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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He smiles at his husband, nudging his nose closer and sparing him a few more kisses before he speaks. “We wouldn’t have to do it the normal way. I have hands and a mouth,” he points out and kisses him again to punctuate it. “But you’re right. I would have invited you inside me again if it’s what you were craving.”

Telling the truth isn’t so bad, even if there’s a part of him that wanted to deny there’s any discomfort for the sake of pleasing Lan Zhan physically. This way… it feels more intimate, despite the lack of sexual intimacy. Maybe he’s finally growing up some.

“I just love you so damn much, Lan Zhan. You feel the same about me, too. I’d be upset if you were doing something that hurt you just to make me happy, so… I’ll try not to put either of us in that position anymore. I guess I almost broke that vow I made on our wedding night. Thanks for setting me on the right path again.”

He traces Lan Zhan’s cheek and jaw, then his throat and collarbone. “If you change your mind and want my mouth again, just let me know. I’m always up for some more fun.”

Hands and a mouth, and of course Lan Wangji is but a man, still, impossibly tempted to search Wei Ying's limbs and face with a long, smoldering gaze. Yes, and how pretty they are, how well Lan Wangji has acquainted them. Few things compare to the bliss of possessing the whole of Wei Ying's body, but his grip and the attention of his lips rank high.

They kiss, dragging, drawn out. With no obstacles or destination. Lan Wangji derails only long enough to reassert their intimacy, the lack of concern. Then, it strikes him, half whim, half experiment:

"Wake early enough tomorrow and spirited," without hurts and ache, "and you may take me instead." And before Wei Ying might groan, moan and counteroffer to derail them later into the evening, "At night, we cultivate."

If Wei Ying struggled to do so simply when they attempted it by way of Lan Wangji giving him pleasure, the exercise of retaining his qi and drawing Wangji's in when he penetrates may prove — ...daunting.

Who knew kissing could be both stimulating and relaxing? He feels like his whole body is ready to melt under the attention. Of course, he’s still a younger man than Lan Zhan and his interest in deepening the affection between them into something more sexual is only natural. And the way Lan Zhan looks at him now makes him wonder if Lan Zhan is still up for another round tonight.

His hand wanders over Lan Zhan’s chest, just enjoying the act of touching his husband and being touched too. He pouts for just a moment at the idea of getting up early, but he does like the idea of giving Lan Zhan that sort of intensely pleasurable experience again. He knows that the real reason is that Lan Zhan wants to give his ass a chance to rest before dual cultivation while still fulfilling a need for both of them. “How early?” He’s going to end up falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon if it’s too early.

But it’s worth it.

“Deal,” he says, regardless of Lan Zhan’s answer. He usually wakes up half hard anyway, so it wouldn’t take too much to get him in the mood come morning.

“You just want to keep me in bed with you tonight.” It’s a playful accusation. He likes the idea of sleeping next to Lan Zhan all night long, but he’s just not built to lead a Lan schedule. When he tries to go to bed early, he ends up spending hours in bed staring at the ceiling or at Lan Zhan depending on how full the moon is or if they have braziers burning. Regardless of how successful his attempts are, he just wakes up feeling like he’s a walking corpse.

"Start of si shi," he offers, well past the time of a dutiful rise, but after Lan Wangji's own sword training — an elegant solution, should Wei Ying's enthusiasm sabotage his form. Last they loved in this way, Wei Ying took him gently, hesitantly, with academic curiosity. Now he has tasted the performance, he is likely to want to perfect it, within the limits of sparing his husband. It thrills some part of him that anticipates, unlike Wei Ying, not so much the act of surrender, as much as the one of giving.

Now, he has not embraced yield. He turns suddenly, until Wei Ying is flattened beneath him, his clever hand crushed beneath Lan Wangji's chest, and Wangji's arms barely remembering to come beside his husband and brace himself barely lightly up. Their gazes meet, feverishly.

"As if you could refuse me." The difference in their physical power and qi, if not their cultivation, is strong enough to favor him. Perhaps there is a resemblance between him and a naked brute who defiles virgins, after all.

"Take a sword, in two days' time. After we cultivate. Face me."

Lan Zhan acting so intimidating may scare a lesser man, but he just laughs and squirms under him until he finds a comfortable little nook for his arms. Gods how he loves this man. “As if I could resist you,” he corrects, nudging a cheek with his nose. Once they’re settled again, he meets Lan Zhan’s gaze, eyes traveling to his husband’s lips as he speaks.

