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Jingyi knows it’s going to be a good night when he hears a startled little squeak, and then a playful, “Lan Zhan!” The end of the name is muffled, like someone has trapped the sound in a soft mouth.
Usually Hanguang-jun has a qiankun pouch full of silencing talismans drawn out by his husband’s clever hands, but sometimes they get caught up in the moment and forget to put them up, or, as Jingyi suspects sometimes, Hanguang-jun feels compelled to remind everyone exactly who his husband belongs to.
Jingyi’s in luck; he drew the ‘unlucky’ room right next to Hanguang-jun. Not that it matters when Hanguang-jun gets his husband going. Everyone in the inn is going to hear them tonight.
Jingyi’s cock is already hard in his pants, just from that small squeal, just from knowing what that means, but he forces himself to keep his hands on his thighs. It’s only the beginning, and this will be so much better with patience.
“Lan Zhan!” Jingyi hears again, the voice going up at the end with the slightest edge of pain. “Lan Zhan, ow, ow, have mercy on your poor husband!” The sound of swatting, a brief little ineffectual struggle. “Are you a dog? Don’t bi—ai! Ah, ah, oh, Lan Zhan.”
“Wei Ying,” Hanguang-jun says, low, almost savoring the syllables in his mouth.
Jingyi’s frozen in his bed, his entire body tense as he strains his cultivation to hear the really choice details. The wet sounds of kissing, the half-panted breaths.
He’s rewarded with the soft sound of cloth falling to the ground.
“Lan Zhan! So eager! Let this husband get warmed up!” Another little wail, and then a breathy: “Slow, slow, aiya, Lan Zhan, every part of you is so big, even your fingers, ah! Slow, please!”
“Wei Ying can take it.”
“Ah!” Desperate scrabbling, nails tearing against the shoulders of robes embroidered with enchantments not to tear. “Won’t you get me a little wet before you go to two? Lan Zhan? L-an Zhan?!” The sound of the inn’s boards shifting, weight moving, redistributing.
“Ooh!” The sound starts off high, tapering into a soft sigh, and then a desperate: “Husband, husband, I didn’t mean—!"
Jingyi’s body goes stiff. He can barely hear it over the sound of strained moaning. All his mind can reconcile is wet, wet, like the sound of a tongue diving into a tight little hole.
“Lan Zhan! You can’t!” Wei-qianbei’s voice is a desperate whisper. He sounds distressed. Aroused. He’s panting now.
A little scream. Jingyi is privileged enough to know from past observation that means a vicious little bite. “I can’t?” Hanguang-jun says, voice even, blandly curious. His husband makes a little shrieking noise, paired with a wet noise, something being forced open. Penetrated. Lan Zhan is pushing another finger into his husband. That makes three, Jingyi thinks, a little light headed. His palms are sweaty and clenched into the front of his robes. He’ll have to magic the creases out tomorrow.
“Nothing of Wei Ying is off-limits to me,” Hanguang-jun growls. It’s somewhat muffled. Probably by Wei Ying’s rounded thighs. “Is that not what you promised me? Anything I wanted? Everyday?”
A little whimper. A desperate rustle.
Hanguang-jun makes a subtle displeased noise. “Say it.”
“Lan Zhan can do anything to me!” Wei Ying cries out. “I promised.”
“You promised,” Lan Zhan reiterates. The wet noises get louder, more insistent, rhythmic. Hanguang-jun’s fingers and tongue inside the tight heat of his husband, forcing him receptive, open. Wei-qianbei’s voice rises in counterpoint to the wet schlick, schlick.
Jingyi can’t hold out any more when the crying starts, hands diving into his pants. He comes with three hot jerks, and regrets it for the next twenty minutes when the noises shift into panted, rhythmic ‘ah, ah’, the breaths sawed out of Wei-qianbei as he’s pounded. Jingyi suffers until he can chub up enough to try again.
***
Hanguang-jun’s husband isn’t at breakfast in the main room of the inn the next morning. Hanguang-jun came in, grabbed a sampler of meat buns, and swanned back out, elegant and unruffled as ever.
Wei-qianbei is limping when he comes down the stairs. He tries to hide it, mostly by taking small steps and running his mouth. But he doesn’t complain like he normally does when Lan Zhan supports him at one delicate elbow with his large hands.
The parts of his neck that are visible are covered in red love bites, some already darkening to purple. There’s the yellow and green after-images of past marks too under this new red patterning, his cultivation not high enough for them to disappear without lingering for a few days.
