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Lan Wangji knows he would always have come to this conclusion. He will not credit Madam Yu of Yunmeng for anything, but if pressed, he can admit to himself that it was thanks to her words that the thought first crystalized into some semblance of a plan.

They were laughed off from behind the even lines of Wei Ying’s teeth, sweet mouth curling incredulously around them one by one. “Really, nothing would make her happier than to have Wei Wuxian no longer reflect upon the merits of Yunmeng, but I think what pleased her most was that I’ll be married to a man!”

He sprawls haphazardly in Lan Wangji’s lap, allowing him to slip soft, spiced candies into Wei Ying’s mouth whenever he pauses. His lips are dusted red—redder than usual.

Lan Wangji wonders if they will burn when he takes them between his teeth and licks the dust away. If he’ll taste Wei Ying for hours, after this, in the numbness of his tongue.

“No babies to outdo Jiang Cheng’s—if he ever gets around to making them,” he adds, his mouth falling open to Lan Zhan’s offering. His fingers are damp from where Wei Ying has been licking at them, soft and tentative, even as he looks up at Lan Wangji from beneath his lashes, wondering if he is pleasing. Knowing he is, maybe.

At the time, Lan Wangji only hums, giving no indication of the direction his thoughts have turned. His free hand drags over Wei Ying’s waist, settling over his stomach, fingers spread wide.

“Who wants to compete with him, anyway?” Wei Ying asks. “My Lan Zhan gives me everything I need.”

Lan Wangji kisses him. He cannot taste anything of that night’s meal, but he gives the best parts to Wei Ying, anyway. He will need to be strong and healthy when the time comes.

 

 

 

 

He struggles to choose between waiting until after they are wed, when Wei Ying is his in almost every way that matters, or telling him while the thrill of danger and the edge of taboo still simmer between them.

Ultimately, it is not a logical decision. He should not have expected it to be one. Wei Ying pulls restraint from him like the tearing of a seam or cracking of armor; when it comes—and it always comes—it is a violent thing.

“Tell me—tell me what you’ll do when we are wed,” he gasps, grinding down on Lan Wangji’s thigh. Until they are married—the ceremony so quickly put together the tailors complain night and day—this is all Lan Wangji allows either of them. When they are wed, he will own Wei Ying in every possible way a person can be owned and be taken in return.

There is something satisfying in it happening all at once, a cascade of shackles chaining them together, a solid weight.

Lan Wangji pushes his thumb against the softness of Wei Ying’s lower lip. “Again?” he murmurs. Wei Ying has heard it every night since he arrived in Gusu.

“Mhm.” Wei Ying hums as he takes Lan Wangji’s thumb into his mouth, curling his tongue around it and nodding so hard he nearly chokes.

He huffs, dismissive.

“Wei Ying has not earned it.”

A whine pressed to his skin. A desperate rocking against his thigh. When Lan Wangji offers no further information, Wei Ying pulls off his thumb with a hollow pop.

“Tell me,” he gasps.

Lan Wangji slides his hand down Wei Ying’s throat and tightens. A trail of saliva glistens on his skin. His gasp is reedy. “Say that again.”

Wei Ying reaches up to scrabble at his hand and arm, even as his hips twitch helplessly against Lan Wangji’s thigh. “Please,” he gasps, “please, can I—”

He eases his grip, drinking in the gulping breaths he’s forced.

Lan Wangji fills the dearth of words. “There is another ritual,” he blurts out, much before he means to. Still, he cannot back down now or excuse it away. “Small, private. Ancient.” He reaches down to squeeze at Wei Ying’s ass. “It will hurt. You will do it, won’t you.”

Hands curled sweetly against Lan Wangji’s chest, he buries his face in his shoulder, speaking close to his throat. “It hurts?”

Lan Wangji’s hand on him tightens. “No more than you can bear.”

“What does it do?”

Even through this, he rocks in languid slides against him, keeping himself hard, working his way up and up, shoulders tightening. Wei Ying’s sharp mind will latch on quickly if he gives it anything to catch.

Urging him on, Lan Wangji begins to press his thigh up, right when he anticipates Wei Ying will want it most. The gasp in his ear makes his free hand clench. It is better to say it like this, when he’s whining a little behind the teeth and greedy with it.

“It is another tie between us,” Lan Wangji explains. “Wei Ying, do you want to come?”

“Uh huh.” He’s nodding against the fabric of Lan Wangji’s robes. “I do, I do.”

“Will you give me this one thing?”

“Yeah, I am, I will, I—”

“Good.”

