the anticipation of this part-pleasure, part-pain to excite him.
Again, he reaches out to touch Mo Ran, a little bolder this time, tracing the contours of Mo Ran’s cock through his trousers. A broken sound spills from Mo Ran’s lips, and Chu Wanning is ready to pull back when he notices the growing damp spot in the fabric of Mo Ran’s trousers, the way his cheeks are flush with crimson.
“Shizun—Shizun, wait,” Mo Ran says, then undoes the fastenings of his trousers and maneuvers himself so that the two of them are partially hidden from view.
Chu Wanning is thankful for these small graces, for how considerate Mo Ran is, to shield him from the eyes of the gawking ghosts and allow him as much dignity as he can manage. It is better that no one else witness Chu Wanning’s clumsy attempts at pleasuring Mo Ran with his hand—Chu Wanning, who barely knows how to give himself some small measure of relief, turning to meditation whenever his body betrays him.
He cannot even look down to watch himself do it, but his throat goes dry when he realizes that his fingers do not meet once he wraps his hand around the girth of Mo Ran’s cock.
“Shizun,” Mo Ran groans, hiding his face in the crook of Chu Wanning’s neck. Chu Wanning can feel his wet, warm breath whenever Mo Ran exhales. “You’re doing so good.”
Chu Wanning scoffs. “Don’t lie,” he says through gritted teeth, but the movement of his hand persists. It is then that he understands that Mo Ran was not fully hard when Chu Wanning first touched him, because his cock still grows in Chu Wanning’s grasp as he continues to stroke it in short, aborted movements.
“I promised never to lie to Shizun ever again,” Mo Ran says, and then he kisses Chu Wanning.
There is only so much gentleness that Chu Wanning can take before he breaks. He needs to stop Mo Ran and make him understand that he does not need to do all this for Chu Wanning’s sake. Undoubtedly Mo Ran has realized that Chu Wanning has no experience and is trying to make it more bearable for him, but the longer this goes on, the easier it becomes for Chu Wanning to convince himself that perhaps some part of it is real. That is a dangerous thought, going down a path best not travelled. Chu Wanning knows that he should not entertain it under any circumstances; it is only his own mind lying to him, nothing more.
“Get on with it, Mo Ran, would you?” Chu Wanning says at last, in one of the brief moments of respite when his common sense overcomes the lustful haze in his mind. “We are supposed to leave this place.”
Mo Ran’s movements stutter, and then a flash of something shows in his face before it is gone in the next heartbeat. “Shizun is right, of course,” he says before ducking his head to press a trail of kisses down Chu Wanning’s chest and abdomen.
Chu Wanning wants to push him away, wants to ask him what he is doing, but it soon becomes obvious when Mo Ran bumps the inside of Chu Wanning’s thigh with the tip of his nose, then sucks the head of Chu Wanning’s cock into his mouth. The incredible, wet heat overwhelms Chu Wanning, who arches up, pushing his cock further into Mo Ran’s mouth, horrified at his own shamelessness. He tries to scramble back, but Mo Ran keeps him in place, sucking more of Chu Wanning’s cock down his throat.
The sensation wrenches a broken sob out of him, and Mo Ran swallows around him all the more eagerly, until Chu Wanning is shaking all over, eyes shut tight and hands fisted in the sheets. Mo Ran is so skilled at this, so good at giving Chu Wanning pleasure with his clever tongue and soft, gentle lips.
It takes no time at all for Chu Wanning to spill into Mo Ran’s mouth—and what an embarrassment that is, the sight of his seed across Mo Ran’s lips, on his tongue before he swallows, the way he sucks at his thumb to clean up whatever has remained. Chu Wanning cannot believe the lewdness of it.
He moves to cover himself, now that his cock slowly grows soft against his thigh, even less appealing than it was before, but Mo Ran gently takes his wrists into one hand and pushes them down onto the cushions above Chu Wanning’s head. With his other hand, he reaches for a cup of wine to rinse his mouth with before kissing Chu Wanning once more.
