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and so... they were both bottoms

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The foothills of Qishan are dark tonight, the moon and stars obscured by heavy clouds. In the starless night, campfires burn like fireflies at the base of Qishan. Cloth tents have been erected amidst the trees. A great battle has been won today, an immense victory obtained, and the soldiers are out in full celebration.

Sitting by the fire, Jiang Cheng raises his jar as the others call a toast, bringing it to his lips, and drinking deeply. The lights around him glow with a strange, blurry beauty— a result of the alcohol, no doubt, as well as the evening mists that have descended over the mountains. He smiles as a soldier leans over with a fresh jar of wine. He does not usually join the men in their celebrations, but this is a special occasion.

Qinghe has been retaken, Qishan breached, and it seems only a matter of time before the rest of Qishan will fall as well.

They drink and make merry till late into the night. One by one the soldiers stagger back to their tents, or drop off to sleep by the fire, while some head to the brothel in the town nearby. After a few hours, the only ones left behind are Jiang Cheng, and one other soldier. The young man comes around the fire, bringing an unopened jar of wine with him.

He has a strong, solid build, but his wrists arch gracefully as he pours the wine into two separate cups. He hands one to Jiang Cheng.

“A copper piece for your thoughts, young master?” he asks, before shaking his head. “No, it’s sect leader now, isn’t it?”

“Either is fine,” Jiang Cheng says.

The young man sits a respectful distance away.

“You seem to have a lot on your mind,” he observes.

Jiang Cheng closes his eyes with a quiet sigh, and rubs gently at the spot between his eyebrows. Indeed, he has much to think about. 

In the darkness, the memory of the day’s victory returns to him. They had overwhelmed the guards so quickly, so decisively, that those on the perimeter had not even had enough time to alert those inside before the Sunshot army had taken the entire base for itself. Unprepared, the Wen soldiers had barely put up a fight.

It had seemed almost anticlimactic.

Sandu lies over his lap now, a comfortable and familiar weight. Against his back, another blade sits strapped to his shoulders, the shape of it just as familiar to him as his own sword.

He’s grown so much since the last time he touched this sword. When he last grasped it, he’d still been a boy, young and untroubled and free from grief and vengeance. Now, he has killed. He has experienced what it’s like to hold a human life in his hands. When Lan Wangji had uttered that single command, quiet, but trembling with rage and grief, something in him had shaken—

Kneel.

In that moment, he had keenly felt the weight of power, shifting irrevocably into their grasps. He had felt the weight of duty, to protect, to avenge, laid in his hands. He had felt all the weight of the world upon his shoulders.

Suibian had felt so much heavier than he remembered.

He looks past the flicker of flames, deep into the dark, starless night, and wonders: do you still live? 

He closes his eyes.

Wei Wuxian, do you still live?

He opens his eyes, picks up his cup, and downs it in one go. As he sets it down again, the soldier leans over and fills it.

“Is there,” he begins slowly, “something I can do to alleviate you from your thoughts, sect leader?”

“Thoughts are not a bad thing to have,” Jiang Cheng says tiredly.

“They are when they make you sigh like that,” the soldier responds.

Jiang Cheng startles, turning to look at the soldier properly. 

He’s daring. 

From the shade of his clothing, Jiang Cheng can tell that he’s from one of the minor sects. From the quality— he must be a relatively senior disciple, perhaps even the young master of the sect. He is also young, more a boy than a man, flushed with youth and all its earnesty. He must be around the same age as Jiang Cheng.

“What do you want?” Jiang Cheng asks bluntly.

“To be of use to you,” the soldier replies without hesitation.

He’s sitting with his cup in his lap, head angled down, casting his face in shadow. Jiang Cheng picks up Sandu, impatiently pressing the sheath under the young man’s chin and tilting it up. He looks into wide brown eyes, and sees no deceit or ulterior motive, only honesty and—

Oh.

Well.

He’s certainly never had that kind of look directed at him before, not with Wei Wuxian by his side, like a sun blazing bright enough to drown out the stars. He’s never had enough light to shine amidst that glory.

He lowers Sandu slowly into his lap, and the young man ducks his chin, looking equal parts elated and scandalized. After a moment, his eyes flick up to look at Jiang Cheng again. This time, Jiang Cheng recognizes the look on his face immediately.

Idol worship.

