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The light through the canopy of the forest is watery soft, and Zhou Zishu can’t stop looking at the trinket flashing in Wen Kexing’s hands. It’s a smooth agate ring, about a cun in diameter, that he bought on a whim in a fit of sentimentality. It would be nice, he thought, for Lao Wen to have an actual gift from him, one he could wear at his waist, but then Wen Kexing kicked up such a fuss, exclaiming how a gift from his A’Xu should be cherished and worn close to the skin, not like any ordinary bauble!!
“You didn’t have any problem showing off that shard of the Glazed Armor on your yaopei,” Zhou Zishu groused.
“Ah, that was different! It hardly counts. This—” and here he flourished the ring so it caught the light, its striations flaring deep blood-amber in the sun “—is something A’Xu chose for me. How can I treat it the same?”
And so: the ring flickers between Wen Kexing’s fingers as they walk, distracting, irritating—he flips it easily across his knuckles, vanishes it, brings it back—it’s a problem of Zhou Zishu’s own making.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he huffs impatiently, stopping dead. He digs in his sleeve and produces a few lengths of leather cord from who-knows-where, beckoning Wen Kexing closer. “Give it here.”
“Ah?” Wen Kexing cocks his head, mischievous smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. He clutches the ring close to his chest theatrically. “You’re taking it back? How can you be so stingy, A’Xu?”
Zhou Zishu tsks. “Can you stop fussing? I can’t focus with you playing around with it like that.” He holds out his hand, and Wen Kexing places the ring in his palm. “Turn around.”
“Oh?” Still, Wen Kexing obeys. “And what are you doing?”
“Have some patience, won’t you?”
“Hmm,” Wen Kexing hums happily. “You know me, A’Xu. I’m not a very patient man.”
“Perfect opportunity for some self-improvement then,” Zhou Zishu snipes, though he could easily apply the same criticism to himself. He threads the ends of two lengths of the cord through the ring on opposite sides, pulling them through their own loops so the ring is caught between two simple hitches. They’re not even, but they’ll do.
“A’Xu, you’re really keeping me in such suspense?” Wen Kexing asks, but still, he stands there with his back exposed.
“All right, all right,” Zhou Zishu says, looping the cords around Wen Kexing’s throat. He brushes aside the curtain of hair, exposing the nape of Wen Kexing’s neck so he can tie the leather into a secure knot. It’s a little tight, but he expected that. The ring presses up against Wen Kexing’s throat by the time he’s finished.
Zhou Zishu rearranges Wen Kexing’s hair neatly and pats him twice on the shoulder. “There. Close enough to the skin for you?”
Wen Kexing has gone oddly quiet. He reaches pale fingers up to touch the stone lightly, as if afraid he won’t find it there.
Zhou Zishu frowns. “What’s the matter? Can’t breathe? Here—”
“I’m fine,” Wen Kexing says quickly. He flashes a smile, all teeth. He touches the stone again, more certain this time, running the tips of his fingers around its circumference. “Thank you, A’Xu.” He tips his chin up. “Is it pretty?”
The saturated red and milky white patterning is stark against Wen Kexing’s skin, the leather like dark slashes of ink on mulberry paper where it sits flush to his pulse. It’s too crude to match the rest of him.
Zhou Zishu snorts. “We’ll have to get better cords when we reach town. It looks more like a collar a child would tie on a cat than something suitable for a gentleman like yourself.”
Wen Kexing’s eyes light up. “A gentleman, you say?” He comes around and tucks his chin over Zhou Zishu’s shoulder. “I’d rather be A’Xu’s stray cat than a gentleman.”
Zhou Zishu rolls his eyes and his shoulder to shrug him off. “Are you done?”
“Never,” Wen Kexing says cheerfully.
It’s early evening by the time they enter the next town, the sun starting to dip its way beneath the horizon. A lazy orange glow suffuses the air, punctuated with the light of the lamps, cheerful little fires from street vendors. Spring is growing heavy with the telltale heat of summer, but the nights still offer up a coolness that Zhou Zishu knows will be gone in a week.