“This won’t hurt, I promise,” he whispers against his mouth, a little lost, like he is trying to convince both of them. That is when Chu Wanning realizes there is a vial of oil in Mo Ran’s hand. He must have grabbed it from the table when he went to put away the cup. “If there’s anything wrong—Shizun, you must tell me, all right? Don’t just try to endure it in silence. You need to promise.”
Chu Wanning nods stiffly, letting Mo Ran rearrange him on the bed. He lies on his front now, and it is easier and harder at the same time.
“It will be better this way,” Mo Ran assures him, and he must know, of course, with how many men he has taken to bed. Chu Wanning is strangely grateful for Mo Ran’s experience in that moment, despite the bitter jealousy that sinks its claws into Chu Wanning’s heart, and for the fact that the position allows him to hide his face from Mo Ran, concealed away from view.
It will be easier for Mo Ran, too, to pretend that Chu Wanning is whoever he would rather be with at this moment. Shi Mei, most likely, though perhaps he would rather look Shi Mei in the eyes and kiss him sweetly while he showed him all the ways in which he loved and adored him.
At least Chu Wanning will not betray himself like this, too lost in the haze to control his expression, letting some of the yearning spill out. This way, Mo Ran will never know. That is for the best.
The gossamer robe has partially slipped off his body by now, baring Chu Wanning’s shoulder to Mo Ran’s gaze. It is tangled between his legs, too, and all at once Chu Wanning feels too exposed—a ludicrous notion, considering all that has transpired ever since they stepped inside this chamber, and the rapt audience watching their every move. Mo Ran gives him no chance to cover himself up, though; on the contrary, he hikes the robe up, exposing most of Chu Wanning’s thighs and his backside.
“Please, don’t worry. I’ll go slowly, make it good for you, Shizun, I swear,” Mo Ran says again, pressing a kiss to the wing of Chu Wanning’s shoulder blade, and at the same time one of his fingers breaches Chu Wanning. It is a strange feeling, uncomfortable enough that he tenses around Mo Ran—there is no pain, but the peculiar pressure requires some getting used to.
Another finger soon joins the other one, leaving the insides of Chu Wanning’s thighs and the cleft of his ass slippery with oil. Mo Ran clearly knows what to do, and he opens Chu Wanning slowly, meticulously, while beneath him, Chu Wanning burns.
It is the kind of fever that ravages the body like a wildfire and spreads everywhere all at once like a wave. Chu Wanning can do nothing but let himself be carried along with that wave, getting lost in the pleasure of it. It is a shameless, shameless thing to enjoy himself in the midst of such a public spectacle, but Chu Wanning has long since known that he is a man with no shame where Mo Ran is concerned.
As Chu Wanning wills his body to slowly ease into it, it becomes increasingly difficult to keep the moans that threaten to spill out inside. Once one of them slips out, though, in a moment of carelessness, the rest soon follows. He has never known this kind of pleasure—he has never known that such pleasure could exist—and Chu Wanning should be mortified at the kind of sounds that leave his mouth, but they seem to encourage Mo Ran to press his fingers deeper into him, brushing against a spot that makes Chu Wanning’s cock jerk, already filling up and rubbed raw against the bedding.
Against his nature, he wants to beg Mo Ran for something he cannot quite name—for something, anything that would fill Chu Wanning’s mind with the kind of faintly ringing noise that sometimes echoes in his ears when he sits up in his bed too abruptly. But Chu Wanning is a proud, unyielding man, and so he keeps his mouth shut, save for the breathy little whimpers that escape him.
At last, though, Mo Ran withdraws his fingers, leaving Chu Wanning in anticipation of what’s to follow. Unwilling to crane his neck to take a look over his shoulder, Chu Wanning only lies there, with his face hidden in the cushions, listening to the rustling of the sheets behind him, the quiet pop of the cork in the oil vial, and the obscene, squelching sound of Mo Ran slicking himself up.
