Chapter Text
It was Lan Wangji’s great fortune that his kidnappers were incompetent. He had been lying facedown over his captor’s saddle like a sack of grain - hands and legs and bound, his head aching with the constant jolting and the rush of blood to his skull – for an hour or so when he flexed his ankles and realised… ah. The rope at his feet was unravelling.
He turned his head, just slightly. The countryside was a blur around him, but through the smell of sweat and horseflesh, he could detect the sweetness of water. The noise of it moving. They were near a river.
He did not know where they were taking him.
His kidnappers had cornered him on his journey home to Gusu. He’d been travelling with the smallest retinue possible – only a few knights and archers – and they had been quickly overwhelmed in the ambush. Lan Wangji had been knocked out cold and bound swiftly when one of his would-be captors had held a blade to his youngest archer’s throat, and offered to spare her in return for Lan Wangji’s life.
No doubt everyone would say the kidnapping was Lan Wangji’s own fault for being soft, for valuing a liegewoman’s life more highly than his own, and for – as always – refusing to travel with the suitable pomp and glory expected of a noble of his status. You’re Prince of Gusu, Lan Xichen always told him, aggrieved. Not a monk. You’re my heir until I have a child of my own. Think of our kingdom.
And you… Ah, the way Lan Xichen always paused. The flicker of guilt in his eyes. The flowering wound of it. You’re not as you once were. All I ask is that you protect yourself, Wangji.
Well, he’d failed in that task. It was not his first failure (his whole life was a string of failures and oh, he wore the scars to prove it), but it had the potential to be his last.
The kidnappers were planning to ransom him. But to whom – and for what reward – Lan Wangji did not yet know. And the likelihood of his survival…
He breathed slowly. Slowly rubbed his feet against one another, dislodging the rope, inch by inch.
He heard one of the men mutter to the other – something about crows circling, and dark clouds. The horses slowed.
He likely wouldn’t have another opportunity like this.
Lan Wangji flung himself from the horse.
He was almost caught under the horse’s hooves – he rolled to the side just before a heavy horseshoe slammed into the ground in the place where his skull had just been. He heard the men swear and rein in their mounts; heard the clank of their armour and the hiss of steel, as they drew their weapons.
He leapt to his feet and ran.
There was a ravine to the left of him. If he leapt over the edge, death was… a possibility. A distinct possibility. But if he survived uninjured – if he made it whole to the silver river of water below - he would be beyond the reach of his kidnappers, who were big men in heavy armour, and wouldn’t be able to climb down easily after him, not in the pouring rain, not over slick rock-
An arrow thudded into the ground beside him. He dodged, going down on his knees as another arrow flew through the air. If he hadn’t moved, it would have found its mark in his shoulder. He rose again, ready to propel himself over the edge to the water below, his teeth gritted against the coming pain - when he heard a cry.
At first he thought it was a scream. Then he looked up, up at a sky going steadily dark, and realised it was the caw of a thousand crows, blackening the sky as they flew overhead. The horizon, distantly edged with gold from the setting sun, turned a virulent shade of green.
In the green light, four figures on horses came forward. Between them stood a man.
He was tall, with broad shoulders and a narrow body, all wiry strength and sharp bones, revealed by the ebb and flow of his billowing cloak. His hair was long and loosely bound. In his right hand he held a flute.
Lan Wangji rose to his feet. His legs were shaking.
Behind him, his captors gave out a cry and turned themselves – and their weapons – on… on…
The man raised his flute. His eyes were red as blood.
He began to play.
Lan Wangji’s captors were dead before they hit the ground.
Lan Wangji did not breathe. Could not breathe. A large part of him expected to die too, there upon the soil, hands still bound. (It would be – if anyone had the right to kill him – it was him.) But he did not die, and the man was walking towards him, the flute tucked away in his sash, the green light a halo at his back.
“Lan Zhan,” he said. He smiled, a slight uptick of his lips, but his eyes stayed cold. “How nice to see you again.”
