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.

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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."

His moans turn to a whimper when Lan Zhan pulls out. Neither of them tasting completion. He holds his breath at first, worried that if he is bleeding, Lan Zhan will stop their bed play and treat him like he’s made of glass. Luckily, it seems he’s not harmed, though he’s sure his entrance is a sight to see. Raw, stretched, swollen. His sex, on the other hand, is still as hard as ever. A smeared bead of moisture on the tip.

He sighs, taking the time to catch his breath. He pushes himself up on his wrists instead of his elbows and looks over his shoulder to see what his husband’s doing. Ah, good. Lubricant is a good call.

“Grateful to be your slave, you mean? Show me what I have to be grateful for,” he says, more challenging than he means to. He’s supposed to be a mistreated maiden here. Fearful and wanting to be freed from this wretched fate.

He fixes the robe, covering himself with it before he crawls towards this lovely predator. He throws his arms over Lan Zhan’s neck and grins at him. “You call me a whore,” he says, nudging his husband’s cheek with his nose. “I can be your virgin or I can be your whore. Whatever you have in store for me is a better fate than what he will do to me. Why don’t you tell me what you want and I can show you I’m no cold fish.”

Another slip of the act, a heartbeat of softness as he answers Wei Ying's nosing with his own, their cheeks colliding. So long into their lovemaking, and he has not kissed his husband, nor will their parts, in truth, allow it. His mouth yearns. Instead, he remembers what is required of him: the harshness of his part, its aloofness.

He pulls away to regard his handsome prey with an air of studied indifference, brows pulled and mouth pursed, gaze considering. Then, his hand wanders down, sight unseen, to where he feels the chafed, fattened length of his husband's beading arousal, and offers it the respite of a few tight strokes, to the beat of his voice.

"My virgin. My whore," he corrects, then his spare hand slips to tap Wei Ying's silk-saddled rump, nudging him forward, where Lan Wangji's own erection awaits with soaring, heated interest. "Ride. Show me you are worth keeping."

He, too, longs to kiss his husband, but he’s up to keeping their game going if Lan Zhan is. The hiccup of trying to fuck with no lube has them both in the unusual predicament of giving them trouble reaching climax. But they’re both still aroused and passionate enough to keep going.

“Yours,” he agrees, parting his knees and rocking against Lan Zhan’s hand eagerly. It’s a little hard for him to want to stop long enough to change positions with the delightful friction, but he manages to crawl into Lan Zhan’s lap with one knee on either side of his lover’s hips.

He reaches between them and takes Lan Zhan’s girth in one hand, giving it a few slow strokes while he gets up onto his knees. It takes a little creative contortion, but he guides his husband’s cock right to his entrance. It stings some - small tears in the skin, then - but he sits down on it anyway with a long groan.

He doesn’t wait before lifting himself and lowering himself again. “You said ride,” he says, feigning shyness. “Is this how you mean?”

Of course, an innocent would hardly know the meaning, let alone the exercise behind the lewd, enthusiastic riding that Wei Ying so often indulges in — but here, too, they suspend reality for a few heartbeats to accommodate their pleasure.

He hisses as Wei Ying takes him in hand, pleasure bloomed and raw, the heat of him growing. Then, Wei Ying — and there is a tremor, isn't there, a slight pause that so often betrays the discomfort his lover does not confess — settles down, and Lan Wangji's hands come to his waist to steady and slow his pace. Easy, beloved. Easier, at least, than where his natural passions might take Wei Ying.

"You find the way shamelessly," he croons, appreciatively, rewarding Wei Ying with slow, guttering moans and the return of his hand on his husband's length, after casting aside his robes to reveal him. There is a trick to pleasing Wei Ying, and it comes down not to the roughness he requests in perpetuity, but to keeping him just on the edge, before the treatment he receives hardens into it. A steady, firm grip, without meanness or cruelty, while Wei Ying chases his pleasure in between Lan Wangji's lazy thrusts.

This is what they both want. What feels right between them. Lan Zhan sliding deeper and then more shallowly as he rises and falls with him. They couldn’t do something like this without their salve and what felt painful before only gives him the mildest discomfort.

The desire to kiss Lan Zhan overtakes him and he sheds the role of a misused maiden when he closes the distance between them and seals their lips together. The kiss is at once heated, tongue slipping between them to lap at his husband’s bottom lip. He throws his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck and holds him close.

“Lan Zhan,” he says without ending the kiss, “You’re so good to me. You did well. Next time, you should hold my head down against the mattress or lift me up by the hair when you’re inside of me. Choke me, tie me up, have your way with me however you feel like.”

There, that. More than the growing fit of their bodies, the salve easing their path and the configuration of their flesh — but Wei Ying's sudden liveliness, his responsive affection, the draw of his mouth. He's pulled towards Wei Ying, moth to his flame and gladly burning, their kiss tender and prolonged, welcoming Wei Ying's tongue and the distant aftertaste of wine.