Hanguang-jun lifts Wei-qianbei up onto Little Apple even though they’re not going that deep into the forest and the inn had offered to host him at no extra charge, and Jingyi can’t look away at the small brutal flinch Wei-qianbei makes when his weight comes to rest on his ass.
“Aiya, Lan Zhan, so rough you are,” Wei-qianbei teases, voice soft enough that Jingyi wouldn’t have been able to hear if he wasn’t watching those red lips. Wei-qianbei straightens Hanguang-jun’s already immaculate robes with little flourishes of his long, delicate hands. He grins, enjoying fussing over his husband. Hanguang-jun kisses him.
***
Wei-qianbei passes Jingyi a talisman with a bright grin. His lips are still swollen, plumped up and red from Hanguang-jun’s attentions, and Jingyi idly wonders how long and how hard one has to kiss to leave a mouth like that. Wei-qianbei isn’t the strongest traditional cultivator, to be sure, but he does still have a core. His lips are still so swollen. They must be tender.
Hanguang-jun is still sipping from them, every time his husband flits by him, during the array set up. Nothing deep, but little languorous brushes and sucks at his beloved’s mouth. Wei-qianbei submits to it all, even if it must be distracting.
***
Hanguang-jun’s husband resembles nothing so much as a butterfly sometimes. Experiencing him is the flirtation of a brightly colored wings, the dizzy flit back and forth and across, the deep in the gut heaviness of having something so precious rest on your skin in trust. He’s doing it now, flitting across the marketplace, laughing and flirting at the stalls one by one. Hanguang-jun is waiting, always, in the wings, ready at the slightest provocation to open up his purse for his husband’s wants, or lay a propriety hand on his husband in a reminder to the stall owners that he is wed.
Jingyi imagines he can see the invisible tether that connects Hanguang-jun to his husband, a leash that keeps Wei-qianbei flitting and flirting each and every way but never traveling too far. Hanguang-jun always has sight-line, is always close enough that a quick burst of qingong would have his husband behind the safety of his bulk.
Wei-qianbei doesn’t seem to mind being monitored so closely, smiling up at Hanguang-jun every chance he gets, tugging at his husbands’ sleeves, endlessly calling: ‘Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan’ and orbiting him like the sun. His jesses are long enough, giving him enough room that he can’t quite tell he isn’t to go any farther.
Ouyang Zizhen and Jin Ling are staring after Wei-qianbei in awe along with Jingyi, both of them watching as Hanguang-jun carefully monitors his husband’s progress, all elegant even steps with one hand fisted behind his back, gold gaze as piercing as any bird of prey.
Jin Ling snorts. “I’m never marrying anyone so beautiful. Too much trouble.” He turns with a little stomp and a snooty tip to his nose.
“Like you could find any girl willing to marry a man more beautiful than they are, Mistress Jin,” Jingyi says, on autopilot, still caught in the bounce in the ponytail of Hanguang-jun’s husband. The wrists of his robes are tailored even closer to the skin than usual, and the way the bright red embroidery catches the sun makes them look even more delicate. Jingyi is certain he could encircle them in his hands, could lay one slender wrist in his mouth and snap, like a dog on a bone.
“It was brave of Hanguang-jun to marry someone so beautiful,” Zizhen says. His voice is almost a sigh. Sizhui shifts beside him, the beginnings of uncomfortable. His hands are hiding in the cover of his sleeves.
“But what a trial,” slips out of Jingyi without his permission, the phantom bones of Wei-qianbei’s wrists still cracked against his teeth, his sweet marrow on his tongue.
“Too much effort!” Jin Ling snaps, again, with a little huffy shimmy that resettles the shoulders of his gold robes. “He’s beautiful and he’s trouble! Hanguang-jun spends every waking moment monitoring his husband and still he gets into mess after mess! Uncontrollable. Even supervised he’s a disaster loosed. It’s obscene.” He puffs his chest out, and Jingyi can see why Wei-qianbei used to call his father a peacock. “I could never tolerate such a wife,” he says, self-aggrandizing. “Hanguang-jun is insane to take such responsibility.”
“Would you prefer he lock him up?” Sizhui snaps. They all go silent.
“No,” Jingyi says, when the moment stretches too long. He looks back at Hanguang-jun’s husband, blinding as the sun. “No.”
