wuding | a home.

a home.

They fall together, like fresh snow off the mountaintop: first, in measured, patient, cultivating reunion after an extended dinner at their inn. Then, with passion. Then, syrupy and slow, with morning. In a rare, turn, after bathing, Lan Wangji denies himself the rigors and discipline of morning and coaxes them back abed, to hold his lover throughout his rest near sunrise, until halfway to midday.

He stirs them, inevitably, when the blinding bright white of the day overwhelms, and they must set for the road to make good pace to Cloud Recesses while still enjoying their stroll. They arrive, meandering, in the depths of a trickling, golden afternoon, when much of the clan is distracted with the latest lecture of a visiting hermit — they say, an aspiring immortal — and neither Uncle nor Sizhui can be politely parted from his wisdom. First, a brief stop with Liang. Secondly, for Lan Wangji, yet slowed by his fading wounds and bruises, to test the recovery of his disciples.

Lastly, facing the dregs of an afternoon together with no duties, no assignments, no occupation — curiosity wins over. With the packed necessities of a quick meal in his qiankun pouch, he steers Wei Ying to walk the winding, if peaceful path toward the peripheral territories, past the liminal, isolated quietude of the jingshi and into the periphery of Lan Wangji's inherited grounds.

A short walk, yet they may have breached the threshold of a brave new world. He had chosen the space for its proximity to river water, cunning, lively spikes of rice stabbing the field, alongside feral flowers. Already, the builders and architects have marked a path to make a road, but they have yet to set down wood or stone for steps. These, he knows, are still young days for their home, Wei Ying's house, rising on strong, sprawling bones that stretch out over a considerable territory: a number of rooms, some superfluous, including an isolated study for Wei Ying's pleasure and a music chamber. A large kitchen, for all much of the house yet misses its roof. A segment for the archery post Lan Wangji had bidden. The house, designed to host an inner garden, even boasts the allocated space for a pond men had been digging until mere hours prior, when their toil ended.

"To grow lotus," he murmurs, nodding ahead where the pond is yet to glisten and crest, where its waters are short of rising. And he does not ask, Do you like it, what it can be? But his gaze flickers between Wei Ying's face and the home in desperate, hungry study.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I want to sleep with you," he contradicts with a gentleness so often reserved for simpler, sweeter, more saccharine things unclouded by the specter of desire. His rabbits. His disciples.

After all, he need not correct: taking care of each other with their hands is yet lovemaking, for all it is absent of penetration. But the point feels lacking, academic. Drawn, moth to flame, he hunts down Wei Ying's mouth in a kiss that simmers, then heats, Lan Wangji's hands cupping his lover's cheeks on each side as he deepens. There is a beauty to Wei Ying unraveled in this way, bare and submerged, that cannot be captured in words.

He drinks him in.

"Consider. If you are certain." Check in with yourself. "Here, or in our bed?"

“I want to sleep with you, too,” he says, trying to match the gentle tone Lan Zhan is using. He leans forward and brushes his nose and cheek across Lan Zhan’s cheek like he’s a cat seeking affection. Maybe he should have phrased it differently. He knows Lan Zhan always wants him and that it’s his desire for unwavering consent that stills him now.

His fingers draw little designs on Lan Zhan’s neck when the kiss starts. He inches his way forward until they’re pressed together. Until there’s no way to mistake either of their desire for the other.

He whines when Lan Zhan pulls away from him and he gives chase. Kissing him again and again before the meaning of his husband’s words trickle in. With a sigh, he opens his eyes and stares straight into Lan Zhan’s. “I want you tonight. And every night,” he tells him, smiling.

But is that enough?

“I’m not running away from anything right now. I just want to love my Lan Zhan and be loved too.” That just leaves the problem of their location. “You’re just going to want to bathe again after we’re done… but it’s more comfortable in the bed. Hmm… let’s go to the bed.”

To love and be loved. No desire to run.

