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“I want to try something tomorrow,” Wei Ying says one evening, as Lan Wangji combs jasmine-scented oil through his hair. Lan Wangji presses a kiss to the crown of his head, humming softly in the back of his throat to let him know he heard. “I want you to let me take care of you.”
“Wei Ying does take care of me,” Lan Wangji says, placing the comb on the table with a soft click.
Wei Ying turns in his arms, the fine silks of his night robe rustling around him. “Must you make me spell it out?”
“Wei Ying should say what he means,” Lan Wangji says pointedly.
Wei Ying smiles. He tilts his head to the side like a curious bird, his hair gleaming like fire under the candlelight.
“What I mean,” he says, one hand gently encircling Lan Wangji’s neck, thumb resting in the dip of his throat. “Is that I want you to surrender yourself to my care. I’ll decide what you wear, what you eat, where you go. I’ll decide when you get to come, if you even get to come at all. All you have to do is obey.”
Lan Wangji... wants that. To be a doll for his husband’s use, unable to lift a single finger for himself. They have played like that before, in the blue half-light of the jingshi, but never in public. Never for a whole day.
“Please.”
“Begging already?” Wei Ying says. “Don’t worry, Lan Zhan. I promise to ruin you very sweetly tomorrow.”
Lan Wangji would rather be ruined right now, thank you very much, but he understands the appeal of waiting. He has spent entire evenings pinned beneath the velvet of his husband’s thighs, being brought to the brink of release over and over again. He knows what it is to yearn for something for so long it seeps its way into every crevice of your body.
“Whatever Wei Ying wants.”
The next day begins like any other. Lan Wangji rises first, dressing in his innermost robe by the light of a single candle. He leaves his hair unadorned and his forehead bare, his headband still curled loosely around his lover’s wrist. Perhaps Wei Ying will feel like keeping it with him today, wrapped around his neck or looped through the knot of his ponytail. Or perhaps he will simply “forget” to give it back, then conveniently remember when Lan Wangji is right in the middle of an important meeting.
He makes congee in the jingshi’s small, serviceable kitchen, bringing rice and broth to the boil and chopping ginger and scallions. During the second and third months of his pregnancy, this was the only thing he could eat without feeling sick, apart from the candied ginger Wei Ying constantly kept on-hand for when his stomach was feeling particularly unsettled.
He hears a floorboard creak in the other room. His ears, finely attuned to the sounds of his husband after six months of marriage, pick up the quiet noise of a stifled yawn and the soft pad of footsteps.
Lan Wangji is prepared for the hands that pet over his bump and the face that buries itself in the nape of his neck. He is not prepared for the erection making itself known against his backside, but as surprises go, it’s definitely not an unwelcome one.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” Wei Ying says, pulling his robe aside and pressing kisses along the slope of his shoulder. His skin is still warm from their nest, sweet with the mingled scents of honey and jasmine.
“Wei Ying needs his rest.”
He spoons the congee into two bowls, making sure to give Wei Ying a generous helping. He has a worrying habit of missing meals and staying up late, too engrossed in his talismans to look after himself properly. Quietly, Lan Wangji does what he can, cooking for him and playing him calming songs on his guqin. The hollowed cheekbones and sickly pallor that marked Wei Ying’s time in Yiling is not something he ever wants to revisit.
Nimble fingers pluck the spoon from his hand and place it back in the pot.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, a gentle rebuke. “Didn’t I say I wanted to take care of you today?”
Wei Ying did say that, but Lan Wangji has gone to all the trouble of cooking him breakfast and it would not do to see it wasted.
“Breakfast first,” he says firmly. He disentangles himself from Wei Ying’s arms and steps through the kitchen door into the jingshi proper, making a beeline for the table where they take their meals.
“Stop.”
A direct order. Lan Wangji wars with himself for a few moments, tempted to disobey, but his submissive instincts win out against his natural stubbornness.
He listens to the sound of each slow, precise footstep as Wei Ying walks towards him. He knows, suddenly, how the rabbit feels, moments before the jaws of the wolf snap closed around it.
Wei Ying’s hand cups the back of his neck, squeezing gently until he wilts against him.
“Someone is being a brat,” Wei Ying says, right next to his ear. “You know what we do with brats, don’t you?”
Lan Wangji knows.