The royals and lords called this man a great many names. The necromancer. The master of demonic cultivation. The Yiling Patriarch. They did not call him king or lord or prince, because such names were reserved for nobility, and he was just a commoner’s son, the scion of a servant of Yunmeng Jiang who’d risen too high against the natural order of things, an orphaned whelp who ‘did not know his place’.
But Lan Wangji had never called him any of these names.
“Wei Ying,” he whispered.
One of the riders came forward. He wore white robes. His face was unnaturally beautiful, his eyes bound in cloth, his hair crowned in jade.
“Kneel before the Yiling Patriarch,” said the white-robed warrior. His pretty face was cold.
Lan Wangji did not move. He could not. He could only look at Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian’s face, older now, and sharper. His long hair. His red, red eyes.
“Four years, Wei Ying.” His voice was shaking. “Four years.”
“Four years,” repeated Wei Wuxian, still smiling joylessly. “You look the same, Lan Wangji.” His eyes traced Lan Wangji’s body as he added, “Dirtier, maybe.”
“Your noble status doesn’t matter here,” one of the other riders drawled. A younger man, with a smile like a paring knife and one hand devoid of flesh, no more than bone that moved like a living thing on his wrist. “We don’t care about princes and kings here. As far as we’re concerned, you’re just dirt. So kneel in the dirt where you belong, eh?”
Wei Wuxian raised a hand. The rider quelled, going silent, drawing back in the shadows.
“Don’t worry,” said Wei Wuxian. “You don’t have to kneel.” He took a step closer. “Someone was trying to kidnap you,” Wei Wuxian observed. “And they wanted me to pay the ransom. My crows heard them whispering.” His eyes glinted unnaturally in the fading light. “Isn’t that strange?”
Lan Wangji said nothing.
Are you well? He wanted to ask. Are you happy? Are you safe? Do you miss me, Wei Ying, as I miss you? Do you hate me as I deserve?
But his throat had closed over.
Wei Wuxian drew another step closer.
“You wanted to be my captor once,” said Wei Wuxian.
Never, thought Lan Wangji. But he did not say so. He had told Wei Wuxian so, over and over again, after the Sunshot Wars, as darkness and bitterness had enfolded Wei Wuxian up, as the nobility turned their backs upon him, one by one. Wei Wuxian had never heard him. What would be the point saying so again, and being ignored again, after so long?
Wei Wuxian took hold of his hands. Removed the rope at his wrists, took a length of black cloth from his own arm and bound it, firmly but gently, around Lan Wangji’s wrists, over the marks where the old rope had rubbed them raw. He cinched it tight.
“Lan Wangji,” he said. “Come back to Burial Mounds with me.”
“Wei Ying,” he said again, helplessly. Even though he knew Wei Wuxian intended to mock him. Even though he knew he was a prisoner, that Wei Wuxian was not really asking – even then, his foolish heart leapt. “Yes.”
Wei Wuxian laughed, faintly.
“Bring the men,” he said to his riders. “I’ll interrogate them later.”
Lan Wangji looked behind him at his old captors. The men were… definitely dead.
But of course, Wei Wuxian did not have to keep someone alive to interrogate them. Lan Wangji had almost forgotten that. He looked forward again, and caught sight of Wei Wuxian watching him, a bitterness in the curl of his mouth.
“Come,” said Wei Wuxian. “You can ride with Xiao Xingchen.”
-
Wei Wuxian had not always been the necromancer.
Six years ago, the kingdoms of Yungmeng, Qinghe, Lanling and Gusu had nearly been destroyed by the Dark Lord of Qishan. The Dark Lord burned Gusu to the ground. Murdered the King and Queen of Yunmeng, shredding their bodies to ribbons.
The Sunshot Wars were a bloodbath. So no one of consequence cared when a single, insignificant liegeman of the Kingdom of Yunmeng was thrown to his death in the abyssal darkness of the Burial Mounds, one of much larger a pile of corpses-to-be.
No one but the heirs of Yunmeng, who’d loved him as a brother. No one but Lan Wangji, who’d loved him in another way entirely.