His fingers return briefly the next moment, drawing one of Chu Wanning’s knees up in a way that further exposes him to Mo Ran’s gaze. Chu Wanning’s first instinct is to pull away and cover himself, but it is, he supposes, too late for that. Mo Ran has seen everything of Chu Wanning that there is to see, and he is still here. Even so, it would do Chu Wanning well to remember that gratitude and devotion are not the same thing as affection. Mo Ran is loyal, and he is grateful to Chu Wanning for saving his life, but he does not love Chu Wanning—not the same way Chu Wanning loves him.
“Tell me if it’s too much, all right?” Mo Ran whispers, covering Chu Wanning’s body with his. Chu Wanning can feel the blunt head of his cock pressing against his entrance.
The sudden reality of it startles him—Mo Ran’s cock feels so much larger now than it did earlier in Chu Wanning’s hand, and how could his body possibly accommodate this kind of intrusion? It will never work, he thinks, panicked, his breath quickening as his traitorous body begins to tremble. Tears sting his eyes, hot and shameful, but he will not—he will not cry because of this, he will not show them this weakness.
“Shizun?” Mo Ran asks, one of his hands moving to touch Chu Wanning’s flank like he is trying to soothe a spooked horse.
“I’m fine,” Chu Wanning grits out through clenched teeth. “Get on with it.”
“Shizun,” Mo Ran repeats, stubborn, “you’re not fine, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?”
Chu Wanning wills himself to still. “Nothing,” he says. “I’m fine. Just—just do it already.”
He braces himself for the intrusion, but even knowing what is coming cannot prepare him for the stretch as Mo Ran slides just the tip of his cock inside Chu Wanning. His body is struggling to let Mo Ran in, too tense to allow him further inside, while he presses soft kisses to the back of Chu Wanning’s neck, the slope of his shoulder in an attempt to soothe him.
“You’re doing so good, Shizun, you’re so good,” Mo Ran whispers against Chu Wanning’s ear, rocking slowly, pouring more oil where they’re connected to ease the way.
Chu Wanning’s ears burn at the praise, and something between a sob and a moan coalesces deep inside his chest. Mo Ran is so big—Chu Wanning’s body was never meant to take him, not pliant enough to let him in. Too cold, too unyielding. It is as if even his own body is telling him the truth he knows intimately and yet does not want to hear—another reminder that Mo Ran is not his to have.
“Please, Shizun, you need to breathe,” Mo Ran says, and it is then that Chu Wanning realizes there is still air trapped in his lungs and his chest is beginning to burn with it. He exhales—a jagged, broken thing—and tries to regulate his breathing, willing his body to yield.
It does, at last, and Mo Ran slips another cun or two inside, the nearly unbearable pressure threating to split Chu Wanning in half. There is sweat pearling at his hairline and above his upper lip, his brows knitted together as he tries to force his body to open around Mo Ran instead of clinging to him, tight like a vise.
“Is it too much?” Mo Ran asks, the concern naked in his voice. “You promised to tell me if it gets to be too much…”
So that Mo Ran can do what? Remake Chu Wanning’s body on the spot so that it is able to do what it now refuses to endure? So that they can give up even though they have gone through this entire ordeal and came so far, so close to being allowed to leave?
Chu Wanning breathes deeply, clenching his jaw, and pushes himself back onto Mo Ran’s cock with all his strength, forcing his shriveled, barren wasteland of a body to comply. It is too much, too fast, and all the air is forcibly pushed out of Chu Wanning’s lungs. He makes a strangled sound, and a few tears escape, unbidden, but at last his body gives way.
Behind him, he can hear the sharp inhale, half-pleasure, half-shock, and then Mo Ran begins to panic. “Shizun, Shizun, you need to slow down,” he pleads. “Please, you’re going to hurt yourself, just let me take care of you… Shizun…”
Chu Wanning swallows, breathing harshly against the pillows. Mo Ran moves to pull back, but Chu Wanning stops him with a hand on his hip, gripping so tightly that his knuckles go white. The hot burn subsides after a moment, never disappearing entirely, but as they stay there, completely still, it is eventually overtaken by the incredible sensation of fullness. Chu Wanning does not know how Mo Ran could possibly move now, how they could ever be separated again, with how tightly Chu Wanning’s body is clenching around Mo Ran’s cock.