Sometimes, in his darkest moments, the guilt of not being able to save Wei Ying at Nightless City becomes too great. His husband refuses to punish him without legitimate reason, so Lan Wangji pushes boundaries and disobeys orders until Wei Ying has no choice but to put him over his knee. Only there, his backside stinging beneath the sharp slap of an open palm and his face wet with humiliated tears, can he find peace.
“Yes.”
The hand around his neck squeezes tighter, until Lan Wangji can no longer move his fingers. A haze descends upon his mind, making it difficult to think clearly.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Gege”
“Are you going to behave?”
“Yes, Gege.”
“Good,” Wei Ying says, releasing him. "Let’s get you dressed.”
Lan Wangji allows himself to be guided to the wardrobe, docile as a lamb now that Wei Ying has put him under. He’s in that sweet spot between subspace and full cognisance, just deep enough to be biddable but not too deep to be unaware of his surroundings.
“Hmmm,” Wei Ying says thoughtfully, pulling out a robe of sheer, sky-blue silk and holding it under his chin with a critical eye. “Blue for today, I think. And I want you to wear the shoes without the heels when we go out later.”
Lan Wangji digs his fingernails into his palms. Without the extra inches afforded to him by his high-heeled boots, he is smaller than his husband. The difference is not great, but it is... noticeable.
“Give me your hand, sweet,” Wei Ying says.
The order, though spoken softly and with affection, is still an order, and Lan Wangji must obey.
“Good boy,” Wei Ying says, pushing his hand through the sleeve of the first inner robe. He slips a little, just a little, the world around him going fuzzy at the edges.
Four more inner robes are layered over the first, two in white and two in blue. Each is on the finer side, the silk diaphanous enough that wearing one alone would see him arrested for public indecency. The soft touches at his wrists and shoulders as Wei Ying adjusts the fabric to sit better seem to burn right through to his skin. When Wei Ying slips two fingers beneath his sash to check the tightness, he releases a shaky breath and shuts his eyes tight. Somewhere between the first inner robe and the fourth, he became hard.
He sits quietly while Wei Ying puts his hair into a soft, omegan style, quite unlike his usual simple topknot. The finishing touch is a comb inlaid with mother-of-pearl, carved to look like the moon breaking through the clouds.
During his sixteen years of mourning, Lan Wangji put aside these hallmarks of gender, favouring instead severe white robes and ornate silver headdresses. Blue felt too close to home, and mother-of-pearl reminded him too much of the alpha he had lost. Since Wei Ying’s return, colour has slowly begun to creep back into his wardrobe, in soft maternity robes and sashes of sapphire silk. He even has a sizeable collection of decorative pins and combs, courtesy of his husband’s inability to pass a market stall without buying at least one for him.
“Beautiful, my little moon,” Wei Ying murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.
Wei Ying began to use that particular term of endearment during the third month of Lan Wangii’s pregnancy, when he first started to show. It is certainly apt- his belly is round and white as a steamed bun, the curve of it visible even under his loosest robes.
Afterwards, Wei Ying arranges him on his lap, fussing with the creases of his robes so they drape around him just so. Lan Wangji endures it, glad for the thick layer of padded cloth between his legs. Living with Wei Ying has brought with it many unforeseen challenges, including a state of near-constant arousal. The pad protects his clothes from ruination whenever his husband gets his hands on him.
“Open your mouth.”
Lan Wangji’s traitorous mind immediately conjures up memories of Wei Ying uttering the same words in an entirely different context- the phantom weight of a cock in his mouth, the taste of salt thick on his tongue, the anchoring pull of a hand in his hair. The low simmer of arousal in his belly becomes an open flame, threatening to swallow him whole.
Wei Ying pops a spoonful of congee into his mouth. It’s warm- he must have used a talisman on it when Lan Wangji wasn’t paying attention.
“Good boy,” Wei Ying says, smoothing a proprietary hand over his rump and giving him a gentle pat. Lan Wangii squirms in his lap, accidentally rubbing the head of his cock against the soft, damp pad. He ignores the heaviness between his legs in favour of dutifully swallowing each mouthful, until the spoon is scraping against the bottom of the bowl and all the food is gone.
“All done!” Wei Ying says, dropping a kiss to the palm of his hand. “Thank you for letting me feed you, sweetheart. You know Gege likes making you nice and full.”
Lan Wangji would roll his eyes at the double entendre if he had any higher brain functioning left, but as it is he is struggling to keep it together for long enough not to come in his pants.
“But ah- What am I to do? There’s none left for me!” Wei Ying looks so utterly devastated that Lan Wangji, in his vulnerable state, is almost taken in by him.
