Archive of Our Own ^beta

The messenger has their head down, quaking even through the bravery of his words. “W-We've vacated the territory, so p-please—” 

His plea was cut off by a deep moan from the throne. Unabashed, guttural as the Emperor throws his head back, hips thrust forward into the face between his legs. 

The man swallows, heat rising up in his own body, forcing himself to think of his mission, even as he shifts to make sure his robes can dangle more freely. "We beg of you, M-My Lor—"

The Emperor only cusses loudly, barely hearing the plea to release the band of rebels he captured from one of the enemy factions. The boy’s throat wraps around his cock like a vice, the small tongue doing its best to caress the underside of his girth. Even as he grasps the boy’s head, grinding into his throat, the most resistance shown were a pair of clenching and unclenching hands and soft gargling noises. 

Another groan as he finally spurts into that warm and wet column, pelvis pressed flushed against the boy’s nose, pubic hair tickled by quick breaths. The man is half-lifted off the seat as he continues feeding him his spent, until at last, he slumps back onto his throne, chest heaving. As his head clears, he remembers all of the people in the room with him, their gazes down and their silhouettes frozen, making them look like clay figures in the light of the outside. 

Yet he cares not for them, shifting his focus back onto the one kneeling at his seat, cheeks red and nostrils flaring from trying to breathe through the weapon in his mouth. With an adoring tap on his cheek, the boy is given permission to lift himself off. 

He watches as the boy slowly drags his head back, shutting his eyes as his throat spasms one last time around the head of the cock, before it pops free out of his mouth. Immediately he presses his face against the Emperor’s thigh, muffling his coughs. 

As he lets the boy gather himself, the Emperor turns to face the crowd below him. "Alright, go on then, take whoever you want. Guards, see him out."

In his shock, the messenger almost makes the mistake of looking up at the Emperor. The Emperor's savagery has dwindled these days. He’s heard the rumor, but gave it no weight. All the more when he was sent in today for negotiations and had to do so in the midst of the Emperor defiling a whore in front of everyone. Yet, he would let them go just like that? 

Could it be the true, the rumors of a chi—

However, he has no time to ponder as a guard shoves at him, spear pressed against his back. He can only keep moving until he pools outside with the rest of them, the grand doors behind them closing shut.

Inside, Mo Ran soaks in the bliss of his post-orgasm, having removed his crown and dumping it on the side. His cock still lay a bit stiff, and he imagines it will grow stiffer again shortly. He brushes his fingers down Chu Wanning’s warm, damp temple, stroking his supple cheek that has yet to completely lose its baby fat. An act of praise, one that Wanning returns with kisses and nuzzles along the length of Mo Ran's cock, until he gets to the tip to give it a deeper kiss, tongue laving at the opening.

“My wife spoils me,” Mo Ran sighs. He signals for Wanning to come up to his lap, smiling at the sight of the boy stumbling, his legs frozen from having to kneel so long. Like a fawn, with the heart of a vixen. “This husband wishes to be kissed.”

And of course, he would never be denied. Perhaps only in the beginning, when Mo Ran stole Wanning away from the rest of the world, forcing him to live a life of riches and lust, while the cultivation world that had wronged both of them burned. But his disciple had eventually softened, surrendering his body. And even, his womb. 

In between kisses, small hands cradling the sides of his face, Mo Ran keeps his eyes open, enjoying the flutter of Wanning's lashes, the little furrow in his brow that never really goes away. "Did I do good, Wanning?"

The surprised look on Wanning's face quickly melts into a soft one. “Mm. Husband did good.”

Mo Ran beams. He hugs the boy closer, inhaling the scent at his neck. “Then don't I deserve a reward?” He laughs at the sigh above him, cock twitching in interest as Wanning grumbles yet loosens his sash all the same. He runs his lips down the column of Wanning's throat, in awe of where the tip of his cock must have reached, littering kisses along the span of his wife's chest. Where the robes used to fall almost immediately, now the front catches slightly onto Wanning’s breasts. They had grown as he carried, and never returned to their original size. Even more exciting were the nipples, jutting slightly out for both the baby and Mo Ran to nurse from.

“Just one,” Wanning warns gently. “Xiao Chen hasn't fed yet.”