Wen Kexing flits from vendor to vendor, careless and quick as a bird, spending Zhou Zishu’s money the way sand flows from a loose fist, chatting with the merchants, tugging on Zhou Zishu’s sleeve as he charms his way down the street. Zhou Zishu finds his eyes catching on the ring, still on the ring—it’s striking in its unexpected presence, and it bobs with the motions of Wen Kexing’s throat when he speaks. No one comments on it, but Zhou Zishu sees more than one person eye it curiously. Something coils strange and thrilling in his chest at that, not quite affection, not quite anger.
“Lao Wen, you’re going to spoil your appetite like that,” he says when Wen Kexing starts making his way towards a fourth vendor selling sweets.
“Ai, don’t nag, A’Xu,” Wen Kexing says, not slowing down in the slightest.
“Enough,” Zhou Zishu says. “Or aren’t you going to eat dinner?”
“Spoilsport,” Wen Kexing shoots back. “Look, they have dragon’s beard—ah! and with walnut filling—”
“I said enough,” Zhou Zishu repeats, hooking a finger under the leather before he can think about it. His knuckle grazes Wen Kexing’s vertebra—he feels the way the makeshift choker presses against Wen Kexing’s windpipe, hears his surprised gasp.
Wen Kexing falls silent immediately, stops mid-stride.
It feels like everything stops mid-stride, really.
Wen Kexing slowly turns his head to look at Zhou Zishu, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. Zhou Zishu’s finger is still hooked under the leather knot , the ring pulled tight against the hollow of Wen Kexing’s throat.
It’s crude, yes, but Zhou Zishu suddenly finds that he rather likes it that way.
He tugs on the leather again just to hear Wen Kexing make that little half-choked noise again, nearly lost amidst the bustling crowd of evening-goers.
“We’re getting dinner now,” he says slowly. It’s not phrased as a question, but he watches Wen Kexing’s expression carefully. Is this all right? he is not asking.
Wen Kexing lowers his eyes. “ Yes, A’Xu ,” he says softly. His tongue darts out between his lips and disappears again.
Zhou Zishu leads them to an inn he spotted a short ways up the street, letting his hand trail down to the small of Wen Kexing’s back. He feels the shiver that passes through his palm, that wends its way like liquid gold up through his arm.
Zhou Zishu orders them a table and a room for the night while Wen Kexing stands beside him, docile and quiet. The in n keeper nods, then turns to Wen Kexing. “And will you be needing a second room?” he asks politely .
Wen Kexing doesn’t answer, just turns to look at Zhou Zishu, eyes wide and blinking prettily.
“No,” Zhou Zishu replies for him. “One room is fine, thank you.” He holds out a hand expectantly, raising an eyebrow with an impatient click of his tongue when Wen Kexing doesn’t move. “Well, Lao Wen? How do you think we’re paying for this?”
Wen Kexing gives a small start of realization, then reaches into his robes to pull out his own money pouch. He sets it gently in Zhou Zishu’s waiting hand. The silk is warm from the heat of his body.
Zhou Zishu takes out a generous amount to pay the grateful innkeeper, then hands it carelessly back to Wen Kexing, who tightens the drawstring before slipping it back under his robes against his chest.
At the table, Wen Kexing seems to rouse a little, looking around curiously to see what the other patrons are having. “Oh, A’Xu, that looks good, doesn’t it?” he says, nodding his head at three men sharing an entire steamed fish.
“Mm,” Zhou Zishu hums noncommittally. Wen Kexing cranes his neck to see what the couple behind Zhou Zishu is eating, and Zhou Zishu tsks at him. “What are you, a peeping tom?”
“A’Xu!” Wen Kexing exclaims, affecting a wounded mien, though the amusement playing around his lips ruins the effect somewhat. “You know you’re the only flower I’d pick.”
“Then act like it,” Zhou Zishu says, sharpening his tone at the edges, just to see. When Wen Kexing’s eyes start to slide away impishly at the challenge, Zhou Zishu reaches across the table easily and grabs him by the chin, forcibly turning his head so they’re facing again. “Or shall I make you?” When Wen Kexing makes to shake him off, Zhou Zishu presses his fingers hard enough against his jawbone to hurt, but not enough to bruise, before releasing him.
When the waiter comes by to take their order, Zhou Zishu cuts in before Wen Kexing can say a word, plucks the menu right out of his hands.
“A’Xu!” Wen Kexing exclaims.