***
“No.” Hanguang-jun states. He raises his hand in a ‘halt’ gesture, cutting off Wei-qianbei’s words. He gently shoves Wei Ying over onto a downed log, and then he’s yanking at his husband’s robes, pulling the fabric up and revealing one jade pale limb up to the gorgeous curve of a thigh. Wei-qianbei’s leg is slender, more slender than Jingyi would have supposed, but Jingyi probably shouldn’t be surprised with those narrow fragile wrists. A jolt of lust shoots up his spine, makes Jingyi’s grip on his sword feel too tight and too sweaty.
Hanguang-jun takes his husband’s calf up in firm tender fingers, turning it to expose a reddened angry bite. The yaogui’s teeth have torn the perfect white calf, and blood is snaking down a red trail to Wei-qianbei’s now bare ankle. His sock and shoe have been discarded on the forest floor. The blood looks violent on such a fragile limb.
“Wei Ying,” Hanguang-jun grits out.
“It’s just a small bite, it didn’t get a good latch, look, it’s barely even bleeding now,” Wei-qianbei says, urgent and almost plaintive. He’s vainly fighting to cover up the bite from his husband’s eyes.
“I can barely feel it!” He presents, urgent, as if this is some winning argument, some remotely soothing statement.
Hanguang-jun presses his face against his husband’s bare thigh, as if he’s gaining succor from it. Jingyi can hear his indrawn breath. When he pulls away, his face is stone. He stands jerkily.
“Don’t be so angry, my love, it’s barely a scratch.” Wei-qianbei begs, trying to pet Hanguang-jun’s face and arms with pleading hands. Hanguang-jun’s face doesn’t move. His hands are brusque and rough as he curtly gathers his husband up into his arms.
“Lan Zhan! I can walk!” Hanguang-jun’s husband cries. Everyone ignores him.
Hanguang-jun’s cultivation is so strong he can wrap his struggling husband securely up in one arm even as he draws Bichen with the other. The sword makes a small ringing sound, as irate as her master, even as Hanguang-jun steps onto her nearly translucent blade.
“Sizhui, please gather your a-Die’s clothing.” Hanguang-jun orders. “You’re in charge of disposal. Meet us at the inn.”
“There’s no need to be this dramatic, Lan Zhan, I’m fine.” Wei-qianbei is pushing at Hanguang-jun’s shoulders and arm, trying to fend off his husband’s grip. “Let’s at least help the babies with the final cleansing, Lan Zhan! It’s a good teachable moment!”
Hanguang-jun looks like he can’t even feel his husband’s pushing hands. Hanguang-jun certainly can’t hear his pleading words. It’s a blink and they’re off, nothing but the flash of Hanguang-jun’s sword glare as Hanguang-jun takes his husband away.
***
Jingyi knows when he sees Wei-qianbei limping next time he sees him, it has absolutely nothing to do with his completely healed leg and everything to do with his freshly bruised waist.
***
Wei-qianbei isn’t talking much today. He’s all smiles and bold gestures still, so Jingyi can’t think he’s sick, even if when he does speak, his voice comes out tired and hoarse. Hanguang-jun is running his thumbs over the plump swell of Wei-qianbei’s lip every time he speaks, too, unable to tear his eyes from his rosy used mouth as his voice cracks and gives out.
It’s Ouyang Zizhen who figured out why Hanguang-jun’s husband is so quiet on days like today. They were all out on a nighthunt in Baling, and Wei-qianbei had coaxed Hanguang-jun into a teahouse to get local intelligence and charm his husband into buying him a jar or two of wine. Everything was going fine, Wei-qianbei sweet-talking the details of a family dropping dead out in the edges of the town and left without family to bury them out of their server, plying him with the joint forces of his personality and Hanguang-jun’s coin purse. Except the server seemed to be as intoxicated with Hanguang-jun’s husband’s smile as Hanguang-jun himself is.
Jingyi can understand. Sometimes looking at Wei-qianbei is like looking at the sun. Sometimes Jingyi catches himself fixated in the gleaming fall of Wei-qianbei’s hair, hypnotized in the soft flourishing movement of his thin fingers and delicate wrists, caught on the rich blood-patterning of Hanguang-jun’s teeth on the shocking white of his neck.
But the server had drifted closer and closer to Wei-qianbei, trapped in his pull like a drowning man in a surprise tide. Hanguang-jun’s hands had gripped his husband with fiercer and fiercer possession but it hadn’t seemed to matter.
The server laid his hand down onto the slim length of Hanguang-jun’s husband’s thigh. Gave him a squeeze, feeling out the pliant warmth of the muscle there. Wei-qianbei had brushed off the hand with a laugh and a joke, curled into Hanguang-jun’s side with a smile and a bussing kiss against Hanguang-jun’s stone cheek and dead expression.