Wei Ying, kittenish and slow, courts him as if he is a precious thing, molten. Gives him what he wants, their cheeks colliding in tender, soft friction. Their mouths meet, nearly by chance. He deepens the kiss, taking care to steal every last remnant of Wei Ying's scent, his breath.

Then, he releases his husband, watching him with hungry, proprietary and assessing greed. And he instructs, "Go first."

For once, not attended by Lan Wangji with thorough delicacy and painful intentionality.

"Clothe yourself in one layer. Go to your mirror and brush your hair. Gaze only within." He remembers what Wei Ying requested before their evening soured: an intruder, come to steal and defile him, allowing him no barter. What sluggishness the drink affords Wei Ying will only serve his attacker.

It’s easy to fall into line kissing Lan Zhan and letting him lead. Their tongues dance across each other and their parted lips like they have one mouth between them. He’s starting to think that maybe sleeping together in the bath isn’t that bad of an idea. They’ve since started using a reinforced tub after breaking so many, so they probably wouldn’t break this one.

Whining, he chases Lan Zhan’s mouth for a moment before sitting back and licking the moisture from his lips. He likes the way Lan Zhan looks at him as if he is a hunted thing. A rabbit in the presence of a tiger.

At first, he doesn’t remember the request he made earlier in the day, but he grins when it dawns on him. He likes it when Lan Zhan is a little rough with him and he harbors certain fantasies that this sort of play is the only way he wants to live them. He reaches his up and cups one of Lan Zhan’s cheeks and he gives him one more short kiss.

“Don’t be gentle,” he requests. They both know that he’s going to fight it and struggle, but that’s half the fun.

He stands up and pats his upper half dry before climbing out of the tub and doing the same for his lower half. He’s already mostly hard after all that kissing and the anticipation of being thoroughly debauched by his husband. He gives Lan Zhan one last grin before fetching a clean red robe and doing what he’s been told. Lan Zhan’s done a good job taking out the tangles and knots in his hair, so it’s not difficult to run a comb through it.

Be silent, says Wei Ying, yet so often withdraws at the first signal of true discomfort or coercion. This, then, is the game of it: pushing, but no farther than Wei Ying's natural capacity to yield. Reading the tells of his sweet, softening body, before tension arrests him.

He nods, accepting his assignment, released to proceed as he wishes and take the reins of their evening away from his husband's too-long burdened hands. In truth, he understands some part of the appeal: Wei Ying, perpetually wrecked by impossible decisions, wishes to surrender control of himself and his autonomy. To be, for mere instants, forgiven of himself.

As his lover withdraws, Lan Wangji gives wait, injecting a few moments of delay between them, so that when he too pulls away from the bathtub, they are sight unseen. First, he busies himself with tidying the bathing space, pouring out their used bath water and preparing the buckets of leftover, clean supplies nearby. Then, he navigates the room to reach drying linens but stay outside of Wei Ying's sight. He considers, briefly, whether he should don robes — then commits to the part of the wicked barbarian, bare and unrepenting.

Moments later, he checks in on Lan Liang, refreshing talismans so that they are alerted by the sound of sweet, crystalline bells by the child's first waking murmur. The final precaution: he leaves the braziers to breathe warmth in their home, but quiets the candles. On the way back toward their sleeping quarter, he steals away the small, fairly blunt blade used to peel away the seals of letters and perform other mundane tasks of correspondence. He dare not misuse Bichen in this, a blade like death's own sting.

At last, he is ready, slinking neatly and unheard, like a large cat in the dark to creep up on his husband from behind, careful to withhold his body and face in the shadows, and only press the letter blade close enough to Wei Ying's neck that the two might kiss.

"A fool, he who left a beautiful thing alone. Scream, and your sect whole will know your humbling." And hissed, "Cooperate, and no harm comes done. Be wise."

