MW CH30

Chapter 30: My Wife

“These tricks—you learned them from Ming Zhuo, didn’t you?”

Pinching my cheeks, Mochuan probed deeper into my mouth, pressing my tongue.

Ming Zhuo? What’s he got to do with this?

“I…” Pushing his fingers aside, I tried to argue—barely a word out, he swooped in, domineering, clamping my tongue with two fingers.

“Picking up the bad, skipping the good—straight path ignored for crooked ones… That filthy thing, and you still eat with him.” His words sharpened; the grip on my tongue tightened, like he’d snap it next, leave me bleeding out.

“Mmph…” I groaned in pain, thrashing—finally broke free.

On anyone else, a hand that deep in my mouth? They’d lose it. But Mochuan… I couldn’t.

My tongue—some sentient slug—crept close, timid, clinging. No recoil? I licked, fawning.

Not just his fingers—his whole body stiffened, stunned by my drunken, shameless groveling.

“You don’t even know who I am, and you’re like this?” Hot breath grazed my ear—gritted teeth.

Next second, his fingers churned harder—saliva spilled, unchecked, trailing from my mouth to my neck.

“You’re filthy too…” Double-edged—high-class jab.

Toying with my tongue, his other hand—once locking my right—eased, guiding it forward, over his sweater, slow to his lower stomach.

“If that Jiang guy brought you back, would you do this too?”

Eyes shut, I chanted patience. Don’t speak, don’t fight—I’m drunk, clueless to his rant.

“Probably.” He didn’t need my answer—knew it already. “Whoever does what, you won’t recall tomorrow.” His grip left.

Soon, a faint zip—barely there—cut the silent night, dim room—like a cannon barrage, blasting me dizzy, unhinged.

I’m drunk—really drunk. That plum wine’s kick hit hard—hallucinations owned me the second I stepped in. Otherwise… this couldn’t happen…

Mochuan grabbed my hand again, led it to him.

Blur—freshman year flashed. Mochuan, new to the archery club—me, fumbling—him behind, hands-on teaching.

Fingers curled round the grip, thumb and palm muscle taut, steadying the bow. Arm quaked—too long held—he braced my hand, a solid frame, propping me, trapping me.

I shot, but he ruled.

String stretched tight—he wouldn’t let go. Kept me there, forced me to feel its hardness.

Eyes closed, I frowned, throat grumbling dissent.

Each second dragged—near collapse—his hold snapped free, familiar command in my ear.

“Shoot.”

Reflex—arrow flew, piercing the wall like a white streak through sun.

String hummed back—arm dropped, limp—I slid down, spent.

Earlier, some fakery—now? Brain mush, stalled.

Chest heaved—I looked up, caught Mochuan’s face.

Reluctance, resentment, loss—dim light unshackled him, raw emotions bare.

Brief, though. Eyes shut, deep breath—opened clear, composed.

From his pocket, a blue cloth—wiping each finger, erasing me.

“Why go to Cuoyansong? Why show up again…”

Stared dumb—speechless.

Like always, no answer needed. He lingered, didn’t lift me to bed—just left me at the entrance, gone.

Room dead quiet—booze and unexpected drain hit—I slumped, sleep took me.

Fire truck screamed past—jerked awake. Heat gone, brain slogging slow.

Stumbled, flipped the lights—vague hand weirdness sharpened: sticky mess in my palm. One bulb’s flicker confirmed it.

“Fuck…” Stared, incredulous.

Not a dream…

Bathroom—rinsed it off, bit by bit.

Mirror: red-rimmed eyes, pale face, drunk-worn—grinning wide.

Head under the tap—colder the water, clearer my mind.

Rubbed my face—looked again: dripping wet, grin wider.

“…Really not a dream.”

If I still think Mochuan’s just homophobic, I need my head checked.

Even if he is—deep closet case. What homophobe messes with a drunk guy’s tongue, controls him like that? I blanked my own instigating.

Knew he wasn’t indifferent—just… those parting words, pent-up truth.

Cenglu priest, Mountain Lord’s Pinjia, Li Yang’s dad, He Nanyuan’s uncle—not mine. My presence? Torture, disruption—nothing more.

Lip smile soured—bitter.

Did I nuke the solar system last life? Born gay this one—and fixated on one guy.

Rival’s not human—great.

Plus, I can’t live in Cuoyansong forever; he won’t follow to Haicheng. Together? Secret, long-distance sneaking.

We’re a maze with no exit—dead ends, loops—rare breakthroughs, then walls again.

Back to now—water off, towel over head, hands on sink, still.

Sounds faded—like fleeting joys—room silent again.

Two days, forced myself: no Mochuan, no contact—work only.

“Hang Jiafei’s buzz is fading—yesterday’s stream worked…”

Small meeting room—sales, biz dev, product—dozen folks, weekly recap.

I hate these—dodged months. Huangfu Rou’s fifth nag dragged me in.

To me, stiff numbers, strategies, reports—coffee beats them all.

“Hang Jiafei’s mess stirred flak, but it boosted us downmarket—black-red’s still red. Online sales look good. Rou-jie, event time?”

“Top sellers—thousand-yuan rings, necklaces—maybe push more…”

Wonder what Mochuan’s up to—class, dorm nap?

Phone buzzed—hopeful click—Yan Chuwen’s video.

Muted, watched under the table—live stream, comments rolling. No sound—anchor hyped dark, pebble-like stuff. Close-up: black buckwheat.

Cuoyansong has that—Nie Peng gave me some, local specialty.

[Here for the beauty]

[+1 for beauty]

[Miss, stop talking—how much? We’ll take it all—show the beauty!]

[I’m guilty—fantasizing a priest…]

[Just googled ‘Pinjia’—Mountain Lord’s lucky!!!]

[Damn! Jealous of Mountain Lord!!]

Pinjia? Beauty?

Camera panned—full stream view. Anchor’s smile froze, mid-sentence—guy beside her glanced off-screen, brows knotting at the comments.

White priest robe, cyan jade beads I’d seen, lapis stud back in his left ear.

Bolted up—chair screeched loud.

“Bai Yin?” All eyes—Huangfu Rou too.

Known her forever—no makeup, no skirts, short hair always—says it toughens her up.

Interrupted, she looked pissed.

“Sorry—bathroom.” Grabbed my phone, out.

Pushed the heavy hall door—few steps down, stair bend—reopened Yan Chuwen’s video.

Sound on—aid stream. Anchor pitched Cuoyansong black buckwheat; Mochuan sat as regional rep.

“How do Cenglu folks usually drink this?” She waved a bag, fishing for chat.

Mochuan—green at live banter—knew only to answer.

Puzzled at first, then a “Pinjia” smile.

“Boiling water.”

Laughed with the wild comments.

[Wife’s so cute!]

[Husband’s hot—drooling…]

[How’s he serious and hilarious lolol!]

[If I’m cursed, you’re all to blame!]

Short clip—ended post-“boiling water.” Eyes on “Wife’s so cute”—fingertip flicked it, tap.

“My wife.” Possessive growl.

Can’t let go—never will…