Work Text:
The youth kneeling on the floorboards of the Lanshi was a phantom from Lan Qiren’s memories: the sharp jawline, the sweep of silk-fine black hair, the body held with stubborn pride despite the inherent submission of the posture, were all familiar from his youth.
The ghost vanished when the young man turned to look over his shoulder, anxious for his punishment to begin. Where Yu Ziyuan had been sharp edges and a sharper tongue, a force of nature to rival any young master of their generation, her son had inherited some of Jiang Fengmian’s softness.
It was no burden to be so desired by a beautiful young man.
Nonetheless, rules were rules, and it was inappropriate to initiate intimacy in the Lanshi, a place of learning for Lan and visiting disciples. The punishment must suit the transgression.
The ferule, leaned against the wall in plain sight beside the privacy screen, was another potential consequence. Lan Qiren doubted he would require it today. Paper and ink were enough; Jiang Wanyin wanted, always, to be good.
(Wanyin hadn't guessed that the ferule doubled as an unspoken signal for privacy.)
Jiang Wanyin clenched around the penetrating thrust of Lan Qiren's cock, body seeking friction while his mind struggled against an instinctual desire to move, forcing himself to take each dragging inch without pushing back to meet or rush the movement. Lan Qiren, fully seated, adjusted himself to sit comfortably and took stock of his workspace.
Jiang Wanyin released his held breath in a ragged gasp.
Lan Qiren collected his brush and let it rest on the lip of the inkwell, drawing out the moment, while his lover breathed deeply through his nose, then exhaled through grit teeth.
Forced calm worked through Jiang Wanyin's posture at last with another steadying breath. The muscles of his shoulders bunched and released, and his head dipped low, until his forehead brushed the rosewood desk, spilling dark hair and beads of sweat onto the table between his braced arms. His body shook minutely. "Apologies, laoshi. Please continue."
When the tremors passed, Lan Qiren reached for a sheet of paper, arranging it on the makeshift desk of Jiang Wanyin's back. He laid a steadying palm across the page while he spoke. "Wanyin must learn to temper his base urges. If not, we will begin again with another verse." Certain that Wanyin would remain still for him, Lan Qiren dipped his brush into fresh ink and began.
The conditions of failure were implied: one missed stroke, a smear or splatter of ink across the page, would require Lan Qiren to start again until the verse was copied in full. Failure and starting over increased the likelihood that someone would interrupt and catch Sect Leader Jiang mid-punishment, pants folded neatly at the far end of the desk, split open and glistening and forced to endure it without complaint—
(Jiang Wanyin should consider himself lucky that Lan Qiren was master over his own base urges. Lan Qiren would have him in every hidden corner of Cloud Recesses, against the rocky ledge of the cold pond, in the long grass of the back fields or warming his lap in front of an audience of diligent students, but for a lifetime of tempering passion into something controllable.)
Jiang Wanyin had settled into meditative silence, forehead rested on his fists, back rising and falling in steady, predictable intervals. His qi was a steady thrum beneath his skin instead of a turbulent river, and he reacted to the twitch of Lan Qiren's cock with a sigh that was more sound than movement.
Good. Lan Qiren brought them closer, stroke by stroke, to retreating to his private wing, and due rewards for good behaviour.