"Gege,” he says, pointing accusingly at the other bowl of congee. “Lying is bad.”
“How observant you are, my love,” Wei Ying says, cupping his cheek. “But what if I said I wasn’t hungry for congee? What if I said I wanted something else?”
The hand at his cheek moves down his neck, skimming over his collarbone before finally coming to rest over his left breast. Lan Wangji draws a sharp breath as Wei Ying unerringly finds his nipple, pinching and rolling it between finger and thumb through the soft silk.
“Gege can have anything he wants.”
“Anything?”
“Mm.”
“Ah, my husband is too good to me.”
Lan Wangji removes his sash, baring the swell of his breasts to his husband’s gaze. They began to develop within the first month of his pregnancy and have yet to fully stop growing. From what he has observed of female omegas, he is somewhat above average in this department, though not alarmingly so.
“You should let me paint you like this,” Wei Ying says. “You’d make a lovely nude.”
There was a time Lan Wangji would have protested, but he has finally reached a point where he can see his scars as a symbol of survival rather than a reminder of pain.
Wei Ying lowers his head to drink from him, the ink of his hair dark against the white jade of Lan Wangji’s skin. The warm, wet suction soon has his toes curling and his stomach liquefying. He cups a hand around the back of his skull, holding him close.
By the time both breasts are empty, Lan Wangji has leaked all the way through his pad. He’s trembling faintly, his mind full of soft fog.
Wei Ying sops up an errant trickle with his thumb and sucks it into his mouth, humming low in his throat. He smiles, slow and satisfied. “Would you do this for me every day, if I asked?”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, thumbing away a spot of white on his chin.
“What if I didn’t want to eat real food anymore? What if I wanted to feed from you, instead?”
Lan Wangji nods. If breast milk contained all the nutrients necessary for keeping an adult man alive, he would shoulder that responsibility gladly.
When Lan Wangji is decent again, they part ways, Wei Ying to check the integrity of his defensive talismans and Lan Wangji to meet his brother for one of their weekly catch ups. He sips a cup of fragrant jasmine tea, listening to him talk about his recent visit to Lotus Pier. Xichen’s engagement to Jiang Wanyin was a surprise to everyone, especially Wei Ying, who laughed in his brother’s face for a full minute after being told the news. Lan Wangji is happy for his brother, though not exactly thrilled at being Jiang Wanyin’s brother-in-law twice over.
Wei Ying meets him at the hanshi afterwards, all smiles, taking him by the wrist and leading him across courtyards and through doorways until they reach a secluded alcove, free from prying eyes.
“Are you being good?” He asks, crowding him against the wall.
“Yes, Gege.”
“Did you eat anything while you were there?”
“A cup of tea. Nothing else.”
“Good. You’re not to eat anything I don’t feed you. Understood?”
“Yes, Gege.”
“On your knees.”
Lan Wangji kneels obediently while Wei Ying uses his mouth, keeping his throat relaxed and open and teasing his tongue along the shaft. His mind soon empties of all thoughts, even the throbbing between his legs fading into the background. A litany of filth spills from Wei Ying’s mouth in an endless river, praises and promises and pet names, and Lan Wangji closes his eyes and soaks it all up like a sponge.
Wei Ying doubles over with a gasp, spilling bitter across his tongue. Lan Wangji swallows it all, continuing to work his throat until his husband pulls him off his cock with a moan of oversensitivity.
“Lan Zhan, you really are too good at this,” he says weakly. “I’m supposed to be ruining you, but I think I’m the one being ruined.”
Lan Wangji licks his lips, smug.
They leave the alcove separately, so as not to arouse suspicion. Lan Wangji walks to the lanshi with precise, measured steps, where he teaches a class of straight-backed teenagers. Half of them look at him with the sort of awe usually reserved for minor deities; the other half look at him like they want to eat him.
They think he doesn’t notice. He always notices.
Wei Ying traipses into the lanshi as the class is filing out, chatting with Sizhui and Jingyi as Lan Wangji tidies up his books and packs away his talismans. As soon as the last student has filed out of the room, the smile slides off his face.
“Lock the door, Lan Zhan,” he says, soft and dangerous.
The moment the key has turned in the lock, Wei Ying is upon him, claiming his mouth in a bruising kiss. Lan Wangji tries to give as good as he gets, but he's still a little woozy from having his face fucked and can't summon the brainpower to do much more than keep his mouth open.
