MW CH52

Chapter 52: Because… It’s You That I Like

It hurt at first—like the snap of a bowstring on my arm when shooting. That initial sting twists your face, but it fades fast, leaving just a hot tingle, no more pain.

The red spinel pendant slid to my shoulder, swinging wild with Mochuan’s moves.

August in Pengge—never too hot, even summer—but I was drenched in fine sweat, head to toe, coating every inch.

For a rookie, Mochuan’s a damn natural.

While others fumble with stance, string, aiming for the bullseye—he slaps on gear, skips the tweaks, and nails the basics first go.

Every shot—force, angle, speed—jaw-dropping. I could barely keep up with his onslaught.

“Mochuan…” Tried to slow him, lighten it—he leaned in, cupped my face, smothered my voice.

A beat later—blood rushing, head exploding—he eased off my lips, nose grazing my cheek. “No one’s seen you like this—just me… Bai Yin, just me… you’re mine alone…”

Archery styles, my take: two kinds.

One’s storm-and-thunder—screw form, all speed, emptying the quiver fast, training snap reaction.

The other’s slow-and-steady—perfect pose, precise aim, arrow straight to the heart, chasing tens every time.

Mochuan? Both—storm one minute, steady the next, switching seamless, self-taught genius.

A fresh target like me—hundreds of arrows hammering short-term—no matter how tough, it’s toast.

Sweat stung my eyes—he kissed it away. I shoved, half-mad, half-dead.

He grabbed my hand, kissed and rubbed that palm scar—obsessed with it.

“No more…” What is this? Self-inflicted doom? Woke a starving beast—now I’m bones and all.

Back in the bow club, I hated those beat-up targets—ragged paper, loose straw spilling, barely holding arrows.

Now? I owe them an apology.

I’m falling apart…

Other hand flailed at his stomach—through thin fabric, rock-hard abs.

Why’s he still pristine while I’m down to soggy calf-nose pants? Thought flickered—he yanked my arm, sat me on him.

Some arrows sink so deep they fuse with the target—unpullable. That’s me now.

Who’d guess I’d vibe with a target?

Bit his shoulder—hard through cloth. Muscles tensed, relaxed—he pressed my neck, soothing or teasing, hard to tell.

“…You don’t like it?” Stopped everything, soft by my ear.

Bet he’s flipped the “Mochuan” switch full-on—shoved Pinjia’s shame and god-loyalty to some mental corner, blocked out.

Forgot where we are—eyes just me, only me.

“Too…” Too deep—target’s pierced through.

No warning—another shot, dead-center. “You don’t like it?”

Target’s stuck—can’t move. Just takes it.

“You’re doing this on purpose…” Shaking, clung to him, lips muffled on his shoulder.

Asks if I like it—doesn’t care if I choose.

Fiddled with the thin knot at my waist—no answer, kissed my ear, kept going. “You like it.”

Ear nibbled, licked—gripped him tighter, no comeback.

Tough, yeah—but… I do like it.

Realized that—ears burned red. I’m done for. Never pictured myself a bottom in years—called him “wife” and all—first time, I’m under, and loving it…

“Because… it’s you that I like.”

Anyone else—Ming Zhuo, Jiang Boshu—tried this rude shit, I’d beat them unrecognizable.

Mochuan’s different—unique. I’d sink into any sea with him—life’s bitter one, or lust’s wicked one.

Ear stung—waist clamped tight—then endless pain-pleasure loops.

Morning, woke on his bed—post-workout lazy, loose. Muscles sore, sure—but rest dulled it.

Door shut, no Mochuan. Clock hit six—breakfast soon.

Got up, pulled on pants—new undies at my waist sparked last night’s memory: that soaked, crumpled calf-nose pair…

Wrapped in his robe to the bathroom—thought we were done. Robe dropped, saw those pants, flap aside—he was back on.

Off-script—no 0.01.

Tugged the elastic—few centimeters taller, why’s his stuff a size up?

Cracked the door—hall silent, no one. Scoped it, stepped out. Mochuan at the low table, eating—I sat opposite, grabbed a bun, stuffed it in.

“Why didn’t you wake me? Five a.m. exit, right?”

He lifted his bowl, glanced, sipped porridge—quiet.

Eyebrow up. “Silent again?”

Nod—poised, graceful, no trace of last night’s wild. “Mochuan” clocked out—“Pinjia” took over.

Breakfast done, he set the boxes outside—someone’d grab them.

Stayed, chatting—he wrote, I talked, smooth as ever.

“Silent now—tonight too?” Body’s iffy for round two, but I love poking the bear.

Pen paused—lifted, slid to our chat paper.

“Got some sutras here—take ‘em back, read when you’re free.”

Mastered reading his upside-down scrawl—snorted before he finished, hands back, legs uncrossed, kicked off a shoe, slid under the table, rubbed his leg.

“Weren’t like that last night.” Toe crept center—I tilted my head, smug. “One night, and Pinjia’s ghosting?”

Pen shook, ink pooling ugly on the rice paper. Eyes shut—grabbed my ankle, didn’t toss it.

Cool fingers grazed my skin—itchy, breath hitched. Tried pulling back—he gripped harder.

“Daylight—what’re you doing?” Gave up struggling—let him hold.

Looked up—mouthed two silent words. Couldn’t catch it—shape like… “No way”?

No way what?

Still puzzling—he let go.

Yanked my leg back—footsteps outside.

Never shod up faster—frantic as they stepped in.

“Uncle…” Teen froze, sized me up—deep eyes like Mochuan’s, pure wariness.

“Little Kite—it’s me!” Waved. “Bai Yin.”

“Oh, you.” Ponytail, fitted black robe—strode over, dragged a cushion, plopped between us.

Mochuan pinched the ruined paper, balled it, tossed it.

“What’s up?” Wrote fresh.

He Nanyuan blinked at the big characters—blurted, “Why’re you silent again?”

Head down, wrote: “Wanted to.”

He Nanyuan squinted—me, then him—switched to Cenglu: “That necklace—never seen it. Where’d it come from?”

Mochuan touched Immortal. “Friend gave it.”

Frown—blunt: “This Xia guy?”

Glanced at me—no denial.

“Fawning for no reason—crook or thief. He’s after something—seen tons of these Xia types out there.” Thinking I’m clueless, he trashed me. “Forgot how Mom got conned? Still hasn’t got her Xin Yin back.”

Slimy, but hearing live slander’s kinda fun.

“He’s not like that.” Mochuan’s writing got sloppy.

He Nanyuan hit me: “You’re not from Haicheng, are you?”

Pointed at myself. “Me? Yeah, Haicheng born.”

“Knew it—Haicheng playboy. They’re all rotten.” Pumped like he’d nailed it. “You’re like Mom—duped by Haicheng scum.”

Mochuan flung the pen—patience done.

No words, but his face screamed: “Who’re you mouthing off to, kid?”

Shit escalating—I blocked him from He Nanyuan.

“Chill, chill—kid’s clueless, don’t blow up…”

He Nanyuan snatched the pen from his hem, stood. “Afternoon, me and Zuo Yong are riding up the mountain.” Set the wrecked brush on the cushion, walked off.