“You’ll eat what I order you,” Zhou Zishu says without even sparing him a glance, and Wen Kexing falls silent.
The waiter looks between them, expression going a little unsure around the edges. What does it matter? Zhou Zishu has long since stopped caring what others think of him. He flashes a polite smile at the waiter and orders the steamed fish for them to share.
The instant the door to their room slides closed, Wen Kexing’s hands are everywhere, his lips mouthing up at the corner of Zhou Zishu’s jaw.
“Did I say you could touch?” Zhou Zishu asks coldly.
“Mm,” Wen Kexing hums, nipping at his earlobe. “A’Xu, don’t be like that—ah!”
Zhou Zishu hooks his finger into the ring at Wen Kexing’s throat and yanks. Wen Kexing’s hands flutter and then drop away. Zhou Zishu nods approvingly. “Good. Are you listening now?”
“Y-yes,” Wen Kexing breathes.
Zhou Zishu drags him by the ring to the center of the room where a slice of moonlight cuts across the floor. “On your knees.”
Wen Kexing goes obediently, his eyes a little hazy and unfocused. The shard of moonlight glides across his shoulder, throws half his face into the likeness of soft, cool nephrite. They haven’t discussed this, whatever is happening between them in this half-waking dream. It feels dangerous, like walking the edge of a craftsman’s razor, and perhaps wiser men would pause and take stock—but neither Zhou Zishu nor Wen Kexing have ever been accused of being wise, and neither the head of Tian Chuang nor the master of the Ghost Valley were known for backing down first.
And so: “Undo your sash,” Zhou Zishu says dispassionately , “And then the ties.”
Wen Kexing’s hands go to his waist and release the knot of the sash. The silk of his skirt slithers to the ground with a hiss. His collar goes loose, and when he finishes undoing the ties of his robes, it falls open to expose him from collarbone to navel.
Zhou Zishu reaches down to cup Wen Kexing’s cheek with his palm, skimming his thumb over his cheekbone. Wen Kexing closes his eyes, nuzzling into the touch. “Am I lovely, A’Xu?” he murmurs.
“Beyond compare,” Zhou Zishu says, and then slaps him—not hard, just enough for the sound to split the air like a whip, just enough to hear Wen Kexing gasp. “Now stop being a brat.”
Zhou Zishu undoes his own robes with careless efficiency, letting the fabric fall into heaps on the ground as he pulls himself out of his trousers. The head of his cock nudges against Wen Kexing’s lips. “Open up,” he coaxes.
Wen Kexing’s eyes flutter shut as he lets his mouth go loose, sucking Zhou Zishu in shallowly so just the tip of him slides over the heat of his tongue. Zhou Zishu keeps his breathing as even as he can, though his heart gives a stutter against his ribcage. He threads his fingers into the hair at Wen Kexing’s temple, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the crown of his head. “Good,” he whispers. “Make me want to take your cock.”
Wen Kexing moans at that, surging forward messily so that he nearly chokes himself. Zhou Zishu can’t help the sharp intake of breath that cuts the air. He tightens his grip in Wen Kexing’s hair until he hears a pained whine and Wen Kexing pulls off.
“Don’t be greedy,” Zhou Zishu chastises, tugging sharply so that Wen Kexing looks up at him, brows pinched, eyes wet with involuntary tears.
“Yes, A’Xu—” he gasps. “Yes, yes.” His hands come up to grip at Zhou Zishu’s wrist, “Please—I’ll be good. It hurts.”
Zhou Zishu releases his hold, gently massaging the tender scalp under his fingers. “All right, Lao Wen. Ready to try again?”
Wen Kexing nods fervently and leans in, one hand on Zhou Zishu’s hip, one gripping him at the base as he bobs his head. Zhou Zishu lets his head fall forward with a quiet groan of satisfaction. Wen Kexing’s mouth is warm and soft and wet as he laps and sucks, and when Zhou Zishu curls two fingers into the ring at Wen Kexing’s throat to pull him deeper, he gags and whimpers.
