Work Header

out to get you (to get you)

Chapter Text

Given the choice, Lan Wangji would choose a high-class house in which to establish himself. There is one suitable in Yiling, known for its exquisite entertainment: recitals of poetry so moving they can bring a tear to the eye, music played with transcendental skill, and dancing so eloquent it moves the spirit and the heart. It accepts only the finest clients, and its courtesans are renowned across the land for their grace, beauty and intelligence.


But the Demon of Yiling does not visit that establishment. His tastes are coarser. The house he frequents is gaudy and cheerful, full of giggling women in low-cut gowns and young men with painted lips who perform dirty songs more often than they recite poems over tea. So, with great reluctance, Lan Wangji grits his teeth and finds himself facing a new madame and colleagues who all look at his guqin and his graceful blue robes with utter bafflement.


“Are you sure you want to work here?” the madame asks, at least thirteen times in the first few weeks, and Lan Wangji assures her he does.


The brothel is cultured enough that its staff are not automatically expected to spread their legs for clients. But the entertainment is of a more shameless sort, and Lan Wangji is concerned at first that he will indeed not be able to earn his keep.  Fortunately, there are enough men who hunger for refinement at a reasonable price that Lan Wangji soon begins to earn enough to quiet the worst of the madame’s unease.


He plays on his guqin. He sings. He recites poems. He develops a small roster of clients who return for his company. He is invited to provide more personal services, and declines.


He waits for the Demon of Yiling to come.


When the Demon of Yiling does arrive, his arrival is heralded by the yells of the gaggle of courtesans who are known as his personal favourites, who all wave at him from the windows and shriek his name.


“Wei Wuxian! Look up!”


“We missed you, sweetheart!”


Lan Wangji only catches a glimpse of him – his arm as he waves, the flash of a smile – before the Demon is swallowed up by a crowd of his admirers


The Demon of Yiling does not even see Lan Wangji. He does not have the chance. And even if he had, Lan Wangji doubts he would have drawn the Demon’s interest. Lan Wangji is pale and quiet and composed, and the courtesans Wei Wuxian likes best are – not.


I was the wrong choice for this task, Lan Wangji thinks, not for the first time. But that is his fault. He volunteered, after all.


Lan Wangji puts Wei Wuxian from his mind, and attends to his next client.


In the early morning, when the night’s work is done, Lan Wangji sits in his own room and calmly sharpens his collection of knives. When they are all shining and neat, arrayed on the floor like a predator’s smile, he considers what he must do to draw the Demon of Yiling’s attention.


Lan Wangji cannot change his nature. He cannot be exactly what Wei Wuxian desires. But he has plenty of weapons at hand. He will make do with what he has.  




The next time the Demon of Yiling visits, Lan Wangji is prepared.


One of the maids is meant to lead Wei Wuxian to a private room, where he and his favourites will go once they have finished drinking and gambling and singing their bawdy songs in public and desire more privacy. Instead, she leads him to Lan Wangji’s room and leaves him at the door, scampering away before the Demon of Yiling can stop her.


Lan Wangji is pleased. He paid her well for her service, and she has fulfilled her part of the bargain perfectly.


Usually he would be properly dressed to entertain, but he wants to look as if he did not expect to be disturbed. So instead he is sitting before his guqin, hands outstretched, his hair entirely unbound and draped over one shoulder. He is in nothing but a loosely tied robe that has slipped a little, leaving the shoulder not covered by his hair entirely bare.


He knows how he looks: how the carefully angled lamps pour light over his skin, shining on his black hair, accentuating the softness of his cheek and the sharpness of his jaw. The broadness of his shoulders. The fullness of his mouth.


If he cannot be shamelessly seductive, then he must offer the Demon of Yiling something he has never had before. A new spice. Wei Wuxian likes his pretty, laughing courtesans because he is a charming, laughing young man himself. Before he became the Demon of Yiling, Wei Wuxian was a servant’s son and a street beggar. He has not been reared to hunger for refinement and silks and subtle sensuality.


But Lan Wangji is going to make him.


He plays a string of notes on the guqin. Hears a choked sound from the door, and raises his head. He allows his hands to pause, as if the presence of the Demon of Yiling has shocked him silent. With grace, he adjusts his robe and lowers his eyes, parting his lips ever so slightly.


“Ah,” the Demon of Yiling says. Lan Wangji watches him from beneath lowered lashes. Wei Wuxian blinks, his eyes glassy with drink. His eyes follow the movement of Lan Wangji’s hands, his mouth; the tilt of Lan Wangji’s head. “I… think I’m in the wrong room.”


“May this one lead you to where you desire to go?” Lan Wangji asks. He sees Wei Wuxian startle at the cadence of his voice, his archaic turn of phrase.


“Ah,” the Demon of Yiling says again incoherently. “Ah, yes. Yes. Please. That would be – really good. Thank you.”