Five years ago, that liegeman had remerged as the necromancer, bone flute at his side, traitors of Qishan and strange, twisted survivors of the Burial Mounds at his side.
Four years ago, that liegeman had murdered the Dark Lord and consumed his power, in a cloud crows and dark smoke.
Four years ago, the combined might of the Kingdoms of Yunmeng and Lanling and Gusu and Qinghe had turned upon him and his dark followers. They had driven that liegeman to Yiling – back to the Burial Mounds. Back, back, until he was no more than a shadow on the horizon. A nightmare to haunt their sleep.
Four years ago and six years ago, and in every aspect and moment of his love for Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji had failed. And failed. And failed him still.
-
Lan Wangji watched Wei Wuxian walk between the riders. A crow landed on his shoulder, its feathers ruffled, its eyes ruby red.
The sky cleared of birds. Under the moon, his skin glowed like pearl.
-
Xiao Xingchen, it turned out, was the blind rider.
They rode late into the night. Through forests of dark, lush trees that turned into forests of skeletal branches and rolling mist, of ghosts and the bones of the dead. They rode to a palace of ivory, with the skulls of birds set up on the high arched windows as decoration, with dark flowers dripping from the ramparts and smoke coiling, oily and sentient, in the moat that lay empty of water.
When they entered the courtyard of the palace, Xiao Xingchen unbound Lan Wangji’s hands.
An older woman approached them. She looked human enough, apart from the way her shadow moved, with far too many limbs.
“The master wants you to bathe and dress,” said the woman gently. “Do you need a healer?”
Lan Wangji shook his head and followed her. She guided Lan Wangji to a room, where a hot bath had already been arranged, steam rising from its surface. The room contained a large bed. A beaten silver mirror. One high window, of rose-stained glass.
He removed his robes, which were torn and faintly stained with dirt. Lowered himself into the water. He lowered his head beneath it. In the liquid quiet, he allowed himself to feel the pain of his heart, and the terrible throb of his own body, strained by his ordeal.
When Lan Wangji left the bath, he found fresh clothes had been left on the bed. Thin, watery silk of pale, pale grey, stitched with the faintest embellishment of thorns and roses in gold thread and garnets. He lifted a sleeve in his hands and felt the material slip free, easy as liquid.
Concubine’s silk. He felt his jaw tighten.
Wei Wuxian was by nature a tender and generous person. But there was a vicious instinct in him that only reared his head when he was faced with cruel men and injustice. Let Wei Wuxian feel you had wronged the world or those he loved, and he would turn upon you using all your weaknesses against you. His kindness would sharpen like a blade. His hands would grasp your heart and crush it tenderly in your own chest.
He had never turned that cruelty on Lan Wangji before. But oh, Lan Wangji recognised it. It had been cruel to remind Lan Wangji of his own words. Come back to Gusu with me. As if Lan Wangji did not know, now, what a fool he’d been.
And this, ah.
He swallowed.
“Wei Ying,” he whispered. Even here, alone, he lacked words. He crushed the silk tight. Released it. His fingers hadn’t left a mark. “I’m sorry.”
He could not wear the silk. It was too light. The faintest movement would see it slithering from his shoulders, leaving his shoulders or his throat bare. Candelight against it would show the lines of his body. It was obscene. And although Wei Wuxian had once seen all of him, known all of him…
There were things Lan Wangji did not want him to see anymore.
He put on his old robes, stiff with dirt, and tried to ignore the discomfort of them.
He lay on the bed.
As he fell asleep, he saw a bird at the window, rattling the glass.
In the night, he dreamt of the soft air of Cloud Recesses. Wei Wuxian’s fingertips tracing the contours of his cheeks, his nose, his jaw. The first time they’d kissed, it had been clumsy and fierce and Wei Wuxian’s lip had swelled from the savageness of it.
This kiss was nothing like that. It was soft, and tasted faintly of blood. Iron sweet.
“Lan Zhan,” the dream Wei Wuxian whispered. “I missed you.”