Edited 2024-04-15 16:34 (UTC)

He hums to himself while he tends to the tasks a young maiden may finish after her evening bath. One of a gentle breed, but not truly noble since he doesn’t have a handmaid to do the chore of brushing out his hair. He honestly doesn’t spend that much time in front of mirrors these days. This body is an acceptable one. Handsome, youthful, boyish with very little in the way of body hair. A little on the skinny side, but he thinks he’s put on a small amount of weight compared to the beginning when it has been actively and intentionally starved. He’s become accustomed to it, no longer viewing it as something not his own.

His heart is beating fast while he waits for Lan Zhan. He doesn’t look over or try to manipulate the angle of the mirror, but he can tell Lan Zhan’s cleaning up after their bath by the sound of water splashing. Only a Lan would prioritize chores over getting laid! It makes him feel fond rather than disappointed.

He considers putting his hair up so it’s out of the way, but decides against it in the end. Maybe Lan Zhan will grab it and use it to push and pull him wherever he wants him to go.

He’s not expecting the knife to appear before his attacker and he tries to step back reflexively and runs into the solid form of Lan Zhan. “Please, I don’t have much. Take anything you’d like, just please don’t hurt me.”

I don't have much. How strange, to think his smile such a coveted commodity, yet feel it threaten to spike and bloom now as he hurriedly dips his head down to conceal it. The audacity of this man, claiming poverty as Lan Wangji noses at prestige silk of prized craftsmanship emboldened by delicate, golden embroidery.

Grasping Wei Ying's hair to push it aside until it whispers down one shoulder, Wangji's mouth latches onto the bared column of his lover's throat, blade careful to linger just ahead of Wei Ying's jugular. His teeth rake down, conniving. The hand bereft of his knife drifts down to caress the sharp-pointed peak of Wei Ying's hip, raising the hem.

"Anything. I intend to." Rough, mean, uninvited, his leg slips between Wei Ying's from behind, pushing one out to part them. "You will please me."

He catches the beginning of the smile just before Lan Zhan dips his head down and he can’t help but match it momentarily. Oh, that won’t do, will it? A smiling damsel being manhandled by a brute who doesn’t even wear robes when entering a lady’s chamber. He wants to step back and feel Lan Zhan against him, but he manages to maintain his character and merely whimpers instead.

“Please,” he pleads again, biting back the moan that wants to escape him at the feel of his husband’s teeth along his sensitive skin. “Anything but that. I’m still a virgin,” he says, but obediently parts his legs at the intrusion.

There’s something freeing to at least pretend to lose his autonomy like this. Where he can basically let Lan Zhan take control of their bed play while he takes whatever is given to him. And then there’s the brutality of the act that will likely leave him sore, but feels so cathartic to experience. He wonders if he would have liked something like this back in his first life. He thinks he would have loathed feeling powerless back when he’s been harboring the Wens in Yiling. The difference now is about trust. If they go too far (doubtful) he knows he could break character and Lan Zhan would heed him.

A virgin. The second threat of a smile corrupts his mouth nearly to bloom. There is not a single flattened surface in this house on which they have not bedded, many unfit for purpose. Yet Wei Ying sings of his virtue.

On Wei Ying's hip, his hand tightens, knuckles white from steely strain. In the mirror, the scale of his fingers against Wei Ying's narrow waist is an intoxication of power, abused.

He lifts his hand to catch Wei Ying's hair in a hard pull, as if thick rope, dragging his lover back in a sharp arch. The press of his husband's — the maiden's buttocks against his swollen length is warmth, bursting. He leans into the friction, a raspy moan punched out of him at the next heated exhalation.

Wei Ying's throat, pale and bare, compels him to bite at the base. "You deny me? Who will know?"

He catches Lan Zhan’s eyes in the reflection for a moment and he winks coyly at him. A little bit outside of the behavior of a maiden being assaulted, but he can’t help himself when he sees the creases at the corners of Lan Zhan’s eyes that betray the instinct to smile. How he loves when Lan Zhan takes control like this. He can rest assured that Lan Zhan will be pleased with how their evening progresses.