Mo Ran rolls his eyes. It's not like Wanning isn't producing a generous amount daily for them. In fact, he'd go as far as conjecturing that he's been helping with the production as well. His kisses continue, down the curve of a breast, then the swell of the side, the hefty under, licking and nipping around the nipple. He grows harder as his teasing prompts the tiniest drop of milk to leak out, and he laps at the trail, but again avoids the nipple.

Like a child, Mo Ran buries his face in the valley of Wanning's chest instead. He can feel Wanning breathing heavier, the subtle rhythm of his hips telling Mo Ran what he needs to know. 

My wife is in health and in lust. All for this wretched one. What shall I do? Shall I die? Shall I kill everyone in offering to my wife and daughter? But as much as the idea fills his cock, he knows Wanning would not endorse it. His lovely merciful Wanning, who would accompany him to the depths of hell and depravity— 

“Mo Ran?”

Mo Ran snaps his head up. His arms are tightly wounded around Wanning, who must have sensed something. He grunts, returning his face to the darkness. Soft hands in his hair, combing through short strands. “Husband is thinking too much again.”

“'M not.”

“Not thinking?”

“Not thinking.”

The fingers set a pace, one that would put him to sleep if not for the heat between his legs. The touch is both soothing and tantalizing; he smiles at the imperceptible desperation in Wanning’s hips. Who was he but a man, to torment his wife like this? So he turns his head to the side, flicking a stiffened tongue against a stiff nipple, before taking it into his mouth to suckle.

Wanning doesn't respond loudly, but it's the little jerks and gasps that make Mo Ran's not-so-little friend rise. It throbs against where Wanning is practically leaking through his inner under, and he moans as the wetness is enough for his tip to glide against the fabric, a sheen of slick licking at his cock. It must have slid against Wanning's clit, for the pleasure has the boy gasping, spurting milk into his husband's mouth. 

Mo Ran groans, hips stuttering up. He leaves purple marks around Wanning's tit, the bruises blooming like flowers against Wanning's skin. He chants the boy’s name, in the form that he used to call him so endearingly when he was outwardly still a kind shizun—

"A-Ning, my A-Ning—"

Now the kind shizun has long forsaken his morals. Not only that, he has subjected his most upstanding disciple to the fate of a whore, and not just any whore, but the wretched Emperor's whore, servicing him in the middle of negotiations because he knows that's when Mo Ran is the most emotionally volatile. Recently, he's even taken to sitting on his lap during war prep discussions, taking his hand and massaging the tension out of his knuckles, gently chiding him about bad karma if he were to carry out all those massacres, and that it'd be best to just take a few important figures as prisoners. 

"Think about Xiao Chen."

And what was Mo Ran to do? What he once thought to be his ultimate dream — becoming Emperor, having the world at his feet — was now a mere pleasant pastime. It pales to who he’s become now — a husband, a father. 

“I want to put another one in Wanning,” he pleads, palm splaying across the span of the boy’s lower abdomen, his thumb and pinky touching the sides of his hip bones. He's almost milked one tit dry, and so he moves to the other despite Wanning's protests. 

“Husband can barely share with Xiao Chen as it is now,” Wanning grumbles. 

Mo Ran laughs through his teeth, worrying gently at the other nipple. The fight his wife puts up is insincere however, especially when Wanning so readily cups the back of Mo Ran's head to support him. “We can get a wet nurse for the runts,” Mo Ran suggests, holding the breast in his hand to better draw milk from it. “That way, Wanning only needs to focus on this husband.”

Wanning juts his chest out. “Insatiable.” 

"Only because Wanning is willing to give so much." 

By the time Wanning's inner comes off there's a large wet stain at the centre, and Mo Ran sniffs and sucks on it, much to the boy’s chagrin. He's lost in the scent, the evidence that his wife’s body is ready for him at any point. The best part of the day is that there's nothing else to do, which means he gets to bed Wanning all day long. Wanning was so good to him after all, offering his throat up earlier on—perhaps Mo Ran can offer him the same, to use his face as a chair to sit on and soak. 