-
For a week, Lan Wangji was treated with great courtesy.
He was nonetheless, without a doubt, a prisoner.
He woke early every day. A girl with pearly eyes brought him tea and food. After two days, a guqin was brought for him, and books came the day after: ancient manuscripts, lyrical tracts of poetry, and historical tomes, stiff with dust. It was wise to accept gifts gratefully. So after breakfast he played music, until lunch was brought. The afternoon was for reading and calligraphy. The evening was for contemplation. The night was for nightmares, and restless dreams of Wei Wuxian, from a time when they were both still young and in love and unwounded by war.
His mother had lived a similar life in the Lan palace. She had always dressed in beautiful clothes, and kept cut flowers on her table, arranged with exquisite care. She had taught Lan Wangji simple songs and melodies to play upon his guqin, and sewn embroidery into the deep blue of her robes: flowers and stars. Graceful winged birds.
It was only after her death that he’d realised the care she had expended on her surroundings had been her way of making her lonely imprisonment bearable.
He’d thought of her method of survival many times, over the last four years. Thought of what a gift her lessons had been.
If this was the life Wei Wuxian wanted for him – if this was the punishment Wei Wuxian had chosen for him – Lan Wangji could survive it with grace. He would rather be alone near Wei Wuxian, than alone far away from him.
But at the end of the week, the pearl-eyed girl came to summon him.
“Master Wei wants you to join him for dinner,” the girl said. She looked at his tired robes, and wrinkled her nose. “You may want to wear something nicer.”
-
He didn’t change his clothes. But the girl – A-Qing – said nothing as she guided him from his bedroom to another chamber, where a low table was set with a feast. Half the table was covered with dishes red with spice, laden with meat. The other half – before the seat A-Qing told Lan Wangji to take – was covered in dishes fragrant with herbs, no more than vegetables in pale, steaming broth.
Wei Wuxian had not forgotten how the nobility of Gusu ate.
Wei Wuxian strode in minutes after A-Qing departed. He shrugged off his heavy cloak, leaving him in nothing but a black robe. There was a red ribbon in his hair. His eyes were mortal again, familiar and dark.
Lan Wangji could not look away from him.
“You didn’t like the clothes I left you?” Wei Wuxian asked as he sat.
“No.”
Wei Wuxian’s lips quirked.
“Shame. I thought you’d appreciate them.” He leaned forward, swiping a dish from the table. “I certainly would have.”
Lan Wangji knew he was blushing, his ears burning. He looked at Wei Wuxian’s long fingers, the line of his throat, and wanted him with the same endless hunger he always did. He let the waves of it wash over him.
They sat in silence for a long moment. Lan Wangji could barely bring himself to eat. Candlelight flickered on the planes of Wei Wuxian’s face.
“The dead men talked,” Wei Wuxian said eventually. His voice was light. “Do you want tea?”
Lan Wangji shook his head. Wei Wuxian ignored him, carefully pouring out a fragrant cup of tea, sliding it across the table to sit before him.
“Their master – who they couldn’t name, poor fools – told them they could use you take my flute from me, perhaps even my Stygian Tiger Seal. Their master told them I would give anything to keep you safe.” Wei Wuxian leaned forward. “Lan Wangji,” he went on. Voice low. “Why have you been telling people we’re married?”
Ah.
“Because we are, Wei Ying.”
“A foolish promise between boys doesn’t make a marriage,” Wei Wuxian said, expressionless.
“I meant my promise,” said Lan Wangji.
“I didn’t.”
The words hurt. But Lan Wangji remembered Wei Wuxian’s face on the day they’d made vows to each other. He remembered how gaunt and hurt Wei Wuxian had been. How defiant he’d been. The war had not yet been won, but even then the nobility were turning on Wei Wuxian, like the tide. Ready to slaughter him once his purpose was fulfilled.
“Be mine,” he’d said to Wei Wuxian. “Come back to Gusu with me.”