Except the server had then moved his hands to pull at a sleek lock of Wei-qianbei’s hair, then tried to stroke down the slender length of his throat.
Jingyi thinks it’s probably a good thing that the Lan Sect forbids a cultivator to use his power against a regular citizen. Hanguang-jun had literally carried his husband out of the teahouse, grip tight around his waist and carting him like he weighed less than the grass butterflies Wen Qionglin keeps giving to Sizhui.
Jingyi thinks it’s the first time in his life that Hanguang-jun hasn’t left a tip.
Hanguang-jun had roughly steered his husband behind the teahouse and into an alley. Jingyi and the others had rushed to catch up, thinking that Hanguang-jun had maybe figured out a crucial step in their case, before Sizhui had come up short in front of him. Jingyi had run into his solid back, and then Sizhui had turned around. He’d spread his giant white sleeves like a shield even as his face a dull rosy glow like the skin of a ripe persimmon.
All Jingyi caught over one of his shoulders was the sight of black robes kneeling before immaculate white, their brightness cutting into the shadows of the back alley. Hanguang-jun’s hands were fisted in his husband’s hair, the ever-present ponytail ripped out, the red ribbon a blood-red band around Hanguang-jun’s pale fingers.
“We’re dismissed for now!” Sizhui had said urgently. “Let’s get lodging for tonight!” His voice broke a little.
Zizhen showed Jingyi a pillow book later, when the nighthunt was concluded and they were back at his home. It wasn’t cutsleeve, like some of the books Jin Ling had embarrassedly found in the late Lianfang-zun’s belongings, but it had a wife, kneeling in supplication before her husband, his pillar buried in her mouth, her bright red lips stretched obscenely around his girth.
The artist had depicted the shape of a tear coursing down her pale white face, even as her hand stole between her legs and the thick black hair there.
“Do you think?” Zizhen had whispered, face flushed. “It says that a prodigious enough pillar makes the throat sore.”
Hanguang-jun’s husband had sounded sick, like he had a cold, for the rest of this hunt, but Hanguang-jun hadn’t restricted him back to the inn, and had allowed him at dinner, doting on him as usual, filling his bowl with spicy meats and curries instead of a thin broth.
Jingyi couldn’t speak through the bolt of lust, staring at the spring illustration, imagining Wei-qianbei’s teary face instead of the woman. He dared, for a moment, to replace himself as the husband, before his mind slotted Hanguang-jun in his rightful place.
Now, Hanguang-jun passes Jingyi a coin purse with a casual flick of his wrist. “Visit the apothecary. A thin liniment, liquid, no scent.” His voice is even, dismissive, his gaze distracted over Jingyi’s shoulder, still tracking his husband’s movement across the open area of the inn’s main room. Sometimes Jingyi really does think that Hanguang-jun forgets the talismans on purpose.
After all, Hanguang-jun’s husband’s voice always disappears when they run out of salve.
***
Jingyi’s favorite Junior duty is to feed the rabbits in the back meadow. It has absolutely nothing to do with how cute those balls of fluff are.
Jingyi is quietly coming down the back way with a basket piled high with the rabbit’s supplementary vegetables when he hears the crying. It’s a soft, broken sobbing, interspersed with high throaty wails.
“Please, please, husband, be gentle!” Jingyi stops walking immediately, going quiet and still. Hanguang-jun’s situational awareness is not to be trifled with, even when he’s as distracted as loving his husband can make him. Luckily, he’s approached from enough of an angle that he can see down into the clearing if he takes a few quiet steps to the side.
They’ve been here a while already, if Wei-qianbei’s voice is already breaking. He’s stopped teasing too. Just pleading. Jingyi moves. Three steps. Oh.
Hanguang-jun has his husband strung up from one of the lower branches of one of the trees on the clearing’s edge. His hands are tied up, over his head, and Hanguang-jun has ripped off the layers covering his husband’s chest until their bunched around his waist. His nipples are exposed, perked up into bright and swollen red peaks from Hanguang-jun’s abuse. There’s a purpling bite mark to frame one of them. Hanguang-jun is fucking him from behind, and the wet slapping sounds making their way to Jingyi are obscene.
“Oh, Lan Zhan, my love, it hurts.” Wei-qianbei cries.