It is so much—so much more than Chu Wanning could ever imagine, his mind gone hazy, suspended between pleasure and pain, and, perversely, enjoying both. It is nearly unbearable, and it is the best thing Chu Wanning has ever felt. He wants to sob with the overwhelming pleasure of it, and he wants to cry out in agony.
Mo Ran pours more oil between them that drips down the curve of Chu Wanning’s groin and further down his thighs. “I’m going to move now,” he says. “I will take care of you, Shizun, don’t worry…”
It takes a while for Chu Wanning to become used to the slow, gentle rocking of Mo Ran’s hips, but eventually his body understands what is required of it and the tension in Chu Wanning’s muscles lessens, the vise-like grip around Mo Ran’s cock loosening the tiniest bit. Still, it is hard to breathe, with Mo Ran’s scent on him, around him, and the sensation of Mo Ran’s cock moving inside him. Mo Ran is so, so careful, his movements so measured, so loathe to cause Chu Wanning any undue discomfort, but Chu Wanning can tell that he is holding back.
You don’t have to, he wants to tell Mo Ran. You can just take whatever you need. Whatever you want.
Perhaps Chu Wanning should not want to be used like a warm sleeve for another man’s pleasure, but his body aches with the need to feel possessed, to feel wanted completely and thoroughly, even if only for a little while. If he knew that there was something in him that made Mo Ran feel pleasure, perhaps he would no longer feel so woefully inadequate a bedmate.
He will never, ever call himself Mo Ran’s lover. That is too dangerous a thought to entertain. To do so would only make Chu Wanning more greedy.
With time, Mo Ran’s hips begin to snap against Chu Wanning faster, his movements growing more erratic. “Shizun, forgive this disciple… It’s just—you feel so good,” Mo Ran says in a broken voice. “You feel so… I can’t…”
Chu Wanning wants to soothe him, wants to whisper a soft shhh into the sweaty skin of Mo Ran’s neck, but he is nearly at his limit as well, incoherent with pleasure. His cock is hard again, leaking all over the bedding, and it would take so little to push him over the edge. So little, like Mo Ran’s hand wrapping around the length of it, stroking Chu Wanning until he spills over Mo Ran’s fist and stains the sheets, a strangled sound torn from his throat.
It is only then that Chu Wanning gets a taste of what it would be like with a Mo Ran who does not treat him like a glass ornament, ready to break at the slightest pressure. The rhythm of his thrusts turns frantic, like Mo Ran is lost in his own pleasure, taking and taking from Chu Wanning until he finally spills inside him with a broken groan.
They lie there for a moment afterwards as their bodies begin to cool. Chu Wanning closes his eyes, wincing when Mo Ran pulls out slowly.
“Ha!” comes the Fourth Ghost King’s voice. “You two really did give me a show! So, how does it feel to be a married man, xianjun?”
Still trapped beneath Mo Ran, Chu Wanning goes rigid all over again. He has nearly forgotten that they were not alone, too lost in pleasure in those last moments to remember the reason for it. Now, with the Fourth Ghost King’s words, the reality of his circumstance fully sinks in once more.
Chu Wanning feels sick to his stomach. Clenching his jaw, he gathers whatever cloth and dignity he can reach and dresses himself with clumsy, stiff movements. He cannot look at Mo Ran, not when he can feel his seed slipping down the inside of his thigh, but he does not want to stop and clean himself up. They need to go. They need to leave, before Chu Wanning loses the last of his composure. He can feel the hysteria pulling at his vocal cords, the tightness in his throat.
“Will that be all?” he asks, turning to face the Fourth Ghost King, face cold and impassive once again. “Can we leave now?”