A clever hand parts his robes and unties the pad, wrapping around his cock and giving it a few firm pumps. Lan Wangji sighs, going limp.
“Good boy,” Wei Ying says, hot against his ear. “Just let Gege make you feel good.”
Lan Wangji has grown so used to having Wei Ying’s cock whenever he wants it that he has almost forgotten how pleasurable this can be. It’s just this side of too dry, but apart from that, it’s perfect.
His control quickly unravels and he spills into Wei Ying’s hand with a shout. Wei Ying rearranges his robes and makes sure the pad is sitting right, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
Afterwards, he attends a sect meeting. He listens politely while his elders grumble and groan about border disputes and taxes. Food is brought out but he abstains, feigning illness.
Halfway through the meeting, Wei Ying bursts through the door, waving his headband. “Lan Zhan! You forgot this!”
The elders mutter amongst themselves at the interruption, but Sizhui smiles, pleased to see his Xian-gege. The smile quickly fades as Wei Ying makes a show of sitting in on the meeting, citing a desire to learn more about his husband’s sect.
“Ah, Lan Zhan, you’re not eating?” he says with exaggerated concern.
Lan Wangji shakes his head.
“You have to eat! Come on, open your mouth and say ahhhhhh~”
They get kicked out of the meeting.
Left to their own devices and with an hour of free time, they inevitably end up back at the jingshi, Lan Wangji’s legs hiked up around his ribs as Wei Ying eats him out.
“Gege,” he sobs, on the cusp of his fifth orgasm of the day. “I can’t, I can’t.”
Wei Ying looks up from between his thighs, eyes dark and mouth shiny with slick. “You can,” he says, taking him into his mouth.
He does. Spectacularly.
When they are fit to be seen again, they go to the training yards to teach the littlest disciples basic sword fighting techniques. With Lan Wangji, they are solemn and polite, but with Wei Ying they smile and laugh, calling him Xian-gege until he pinches their cheeks.
It makes Lan Wangji feel so soft inside to see him with them. His hand twitches with the impulse to touch his belly, overcome by a sense of sudden, gentle wonder. He can hardly believe that in just a few short months, he will be bringing their own child into the world.
When the sun has dipped below the mountains and the sky is thick with stars, Wei Ying feeds him again. Lan Wangji sits quietly on his lap, growing wet and swollen between his legs, trying to be a good boy and not buck his hips or whine impatiently. Today has been one long tease, and Wei Ying seems determined to tease him further, rubbing his belly and calling him sweet little names until he’s panting softly and his ears are hot. Afterwards, he unties his sash again and lets his husband have his fill of him, putting his hand at his throat to feel him swallowing.
When Wei Ying has slaked his thirst and Lan Wangji has no more milk to give him, he pulls out a talisman, creased and faded from constant re-use.
Of all the sex talismans Wei Ying has invented, this is probably Lan Wangji’s favourite. It acts as a plug of sorts, so even when he isn’t in heat, he can still experience the fullness of a knot.
"You can have this," Wei Ying says, flourishing the talisman to illustrate his point, "or you can come. Your choice."
Wei Ying has posed this dilemma to him before. Not once has he ever chosen the second option. He picks being full every time, because it means he can keep Wei Ying’s come inside for longer. It makes little sense- he can't exactly get more pregnant- but he craves it nonetheless.
“The talisman.”
“Very well. On your hands and knees for me.”
Lan Wangji gets into position, his robes pooling around him in a sea of blue and white. The floorboards are hard and cold beneath his knees, but the discomfort is nothing compared to the burn of anticipation in his stomach.
He feels the soft brush of cloth at his thighs and backside, and then cold air on his skin. There is warm pressure at his shoulders, the dip of his spine, guiding him into a better position. He breathes out, relaxing into the shape of it.
“Perfect,” Wei Ying says, untying the pad with practiced hands. A thumb dips down to rub between his folds, finding his entrance and pressing shallowly inside. Lan Wangji rocks back into it, needy and impatient, but the thumb disappears as quickly as it came.
“Be still,” Wei Ying says, smoothing his hands over his buttocks and thighs.
Becoming motionless is something Lan Wangji is well practised at. In his youth, he sometimes spent entire afternoons meditating, trying to rid his mind of impure thoughts. He centres his qi, entering a state of almost preternatural stillness.
Two fingers trail down the crease of his ass, raising goosebumps in their wake. He sighs softly through his nose, ignoring the instinct to arch his back. Sometimes, Wei Ying will plug him up and use this hole instead, pulling orgasm after orgasm from him until the dual stimulation against his prostate and slick glands becomes too much.