“Everyday,” Hanguang-jun states. His voice is even and doesn’t really carry like Wei-qianbei’s wails; his voice is more even than Jingyi can ever imagine his own being in the throes of this. He’s fucking into his husband, metronomic and rough, thick meaty slaps Jingyi can even hear over Wei-qianbei’s wailing.
“Don’t you think you could—ah!—come for this husband?” Wei-qianbei pleads. “Please, pl—," he yelps, shocking up onto his toes before Hanguang-jun’s big hands seize him by his flinching hips and drag him back down. He’s quiet but for his heaving sobs for a few bright saturated moments, limp from his strung-up hands and laxly being humped into, before he tries again. His face is so red. Jingyi thinks his eyes are slitted from the crying he’s been doing. “Can’t you give this husband your pleasure, ah, ah, Lan Zhan? Hasn’t your husband been s-so good, just for you-ah? Isn’t he p-pleasing enough to come in-in-to?”
“Very pleasing.” Hanguang-jun states, his voice has taken on a little bit of a growl, just around the edges. It makes the hairs on the back of Jingyi’s neck straighten up like he’s seeing a yaogui’s threat display.
Wei-qianbei seems to slump what little he can in his bonds, relying on his husband’s hands and cock to keep straight. He nods, frantically, closing his eyes in relief.
“I intend to keep enjoying.” Hanguang-jun states.
When Jingyi finally gets down to the clearing, the rabbits are very hungry and his pants are very sticky.
***
Wei-qianbei always laughs when he’s complimented on his beauty. He always jokingly says to whoever made the comment that they should have seen the magnificence of his old body, and he usually elbows Hanguang-jun, trying to get him to agree.
Hanguang-jun never indicates in any way that he prefers one body to another, absolutely perfectly non-committal, but Jingyi can’t imagine a man more beautiful than Hanguang-jun’s husband in the body he’s in now. He’d been pretty enough for Jingyi to notice as a madman and covered in ghoulish white cake; but gleaming and grinning and slightly tanned under the sun he’s so stunning it’s hard to look at him, to talk to him; it’s hard to do simple things like walk when he’s around.
He’s not all that short, really, but he still gives the impression of slightness, especially next to the breadth of Hanguang-jun. It’s a common sight to see Hanguang-jun wrap his large hands around the near entirety of his husband’s waist, his grip like a thick belt, a binding girdle. It’s an even more daunting grip around a forearm, or when Jingyi’s lucky enough to glimpse it wrapped firmly around a thigh.
The largest part of Hanguang-jun’s husband is his energy, his personality, loosely tethered to his flesh-framework of thin limbs, delicate wrists. If Hanguang-jun and his husband were carved out from jade, just their physical sameness and none of their life, Hanguang-jun might be prettier, but it’s certainly not true in the physical flesh.
It’s hard to even look at Hanguang-jun when his husband is in the room, and Jingyi knows it’s not him. Even Sizhui looks more often to one father than the other, magnetized. It’s something in the eyes, Jingyi thinks, those sly little phoenix crescents. He looks like he’s always on the edge of a laugh, holding in his humor like a secret, his irises as quicksilver as the mercury the healers suggest for cultivation. Stare deep enough, and Jingyi swears he can see the swirl of movement. It feels like, if only he could look long enough, he could see the shapes of Wei-qianbei’s clever thoughts.
***
The Cloud Recesses are always quiet. Jingyi used to feel sometimes that the only noise, only presence there was him, everyone else as quiet and muted as the faded afterimage of a ghost. Then Wei-qianbei came.
The Cloud Recesses were changed immediately. Madman Mo Xuanyu was loud, whether it was his protestations over his ‘virtue’ or the shrill noise of his dizi.
Then he left. Came back Wei-qianbei, the redeemed Yiling Laozu, Hanguang-jun’s husband.
Hanguang-jun’s husband is just as loud as ‘Mo Xuanyu’, even if now his voice is flirtatious and soft, any virtue he has firmly in the hands of his husband. The sound of his dizi is as practiced, if not more joyous, than a Lan’s. But Hanguang-jun’s husband disturbed the nights like Mo Xuanyu never could. Crying. Begging. Screaming for his husband to be gentle, to have patience. Despite the rule not to gossip, talk circled about Hanguang-jun’s marriage in a low, almost imperceptible susurration, especially amongst the healers.
It took three days of the same, and then Lan Qiren laid the wards himself, sinking sound-suppressing ward stones in a perimeter around Hanguang-jun’s house. Told Hanguang-jun to settle things like his father, if he had to. The rule not to associate with Wei-qianbei went up on the Wall of Discipline the same day. The healers stopped murmuring and gazes skipped away.