Wei Ying shudders, unspooling in his lap. His desperate rutting speeds before slowing dramatically, teeth buried mostly in the fabric of Lan Wangji’s robes, offering nothing more than a dull pressure. When he slumps, Lan Wangji draws his hand up his back, stroking up and down in soothing motions. Wei Ying trembles slightly in his arms.

“Lan Zhan,” he says in a breathless chuckle, “Lan Zhan, did you just seduce me into agreeing to super-marry you?”

He smiles, slightly. Wei Ying has received the intended message all on his own.

“And you accepted.”

“You’ll hold me to all of it, hm?” He pulls back to look at Lan Wangji’s face, eyes sparking a little. He nods.

Wei Ying laughs, dropping his head back down, this time to Lan Wangji’s chest. “Alright,” he says, palm over Lan Wangji’s heart, “I’ll marry you as many times as you want.”

 

 

 

 

Nie Huaisang brings the inkstones with him to the wedding festivities. He agrees to meet Lan Wangji in his personal garden, where he hands them over wrapped in a handkerchief of threaded grey.

This ritual originated in Qinghe, and is uncommon in any other domain. It is lucky that Lan Xichen has always been close with the warlord Nie Mingjue; his eye for strategy and righteous sense of justice made them natural friends, and Lan Wangji was thrown with Nie Huaisang often in an effort to replicate such a relationship.

It did not work exactly as planned, but he is an honored guest at Lan Wangji’s wedding, and the only one who knows of his plans.

“Take care of Wei-xiong, won’t you?”

Lan Wangji blinks.

“Silly question. Here you are.”

He does not ask if Wei Ying knows what they are for. He does not ask if Lan Wangji is experienced enough in cultivation to utilize them. He lets Lan Wangji take everything upon himself, shrewd in spite of how he clings at his brother’s ankle like a foolish child the moment they return to the other guests.

Quite a strange man, that Nie Huaisang.

 

 

 

 

Two nights before their wedding, Lan Wangji divests Wei Ying of all but his trousers, laying him out across the bed.

“You’re just going to paint me?”

“Us,” he corrects, “and no. It is not only inking.”

Wei Ying swallows as he watches Lan Wangji grind the stone. “You said it hurt.”

“I will have to seal it. Once on me, once on you.”

“And that hurts?”

“Like a burn,” Lan Wangji says. “Less than cauterization, but with the permanence of it.”

He watches Wei Ying’s hand travel to his stomach. Lower. “A tattoo?”

“Infused with spiritual energy.”

A slow smile is creeping across Wei Ying’s face. “What will it do?”

“Bind us.” If not tonight, then soon.

That same hand on Wei Ying’s body drums his fingers against his skin. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Okay,” he says, like he had a choice, like Lan Wangji would ever have given him another chance to answer after saying yes twice before. “Let’s do it.”

Lan Wangji grinds.

 

 

 

 

Having been careful so far, this is the most of Wei Ying’s body Lan Wangji has ever treated himself to. He is an endless expanse of soft, warm skin, made for Lan Wangji’s hands, sensitive to his touch.

Even before they begin, his cock strains slightly against his trousers. Cute.

“You must not squirm.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it. This cannot be redone.”

“I won’t!”

Lan Wangji believes he will try. Using his free arm to brace Wei Ying’s body, he begins to draw the radicals, the ink strong against the pale gold of his skin. His hand is steady and even, lines firm. It’s small and neat, the finalized symbol beautiful and clean; Lan Wangji is pleased.

Wei Ying’s eyes are wide as they watch. Lan Wangji blows out a hot breath across the drying ink on his skin. He shudders.

“You were very still,” Lan Wangji compliments. “Almost done.”

When it’s dry, he takes both of Wei Ying’s wrists in hand, holding them together above his head. The other he presses down over the symbol, gathering qi and taking a deep, even breath.

“Ready?”

Wei Ying’s eyes are huge when they meet his. “Not more than I can handle, right?”

Lan Wangji’s smile is in his eyes. Wei Ying trusts him so much, he doesn’t even question whether or not Lan Wangji knows the limits of his body, his heart.

“Wei Ying can handle this.”

“Okay.” He nods, quick and repeatedly. “Okay, do it.”

Lan Wangji sears the binding ritual into his skin.

It is a slower process than he would prefer, more delicate than he originally had thought it to be. Too much too soon, and Wei Ying’s body will develop improperly, the ritual possibly risking his health. Too slow, or not enough power, and the spiritual energy may fizzle out halfway, leaving him confused and in pain.