“Two days,” he says thoughtfully, then his smile turns impish. Shortly after cultivation, he might be able to hold his own against Lan Zhan for a short while like when they first met. If it’s an endurance battle, he’d have no chance whatsoever. But a quick bout where he doesn’t need to conserve his qi? Well, maybe he can remind Lan Zhan why he fell in love with him in the first place. “I won’t go easy on you.”

He closes the gap between them with a kiss, gentle at first but prying. They still haven’t faced off with the bow yet. He’s only tried archery a few times in this new body and he’s been frustrated by it. But they’ll have an archery yard at their new house. He knows Lan Zhan won’t judge him for his short comings and he doesn’t like leaving the jingshi while Lan Zhan sleeps any more… “And maybe tomorrow we can find somewhere private for some target practice.”

There: Wei Ying how he would always enjoy to have him, if comfort and practicality allowed. Enshrouded from every direction, spared any possibility of attack or exposure. Given the chance, Lan Wangji would become as his clothes, his armour.

He settles simply for these moments, tamed by Wei Ying's sweetness, answering it with nosing in kind, until he must wilt down, only sustaining himself up on his elbows.

"Sizhui will shame us both." But he agrees with a nod, and so Wei Ying's challenge goes accepted. All peasants may hold a blade, but archery ranks foremost among the gentlemanly arts, a sport of as much deadly precision as pomp and circumstance. To kill with the sword is to do so rapidly, intimately, afficiently. The arrow is for showmanship —

And Lan Wangji has married the greatest showman of them all. He will lose. It is a readily absorbed, foregone conclusion. It does not shame him. On the contrary, he will serve Wei Ying with all the dutiful admiration and reverent attention owed by an indentured servant to a precocious, capricious master.

He starts now, with intent to attend Wei Ying's flesh, hand sweeping their night table until it closes on a different, more modest salve pot, light from old abuses. The healing balm that a flushed, embarrassed Lan healer delivered to the sect's second son with gentle, metaphor-drenched urgings to please show delicacy when availing himself of his husband's body.

"Do you prefer to, or shall I?"

It has been long enough since their last shameful excesses that Wei Ying might prefer the privacy of applying the ointment himself. This, too, Lan Wangji must accept.

“Should we invite him?” He knows Sizhui, too, would never judge him on his shortcomings, but for some reason it still strikes him as more embarrassing when it’s Sizhui who sees him. Still, it would be nice for Lan Zhan to spend some time with him. Only time can heal the hurt of Lan Zhan’s disapproval of Sizhui’s choice in suitors. And time spent together will hopefully heal more quickly than time spent apart.

He wants to touch Lan Zhan’s face and when his husband moves to grab the healing salve, he takes the opportunity to work one arm free so he can do so. His fingers comb through Lan Zhan’s hair, working out any tangles that attempt to form from laying down before his hair’s dry. There are far fewer in Lan Zhan’s hair than the mess of his own.

“I’m not picky,” which is a lie, but truth in this specific case. He works his other arm free and reaches for the jar so he can open it. He takes a sniff of it and the scent is pungent and medicinal. Good, it hasn’t gone off yet despite the age of it. “Do you want to?”

Lan Zhan’s already inspected the damage, so it’s not like he will discover something new to feel bad about. If he’s the one to medicate himself, he’ll have to get out of bed to wash his hands and he’s so comfortable that he’d rather stay in bed. He offers the opened jar to his husband, grinning a little.

“Is that monk going to be lecturing tomorrow?” He asks, wondering if Sizhui would rather attend that than spend time with his dads. And… well, he’s curious, too. Though, if he attends a lecture, he’ll likely interrupt with his own questions and commentary.

A nod, gentle and aborted, as he accepts the salve pot. It feels too flimsy in his hand, too light and skeletal. He will have to ask their supply replenished. Incidents, as today's, can strike unexpectedly.

He is not stingy when he dips his fingers in and rescues a wealth of the balm, spread thickly between his fingertips. Dipping in, he allows Wei Ying easier access to his hair, to the thin tangles that pull and drag in the deft knitting of his fingertips. Distract yourself.

"Sizhui, as you wish. Perhaps the second turn." After Wei Ying has experienced being witnessed by another, comfortable person.

He does his own part, furthering their conversation in a honeyed voice, as if two of his fingers do not slide between Wei Ying's parted thighs to seek out his rim, teasing it wet, before delving inside. This is not intended for passion or the sport of wrenching Wei Ying's pleasure and stealing his gasps: he only thrusts in and pulls out, a few times and again.

"The venerable one accepted our hospitality for three days." A strange matter to discuss amid such things, yet. "Speak to him after morning practice."