“I don’t want to be your family’s prisoner, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian had murmured, gaze lowered. Angry and tired, so tired.
“No. I… Come back to Gusu and be mine. In my bed. My heart. My household.” He’d struggled for the words – struggled to shape the tenderness of his heart, the hunger, into language. He’d always been better at loving Wei Wuxian with his body.
“I don’t want to be a concubine either,” Wei Wuxian had said. He’d smiled, as if to make a joke out of his words, but his eyes had been exhausted, his shoulders bowed. “But if – if you’ll protect the others…”
“I do not want a concubine.” His hands had been on Wei Ying’s face. Shaping his jaw. Tender. Tender. Wei Ying had been so precious to him. “I want Wei Ying to be my husband. But I will not force him. No matter what you choose, you have my protection,” Lan Wangji had told him. “I promise it, Wei Ying. But this way…”
This way, he’d believed, Wei Wuxian would be the husband of a prince of Gusu. Prince Consort Lan. Any children they’d adopted would have been potential heirs to the throne. His words would have had weight. He would have had the protection of Gusu to shield him. This way, he’d believed, Wei Wuxian would always be safe.
They’d bound his forehead ribbon around their joined wrists, a mere hour later, with a single priest as witness.
Now, sitting before the Yiling Patriarch under candelight, Lan Wangji could only remember his hopes, and feel the keen pain of his own foolish innocence. How he’d failed his husband. How he had never stopped, ever since.
“I know your Lan rules are strict,” Wei Wuxian said, both mocking and gentle in equal measure. “I’ve heard of how pure and good you’ve become, Lan Wangji. People say you’ve chosen to live your life like a monk. Near complete seclusion. Prayer. Chastity.” His smirk sharpened. “You live and breathe the Lan rules now. I understand. You think you can’t set me aside without betraying your rules. But ah, Lan Zhan,” he crooned, eyes narrowing, “I don’t want a husband who’ll lie next to me without fucking me.”
Lan Wangji let out a shaky breath.
“Wei Ying,” he said. “No.”
“And I certainly don’t want a husband who would betray his promises to me and mine, and leave me to be torn apart by the nobility and their arrows and their swords,” Wei Wuxian went on pleasantly. “So let me go.”
“You make me your prisoner,” Lan Wangji managed to say, through the pain of his own heart. “And you ask me to let you go.”
“You already abandoned me, Lan Zhan. What’s one more thing? You let those nobles have me.” His expression was cold. “After Wen Ruohan died, when I had his power inside me, I hid as we’d agreed. I waited for you. I thought, those nobles and kings may turn on me, even my own brother may turn on me to save his kingdom, but Lan Zhan promised he would keep me safe. So I’ll wait for him. Lan Zhan will take me and my people home to Gusu, where we’ll be happy.” Wei Wuxian let out a bitter laugh, high and cold. “Imagine how surprised I was soldiers came to kill me, led by Gusu’s own men. Your own uncle placed a sword through my chest – in your honour, he told me.”
Lan Wangji wanted him to stop. But he could only sit, sick and quiet, as Wei Wuxian moved from his seat to crouch at the ground at Lan Wangji’s side, his own hands in fists.
“And you weren’t there,” Wei Wuxian went on, broken and furious. “I wish you had done me the courtesy of trying to kill me yourself. I could not accept being called a monster for surviving what was done to me, or using what I learned to save us all from the Dark Lord of Qishan. I couldn’t accept the nobility turning on me because they’re too fucking afraid to see anyone but themselves have an ounce of power. I have to live and fight because I can’t let them win. I can never let them win. But if you had killed me, it would have been worth it to me.” The words left Wei Wuxian all in a rush. “I would have accepted my death, because I thought you could do no wrong. I thought you were good. But I – I was wrong.”
He’d often wondered what had happened in that cave, when Lan Wangji had not been there to protect him. Knowing hurt. He felt as if his soul had been scraped raw. Ah, uncle. How could you?