He is confident, however, in his abilities. He is more sure than anything that the things he does are for Wei Ying’s benefit, whether he knows it or not.

He will be beautiful in pregnancy. Luminescent and joyous; Wei Ying has already mentioned adopting children, after all, once or twice in passing.

A gasp works free from his throat, followed by a whimper. He struggles a little in Lan Wangji’s hold.

“Hush,” he soothes, brow furrowed in concentration.

Wei Ying’s next pained sound is louder. “Hurts,” he says, perhaps not even aware he’s saying it. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, face scrunched into a grimace. Lan Wangji traces the shape of it, committing it to memory.

He is so perfect, his Wei Ying. So pretty even when he’s hurting. Especially so.

“Almost done,” Lan Wangji murmurs. When Wei Ying whines and fights harder to squirm away, Lan Wangji is forced to tighten his grip on his wrists to the point of bruising. Oddly, that pain seems to distract Wei Ying from the pain of the ritual; his face smooths a little, mouth falling open.

Lan Wangji will remember this until he dies.

At last, he lets the energy fade, ebbing like the tide. The mark glistens a darker red, now, closer to the shade of fresh blood. It will dry red-black the same as blood does. The color of joy tinged with the touch of yin, intertwined, sinking into Wei Ying’s skin and changing him from the inside out.

When he allows himself to look, he finds that Wei Ying is fully hard inside his trousers. The smile returns to his eyes as he puts him back into his clothes, kissing his hair, his eyelids, his cheeks, his nose. He takes his mouth at such a leisurely pace that Wei Ying is mostly recovered by the time he is permitted to come up for air.

“You’ll do one too?”

“Mn. After meditation.”

“Can I watch?”

Lan Wangji debates internally for a moment, ultimately shaking his head. His thumb brushes the spot just under Wei Ying’s hooded eye. “Wei Ying should sleep.”

He pouts, but Lan Wangji will not be swayed. “Will you show me after, at least?” he asks. “I want to see us match!”

“My body will soon be Wei Ying’s, as Wei Ying’s will be mine.” He presses a kiss to his temple. “You will see it every day.”

Wei Ying skips down the hall a little as he slips from Lan Wangji’s quarters. Giddy, Lan Wangji thinks, impossibly fond of him. Even after hurting under his hands, Wei Ying is giddy at nothing more than the promise of belonging to one another.

Perfect.

 

 

 

 

The first second Wei Ying can get Lan Wangji alone the next day he takes his chance, untying his robes until he can bare his stomach. Lan Wangji lets him, amused, and watches his eyes widen. “Yours is different!”

“Mn.”

His fingers brush it, but it doesn’t feel any different than the rest of his skin. Wei Ying belatedly realizes he has never seen this much of Lan Wangji’s stomach; his face flushes and he snatches his hand back like he’s touched something hot.

Lan Wangji catches that same hand, lifting to his lips and touching the tips of Wei Ying’s fingers to his mouth as he speaks.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s prettier than I thought it’d be!” Wei Ying’s voice hushes as he sways toward Lan Wangji. “I couldn’t see it properly until I got back to my quarters. I must’ve stood in front of the mirror for an hour.”

Lan Wangji kisses his palm and lets go. “Wei Ying was meant to sleep.”

“I did!” He pouts a little. “After. You really thought I’d lay down without looking at what gege gave me?”

He did not, but it is good to keep Wei Ying on his toes, so he keeps quiet on the matter. Wei Ying responds in expected fashion, throwing his arms around Lan Wangji’s neck and pulling him even further into the alcove they’ve hidden in. “I always want er-gege’s gifts immediately,” he whispers, leaning up so his breaths fan Lan Wangji’s ear and neck.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji agrees. “Good I did not let you stay.”

“Hey!”

“Wei Ying would have slept even less.”

He falls back onto his heels to pout up at Lan Wangji. “How come yours seems brighter than mine?”

The answer is that his was not touched by yin energy, not sealed for fertility but for joyous red, evoking his virility. It ensured their compatibility. More bonded than ever, indeed.

Super married, as Wei Ying puts it.

They stand there a moment, Wei Ying’s silky robes brushing the bare skin of his chest as he leans close enough to hear Lan Wangji’s heart beating. Ever since their engagement negotiations began, since Wei Ying asked but do you even like me? and Lan Wangji had taken his hand and pressed it to his chest, telling him the heart will always be honest, Wei Ying has taken to listening for the rhythm, satisfying himself with the rapid beats whenever Wei Ying gets close.