That’s how Jingyi found this spot. His spot, if he’s honest. It’s within the wardstones, so every little cry of Hanguang-jun’s husband rings as clear right to his ears, and it provides an unprecedented view into Hanguang-jun’s marriage chamber.
The spot is perfect for this, almost as if it was made for it. It can’t be, because Jingyi can’t think of another person who would dare look in on Hanguang-jun (and even then, it was the lure of his husband that got Jingyi motivated), but still. The tree makes a perfect split, one branch to allow the legs to be stretched, the other to make a rest for the back. The foliage overhead hangs in a perfect way to conceal the tree’s inhabitant from view, but after Jingyi did some maintenance of the branches, offers an unimpeded view. Someone could sit here for whole shichen, concealed, and observe, offered the perfect little peek into the bedroom of the Jingshi. The bed is right beneath the window, and even when the paper is drawn, the way the lantern inside is lit and hung causes the whole room to be projected in shadow and the silhouettes of the room’s inhabitants to be cast like a strange play.
Jingyi’s seen a lot from this perfect view through the window. Wei-qianbei has been bound with everything from Hanguang-jun’s sacred forehead ribbon to the ruins of his own robes. Jingyi thinks it isn’t long before Sizhui is blessed with a sibling, with the way they often speak of Wei-qianbei and fertility. Often, they play that Hanguang-jun is not his husband, but is intent on becoming so by ruining him and taking responsibility. One memorable night Jingyi still uses when he’s alone in his dormitory room, Hanguang-jun put his husband in a body binding spell and used him as a doll, positioned him and fucked him and positioned him and fucked him, until the enchantment gave out and Wei-qianbei still couldn’t move except to tremble.
Sometimes, like tonight, Hanguang-jun drinks with his husband. The bright white jug of Emperor’s Smile comes out from its hiding spot under the floorboards, but the bowl Hanguang-jun insists his husband drink from instead of pouring it all over himself stays hidden. Instead, a small tasting cup is produced.
A small shiver races down Jingyi’s spine.
Wei-qianbei kneels down in front of their table. He’s wearing one his bright red inner robes, the outside curves of his thighs hinted at by the slits on the sides and the color near violent in the low yellow light of the lantern. He picks up the jar of Emperor’s Smile with a cool elegant posture and a light grip, pours the wine into the delicate tasting cup with all the delicacy of a perfectly enacted tea ceremony. He offers the cup to his husband with enough formality to be tea at his wedding.
Hanguang-jun’s husband is such a wild force of energy, of laughter, of near-mania, that it’s hard to remember sometimes that he was a highly ranked young master, trained in the six arts. That he grew up trained to be a gentleman. That he chooses to be wild and clever and unrestrained instead of coolly elegant. Jingyi’s getting a peek at the reverse, in their play.
Hanguang-jun takes the cup with his customary elegance.
Then, he tosses it back like he is Wei-qianbei.
It must only be a sip, in that tiny tasting cup, but it hits Hanguang-jun like it hit Jingyi the only time Jin Ling and Ouyang Zizhen coaxed he and Sizhui into breaking the rules: Instantly, and with all the subtlety of a hammer between the eyes.
Hanguang-jun collapses. Wei-qianbei shifts his weight, practiced, expecting it, sliding perfectly until Hanguang-jun’s descent is stopped by his husband’s body, coming to rest pillowed against his husband’s lean chest. Hanguang-jun’s husband raises a slender hand for a moment, stroking Hanguang-jun’s still-perfect hair. It only takes a few moments, Wei-qianbei stroking his husband softly, lovingly, before Hanguang-jun perks up like he’d never passed out in the first place.
Jingyi wriggles in his perch, arousal starting to pool in his body, anticipatory.
Hanguang-jun’s gaze is slightly unfocused, just two degrees off from his normal impassive stare. Wei-qianbei smiles up at him like he’s hung the moon.
Hanguang-jun takes a few moments, golden bird-of-prey eyes taking in his husband, the blood red inner robe with its daring side slits, the soft stroking touch in his hair.
Hanguang-jun pounces.
Jingyi can hear Wei-qianbei’s gleeful shriek all the up in perch in the tree, music to his waiting ears. Hanguang-jun seizes his husband up in his arms, as easily as if he had no real mass, lighter than down. As strong a cultivator as Hanguang-jun is, it’s probably true to him.