“I was a fool,” Lan Wangji managed to say, in a voice that trembled. How could it not, when Wei Wuxian looked at him like that? “I believed everything would end well. I had faith in people who did not deserve it. I was naïve, and traitorous, and ill-equipped to protect you. I was not the husband you deserve, Wei Ying. I have never been as much as you deserve. But I am still your husband. I will never renounce your marriage. If it is my choice, then I will always be your husband.”
“Fine,” Wei Wuxian snarled. “Be my husband then. Be my husband.”
Wei Wuxian crawled onto him – all dark hair and elegant fingers, all fierce lips and teeth as he kissed Lan Wangji with a fury that was painful and glorious and broke Lan Wangji’s heart. Wei Wuxian took hold of the front of his robes and ripped them apart with inhuman strength, shadows tangled through his fingers. Pressed his palm flat on Lan Wangji’s skin, then turned his fingernails against skin, and dragged.
Lan Wangji gripped Wei Wuxian by the hips and threw him down to the floor.
The stone was hard beneath his knees. It must have been hard against Wei Wuxian’s back. But Wei Wuxian only gasped, and arched against him, dragging Lan Wangji down by the nape of his neck for another biting kiss.
Lan Wangji kissed him obediently, then wrenched back. Bit his way down Wei Wuxian’s jaw and throat; rucked up his robes to feel his skin. When Wei Wuxian tried to reach back, to feel Lan Wangji’s body under his torn robes, Lan Wangji grabbed his wrists. Pinned them at his sides.
Wei Wuxian gave a groan that was so deep it was almost a howl. Lan Wangji moved down his body. Wei Wuxian was hard, so hard, the cloth of his trousers damp. Lan Wangji mouthed him through the material, a soundless gasp of hunger escaping his own throat as he dragged the flat of his tongue over cloth. It had been so long since he’d tasted Wei Wuxian.
He let go of Wei Wuxian just long enough for the both of them to fumble with his trousers, shoving them down – then Lan Wangji took Wei Wuxian’s cock in his mouth, a noise escaping him despite himself. He licked the slick of precome; gripped Wei Wuxian’s wrists once more, grinding down hard enough on the delicate bones that Wei Wuxian gave a hungry, mewling gasp and thrust up into his mouth once, and once more. He’d always liked pain.
“Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, Let me,” Wei Wuxian said, frustrated, squirming all the harder. He twisted his hands pointedly in Lan Wangji’s grip.
Lan Wangji released his wrists, and Wei Wuxian reached over to the table, fumbling for something. Oil.
Lan Wangji raised his head. Watching, as Wei Wuxian poured it hastily on his fingers, reaching between his own spread thighs.
“It’s fine for this,” Wei Wuxian panted, opening himself up. His face was flushed, his eyes darkening to a rich wine red in the flickering light. “Trust me.”
Trust him. Had Wei Wuxian taken other lovers in the years they’d been apart? If he had, what right did Lan Wangji have to be jealous or angry?
And yet he was. Jealous. Angry. Still as in love as he’d been the first night he’d seen Wei Wuxian, under moonlight, when they were still boys.
He leaned back down and took Wei Wuxian in his mouth again, as Wei Wuxian opened himself up, one finger at a time. He could see nothing but the cloth of Wei Wuxian’s robes; the clench and loosening of his fist against the floor, in time with the clench of his body around his own fingers inside him. Lan Wangji took Wei Wuxian’s wrist. Held his fingers still, even as Wei Wuxian’s hips kept moving, begging for more.
“Enough,” he said.
Wei Wuxian shuddered, and drew his fingers obediently free, and said, “Fuck me then, husband.”
Lan Wangji clambered over him, knees on cold stone, his arms bracketing Wei Wuxian’s face. He kissed him, deep and worshipful, as he drove his cock into Wei Wuxian’s waiting heat.
Wei Wuxian was too tight around him for Lan Wangji to roll his hips smoothly – he could only fuck in slowly, a hand on Wei Wuxian’s hip, his heart breaking and mending and breaking once more as he felt Wei Wuxian’s hands on his upper arms, urging him deeper, faster.