“But you’re so big,” he says, barely managing to resist the urge to press himself closer to Lan Zhan. It’s not just Wei Wuxian who is already ready to go. “You’ll tear me in half.”

He gasps, head jerking back and exposing more of his throat for Lan Zhan’s. This time when he pleads, he can only moan the words out. “Please, please, have mercy on this poor maiden. However can I please you so you spare my life?”

This vixen, shamelessly winking, tempting Lan Wangji to break character. Ah, but maybe this is what it means to age in their love, to mature in the depth of their affection: to embrace each other and their absurdity, and to feel at ease with these instance when they are not entirely overwhelmingly serious in their pursuit.

He is enough, at the end of a long day of emotion, travel and quarrel, steeling his face to pretend he is a great, despicable villain of tales long told. As Wei Ying leans into him, he holds onto the so-called reins of his hair, forcing his lover to look only ahead, into the mirror.

"Close your eyes." If Lan Wangji cannot be trusted to retain his composure throughout this exercise, at least Wei Ying should not bear witness. It is, after all, a request any sensible infiltrator would make. "And take the knee. Your mouth will please me. It requires no experience, virgin."

He can see the want in his reflection, cheeks pink, pupils dilated, and then there’s the obvious sign down below. It’s a little embarrassing to see himself like this, but not enough for him to ask if they could take this game elsewhere. He wonders if Lan Zhan will perform this whole story where he has no choice but to watch himself being defiled.

His eyes drift closed on command and he gets down onto his knees, turning himself around with a few crawled shuffles. He could take Lan Zhan in his hand or in his mouth immediately, but that would show too much eagerness for this poor maiden. “Yes, yes, I’ll do it,” he says, licking his lips without thinking about it. “Thank you, thank you. I’m to be married in the fall. Thank you for leaving me intact.”

He lifts his hands blindly, feigning hesitation while caressing his way from Lan Zhan’s knees up across his inner thighs and towards the ultimate destination. He knows Lan Zhan wants this just as badly as he does. He parts his lips, waiting for Lan Zhan to guide himself in.

This is a fiction, a farce. The man who slips readily to his knees, fumbling with Lan Wangji's robes and the weight of his length and nuzzling the root and tip of it — he is the same man who has been wedded to him on two occasions.

Yet the thought of Wei Ying married to another inflames him, drives him to catch Wei Ying's hair, to toss away the blade until it lands mutely on their bed's spread — and to take himself in hand, wetting the rim of his husband's lips with the tip. After, a slow insertion, careful not to catch on Wei Ying's teeth. An inert recipient of his affections is an interesting proposition: he had not realised, before, how much he depended on Wei Ying's participation for safety.

Now, he fits himself inside and does not wait on his lover's approval, only forcing Wei Ying's nearest hand to clasp Wangji's wrist, where it's bound in his hair. Remember, he does not say, the old agreement: let go when you cannot bear to breathe.

"Intact. Whom do you deceive?" The first thrust is slow, but deep, forcing Wei Ying's head still to receive him, denying him the chance to pull back. Again. Again. "You —" The breath that pulls from him is guttered. "Will have only the wet of your mouth to ease my path after."

Blinded, he’s unable to see the change on Lan Zhan’s face after his accidental betrayal. Ever since the first time he’d sparked Lan Zhan’s jealousy in bed, he’s usually more careful about implying his character has someone else they love besides Lan Zhan himself. Still, he doesn’t realize what he’s done and can only assume Lan Zhan’s getting more into his role when he’s jerked back by his hair. His moan is a surprised thing, but he likes being brutalized like this. To reward his husband, he lets his tongue slide across the tip, helping to spread the moisture beading there across his mouth.

His hand clasps Lan Zhan’s wrist and he gives it a few showy tugs with no strength behind them. He doesn’t want him to let go. If anything, he’s excited by the prospect of it. Lan Zhan is usually so much more careful with him.