“Bonded today, married tomorrow,” Wei Ying whispers, slowly taking Lan Wangji’s robes in hand and bundling them over him once more. His hands are light and quick, putting him back together again, until Lan Wangji is once more the untouched prince.

“Both, always,” Lan Wangji reminds. Wei Ying, rather than looking caught in a trap, gives a sunny little smile.

 

 

 

 

On the eve of their wedding, a servant loyal to Lan Wangji visits him. It is the first night he and Wei Ying have not broken the rules to be together, observing this last tradition and remaining separate, so that when they meet again it will be for marriage alone.

“He has been feeling nauseous and pained,” the servant informs him. Lan Wangji hides his pleasure, giving only a nod. “He declined to request a healer, but your word will be final.”

“No need.” Lan Wangji is certain the feeling will not persist, and close examination of Wei Ying will serve him ill. By tomorrow, Wei Ying’s body will no longer be changing, reshaped by the ritual he’s performed. By tomorrow, he will be ready.

He dismisses the servant. Less than a day until Wei Ying is his.

 

 

 

 

The wedding is resplendent. Wei Ying’s silk veil is a sheer, glimmery thing; he can make out the sharp beauty of his face beneath, all dainty lines and vixen eyes, lips painted such a dark red they almost match the mark Lan Wangji burned into his skin. Wei Ying serves tea with such grace that even Lan Qiren is impressed.

When they prostrate themselves, they do so together. Wei Ying is his; his bride, his husband, his prince, his wife, his equal.

 

 

 

 

Wei Ying is stickier than ever as they make their way to their chambers for the first time. Bigger and more resplendent even than Lan Wangji’s own quarters as prince, this wing of the palace will be theirs.

After the third time Wei Ying nearly trips over himself keeping up with Lan Wangji’s brisk movements, he sweeps Wei Ying’s legs out from under him, the long fabric of his wedding robes not a deterrent to someone with such long legs as Lan Wangji’s.

Wei Ying kicks his feet a little, settling in and wrapping his arms around Lan Wangji’s neck. “This veil must be really hard on you, hm?”

Lan Wangji does not answer, more interested in their destination, where he can unveil and disrobe Wei Ying as he pleases. His silence incentivizes his wife to continue.

“Have you gone this long without seeing my pretty face since we met? I don’t think so. Today I look especially beautiful, of course; only the best for Lan Zhan! How many times did you want to abandon it all and kiss me, hm? I’ll guess it was… twenty. Twenty-six! For me I think it must have been over one hundred times, but my husband has such dedication, I’m sure he would never allow his mind to wander as often as that.”

Art of Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian in their wedding robes, with Lan Wangji carrying Wei Wuxian as he babbles. Art by @Hell2DoAnything on twitter.

This question is a trick. Lan Wangji feels the urge to devour Wei Ying at all hours, a low-level simmer in the back of his mind. It is a pacing animal merely waiting to be unleashed.

“I thought Uncle would eat his beard when I served him tea, did you see his eyes? I chose this veil because I knew you would miss my face if you couldn’t see it a little, but I realized it doesn’t let me get away with anything at all, I had to bite my tongue the whole time until I thought it’d bleed, and then you’d poke at it, wouldn’t you? Just to see? Lan Zhan, dianxia, you really are lacking in restraint the moment I open my mouth, which is why I was so quiet all day and now I really can’t stop.”

They reach the door to their personal quarters. Wei Ying looks around with a laugh. “You didn’t leave any hands free! I’ll get it for you.” He reaches out, red-dipped nails riotous against the pale door, and pushes it open.

Lan Wangji slides out of his shoes and carries Wei Ying further inside.

The bed is high, an extravagant affair; Lan Wangji sets him at the edge and kneels down, removing his red boots and setting them beside his. Wei Ying wiggles his toes while he watches. There’s a hint of a smile behind the veil.

“I thought the veil would be first,” Wei Ying says as Lan Wangji approaches him again. He reaches behind him with both hands to prop himself up, leaning back, head tilted up to watch as Lan Wangji looms above. Lan Wangji begins divesting himself of his own ceremonial robes, watching the way Wei Ying’s breaths grow fast and shallow the more skin is revealed.

“Don’t you—” Wei Ying stops mid sentence, distracted, his eyes tracking over Lan Wangji’s torso and freezing just below. His throat bobs when he swallows. “Don’t you want to see?”

Lan Wangji removes his remaining underclothes. He can see the dark stain of Wei Ying’s mouth drop open behind the veil as he pushes forward, looking like he wants to reach out and touch.