Hanguang-jun whirls his husband around, so rapidly Wei-qianbei’s hair flies out, a delicate black fan the color of an ink spill. Wei-qianbei laughs, so obviously delighted it’s expression of pure aural joy. Hanguang-jun’s strong hands seize the shoulders of his husband’s robe, and that gorgeous blood-red fabric splits down until Wei-qianbei is shucked to the waist, his white chest and arms exposed to the air. He struggles, but it’s obviously play, until Hanguang-jun seizes up his slender arms and pins them behind his back.
Hanguang-jun pulls the forehead ribbon from his own head, and it’s a blink in time before he has it wrapped all the length of his husband’s forearms, forcing them together across the entirety of their length, until Wei-qianbei is cupping each of his own elbows in the cradles of his long-fingered hands.
Hanguang-jun pulls the rest of his husband out of the bright red pool of his discarded robe, the poor abused waist tie parting with a snap. Wei-qianbei is still laughing, his eyes little reverse smiles and nearly closed in his mirth, bright red lips parted on a joyous grin. Hanguang-jun swings him up by the waist above his head like he’s a prize, a triumph, before he bears him down onto the bed.
Wei-qianbei parts his legs without prompting even as his bound hands are pinned behind his own weight. He’s all pale and gold-limned in the warm light of the lantern, and Hanguang-jun slots himself between his husband’s thighs like he owns the space between them.
Jingyi’s expecting the rough biting kisses along Wei-qianbei’s thighs, the pale line of his abdomen. Then Hanguang-jun opens his mouth and swallows down his husband’s pillar like he isn’t whole without it. Wei-qianbei jerks like he’s been stabbed, his back arching off the bed until it looks painful, his pale thighs coming up to hold his husband close. Hanguang-jun pulls back with a disgruntled look. His large hands come up and spread his husband’s thighs down and out like pages in a book.
Hanguang-jun holds his husband down as if it’s as easy as pinning a sheet of paper in the wind, and feasts.
Jingyi knows the moment Wei-qianbei comes down his husband’s throat by the arch of his back, the flex of his slender legs and the curl of his toes.
Hanguang-jun keeps sucking, like this is for him, like it’s always been for him, like Wei-qianbei’s orgasm is some forgettable side-effect to the main purpose of Hanguang-jun holding his husband’s pillar in his mouth like its sole use is to weigh down his tongue.
Wei-qianbei starts to plead: “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, let this poor husband have a break! Haven’t I given you enough to eat? Haven’t I given you all that I have? All that I am? Husband, please!”
It’s a long hot moments where Hanguang-jun ignores him, ignores the rise and fall of his husband’s pleading and it starts to break off into broken words and harsh cries, where the air around Jingyi feels hot and close and the clasp of his cock in hand feels hand feels so good it becomes pain.
Finally Hanguang-jun pulls off his husband, his lips parting from his cock at last with a soft pop, and Wei-qianbei’s soft cock falls from that warm heat to lay like a wounded thing against his trembling belly.
Hanguang-jun’s husband collapses on the bed in relief. He’s panting, his narrow ribcage panting and heaving, trying to get more air into his body. He’s pulled his legs up and together, like he’s trying to protect his soft underbelly and softer cock. It’s too soon for him to be relieved. Hanguang-jun’s pulling off his robes with brisk efficiency. Jingyi’s never seen someone fold clothes so fast.
Hanguang-jun plucks his husband up as easily as he had at the start. His hands naturally find the soft backs of Wei-qianbei’s knees, prying and lifting him until he’s forced to straddle Hanguang-jun’s waist.
Hanguang-jun’s pillar is standing erect, framed by the pale cheeks of his husband’s ass. It’s always a shocking presence, an obscene length. Every time Jingyi sees it he wonders how Wei-qianbei can be cored out to take it, how it can possibly fit. It’s no wonder he limps as much as he walks.
Hanguang-jun seizes his husband’s hips up in his hands, forces his husband’s hips to undulate backwards, until he’s running the length of his dick up the slender valley of his husband’s cheeks and pressing them wide. Wei-qianbei’s listing, his body hunched over, still trembling from overwork and oversensitivity.
Jingyi wonders if tonight will be one of those rough violent times where Hanguang-jun claims his husband like a wife, capable of slicking himself. Hanguang-jun keeps grinding his cock up against his husband’s spread open cheeks in a mimicry of fucking and Jingyi’s almost certain it will.