There’s no warning before the cock in his mouth pushes in as deep as it can go. He gags on it, but he still holds onto Lan Zhan’s wrist. It doesn’t take long for him to anticipate the thrusts and train himself not to gag again. His own ignored cock feels hard enough to burst, but he somehow restrains himself and doesn’t grasp it.

He whimpers at the promise of moving to the next step. Will Lan Zhan truly only use his spit as a lubricant? It won’t be all that different from the first few times they slept together. The memory just makes him want it more.

It goes on longer than it should.

He uses Wei Ying thoroughly and indiscriminately, at times seemingly forgetting he is a beautiful creature struggling between gags and making use of him as a thing for Lan Wangji's own staggered pleasure. His thrusts stay short throughout, if meanly relentless. Undaunted, despite the tugs on his wrist, he rewards each of his lover's instinctive, minute pull-backs by forcing his head forward, the hand in Wei Ying's hair vice-like and undaunted.

He has only ever made love to his husband; he ruts in his mouth today, greedy between harsh, aborted inhalations.

In the end, he pulls back, cock swollen near precipice and the wet of Wei Ying's mouth a greedy sheen on his flesh. For Wei Ying's trouble, Lan Wangji only releases his hair, passes the back of his hand over the virgin maiden's cheek with amorous, tolerant fondness.

Then, all at once, he dips in to snake his fingers in the cord of Wei Ying's robe, pulling it free.

"Open your eyes." The sight of Wei Ying, hazy-eyed and mouth abused and trembling on his knees, will prove intoxicating. "And hold out your hands. A whore need not touch me."

His throat is starting to feel bruised and his jaw starts to ache by the time Lan Zhan’s finished with him. He doesn’t complain because this is exactly what he’s been asking for, but if it had gone on for much longer, he may have had to stop to rest.

He sits back on his heels, looking up at the handsome form of his husband leering down at him. He wipes some spittle off the sides of his mouth with the back of one wrist before offering up his hands to be bound in whatever way Lan Zhan sees fit.

His own sex is standing at attention and waiting for one of them to have some mercy on it. Preferably before it starts to ache, but he’s not going to be picky about it. He’s in the middle of being thoroughly used up by his loving husband. “What do you have planned for me?” He asks because he wants all the lurid details, but his character would be asking out of fear. It comes out sounding horny instead of frightened.

There’s something different about this than their usual games, but not in a bad way. It’s exciting and keeps him on his toes because he can’t predict what’s coming next. Will Lan Zhan go back to being careful or will he show the same disregard for his comfort as he has so far?

Fleetingly, he considers silence: Wei Ying asks, as is his right and the natural inclination of any maiden surprised before a mirror's dark. But a rogue infiltrator wouldn't care for comfort or reassurance. He would not volunteer his plans.

Still, for the sake of the game, Lan Wangji takes pity on his lover as he binds his wrists once, then again, and knots tight like a sailor, permitting minimal maneuvering and barely enough mobility to avoid chafes. He watches Wei Ying after, like a tyrant befriending the sight of a coveted prize that he gets to have now, to own.

"Whatever I desire." The simple, greedy pronouncement of an unstoppable force. He need not spare Wei Ying kindness, not in this role. And so he takes his husband by an arm, wrenching him up to carelessly, expediently throw him on the nearby bed, sparing no care of Wei Ying's violently pulsing erection, or how his bound hands will prevent him from breaking his fall. Their mattress is soft, their cushions await. He will manage.

"Hands, knees. I will take you as you are, until you have opened for me. " And hissed, after, "Then, you will work to satisfy me."

His motions are unsteady as he’s yanked to his feet. He’ll have to reward Lan Zhan later for getting so into the role. For now, he pretends to cower at his husband’s side, torn between the desire to move closer to him and the confines of his role telling him to pull away and fight. He chooses the latter, backing up and trying in vain to flee. If he really wanted to get away, he’d utilize cultivation or just tell Lan Zhan he’s finished.

Pleasant surprise takes him as he’s thrown towards the bed. He lands on his shoulder and face before scrambling up to a sitting position. “No, no, please don’t do this,” he says, unable to completely stifle the grin that wants to paint his face.