“I can take pain,” Wei Wuxian gasped. Biting down on his lip, as Lan Wangji shoved in harder, until Lan Wangji kissed him again to draw his lip free. “I can take it. Give me what I want. Lan Zhan.”
“Whatever Wei Ying wants,” Lan Wangji groaned, and fucked him harder. Wei Wuxian gave a punched out groan that mellowed into a soft noise of pleasure, his body rising to meet Lan Wangji’s, his cock hard between them.
“You’re still my prisoner, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian gasped out. “Don’t think this gives you the upper hand over me. Just because you’ve fucked me, doesn’t mean you finally get to drag me back to Gusu in chains like you’ve always want-”
“I’m still fucking you,” Lan Wangji snarled, and shoved in so fast and deep that the air left Wei Wuxian in an audible stutter. They slid against the floor in a tangle of limbs and robes. Lan Wangji pressed an upper arm flat to the floor, using it for purchase as he fucked his husband, as his husband’s hips rose to take him in return.
He kissed the shell of Wei Wuxian’s ear. The soft fall of his hair. The place where his neck met his jaw, where the skin was smooth and warm and he could feel the song of Wei Wuxian’s pulse.
“Stop being nice to me,” Wei Wuxian whined, turning his head beneath the brush of Lan Wangji’s mouth. “You know I hate it when you’re gentle.”
Oh, Lan Wangji knew.
He’d learned what Wei Wuxian liked, when they were still young – barely men, and constantly hungry for each other, kissing clumsily at every opportunity between their lessons at Cloud Recesses, the great school of nobility located upon Gusu land. He’d learned how to bite Wei Wuxian’s lip until he whined. How to grip Wei Wuxian’s wrists tight, or tie them with his own belt, or fists Wei Wuxian’s cock until Wei Wuxian was oversensitive, panting against a hand against his mouth. He’d learned how to fuck Wei Wuxian then, too: the way Wei Wuxian liked it, hard and deep and unrelenting, until Wei Wuxian was making high, pained, hungry noises beneath him. No more, Lan Zhan, ah, no more, I can’t take it –
And then he’d learned to continue, until either he or Wei Wuxian truly couldn’t take it anymore – until one of them said mercy, mercy, and put an end to the game, curling around each other sweet and exhausted. Sated.
Lan Wangji did not know if their old rules applied any longer. He couldn’t assume that they did. Nothing was the same now.
If Wei Wuxian did not want him to be gentle, he wouldn’t be gentle. If Wei Wuxian told him to stop he would stop, because there were no secrets between them any longer, no tenderness, there was only –
Wei Wuxian’s skin. The feel of him. He still tasted the same, like smoke and sweetness.
“Wei Ying,” he choked out. “I missed you.”
Wei Wuxian stiffened around him. His legs moved, hooking around Lan Wangji’s own. He used his inhuman strength to roll them over, never breaking the connection between their bodies.
“Oh Lan Zhan,” he said. His voice was a purr, his eyes briefly bitter before they clenched shut, his head tilting back to the ceiling. He ground down hard, so hard that Lan Wangji’s back ached and his hips hurt, pinned as he was beneath the furious hunger of Wei Wuxian’s body. “Of course you have.”
Not just for this, Lan Wangji thought. Never just for this. But he couldn’t speak. Wei Wuxian’s fingers were against his lips, silencing him. And Wei Wuxian was rolling his hips, a hard and unrelenting undulation, and then he was coming around him, suddenly tight and frozen, silent as he came. Lan Wangji rolled his hips up once, and once more, and garbled Wei Ying around the clench of that hand against his mouth, and the clench of that slick, tight body – his husband’s body – around his cock.
For a moment there was nothing but the white-hot lance of pleasure running through his nerves. Nothing but Wei Ying with him, around him. His.
And then they returned to themselves. As was inevitable.
The food was growing cool on the table. Wei Wuxian’s expression shuttered. He looked down at Lan Wangji with shadowed eyes, more cold now than warm, as if he was already preparing himself to push Lan Wangji away.