He stops him with a hand on his chin, grasping firm through the silk still covering his face. “When I unveil my bride,” he says, “I will not leave his body again for some time.”

This time, he can actually feel it when Wei Ying swallows hard. He lets Lan Wangji tilt his head up, the ghost of grey eyes gleaming up at him.

“Oh.”

He holds on long enough that Wei Ying seems to understand, releasing a shuddering breath. Lan Wangji lets go. The veil falls back into place. With trembling hands, the fury of his need barely contained, he gathers and lifts the silk.

Claiming what’s his. Taking his prize.  

 

 

 

 

Wei Ying is resplendent like this.

The ritual mark shines in the candlelight, sloppy wet and gleaming from the mess dripping from Wei Ying’s cock; said cock curves pert and pretty against it, flushed red with overstimulation. His back arches upward in a sensuous display, hands scrambling above his head where they’ve been tied by the Lan sacred ribbon.

Earlier, Wei Ying had laughed at him forgetting to take it off, tugging at the ends and sucking on his earlobe. Now he tugs his wrists raw trying to free himself from it instead, mindlessly grasping for the fabric of the bedding beneath him.

He has not stopped whining since his orgasm, one long, continuous sound broken only by the breaths forced from him at the force of Lan Wangji’s thrusts. When he stops it is because the need to breathe properly overwhelms him, but by the hitching, gasping sounds spilling from him, it isn’t quite working.

Lan Wangji pulls his legs up over his shoulders and leans close, bending him nearly in half, pretty little cock still twitching between them. Wei Ying continues to gasp. Lan Wangji slows his thrusts, using the weight of his body to force himself deeper into Wei Ying, the natural curve of his cock ensuring he brushes the right spot in him again and again as he opens his body to his whims.

“Breathe.”

When Wei Ying tries to talk instead, Lan Wangji grinds to a halt, drawing a nasal whine of displeasure from him. “Wei Ying. Breathe.”

He gasps, glaring, and takes a few steadying breaths before trying to speak again. “Keep going,” he says, voice husky, “I can take it, keep going, give it to me, why did you stop?”

Because I prefer you living, he thinks and does not say. Wei Ying knows this already. He is being obtuse on purpose, blinking up at Lan Wangji with his long lashes and the rouge from his lips smeared across one cheek from the force of their kisses.

He knows what he is doing and he doesn’t.

“Do not ask for what you cannot receive,” Lan Wangji scolds, starting the slow rolls of his hips again, building back to the momentum he had before, the deep grinds of ferocity he craves. There’s a warmth in his stomach that goes beyond the natural; the final seal has yet to be completed, but his body craves it now, so close to what both he and the ritual need.

The flush on Wei Ying’s cheeks intensifies. “I’ll take a-anything,” he moans, stuttering as Lan Wangji interrupts him with a thrust. “Anything Lan Zhan gives me.”

Lan Wangji bends him further, putting Wei Ying’s flexibility to good use. They can nearly kiss, his face framed by the soft flesh of his thighs, eyes glassy and honest.

“Anything?”

Wei Ying nods rapidly, weak little noises punched from his throat every time Lan Wangji grinds in deeper.

“Everything.”

“Uh huh, uh, unh, huh—”

“Good.”

Lan Wangji cannot hold out any longer. The thought of Wei Ying taking his baby without question, without awareness, unable to say no yet saying yes to everything and anything Lan Wangji wants—it overtakes him. He comes with a hungry sound, biting down hard on Wei Ying’s thigh to muffle it.

His release triggers the final portion of the ritual he’s set in motion, opening Wei Ying’s body and ensuring he is receptive. There is a flood of wetness between them—more than can be attributed to his seed alone.

Wei Ying has not yet realized. “Brute,” he mumbles, “biting me like that. Lucky you came so much, in me, I didn’t know I’d like it so much, I really like it so much. You’ll do it again, won’t you? I can feel you still, you’re still hard, how are you still hard?”

Wei Ying opens his eyes with what seems like an impressive effort. Lan Wangji can do nothing but watch him, momentarily drunk on sensation.

“Lan Zhan, you really are the best.”

His grip on Wei Ying’s thighs tightens to bruising. “Quiet.”

“But I love making your brow furrow like that,” Wei Ying says, reaching up to clumsily pat at Lan Wangji’s face with two bound hands. “Yes, just like that. It’s—ha!—really—Lan Zhan—”

Lan Wangji recovers enough to begin slowly drawing in and out of Wei Ying’s body once more. His hole seemed hungry for him from the moment he got his fingers inside, but the wet heat squeezes even tighter now—realizing Lan Wangji has something it wants, maybe.