Zhou Zishu lets this go on for long minutes, where the quiet of the room is broken only by their mingled breath and wet slips of the tongue. Outside, the muffled sounds of the town at night ebb and swell merrily. This, the knowledge that there is a world just beyond the windows and walls, but that they are here, alone, secret and obscene, is a strange thrill in the body. He is riding the mouth of a beautiful man in the darkness, the dangerous edges of him reduced to a docile thing made to please, and Zhou Zishu is seized with the sudden urge to kiss and touch—
He drags Wen Kexing back to his feet by the collar, heedless of the way he whines in protest, and cups a hand around the back of his neck for a hungry open-mouthed kiss. Wen Kexing’s lips are a little swollen—Zhou Zishu pictures how red they would be in sunlight and growls at the thought, pushing his tongue into Wen Kexing’s mouth. He tastes a bit like musk, a bit like wine, a bit like spices—mostly, he tastes human and imperfect.
Zhou Zishu runs his hand down Wen Kexing’s bare chest, scrapes his nails across his nipples to feel him shudder and jump. He fumbles at Wen Kexing’s waistband, undoing the butterfly knot so that his trousers slip off his hips and pool around his feet. Shoving their bodies flush, Zhou Zishu takes both of them in his hand at once, stroking a few times. Wen Kexing starts to shrug off the robes still hanging from his shoulders, and Zhou Zishu breaks the kiss.
“No,” he says sharply. “Keep those on.”
Wen Kexing pauses, tips his head curiously as he breathes heavily.
“I like the way they look on you,” Zhou Zishu says. “Keep them on while I ride you.”
Wen Kexing’s eyes go darker. “Yes, A’Xu,” he says.
Zhou Zishu pulls them over to the bed, shoves Wen Kexing down onto his back. He goes willingly, his hair spread out beneath him, black tendrils against the lighter bedspread. The robes are lovely, half-on, half-off, the fabric draped around his nude figure like an artist’s portrait. Wen Kexing presents his neck, letting the collar catch the moonlight.
Zhou Zishu could slit his throat in the span of a heartbeat, could crush his windpipe, shatter his bones with a single blow—Wen Kexing would let him. Zhou Zishu could leave him bleeding and broken like this.
What a precious thing to know and have.
Zhou Zishu shoves his own trousers off and straddles Wen Kexing, pulling the jar of oil from his sleeve. Wen Kexing’s gaze follows it as Zhou Zishu slicks up his fingers and starts to prepare himself without flourish or care.
“A’Xu,” Wen Kexing whispers. “May I?” He reaches up, and Zhou Zishu slaps his hand away.
“No,” he says. “You may only watch.”
“A’Xu!” Wen Kexing whines.
“Complain again and I’ll get myself off and leave you wanting,” Zhou Zishu threatens.
This silences him, but Zhou Zishu doesn’t miss the way his wide eyes fix on his fingers sliding in and out, nor the way he bites his bottom lip in anticipation. Zhou Zishu has never been the kind of person who likes to put on a show, but sometimes, the way Wen Kexing looks at him makes him wish he were, just a little.
What he is is impatient, and he starts to lower himself onto Wen Kexing’s cock before he’s as open as he should be. It’s tight and it burns, but when has pain ever deterred him from something he really wants?
It takes what feels like an eon, Wen Kexing trembling and gasping out wordless noises of encouragement all the while. When Zhou Zishu finally has him all the way in, their thighs touching, he has to take a moment to breathe. It’s in this between of moments that Wen Kexing reaches up to caress Zhou Zishu’s face, long, large-knuckled fingers soft against his sweaty skin.
“Oh, A’Xu,” Wen Kexing says.
Zhou Zishu can’t help it—he leans down to kiss him again, chaste and sweet, noses bumping gently, mouths moving slow and easy. A moment.
Wen Kexing’s cock presses up against the spot inside him that feels like a tongue of fire and Zhou Zishu moans as he breaks away, rolling his hips until he finds it again.
“Ah—A’Xu, oh—” Wen Kexing reaches for him as if to grab him by the hips, but Zhou Zishu catches both of his wrists and slams them back down agains the bed on either side of his head.
“I said, you may only watch,” Zhou Zishu repeats, setting a new and punishing rhythm.
“Ah—!” Wen Kexing’s eyes go closed, brow furrowing. “A-A’Xu—ah—”
“Already?” Zhou Zishu asks. “So fast, Lao Wen?”