He hums his agreement, thinking it is probably best to invite Sizhui after he gets a feel for the bow again. Back in his first body, the bow felt like an extension of himself just as the sword had. Even after the separation between his self and his qi, he’d been able to perform perfectly. He’d always enjoyed the sport and often hunted pheasants and other critters to bring home for his shijie to prepare. Part of him would love to do it again, but he thinks Lan Zhan’s heart wouldn’t be able to take such a thing.

He hisses when Lan Zhan’s fingers enter him the first time, but he wills himself to take it without further complaint. While the salve eventually numbs and encourage healing, it stings quite a bit at first.

“I have a few questions for him,” he admits. He feels like he’s already found the key he needs to reach immortality with Lan Zhan, but there’s always the possibility of discovering something more efficient by looking at it from another’s perspective. “All of what we’re working on are Lan secrets, so I’ll be careful what I share.” Not that any dignified cultivator would consider mixing spiritual and resentment qi even if it meant living forever.

Most Lans will consider it blasphemy and he doesn’t expect it to catch on. For the very least, it would take a generation or two to neutralize the stigma of demonic cultivation. Over a decade later, it’s taboo unless it’s too convenient not to use (like some of his inventions).

Cold, perfunctory, unpractised. He is gentle with Wei Ying's flesh, if not amorous, the clinical approach to his venture sufficing, when he means to quiet his husband, sooner than stir his appetites again. His lips chase Wei Ying's forehead, as if these petty trinkets of affection might exorcise his starting hurts.

"I have no worries." Then, extracting his fingers, "More?"

And drowning their medical treatment again, he continues as he had never interrupted himself, as if they are discussing paltry matters together by the window sill, while rains descend.

"Recall he is a hermit of the mountains. Given to seclusion. Lacking in the..." Ability to withstand Wei Ying's chatter and infectious enthusiasm. "Graces of everyday men."

In short, perhaps do not overwhelm or enthrall him, do not shine as bright as living fire. A difficult task for one as enticing as Wei Ying.

“No, it’s good,” he answers, letting Lan Zhan finish up the treatment. He’s pretty sure he has enough circulating qi to help with the healing, too. At least enough to prevent some sort of affliction that could prove troublesome or even fatal to a regular, non-cultivating person.

“Don’t worry, Lan Zhan. I’ll be gentle,” he says with a little laugh. He’ll try to stay respectful, at the very least. As long as he isn’t full of pomp and pride, anyway. “I just want to compare methods.”

Once Lan Zhan finishes medicating him, he lets his legs fall closed. He’ll get comfortable again once Lan Zhan washes the salve off of his hands. The sensation burns still, but it’s starting to pass into a comfortable sort of numbness. He wonders how close the composition of herbs are to the balm they use to help Lan Liang’s teething pains.

“Hey, Lan Zhan, do you think we should tell anyone about the immortality thing? Other than the kids, I mean.” Because the kids deserve to know how he’s doing it. Really, he’s mostly concerned about Jin Ling. And Sizhui if he were to lose him.

To both their dosplrasure, he must part with Wei Ying, slipping away to excuse himself to their bathing chamber and cleanse the last of the ointment off his fingertips. He returns, sparing a few heartbeats to check on Lan Liang's sleep before retrieving a cup of water he sets diligently on Wei Ying's bedside.

No words, only a nod: drink, to replenish hydration after their exertion. If the hour were not already drawn long, he might insist on Wei Ying revisiting a rice bowl.

"Perhaps best unmentioned until achieved," he whispers and crawls within their bed, obediently and respectfully watchful at Wei Ying's side. "It is no man's matter but our own. What is owed? First, let us settle with Xichen."

He only sits up long enough to down the cup of water before laying on his side facing Lan Zhan again with his arms open wide, inviting his husband to cone close enough to cuddle again. He feels better after having a drink of water. Between drinking a jug and a half of Emperor’s Smile, sleeping with Lan Zhan, and having two hot baths, he’d been feeling quite parched.

“Right, right. I was just thinking that I’d like to share it. At least among our family, and maybe further. Once it’s perfected, anyway. What I’m doing for me could be dangerous for someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing. Your way, the traditional way, is… cleaner, but it can take a lifetime to achieve and even then, it’s not a guarantee.” He’s rambling, isn’t he?

“I guess I’m just tired of loss, too.” And they won’t know whether Lan Liang has the potential to form a core for a while. Even if he can, it might not be a powerful one. And he promised not to teach the kids demonic cultivation.

Cleaner, Wei Ying says, as if they don't both know the pristine, immaculate devices of cultivation orthodoxy have been repeatedly abused by offenders, prior. He says nothing, at first, only heeding — letting Wei Ying release the better part of his concerns, while Lan Wangji negotiates a position of greater ease beside him.