Lan Wangji waited for it, unable to brace himself for the pain. Wei Wuxian’s jaw tightened. He brushed the hair away from Lan Wangji’s sweat-damp face. Placed his hand beneath the fall of Lan Wangji’s torn robe. Against the skin of his shoulder.
Froze.
“You have scars,” said Wei Wuxian.
Oh. Oh no.
Lan Wangji felt his stomach drop. He sat up swiftly, dragging the robe back into place in a semblance of modesty that was all the more ridiculous because he was still inside Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian rose up off of without the faintest wince. His eyes were unblinking, intent.
“Show me,” he said.
“No, Wei Ying,” said Lan Wangji. But Wei Wuxian shook his head and took hold of Lan Wangji’s shoulders. Pushed the robe back, back, until it was pooled at Lan Wangji’s waist.
Wei Wuxian stood, even as Lan Wangji remained where he was upon the floor. He had wanted to avoid this. He had never wanted to burden Wei Wuxian with his scars.
He closed his eyes. The skin of his back ached under Wei Wuxian’s gaze.
“Tell me who whipped you Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said. His voice was winter.
“It is nothing.”
“Nothing,” Wei Wuxian repeated with a hollow laugh. “Nothing? You think I don’t know what torture looks like?” He touched his fingertips to Lan Wangji’s back, just for a moment, a butterfly wing of a touch. “Newer scars on top of older ones. And all of them deep. This took days to inflict.”
“The marks would have killed me if I had received them all at once,” Lan Wangji said quietly. “And they did not want me to die.”
Wei Wuxian made an inhuman noise. The shadows of the room darkened.
“And these.” His voice turned vicious as his nails brushed briefly at the marks that curled around Lan Wangji’s hips. “These must hurt you whenever you move. And these…” Fingers on Lan Wangji’s upper arms, beneath the places where Wei Wuxian had held onto him, when Lan Wangji was inside him. “How do you lift your arms to hold a sword?”
“I do not,” Lan Wangji said honestly.
“The pain,” Wei Wuxian said. And then he went silent, his breath ragged in the flickering dark.
“They do not always hurt,” said Lan Wangji. Only when it rained. Only in the dark, when he dreamed of Wei Wuxian and mourned. “They do not hurt me now.”
“Tell me who tortured you and I’ll destroy them.” Wei Wuxian’s voice was cold. Factual. “I’ll rip their souls from their flesh. Set fire to their lungs and their dreams. Bring them back from the dead, so they can suffer all over again.”
Lan Wangji shook his head.
“Please, Wei Ying. You cannot. Promise me.”
“Who did this, Lan Zhan? Tell me.”
“Promise me.”
Silence.
Then, “It was your family. Wasn’t it?”
“Please, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji said again. He lowered his head.
He did not look up, as his husband kneeled down before him. As Wei Wuxian placed gentle hands on Lan Wangji’s knees, and said nothing as Lan Wangji sucked in uneven breath after uneven breath. He did not know how to speak of it. He did not know how to explain.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said eventually. He sounded so – hollow. So lost. “What happened? Please. Help me understand.” His hands cupped Lan Wangji’s knees then, in soft hands. “I promise I won’t hurt them. If you don’t…” He exhaled. His eyes were still a deep, dark red. “I promise.”
Lan Wangji nodded. Wei Wuxian would not break his promise. He knew that.
“I did not become like a monk to demonstrate my purity, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji forced out. Steady. Each word had to be steady. He could not falter. “I did not enter seclusion of my own will.”
His own screams. His arms held behind his back even as he tried to keep on fighting. One wrenched from the socket. His wrists in chains. The flicker of light through a window. The pain of his back as he was whipped and whipped and whipped and whipped and whipped and-
All these things had happened long ago, and lived in him still.
He raised his head, and met his husband’s eyes.
“Three years of imprisonment and thirty-three lashes with the discipline whip,” said Lan Wangji. “Wei Ying. That was the price of trying to save my husband’s life.”