The Fourth Ghost King sighs. “Aiyah, a deal is a deal,” he says. “And congratulations are in order, it seems. But I guess you feel pretty lucky already, eh, xianjun?”
Chu Wanning says nothing, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth begin to hurt. At his side, Mo Ran is completely silent. Chu Wanning expected nothing else, now that the last of the mind-numbing pleasure has dissipated, and Mo Ran remembers who he is with, and why.
It is just as well.
They almost make it, but yet again, luck is not on their side. In the end, it is such a silly thing—the trembling shape of Mo Ran’s shadow on the floor. The Fourth Ghost King grows furious at the deception, but they do not stay around to await the retribution.
They run, their feet barely touching the ground as they try to evade their pursuers. The alley they hide in, still within the palace walls—which has now been sealed off from the rest of its surroundings—sees no moonlight, and it is quiet, save for the elevated sounds of their breathing. Chu Wanning aches all over, feeling like he is going to be sick the moment he stops clenching his teeth together so hard they hurt.
Next to him, Mo Ran opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Shizun,” he says at last, quiet and wrecked. “Shizun, this disciple is sorry…”
Chu Wanning swallows down the wave of nausea that threatens to spill over. “Stop speaking,” he commands, cold and hollow. “There is nothing to talk about.”
“Shizun…” Mo Ran says again, and when Chu Wanning turns to face him, illuminated faintly by the moon that has emerged from behind the cloud cover, Mo Ran looks haunted. “Shizun, I’m—” He makes a move as if to kneel, and Chu Wanning catches him by the elbow, forcing him to stay upright. The touch burns, but Chu Wanning endures.
“Stop,” he says, the word cutting like a lash from a whip. “Stop apologizing. Nothing happened. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But—”
Chu Wanning refuses to lean against the wall even as a dizzy spell makes the world around him spin. His head is pounding.
“Mo Ran, that is enough.” He closes his eyes, unable to look at Mo Ran any longer without wanting to cry. “Enough now. Let’s go.”
The sour taste of jealousy coats the entire inside of Chu Wanning’s mouth. It is an ugly, unbecoming feeling, especially when Chu Wanning has no claim on Mo Ran beyond the bonds of shizun and disciple, but Chu Wanning drowns in it nonetheless.
The handsome youth, Rong Jiu, whose past entanglements with Mo Ran are not difficult to guess, keeps sending Chu Wanning glances from under his long, beautiful lashes like he knows something that is supposed to be a secret.
It is no surprise that Rong Jiu has caught Mo Ran’s attention in the past—he is the same delicate kind of beauty that Shi Mingjing is, his features soft and appealing. The truth of that fact sits like a stone in the pit of Chu Wanning’s stomach. This is the kind of man Mo Ran takes to bed when he has the choice—so unlike Chu Wanning himself. It is a bitter pill to swallow, especially now, when Chu Wanning is feeling raw with everything that has transpired, and there is some of Mo Ran’s seed still inside him.
The reminders of Mo Ran’s presence are everywhere—his scent lingers all over Chu Wanning’s body, sinking deep, deep into his skin like it wants to seep into Chu Wanning’s very essence and remain there, tangled with Chu Wanning’s own scent forever. He can still feel the taste of Mo Ran’s lips on his, Mo Ran’s tongue in his mouth. He needs to bathe himself—he needs to scrub until his skin is raw and there is nothing left to remind him of Mo Ran, nothing to feed his delusions. Like this, Chu Wanning can still pretend when he closes his eyes, but he needs to rip this false hope out of his chest before it takes root.
“Say, Chu-xianjun,” Rong Jiu speaks with the kind of mock-casual air that makes his words anything but, “does Mo Ran know?”
Fear drips down the column of Chu Wanning’s spine like melting ice. “Speak plainly,” he scoffs. “We don’t have time for riddles.”
Mo Ran is, thankfully, outside, far enough that Rong Jiu’s voice will not carry. Still, dread sits at the bottom of Chu Wanning’s stomach as he awaits the reply, already understanding what the question most likely concerns.