His chin mounts the top of Wei Ying's head thoughtfully, the rest of his body curling around his husband as if a shield to shelter him from an invisible, undocumented harm. Perhaps this is what Lan Liang's potential hurts inspire in them: a need to band together, brooding.

"He will be loved, come what may. Disciple of the sect, disciple of Wei Ying." And his mouth feels slack, convulsing under lichen. Burdened, as he murmurs. "If a core is yet to form, we may revisit his possibilities."

He cannot pardon another pursuer of demonic cultivation under his rooftop, surely. The sect would scatter, would curse him to the winds. And yet. The danger still is that Lan Liang might have aptitude but lack in the ability to sharpen it to excellence. He is no heir of a great sect — mediocrity would injure him perhaps even worse than biological failure.

He nudges his nose against Lan Zhan’s chest, arms curling around his husband’s middle while allowing himself to be cradled close. The immediate need to feel close after their lovemaking has passed, but this feels nice. Comfortable and comforting. His worries feel a little more distant in his husband’s embrace.

“I don’t want him to be shunned,” he admits, “I want to keep him safe and give him the tools needed to protect himself, but not if that puts a target on his back.” Core formation and spiritual cultivation would be the best outcome for everyone. But what would the sect say if the second son and potential sect leader allows his treacherous husband to teach their son demonic cultivation? No, the only way they could do that would be to leave the safety of the Lan sect and become wandering cultivators.

He sighs, slipping a knee between Lan Zhan’s thighs. It’s not meant as a seductive gesture, but one to bring them that much closer together. “No point in dwelling over something that might not be necessary.” Even though he was the one to bring it up in the first place.

"He will not be shunned," he reassures emptily, knowing all too well that all the might of the Gusu Lan sect, all the power and nobility of Cloud Recesses, the impetuous standing of Hanguang-Jun will not suffice to discourage idle gossip, petty road-side chatter. That Wei Ying on the one hand pledges he is comfortable and at home in Cloud Recesses, but only references shunning, because it is what he has felt.

"He will be safe." While Lan Wangji's strength lasts, while his sword rises. But if he were to perish —

No. They must not speak of it. He calls Wei Ying to himself, absorbing the slight, frigid intrusion of his husband's knee between his own and even inching closer, until the flat of Wei Ying's whole leg has been consumed. This includes, he accepts with a quiet frown and fumble, the ice of Wei Ying's ankle.

"Both of you, my beloved. Not as before."

He sighs against his husband’s skin, wishing he could somehow crawl inside him where he can feel safe and whole. Curling up together in a tangled mess of limbs is the closest he can get, so he treasures that. Once they’re settled, he closes his eyes and lets himself relax until he feels like molten wax.

“We’ll keep him safe. Teach him that he’ll always be able to rely on us to love him unconditionally and to fight for him with more vigor than we’d fight for ourselves.”

As soon as he feels the comforting warmth of his husband’s calves, he twists his ankles to gain as much surface area as possible. Lan Zhan is always so much warmer than he is, especially when the weather turns cold.

“I love you so much, Lan Zhan,” he says with a small smile. “I know I’m never going to have to face something like that again. And if for some reason, I do, I know I won’t be facing it alone.”

It feels strange to finish their day so entangled, Wei Ying's frozen toes raking Wangji's calves, his front curled up and sweet. In the end, the shift is inevitable: Lan Wangji pivots then plants himself on his back, welcoming Wei Ying, nudging him to blanket. His mouth hunts the top of Wei Ying's hair again in a rain of kisses.

He is loved, Wei Ying says. And this, the same mouth that eviscerated him earlier, asking, What is it Lan Wangji apologises for? Truly, they require more care with one another. Far more kindness.

Not today. No matter. They have combed each other for truths and hurts enough already.

"I love you, half of my soul. My one." Perfunctorily, Lan Wangji's hand drags through the dark silk of his husband's hair, chasing and unwinding tangles, strokes the shining length. "Sleep."

He makes an irritable noise when Lan Zhan pulls away, hand reaching to catch Lan Zhan’s wrist. Once he realizes that his husband isn’t going anywhere, he climbs under the blanket and scoots close enough to use Lan Zhan’s chest and shoulder as a pillow.

“Comfortable?” He murmurs, resting one hand on Lan Zhan’s belly, thumb dancing back and forth in what he thinks is a soothing rhythm. His feet naturally gravitate towards the closest source of warmth which is almost always his husband’s legs. Maybe he should just start wearing socks to bed, but he thinks it’s funny to bother Lan Zhan.

It doesn’t take him long to start drifting off, still spent after everything that’s happened tonight.

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