“I—” Wen Kexing’s eyes fly open again and he glares. “It’s—it’s A’Xu’s fault,” he manages. “How am I supposed to—when—ah—when—”
Zhou Zishu slows down, a smile creeping across his face.
“Fuck!” Wen Kexing curses, wrists twisting in Zhou Zishu’s grip. “Fuck, A’Xu!”
“I can’t have you coming before I do,” Zhou Zishu says lightly, moving at a torturously languid pace. “That wouldn’t do, would it?”
W en Kexing keens, arching his back. Zhou Zishu might not be a showman, but Wen Kexing certainly is. Zhou Zishu leans down to suck a mark onto the side of Wen Kexing’s neck, feeling his pulse jump and skitter under his lips. And then, unsure why, he pauses to linger over the ragged scar that cuts across his shoulder. Here is where I nearly lost you, he thinks in a helpless flash.
In reply, Wen Kexing slips a hand out from under Zhou Zishu’s loosened grip to touch the scar at his tianshu point, two fingers light on his abdomen where a nail was once fixed. He raises an eyebrow, expression three parts serious, two parts wry, as if he knows exactly what Zhou Zishu is thinking. And here is where I nearly lost you, he seems to say. Even with a flush high on his cheeks, his lips wet and panting— still, he says it back without a word.
Zhou Zishu catches his hand and brings it to his lips with a reverence that’s rare between them as he begins to move again.
“Don’t you dare come before me,” he murmurs into Wen Kexing’s wrist before bringing it down to his erection so Wen Kexing can wrap his long fingers around him.
“I won’t, I won’t—A’Xu—”
It takes what feels like three breaths in tandem: one, Wen Kexing’s thumb pressing up beneath the head of his cock; two, the way his eyes close as if in ecstatic revelation; three—
Zhou Zishu feels the orgasm hit him like the crash of a wave breaking itself against a rocky cliff. He makes a sound that could almost be a word and watches his release spatter over Wen Kexing’s chest and stomach in messy stripes, watches drops of it hit his chin, stain the leather at his neck, bead on the stone that marks him. Wen Kexing doesn’t stop stroking him, cum between his knuckles, running in a thin rivulet down his arm.
“A’Xu,” Wen Kexing asks piteously. “I want to come.”
“Ask,” Zhou Zishu tells him, continuing to ride him even as the sensations start to border on painful. “Beg.”
“A’Xu, may I come? A’Xu, please, master, please, may I—?”
Zhou Zishu folds himself down to kiss Wen Kexing, their bodies pressed together and slipping against the mess. “Yes,” he growls against his lips. “Yes, yes, come on, yes—”
Wen Kexing gives out the breathy stuttered moan that he almost always does when he comes inside Zhou Zishu, his cock sliding easier, his release seeping out between them. Zhou Zishu keeps rolling his hips until Wen Kexing starts to whine a little and then thrusts a few more times for good measure before relenting.
They lie together, sticky and spent, no sound but their heavy breathing, already slowing.
Wen Kexing shoves weakly at Zhou Zishu’s shoulder. “A’Xu, move, your hair is tickling my nose,” he complains.
“You move,” Zhou Zishu grumbles, pillowing his head more securely. “I’m comfortable.”
“You cannot possibly be comfortable,” Wen Kexing protests. “In a moment you’re going to start getting squirmy about how disgusting it all is, see if you don’t—”
“That’s in a moment,” Zhou Zishu says. “Right now, I’m comfortable.”
Wen Kexing worms his cum-covered hand out from between them and smears it unevenly across Zhou Zishu’s back in retaliation.
“Gross.” Zhou Zishu lifts his head to glare. “How old are you?”
Wen Kexing waggles his eyebrows and licks his fingers pointedly. There’s too much mirth in his eyes for it to be seductive, too much mischievous artlessness to be anything but silly. Zhou Zishu starts to laugh because he can’t help it, and then Wen Kexing is laughing too, snorting inelegantly into Zhou Zishu’s offending hair.
In a moment, the discomfort really will outweigh the drowsy afterglow reluctance to move and they’ll have to attend to the mundane and the human: to bathe, to change, to prepare for sleep before another long day of travel. Perhaps they’ll even talk about this thing they’ve just done, or perhaps it will become another unspoken agreement between them. In a moment.
For now they are holding each other, and for now, they are laughing.