Standing at full mast, Mo Ran's cock sways with a mind of its own, ready to breach what’s rightfully his any time. But he doesn't quite give Wanning what he wants yet—instead, he rubs the bulbous head around and against Wanning's clit, so swollen he can see it peeking through the thin wisps of hair. He does so relentlessly, and on the occasion he slides too far down, Wanning is wet enough for his cockhead to slip in without any resistance, though Mo Ran quickly pulls away each time, laughing at the whine that gets trapped in Wanning’s throat. He watches the boy’s face contort into a mix of pleasure and frustration, lips bitten in an effort to hold himself still, knowing that this is the one thing he cannot take without permission. Mo Ran watches in awe as Wanning's jaw drops, shoulders tensing, tits leaking as he pushes against the underside of his clit, rubbing Wanning there until the boy all but squirts onto his cock.

And that's when Mo Ran takes the opportunity to sheathe himself in one go, drawing a choked scream out of the boy. Mo Ran comes dangerously close to releasing his own cum right there and then, what with Wanning's walls fluttering around his cock, spasming whenever Mo Ran decides to rock his hips up while bringing Wanning's down. He does it in the way that he knows will trap the boy's clit between their bodies, and on cue, Wanning breaks out into audible sobs as he comes for a third time, and squirts for a second time within the span of a minute. 

He collapses brilliantly atop Mo Ran, arms limp on the side, cheek squished against Mo Ran’s collarbone. His eyes are clouded, fluttering when Mo Ran pushes his hair away. A kiss on his lips, and then his cheek. Like this, against the sturdy shape of his teacher, his husband, Wanning feels the safest he’s ever felt. As long as he continues to play the role of the loving wife, as long as he squashes down all memories of his previous life, what it was like to see the world around him. Not that there’s much else now to see, under the razing fires of Mo Ran’s iron fist. 

As long as he continues to stare into Mo Ran’s purple eyes and pretend that they’re any other pair of lovers, and not a wretched Emperor under the influence of a heart-blackening flower, with an equally wretched disciple who can only use what’s left of his cultivation and his body to stave off the flower’s growth. 

As long as everything continues the way it is, Wanning is more than willing. So he lifts a hand up to Mo Ran’s cheek, thumb brushing soothing lines along the bone. He anchors his chin on Mo Ran’s sternum, pressing their lips together. Inadvertently, he squeezes around the cock stretching him, blushing as his body continues to betray him. 

Mo Ran grins, giving no comment. He only returns Wanning peck, and the back and forth continues until their lips are moving together in a familiar breathtaking dance. 

When they pull away, Mo Ran laughs, tracing the swell of Wanning’s lip. “See? So much to give.” His cock and robes are drenched, though not nearly enough, he decides. He pulls out, but his fingers find their way down to their target, covering the entire span of Wanning’s cunt and massaging his entrance, making sure to press particularly firmly against his clit, trapping it in the ridge of his fingers until the boy is squirming again.

“Can’t…” 

“Yes, you can,” Mo Ran says against the boy’s parted lips. He sees how small Wanning’s mouth is, and wonders how he manages to take his cock each time. His shoulders are angular yet not so wide, tapering down to a tempting waist that he can’t believe once held their child. Not to mention the delectable pussy wetting his fingers, always snug, yet always accommodating. 

It doesn’t take long to force another stream out of Wanning, another scream, and by then, Mo Ran’s entire hand comes away sticky and wet. He trails the hand up Wanning’s abdomen, plucking at a tit, before dragging the last bit of the slick up his chest and around his neck. There, his hand stops, squeezing the slender column until Wanning can’t help but gasp. He relishes in the small coughs fighting their way out of his mouth, in awe of how Wanning only responds to it by raking his nails down Mo Ran’s chest, as if he’d rather die by suffocation than defy his husband. 

What do I do, what do I do, Wanning, I love you so much—

Mo Ran channels his delirium by dragging Wanning on top of his cock once more, thrusting his hips up to bully his way into the small space of Wanning’s cunt, moaning at the way the walls tighten with every breath that Wanning expels and can’t get back. 

“Baobei,” Mo Ran gasps, half-suspending his wife in the air as he continues to pound into him from below. Back anchored against his seat, feet against the ground, making sure their hips slap together every time. His movements are aided by Wanning’s neverending slick, as if telling him to use the boy as he pleases, as if Wanning were nothing but a wet pocket made just for him. 