“Does he know that his lofty, untouchable Shizun is in love with him?” Rong Jiu asks. There is a small, self-satisfied smile playing on his lips that only grows when Chu Wanning blanches. “Xianjun smells like him, too. Do you know how I know that?”
Of course Chu Wanning does. Rong Jiu has already begun this conversation by trying to apologize for deceiving Chu Wanning about his former profession, but now that the words are out of his mouth, it is difficult to tell how earnest that apology really was. Still, it is not difficult to guess how Rong Jiu knows what Mo Ran smells like, and what it feels like to have his smell all over oneself.
“Do not speak nonsense,” Chu Wanning retorts. “And I am not a child. I know what transpires in brothels well enough.”
Rong Jiu smiles with his pretty, pink mouth, but there is something a little cruel in that smile, too. “Well, maybe it’s better that he didn’t know,” he muses. “At least he visited me often back then, and with how rough and uncouth most of the clientele at those sorts of establishments tend to be, Mo Ran was a nice change of pace. He was kind, you know? That doesn’t happen often. Didn’t treat me roughly, either, even though he’s…well-endowed, let’s call it. But then again, you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Chu-xianjun?”
Chu Wanning stills, his cheeks aflame. On instinct, he tightens the collars of his crimson wedding robes that serve as yet another reminder of that farce of a wedding night. “Shameless! That’s— How—” he sputters, indignant. “How would you even know?”
This time, Rong Jiu laughs. “Chu-xianjun, you reek of sex,” he says, not even tripping up on the vulgarity. “And so does Mo Ran. I might be a pathetic whore, but I’m not stupid.”
Chu Wanning presses the back of his hand to his mouth, swallowing back the bitter taste of bile. His entire body is shaking on the inside, even if he does his best to keep it from showing. His stomach is a hard, tight knot, sitting like a stone at the bottom of his abdomen. It is no longer panic, but rather slow-building hysteria that chokes him.
How pathetic that Chu Wanning cannot even endure this, after all that happened. He mended the Heavenly Rift, carried Mo Ran up the three thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine steps that led to Sisheng Peak, leaving a bloody mark along the stairs, and then he died for him, yet he still behaves like a child, shaken by any silly little thing. It is unbecoming of his status and his seniority.
This cannot continue. Chu Wanning must swallow his pride and his bitterness, put away the vinegar jug from which he drinks, and behave as behooves an elder of a cultivation sect.
“So what,” he says, avoiding Rong Jiu’s eyes. “That is none of your business. And whatever you think is happening, he cannot know. If you tell him, I will make sure your soul can never reincarnate again.”
When he looks up, there is a shadow of uncertainty in Rong Jiu’s eyes, but there is even more false bravado. He gives Chu Wanning another slippery smile. “Whatever Chu-xianjun wishes.”
In the end, Chu Wanning does what he always does: takes his insecurities out on other people, baring the rot of his soul to the world. He is an angry, bitter man and does not know how to be anything else, but as he watches Mo Ran kneel before him, with tears in his eyes, trying to press Jiangui into his hands, something in Chu Wanning breaks irrevocably.
And yet, it must be some kind of deficiency of character that still keeps him from speaking out, from reassuring Mo Ran that he would never truly cast him out as long as he lives. There is no need for Mo Ran to leave Sisheng Peak, and the words Chu Wanning speaks are lies borne of shame, his face too thin to bear the truth of Mo Ran’s behavior. He means none of them, and means all those he cannot bring himself to utter instead.
I love him, he thinks, sitting opposite Mo Ran over bowls of wonton soup at Nanke Town, and it is the most wretched, hopeless thought.
The world will still turn, and the seasons will change once they leave this place, and Chu Wanning will love Mo Ran with the kind of love that dare not speak its name. He will return from his seclusion, entering once more the world of the living, and perhaps then he will find it in himself to seek out Mo Ran and go to his knees in front of him, and beg his forgiveness.
To have that—that would be enough.