“I can be whatever you want me to be,” the young man promises, flustered. “If you want me to submit, I will. Whatever you want to do, you can. I’ll take anything you can give.”

“What are you expecting me to give?” Jiang Cheng asks curiously.

The young man’s flush deepens.

“Your hands,” he says. “Your lightning. Your—“

His Adam’s apple bobs in the flickering light.

“Your cock,” he whispers.

Jiang Cheng chokes on his wine, and quickly jabs the meridian point under his collarbone to suppress the coughing.

“Are you propositioning me?!” he demands hoarsely.

The soldier blinks.

“I—“ he begins. “Well, I mean— yes.”

Jiang Cheng processes that slowly.

“Why me?” he asks, with no small amount of disbelief.

“Because I think you’d hold me down and make me like it,” the young man says.

That sends a thrill of arousal through Jiang Cheng’s belly. He instinctively adjusts Sandu in his lap, clutching its sheath as if for comfort.

“You can hurt me too,” the young man presses on. “I’d enjoy it.”

Jiang Cheng clears his throat.

“I’m honored,” he says awkwardly. “But I’m afraid— I won’t be what you’re looking for.”

The young man’s eyes flick up to meet Jiang Cheng’s. His almond eyes are dark in the flicker of flames, dark with lust; dark and assessing. After a moment, he tilts his chin up, drawing a breath as if in realization.

“I see,” he says, surprised.

What do you see? Jiang Cheng wants to ask.

“I understand what you mean,” the man continues.

What do I mean? Jiang Cheng wonders, bewildered.

“Thank you,” the man says.

“You’re welcome,” Jiang Cheng replies automatically.

The soldier bows his head, and picks up his sword.

“What I wanted to be for you is not what you wanted me to be,” he says seriously. “Sect leader, I hope that you will find a man that can give you what you need.”

Then, with a final bow of his head, he leaves the fireside.

Jiang Cheng sits there for a moment, stunned and utterly confused.

What just happened?

Finally, he shakes it off, picks up the jar of wine, and returns to his tent. As he strolls through the cooling night, he becomes aware of a strange heat in his body. 

Perhaps the alcohol has finally caught up with him. He hasn’t felt this warm since the time he, Wei Wuxian, and Nie Huaisang had gotten stinkingly drunk at the Cloud Recesses, and gotten caught by Lan Wangji in the morning. Still, the jar is still more than half full, and it would be a waste to throw it away. 

Sitting down on his bedroll, he brings the jar to his lips, and chugs the rest. Once it is empty, he tosses the jar to the side, gasping like a man coming up from sea, and drags his sleeve across his lips.

Then, he hiccups once, lays down— and goes straight to sleep.




He dreams in fragments of fire and ecstasy.

In dreams, he is tangled in sweat-damp sheets, held down by strong hands as pleasure wracks his body and leaves him shuddering. He dreams of pain, like flames burning through his body. He dreams of lightning lancing through his veins.

Kneel, a distorted voice thunders.

He drops to his knees.

The voice returns, gentler, but no less commanding— Jiang Wanyin, lay down your burden.

And he opens his mouth in surrender.

He dreams of tossing in a sea of flames, crying out under the weight of another body. He dreams of being plundered. He dreams of being conquered. He dreams of hands in his hair, and nails against his skin; he dreams of rough hands on his cock, and a hot rod pistoning in and out of his slick body.

He dreams of being taken.

He dreams of being forced down— of being made to like it.




When he wakes, he is consumed with lust and shame, the world around him still spinning with hazy intoxication. Moaning, he reaches down, and frantically pushes his pants down, kicking his legs blindly until they are bunched around one ankle. He takes his cock in hand and begins to jerk it roughly. 

Without any oil or gel, his calloused palms drag painfully against his sensitive skin, but somehow, that only adds to the pleasure. His half-asleep mind continues to unspool the fantasy from where the dream had left off.

In his mind’s eye, he pictures a faceless man lying on top of him, heavy over his groin. Panting, Jiang Cheng folds his legs up and open, imagining rough hands on his most sensitive parts. Still jerking himself with one hand, his free hand shoots down to grab his balls and squeeze.

“Ow,” he sobs. “Please, I—“

He slaps his own cock, hard.

“Ow,” he whines.