Throughout this, slow, leisurely thrusts, the purpose of their night unforgotten. His hands move, from forcibly maneuvering Wei Ying's hips to cradling his lower back, allowing his husband to seat and control himself. To move as he pleases.

"You are unharmed?" He cannot bring himself to ask, did he cross a line and inflict too much, too suddenly? The deluge of Wei Ying's requests for even more roughness indicates otherwise. Briefly overwhelmed, he chases Wei Ying's mouth again to silence him. "Veteran or virgin, my beloved takes me so well. So tightly. So warmly."

He suspects the problems they’ve had this evening with their bed play may stem, at least partially, from their fight earlier in the day. Though having sex without lubricant had been a good idea in theory, it had been uncomfortable in practice. He doesn’t need Lan Zhan to be rough when they sleep together to feel satisfied, but it’s something he enjoys occasionally. Fantasies about dubious consent and even complete lack of consent are just that. If anyone tried to sleep with him other than Lan Zhan, he’d send them packing.

He laughs, forehead to forehead with his husband. “You surprised me with the biting and I’m going to be sore tomorrow, but no. You didn’t injure me. You really got into your role tonight,” he brushes their lips together between his words.

They’re going at a subdued pace right now, but it still feels good. They’ll speed up naturally when they get closer to finishing, but for now he’s enjoying the feeling of being filled up by the man he loves more than anyone or anything else in the world. “You fit so snugly like you were made just for me.

"Attempted," he murmurs, and kisses Wei Ying every other word, like a parched man seeking his succor. "Wanted to be good for Wei Ying."

Not obedient or submissive, certainly not tonight — but attentive, doting, responsive. To show Wei Ying the full extent of his care and adoration, following a gutting instance of quarrel.

Perhaps they should have stayed by their edict. Even now, arousal tightly nestled inside his husband, the sweat of their coupling beading on his back, mouths orbiting close together in fleeting kisses — he feels distant from Wei Ying, fearful for their connection. He clings, hands gliding over Wei Ying's back, anchoring as he thrusts in, less to chase the peak of his pleasure than to sustain the simmer of their passions.

"You are pleased?" His mouth latches onto Wei Ying's, snake-fast, unwilling to hear a no.

“A good attempt,” he coos, letting his body move and pace itself automatically to match Lan Zhan’s. “You’re so good, Lan Zhan. I love you so much. Am I good for you? Do you like how it feels to fill me up?” There’s no worry or insecurity in his words tonight. He feels confident that Lan Zhan’s answers will be positive.

Laughing, he kisses his lover for several moments before pulling back enough to look him in the eyes. “You didn’t give me a chance to answer,” teasing and playful, “I’m pleased. Happy. You’re amazing.”

They rock together at relaxed pace, enjoying the proximity to one another without hurrying towards their completion. It’s comforting and familiar to be like this together. He squeezes his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck and buries his face there, kissing and nibbling at Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

He finds that after being brutalized by their little game, he especially likes to just be held close for a little while. This time, the holding is coming a little early in their fun and he likes it too. All he wants to do is be close to his husband for the rest of the night.

Pleased. Happy. A state in which Lan Wangji should preserve his husband in perpetuity. He nuzzles, captures scent, traces his nose at the junction of Wei Ying's throat and shoulder, tongue lapping apologetically where the print of his mouth lingers, inflamed. For a few moments, his movements stall.

"You feel like home," he murmurs, and he has told Wei Ying so before, constantly failing to explain himself. "Like silk, cut for my purpose. Like kindness. I return to you, and you alone receive me."

Unquestioning, without complaint. Pleading for more, stoking the flame of Lan Wangji's impossible, unyielding passion. His hips piston up, chasing the residue of their pleasure, building momentum again — until temptation seizes him, and he tips Wei Ying over, on his back, their bodies yet bound.

Control is his now, but the anger, the poison of before has deserted him. He hunts their mutual enjoyment, hand crafty when he encircles Wei Ying's arousal again, and it is not to steal or prove a point, but to gladden them both. He remembers Wei Ying's preference: together. He runs towards that, timing his own thrusts and his attention on Wei Ying's body to hit synchrony.

"My love. My sweet love. No man deserves you, yet I have hold."

He pulls back just enough to see Lan Zhan’s face, confused by the lack of movement. He doesn’t ask, starting to smile again at the romantic words slipping from his husband’s mouth. “Home,” he repeats, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Whether your things stay at the jingshi or at the new house, I’ll always welcome you. My home is wherever you are because you’re my home too.”

He’s ready to go when Lan Zhan starts moving again. Instead of the languid pacing and shallow thrusts of before, they move more feverishly. More deeply. He follows Lan Zhan’s lead, laughing a few short syllables when the position changes. This. This is what he wants. He wraps his legs around Lan Zhan’s thighs and uses the stability there to add to his own momentum

He moans his husband’s name, writhing under the attention to his nearly painful erection. It feels like they’ve been going at it for almost too long without release. “Faster,” he requests and speeds up his own movements to ramp up the frequency of those hints of promised pleasure.