Then Wei-qianbei collapses onto Hanguang-jun’s chest, rubbing his face against the faint afterimage of the Wen brand as if he’s pleading with the stroke of his cheek. Hanguang-jun’s arm reaches briefly out of the frame of Jingyi’s window, but when they come back, they look slick and glistening beneath the light of the room’s lantern.
Hanguang-jun makes his husband take two fingers right out from the gate, plunging them inside with the absolute certainty that they’ll fit. Wei-qianbei’s thighs tremble and tense as he tries to pull away, but Hanguang-jun holds him in place with one strong hand. Jingyi wonders if it’s his own imagination or if he can see the small purpling circles of fingerprints already blossoming on Wei-qianbei’s hips.
The finger-fucking is brief, shortened probably by the way Wei-qianbei keeps trying to shift his hips away from the plunge of his husband’s fingers inside him. Hanguang-jun pulls his fingers free with a brutal twist, before pinning his husband’s hips and then forcing him upright, until he’s no longer collapsed against Hanguang-jun’s chest but swaying upright almost as if he’s the drunken party.
Hanguang-jun lifts his husband up, Wei-qianbei’s thighs curving in, together, as if to protect himself, before Hanguang-jun positions him.
Jingyi can’t tear his eyes away from the flared almost purpled tip of Hanguang-jun’s dick as it bullies its way into Wei-qianbei’s barely prepared hole.
Hanguang-jun’s husband starts crying as soon as the head’s forced inside. It looks like it’s rough slide, powered more by the strength in Hanguang-jun’s arms than any acceptance in Wei-qianbei’s body of the intrusion, but Wei-qianbei’s pulled all the way down and flush just the same. He comes to a rest, panting harder than he had even on the last moments of Hanguang-jun’s service with his mouth.
Wei-qianbei’s pillar has firmed up a little, until it looks a little less soft and bullied against his stomach, but in no way can it be termed hard. Hanguang-jun’s hand reaches out to cradle it, grip for once soft. Hanguang-jun strokes his husband as he shudders, shoulders wracked with it. He still can’t firm up.
Hanguang-jun says something, but it’s too quiet for Jingyi to hear. He imagines it must be an order to start to ride, because Wei-qianbei’s trembling thighs start to work, to bring him up and down along the length of his husband’s cock.
It’s a sloppy, lopsided effort, but Hanguang-jun seems too preoccupied by gently rubbing his thumb across the head of Wei-qianbei’s barely chubbed cock to correct him.
Jingyi pulls his hand away from his dick, too close to coming, trying to regulate his breaths. He’s panting like Wei-qianbei. He has to close his eyes, but it barely helps, the image of Hanguang-jun’s husband burned like the afterimage of the sun against the back of his eyelids.
Jingyi’s eyes fly open when he hears Wei-qianbei’s gurgled cry.
Hanguang-jun has grown tired of his husband’s efforts, flipping them over until Wei-qianbei is on his back, his poor legs stretched over his head like exasperated out-flung arms. Hanguang-jun has him lifted halfway off the bed, only his shoulders and the back of his neck and head making contact with the mattress. The rest of his body is suspended by Hanguang-jun’s grip.
Hanguang-jun starts to fuck. Jingyi can tell by the stance of his legs, the set of his shoulders that he’s settled in for the long haul. Sometimes Hanguang-jun goes somewhere in his head, somewhere he holds his husband in one place and settles into to fuck like a marching beat for a shichen or two, until his husband is too tired and wrung out to do anything but pass out.
Jingyi has no idea how he has the endurance. He’s tried to match his climax to Hanguang-jun’s. Even with pausing and regrouping, he just can’t hold out, not like Hanguang-jun. The touch of his hand becomes torturous, denying himself beyond any effort of his will. Still, Jingyi tries. He’s improved, but not so much that he imagines he can ever become Hanguang-jun’s match.
Jingyi finally ends up coming when Wei-qianbei loses all will to hold himself up. His body goes limp and loose in Hanguang-jun’s hold, every cun of strain draining out of him like he’s reached the edge of relaxation that only comes with anesthetization or a perfect, deep massage.
Jingyi loves that surrender, that acceptance. Wei-qianbei will always let his husband do anything to him, but it’s extra sweet when he’s like this. So pliant. Pared down from that bright quicksilver genius to a hot wet warmth for his husband to fuck, to take his pleasure in and nothing more.
Jingyi ends up drifting to sleep tucked in his tree. Hanguang-jun’s thrusts and his husband's weak cries have gone from desperately arousing to soothing, like the deep sounds of the forest or the burble of a stream when camping on a nighthunt.