He gasps, twisting away from his own hands, as he continues to slap and pinch, clawing at his own thighs and leaving pink streaks. Finally, he reaches up by his pillow. Since leaving Yunmeng, he has begun sleeping with a dagger beside him. He takes that dagger now, and pats blindly around until he finds his pack. He coats the hilt liberally in sword oil, and brings it down between his legs.

As he feels the first press of its blunt head against his hole, he moans, the sound shocking loud in the silence of his tent.

“You can do whatever you want to me,” he murmurs fervently, slurring a little from the lingering effects of the wine. “You can— oh, please, sir— please—“

The cold pommel begins to spread him open.

“Hurts—“ he whimpers. “Big— please be gentle— please—“

He shoves the hilt roughly in.

“Ow!” he sobs. “Sir, please—“

He mercilessly begins to thrust the hilt in and out. The swell of the pommel is rubbing against a spot inside him that— His pleas for mercy immediately melt into pleas for more, harder, faster—

“Please, sir,” he whines. “You can do whatever you want— whatever you want— please—“

He slaps his cock, slaps his balls, slaps his thighs and belly and rakes his nails repeatedly over his sides.

“More—“ he sobs. “Please, more, sir, more—“

He shoves the hilt in, all the way, until he can feel the steel guard against his cheeks, but it’s still not enough.

“Hurt me,” he begs.

His own voice comes back to him then, calm and curious: What are you expecting me to give?

The soldier’s voice responds: Your hands. Your lightning—

He lets power course down his arm and into his ring. Electricity crackles briefly, rushing along the metal hilt, going straight into his most sensitive core— His back shoots up off the bed, mouth opening in a silent scream.

As the electricity dies, he looks down with hazy eyes to see his cock twitching weakly against his belly. The red head of it is swollen now, peeking out of the foreskin with arousal. He grabs the exposed head with his free hand, and releases a short bout of lightning.

He throws his head back against the pillow.

“No—“ he chokes out. “Please, sir, it hurts so bad—“

He shocks himself again. His other hand speeds up, driving the hilt more desperately into himself.

“It hurts, sir!” he sobs. “It hurts!”

His stomach tightens at the steady glide of the dagger hilt in and out, the ridges rubbing repeatedly against that sensitive spot. He can feel the pleasure mounting in his core, rising higher, and higher—

“I’m coming!” he cries. “Oh, please, sir, please— can I come, please?”

He tilts his hips up, needy, as he waits for an imagined answer.

No.

The answer surprises him.

He squeezes down hard on his cock to stop the orgasm, moaning confusedly. With the other hand, he continues to fuck himself. He screws up his face, body curling a little on itself, as he tries to fight against the growing tide of his pleasure.

“Please, sir, may I cum?!” he begs frantically, confused.

No.

He clamps down, holding the orgasm in with everything he can muster.

“Sir!” he cries. “Sir, please!”

No.

“Sir, can I come?! Please!”

No.

He shocks the tip of his cock again, using the pain to keep his orgasm at bay.

“Please—“ he breathes hoarsely. “Please— Please—“

And finally, after a long pause—

Come.

It’s like falling down a waterfall, exhilarating and frightening, like being tossed around by rushing water, overwhelming and a little painful. His mind blanks as orgasm takes him violently under. 

When he resurfaces, his stomach is covered in his own spend, and the hilt is slipping slowly out of his ass. He shifts his hips, and the dagger falls all the way out. Then, he turns onto his side, mind going a mile a minute.

What was that?

What, in heaven’s name— was that?!

Still, in the aftermath of his pleasure, his mind feels slow and sleepy. The lingering effects of the alcohol do little to keep him lucid.

His heavy lids fall shut. He blinks once, twice, slow and effortful, before closing his eyes.

Whatever.

He’ll think about it in the morning.

He slips into slumber, head still spinning. 




When he wakes in the morning, the night before feels like a distant dream. Unfortunately, the oiled dagger and the crusted mess on his stomach serve as evidence of his drunken misadventures.

I was drunk, he tells himself firmly, as he scrubs the mess off his skin. I’m not interested in getting hurt, fucked, or dominated.

Yet somehow, the mere thought sends a shameful frisson of arousal through his gut. He shuts his eyes tight.

I’m not, he insists.

Once he’s cleaned himself up the best he can, he glares down at his still half-hard cock. Then, with a frustrated groan, he snatches Sandu up, and heads off for the training ground.

He’s got some legs to break.