“Lan Zhan. Husband. Lover. My whole world,” he says in short, staccato impulses between their thrusts. “I’m close. Just a little more. That’s it, Lan Zhan. Almost there. Do you feel it too?”

He feels it.

Feels the clutch of Wei Ying's body, feels their world unravel. Feels himself dissolving in mere particles of agonized, too-long withheld pleasure, the mechanics of their hips aligning, the friction of his husband's welcoming flesh, his hand docile but clumsy stroking Wei Ying to completion —

He feels alive, and at the same time depleted, too much stolen from him, claimed by Wei Ying's body. Harsh, breathy inhalations steal his voice. How is it his husband yet speaks? Faster, then. He obeys.

"I... Wei Ying. Wei Ying."

And quickly, far too quickly, pleasure gnawing at his extremities — it's together, as Wei Ying likes it. The pace of his hips trembles, he pushes deeper into his soulmate, deeper and deeper as if to inhabit his skin, while his hand tortures the sweet length in its grasp with clever, mean strokes. When he feels the pressure crest, then release, his moan tightens, dies silent. Too overwhelmed.

His toes curl behind Lan Zhan’s thighs, breaths starting to shred and become erratic. Having the stimulation on both sides is nearly overwhelming and his words dissolve into broken syllables as he shamelessly coaxes Lan Zhan into letting go.

He doesn’t know if it hits him or Lan Zhan first. He cries out again, doubly glad for their sound dampening talismans because without them, surely it wouldn’t just be Lan Liang disturbed by the heightened volume. The pleasure hits him in waves, similar to their most recent wedding night. The prolonged stimulation and almost-releases giving him a similar effect.

He doesn’t stop moving immediately, rolling his hips to squeeze out fleeting trickles of pleasure for several moments after his climax. He only relaxes once he feels like he’s milked all the pleasure he can get.

He collapses on his back, loosening his ankles so he can press his feet into the mattress. “That was amazing,” he says, breathless and already feeling the syrupy post-sex fatigue. “You’re going to have to carry me if you want to bathe again.”

Tension is slashed to silence around him; the moment breaks.

He releases inside of his husband, artlessly failing to keep up his attention on Wei Ying's cock until he remembers, distantly, to coax him to satisfaction, finding his palm richly wet and his lover lax before him. He drops down, weight likely unpleasant, but too bonelessly lethargic to architect a more ambitious conclusion.

For a long time, he breathes. And he breathes, and he breathes.

Then, gently, he starts to stir, first to litter kisses on Wei Ying's eyes and cheeks and temples, then to slowly extricate himself from his husband's body. He lingers, hands slow, over Wei Ying's belly, his grown, sliding down below to the wet of their recent joining, and the pulsing rim of his hole.

"May I see?" They know all too well he will, no matter Wei Ying's permission. That he must test his husband's body for fresh wounding, after his exertion. "Please."

He’d rub Lan Zhan’s back if his hands weren’t still bound, but he can still hold him tenderly since he’d never let go of his husband’s neck. Much like the evening of their marriage, the lazy feeling that hits him is just that much more powerful than usual. Part of him hopes that Lan Zhan falls asleep on top of him like this so he can sleep as well.

He is slow to let Lan Zhan up, smiling under the litany of affection. “I love you, too.” More than he can express in words. This feeling is almost as good as the orgasm itself. His whole body feels like it’s humming.

And then Lan Zhan asks and he’s immediately worried about what he’ll find. He’s sore, but he still isn’t sure of the state of himself. It can’t be any worse than the first time Lan Zhan entered him, can it? It would be better to show Lan Zhan confidently. If he hesitates too long, it will only make him worry and he’ll look anyway.

“Sure,” he says when Lan Zhan adds the word ‘please’ to his request, “Want to look at it like this or want me to roll over first?”

He thinks, at first, to unbind his husband. Then, sensing Wei Ying's all-encompassing lethargy, he decides to lean into the help of his fettered hands, allowing the cradle of Wei Ying's arms to support him, while Lan Wangji rises and drags Wei Ying's legs around his waist, supporting his lower back and seat.

After, the movements are known, familiar — if fumbling, slightly, compared to earlier in the evening. He too is worn, overcome. The dimmed lighting of their rooms had created a perfect ambiance earlier that now compromises attempts to navigate the jingshi without stumble. He releases Wei Ying to sit on the very rim of their bathtub again, facing inward, while Lan Wangji spills their remaining hot water within, before joining him.

Only then does he unbind Wei Ying's hands, slowly rubbing the wrists to restore their proper blood flow and infusing them with restorative qi. Dragged into the bathtub, Wei Ying should be more readily open for cleansing, Lan Wangji's fingers working dipping in and out tenderly to assist. Throughout, he feels how the muscle answers him, the elasticity and give of the rim, long with any aches Wei Ying seeks so badly to shield from him.

"You experience no hurts?"

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