And isn’t he? He’s submitted to Mo Ran so wholly— he’s offered every hole up, every part of his body, his dignity, his freedom, in the mornings and in the evenings; in the quiet dawnbreaks that Mo Ran rips through with his nightmares, finding warmth and relief in his wife’s body, whimpering against Wanning’s tit; in the chaos of his mind, when he’d return from suppressing yet another rebellion, collapsing into a tired ball in Wanning’s arms. 

“Hus—band…” 

In his craze, Mo Ran realizes he nearly crushed Wanning’s throat. The boy’s face deepens in color, tongue lolling out and saliva dripping down the sides of his mouth. It’s a sight that both terrifies Mo Ran and drives him closer to the edge. He takes a hold of Wanning’s hair instead, forcing him into a fervent kiss. At the release, Wanning starts to cough, tries to push Mo Ran away, but the man holds him steady, biting his lips, uncaring for the mess of spit against his face. Each cough makes Wanning squeeze him tighter and tighter, and Mo Ran’s battle against his own climax doesn’t last much longer — with a final series of devastating thrusts, punching cry after cry out of the boy, Mo Ran finally spills into him. He buries himself as far in as he can go, wishing he could claw through that second entrance, to dig into the place that nourished Xiao Chen for nine months. 

Mine, mine, mine, I'm still your most important, right? Wanning, tell me—

He loses himself in a haze again, his pleasure turning his thoughts cruel, flashing images of chaining Wanning to their bed running through his head. Keeping him like livestock while he makes chess pieces out of everyone else, ensuring Xiao Chen will have her own army to play with once she’s older. It almost eclipses the warmth he felt just a moment ago.

That is, until a pair of hands frames his face once more, and the vision of a world on fire quiets and falls away into the present picture of Wanning gazing at him with tear-stained eyes. When Wanning speaks, his voice is hoarse yet soft. 

“Husband is thinking too much again.” 

Mo Ran closes his eyes. It is as if a calm wave has arrived from the distance, dragging away the wickedness from his thoughts, washing him free of sin.

This is what it feels like to be in the embrace of heaven.

Except it is not heaven that touches him, but Chu Wanning, his disciple, his wife, his salvation. He accepts Mo Ran wholly as he is, taking his essence each time, turning it into something of beauty. Like a child. Like Xiao Chen. 

“‘M not,” Mo Ran says, a whisper against Wanning’s lips. 

Wanning just barely squishes his face. “Not thinking?” Mo Ran shakes his head. “Mm. If husband says so.” 

Mo Ran allows Wanning’s hands to run down his throat, his chest, down to his slick-coated balls. He groans as his wife massages his sack, coaxing more of his cum out and into his womb. “Wanning.”

“Mo Ran,” Wanning whimpers, moving to his own clit, trapping it against the base of his husband’s cock and rubbing himself to another high. He whines, a hurt sound in the back of his throat as Mo Ran cruelly takes a hold of his leaking nipple, twisting it until he sprays white droplets onto Mo Ran’s chest. He presses his face into Mo Ran’s neck, basking in his musk, weakly teething at the hard muscle as he comes one last time on his husband’s cock. Much to his expectation, warmth spreads into his womb again, and he grinds down slightly in hopes that it’ll spread further up. 

Their breaths are loud in the throne room, bodies molding into one. Eventually Mo Ran slips out, and Wanning shifts into a position that would keep their cum from spilling out. Noticing this, Mo Ran smiles but makes no comment. Instead he cuddles his wife closer, mumbling, “Is it time for Xiao Chen to wake yet?” 

Wanning sighs, flopping his head down on Mo Ran’s shoulder. “Maybe another hour. Ever since she learned to walk—”

Right on cue, the high-pitched voice of a babbling toddler pierces through the walls of the throne room, signaling the end of their peace. It’s accompanied by the scurry of servants and guards, causing the only type of ruckus that doesn’t end up in Mo Ran beheading or lashing anyone. 

Whining, Wanning curls further into his husband’s embrace, and Mo Ran can’t help but coo at the action. “Baobei’s tired. Sleep. I’ll take care of the runt for now.”