The new sensation and sensitivity has Wei Ying’s eyes rolling.

Lan Wangji picks up a steady pace, finding his rhythm and alternating between shallow thrusts and the occasional deep grind, the head of his cock pressing against where Wei Ying feels most empty. The wet slap of flesh on flesh fills the room and the air between them, Wei Ying’s cries growing higher and more desperate the longer and faster he takes him.

The wetter he gets, the more obvious it becomes that something has changed.

“What’s,” Wei Ying tries, breaking on a breathy little unh! as Lan Wangji fucks him hard, “What—what is—”

“You were made for me,” Lan Wangji interrupts. “Mine. Wei Ying’s body knows this.”

He arches his neck on a cry, the offering tempting. Lan Wangji allows Wei Ying’s legs to slide down to his elbows and wraps them solidly around his own waist before leaning down to sink his teeth into the tendons exposed.

Lan Wangji cannot hold back. His pounds into Wei Ying with all his considerable strength, until Wei Ying brings bound hands over his head and attempts to claw at his back, trying to get him to slow down, to stop. “It’s too, too much,” he gasps, hiccuping little sobs wrung from him every time Lan Wangji remembers to circle his hips just so, “you c-can’t, ge! Ge!

It doesn’t matter what he says when he’s soaking Lan Wangji’s cock as he says it. He snarls, one hand going around Wei Ying’s throat—not squeezing or bearing down, but the threat is enough to make Wei Ying’s eyes wide.

“Your pussy says differently.” Lan Wangji feels the swell of impending orgasm again. Judging by how purple-red Wei Ying’s cock is where it bounces between them, he’s even closer. “Should I ask it again?”

Wei Ying shatters beneath him, going entirely limp, cock twitching and leaking against his stomach like it wants this as bad as Lan Wangji does. “It wants to be filled,” Lan Wangji says as he licks at the tears on Wei Ying’s face. He can’t even remember when they started. “Do you agree?”

“Want it,” Wei Ying slurs, nodding clumsily. “Want it, er-gege gives me the best.”

Lan Wangji’s rhythm deteriorates. “Then take it,” he manages, near-breathless with the onslaught of his impending orgasm. “A-Ying’s pussy knows what’s best.”

He spills inside him moments later, his orgasm setting off Wei Ying’s as the feeling of Lan Wangji filling him up overwhelms him. It’s the most intense release Lan Wangji’s ever had, pumping seed into Wei Ying’s fertile body. He wonders if Wei Ying feels the same. If he knows without knowing, or perhaps feels the rightness down to his bones.

Neither can catch their breath for a moment, but it’s Wei Ying’s sharp tongue that recovers first. It could be no other way.

“Once more,” he demands, voice hoarse. “Put me on top and move me. You can go so much deeper, gege. Don’t you want to feel me?”

Lan Wangji huffs. “Insatiable.”

Wei Ying leans up just enough to lick his ear. “Did you not say my pussy is greedy and knows what’s best?”

Gathering the strength to make the change in positions, Lan Wangji feels a bubbling, incandescent warmth in his chest. There really is no other on this earth for him but Wei Ying.

 

 

 

 

Weeks later, after Wei Ying has been nauseous at all hours and Lan Wangji has been less performatively worried than he thought he’d be, the palace healer plays at shock quite well.

Wei Ying may have married in, but the royal family’s word remains final.

“Pregnant?” he whispers, awe and perhaps a little fear coloring his tone. He looks toward Lan Wangji, who drops a kiss to his brow, then turns back. “How?”

“Sometimes blessings come in strange forms.” The healer pauses, as rehearsed. “Has Lan er-furen been praying recently?”

To Lan Wangji’s surprise, Wei Ying blushes red. He’d expected his shameless wife to pin the blame on Lan Wangji, to wonder if it was his prayers that brought life to his body. It would not have been outside the realm of possibility.

Yet to know that Wei Ying thought about this, perhaps even prayed for them to start a family, albeit in a different way…

Lan Wangji cannot help gathering him into his arms.

“A baby,” Wei Ying whispers in his ear. His tone is all awe now.

“Ours,” Lan Wangji whispers back.

Wei Ying’s smiles that day are so plentiful and glowing; no one could possibly doubt that Wei Ying wanted this, whether he knew it was possible or not.

It is good for him that Lan Wangji can so easily anticipate his needs.