Maybe he should cower some more. Instead, he gets up onto his knees and supports his upper body by resting his weight on his elbows and forearms. It’s a lot more comfortable than trying to use his bound hands as support. He hangs his head down between his elbows and adjusts himself to be open for Lan Zhan’s pleasure.

There’s a part of him deep down that feels like he deserves to be treated like an object for his husband to use and discard as he pleases. It’s something he should probably work through or at the very least let Lan Zhan know about it, but he’s worried they won’t get to play scenes like this if it comes to light.

Flattened and readily spread, a humble offering before Lan Wangji, for his sole consideration. Wangji beholds him, briefly enchanted and inevitably fond, proprietary when he passes a hand over the swell of Wei Ying's rump, raising the folds of his silken robe to bare him.

He leaves the garment just so, half wilted over his lover's thighs, half propped over his back, a clean stroke following the line of Wei Ying's spine. Creak of their mattress as he joins, only one knee, then the second, hunting and looming over Wei Ying like a predator zeroing in on his prey. Two fingers kiss the ridges of his vertebrae through silk, then descend down, down and onto the still bath-wet line of his entrance, dipping once within.

No lubrication, he had promised, but Wei Ying's mouth. His fingers dip in, curling once to test the fit stayed loose and promising after their latest coupling, only a night prior. He thrusts both fingers in, nearly to hilt, without ado or preparation. Again. Again, waiting to test out the strain in Wei Ying's voice.

"Your mouth refuses, yet your body invites. Why does it clutch me?"

He watches Lan Zhan, eyes tracking him but the movements of his head are shallow. He should be covering himself or trying to fight Lan Zhan away from him, but his body is screaming for more. He could maneuver himself so he could hump against his wrists or even the bedspread beneath them. No better than a dog in heat.

He bites at his lower lip, shivering from just the touch on his back. He presses his forehead down onto the mattress and braces himself for what’s next. Relax, that’s it, don’t clench. Without lubricant, it will be a rough ride for both of them.

His moan is muffled and despite his willingness, he tenses at the intrusion. “Stop, please,” he says, face still pressed to fabric so his voice doesn’t carry as much. “If you must do this, then please be quick. I can’t bear it.” What he can’t bare is his own arousal going ignored. He knows Lan Zhan will take good care of him, rough and mean and altogether intensely satisfying. “Please, don’t leave any marks on my flesh.” Except maybe a few bite marks or some bruises to remind him of this evening for days to come.

Stop, says Wei Ying, and he stills with it, paralyzed in place before he remembers the game of it, that this is not the word to stay him. Wei Ying both urges him to quiet down and the arch of his back deepens in a sweet, tight bow, hips raised and nearly backing into the silent inquiry of Lan Wangji's hand.

He withdraws it with harsh abandon, dragging it instead over Wei Ying's sweet, fattened cock with easy, tightening tugs, as if he is ignorant or surprised by the generous gift he has discovered. After, he shifts forward to loom, chest pressing over Wei Ying's back, the thick shape of his own length cradles against his husband's ass, his mouth catching on the collar of Wei Ying's robe and bidding it lower.

He bites, hard, nearly to a point of bleeding. Again, at the junction of Wei Ying's neck.

"No marks," he mutters dark like crumbling charcoal, "So you may lie to your groom?" And another bite, higher on the jade pillar of Wei Ying's throat, suckling in a bruise that will darken and keep as he works his lover's arousal with clean strokes. "No. Let him know he weds a whore."

The absence of his husband’s fingers feels all at once too empty. He pushes back, but the hand’s already moving to the next destination. His moan is low, hips jutting forward for more. Who cares if a true assaulter would never caress the cock of his victim? He shivers and moans again until he’s interrupted by a sudden pain.