The fingers breach him where he needs them the most, soothing away the ache of emptiness. He has been longing for this all day, imagining the press of them within him all through his meetings and lectures. Being in possession of a face few people can read certainly has its advantages.
Wei Ying rubs little circles against his slick glands until his cock is leaking steadily and his mind is soft and quiet. A warm, sweet ache builds in his pelvis, the pink mound of his sex becoming taut and swollen.
Wei Ting likes to do this for him first, so his body is already receptive and the press of his cock is never anything less than transcendent. The extra care is unnecessary- Lan Wangji would still adore it anyway- but it feels so good that he never puts up much of a protest.
The fingers leave his body. He is filled, inch by glorious inch, until all of Wei Ying is sheathed within him. He keens, long and low, trying to be good and not to move, even though all he wants to do is push back into the fullness until he cuts himself on the sharp jut of Wei Ying’s hipbones.
“Ah, Lan Zhan, feels amazing,” Wei Ying groans, pulling out and pushing back in. “You take me so well. Like you were made for me.”
Lan Wangji glows. He wants Wei Ying to feel good more than anything. He wants to be his shelter from the world, the place he can go when he is tired and frightened and in need of comfort. He wants to be soft and open to him, in heart and body both, so he can take him deep inside and protect him from those who would hurt him.
Between his thighs, his cock hangs heavy and untouched, hidden by the white mound of his belly. There is a peculiar intoxication in knowing that this time, its hardness is purely decorative. The idea of his own pleasure being an afterthought, of being merely a vessel for his alpha's seed, is a deeply arousing one.
It isn't true, of course. Wei Ying is an incredibly giving lover, and even though Lan Wangji won't be coming tonight, he knows tomorrow morning he'll be taken apart with gentle hands until he's spilling all over himself. Even now, Wei Ying makes sure to pull out all the tricks he knows Lan Wangji likes, and never once does he falter in his aim. Being married to a skilled marksman certainly comes with its perks.
Soon, Wei Ying begins to run his mouth, a sure sign that he’s losing control.
“Oh, oh, Lan Zhan, going to come. I’ll fill you up, get you nice and wet inside, then I’ll do it again tomorrow morning. By the end of the day, you’ll be so full of me you won’t be able to walk straight. You won’t be able to concentrate on anything because you’ll constantly be wondering when I’m going to find you and fuck another load into you.”
What Wei Ying is suggesting isn't new. Some days, A-Zhan is closer to the surface than on others, and it takes everything within him not to burst into tears at the slightest provocation. On those days, Wei Ying will come inside him a few times in the morning and then give him the talisman to wear. Any time he feels lonely or sad, he just has to clench down around his plug to know he's safe and loved.
Wei Ying empties himself inside him in toe-curling pulses. This is his favourite part of all, because it means Wei Ying feels good; that Lan Wangji made him feel good. He squeezes around him, milking him until every drop is spent.
He cranes his head back for a kiss, which Wei Ying gives him gladly. He tastes like milk, sweet and creamy, a pleasant complement to the honeyed scent of his skin.
Wei Ying softens and slips free of his body, leaving him cold and empty once more. The sting of it tears a whine from his throat, because it hurts.
"I know, sweetheart," Wei Ying says sympathetically.
There is a gentle touch against his lower back, then a warm, solid weight settles within him. The fullness of it pushes him all the way down, into true subspace, where everything is soft and golden and Wei Ying is his entire universe. Here, nothing matters but being good and letting go, until Hanguang-Jun goes far away and he's just Gege’s baby boy.
Wei Ying undresses him, cooing over his red knees. He calls him his good boy, his sweet boy, kissing his belly until he laughs his shy, bubbling laugh. Then he bathes and swaddles him, wrapping him up in his arms so that he's warm and sleepy and full, just how Gege likes him.
"Sweetheart," Wei Ying says, nuzzling affectionately at his scent glands. "Thank you for letting me take care of you today."
"Was I good for Gege?" Lan Wangji asks quietly.
"So good. A-Zhan is always so good for me. I want our baby to be just like him."
“No,” Lan Wangji says stubbornly. “Like Gege.”
Wei Ying smiles. “Okay. Like me then.”
Lan Wangji falls asleep to the sound of his breathing. That night, he dreams of a child, grey-eyed and mercurial, with a laugh like sunlight and a smile bright enough to light up the whole world.