He cries out, arching his back. He can’t decide whether he likes or dislikes the feeling as it does remind him of the way it felt being bitten by an actual dog. He can handle it. He winces at the second bite, hips stilling until it’s over and Lan Zhan moves to more pleasurable marking. He can’t blame him. He’d been the one to bring up leaving marks in the first place.

Still not realizing what’s triggering an aggressive response from Lan Zhan, he continues his pleas. “Please, he won’t love me. He’ll abuse this poor maiden and leave her cold on the wedding bed. Won’t you have a little mercy on me?”

It is only play, theatrics. No part of Wei Ying desires another, and no handsome, accomplished and seemingly demented man will step in to woo Lan Wangji's husband to his bed.

Each breath comes short, stilted. He releases Wei Ying's neck with slow, apologetic licks, sucking in marks that his uncle will doubtlessly take note of and begrudge the wrong man between them. They should speak of his jealousy, perhaps, only not tonight. Not when they have already devastated themselves with their misunderstandings.

Mercy.

Before Lan Wangji himself might know, he is lifting off Wei Ying's back, receding behind him. Taking himself in hand to check for lingering wetness and, one hand still connected to Wei Ying's hip — he enters his lover completely in two hard, punched thrusts that bring him deep. Air burns his lungs, slow to ease out on the next exhalation. Tight, always, but this nearly stings, on the cusp of discomfort in ways that they had not experimented with since the early days of their lovemaking.

Somehow, the memory calms him, steeling him to discipline, even as animalistic arousal eats at his limbs, begging him to move and take and take and take.

"No. Be silent," he murmurs to distract himself, poised and straight-backed, watching his husband below. Then harder, aligning with a sudden thrusts of his hips, "You will not go to him. You will come with me."

It’s a little painful being penetrated without lubricant. The fingers had been one thing, but Lan Zhan is not a small man. The ring of muscle at his entrance stretches and threatens to tear. He can’t tell if he’s bleeding or not, but it adds to the experience either way.

After the first few thrusts, he pushes back, meeting his husband halfway. Maybe a little blood wouldn’t be such a bad thing if it eases Lan Zhan’s ride. Besides, he has always liked it a little rough, animal-like and desperate.

His hands curl into fists, straining the binds that fasten them together. His head droops down again until his forehead is against the bed. The pain is overshadowed by the wisps of pleasure he feels every time Lan Zhan thrusts just so. It’s a good thing it hurts because otherwise he wouldn’t last long enough for Lan Zhan to have his fill. Dancing on the dagger’s edge between pleasure and pain, he doesn’t bother hiding his grunts and moans.

“Come with you?” He repeats, grinning a little at the ambiguity of it. “I thought being with this maiden - this whore, as you call her - is beneath you. Would you change your mind and treat her well or will you imprison and torture her for your satisfaction?” His words are broken at times when he feels bursts of pleasure that promise his eventual release.

Longer than he should be, armed with the patient of a hermit monk, he allows himself to enjoy the slick welcome of his husband's body at a measured, disciplined pace. Snap of his hips, the give of flesh yielding, Wei Ying's hungry moans, Lan Wangji's own feverish exhalations. They might be in a dream of singular, savage repetitions.

He fucks into his lover, until the clutch of Wei Ying's body, unlubricated, turns punishing. Until, hissing, he despairs of it, wondering fleetingly how they could ever achieve satisfaction in such a primitive, inefficient way. Grasping Wei Ying's hair in one hand, he exerts himself to exit Wei Ying's flesh, pulling back to lie knelt on his heels on the bed, his angered erection wilting heavy on his side.

"I shall bind you to my bed, where you will attend me. Gratefully," he murmurs, because that is the fate of every war spoil, however charming and beautiful, however alluring.

Then, in brief renunciation of his role, he turns to raid their bedside, clearly knowing of where to search for the pot of salve that assists their bedplay. He applies a sheer, generous, floral layer of unguent to himself, more spread on his fingertips.

Yet he does not join Wei Ying's body again, waiting. "But you are a poor lay. A cold fish. Earn my attention, else I shall leave you to your groom to find despoiled."

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