Lan Wangji rises to his feet and draws on another layer of robes, back turned to Wei Wuxian. He does so calmly, without coyness. He feels Wei Wuxian’s eyes on him the entire time. When he turns back, Wei Wuxian is leaning against the door, still watching him.


“Please,” Lan Wangji says, and the Demon of Yiling startles back into alertness. He steps back, allowing Lan Wangji to leave the room.


Lan Wangji guides him to his true destination. Gestures for Wei Wuxian to enter, head still bowed. He can hear laughter from within.


“What’s your name?” Wei Wuxian asks. “I think you know mine.”


“Lan Zhan,” he replies softly.


“Lan Zhan,” the Demon of Yiling repeats. His mouth curves into a smile. “Will you come and join us, Lan Zhan?”


How will the ruler of Yiling respond to rejection? Lan Wangji is not sure. The courtesans here do not fear the Demon of Yiling. He has not bedded them, even though many would not be averse to his attentions. They say he is generous with his coin and never cruel to them. But he is also called a demon for a reason. Lan Wangji has seen the bodies of his enemies, crawling across a battlefield under his power, slack-jawed puppets with their souls ripped out. He has heard the Demon’s music on the battlefield – a high, cold cry like the wailing of the dead he summons.


“This humble servant entertains alone,” Lan Wangji replies. “He is not fit for more – enthusiastic – company.”


“One drink,” Wei Wuxian coaxes.


“I do not imbibe alcohol,” Lan Wangji replies.


“You don’t drink?” Wei Wuxian gives a startled laugh. “I’ve never heard of a courtesan who doesn’t drink liquor before. If you don’t like parties and you don’t drink, what do you do, Lan Zhan?”


Lan Wangji says nothing for a long moment. He lets the silence grow and stretch, filling with all the debaucheries Wei Wuxian can possibly conjure up without Lan Wangji’s assistance. He watches a flush rise to Wei Wuxian’s cheeks.


“I play the guqin,” he says finally. Then he bows his head. “Patriarch,” he adds deferentially. This is, after all, the Demon’s correct title. “Enjoy your evening.”


He walks away.




Two evenings later, the Demon of Yiling returns. This time, he asks for Lan Zhan.


“I asked the others about you,” Wei Wuxian says lightly. “After you refused to drink with me. I was curious about you.”


Good, thinks Lan Wangji.


Lan Wangji makes a noise of acknowledgement. He continues to play the guqin. The composition is no more than light, pleasurable noise, intended to give the room ambiance. This evening, Lan Wangji is dressed appropriately, in layers of exquisite blue silk, high-collared, long-sleeved. His hair is partially bound.


He wants Wei Wuxian to remember the sight of him bare-shouldered and know what a privilege that sight was. If he is lucky, denying the Demon of Yiling tonight will make him return again in the hope of more. He wants the Demon of Yiling hungry. The hungrier he is, the more likely he will be to lower his guard.


“They said you’re not friendly,” says the Demon of Yiling. He is sprawled back on bolster pillows. He’s drunk a whole bottle of liquor in the short time he’s been in Lan Wangji’s room, but there is a keen, intelligent look in his eyes that suggest he isn’t anywhere near as drunk as he was the night Lan Wangji met him. “They didn’t think you’d get many clients when you first arrived. Does that offend you?” Before Lan Wangji can respond, he says, “But ah, don’t worry! They told me that some men love you. Especially – certain men.” There’s a teasing note to Wei Wuxian’s voice as he leans forward on an elbow, eyes bright, and asks, “Did someone really offer to pay you to spank them?”


“It is not an unusual request,” Lan Wangji says calmly. “Or an unusual desire.”


“But to ask you, Lan Zhan! You’re so proper. So…” He waves a hand vaguely in Lan Wangji’s direction. “I could never ask you for something like that.” He laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’d be scared to touch you.”


And yet, you are here, thinks Lan Wangji.


“The Patriarch has no need to fear anything,” Lan Wangji murmurs.


“I suppose not,” Wei Wuxian says placidly. “But I’m always told I should try to be cautious, at least.”


He is silent for a time. Music fills the air. Lan Wangji is not looking at him directly, but he can see the sprawl of Wei Wuxian’s legs – the unexpected narrowness of his waist. He wonders briefly how much of that waist he could hold in the span of his two hands. He carefully banishes that thought way. Instead, he considers whether he may be able to weave a calming thread of music cultivation through his composition without Wei Wuxian noticing. Perhaps.


If he can simply put the Demon of Yiling to sleep that would make things… simpler.


“I’ve never seen anyone like you before, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says.


“The Patriarch is generous,” Lan Wangji replies, with a graceful incline of his head.


“I’m not trying to compliment you,” says Wei Wuxian.




“Wait, no – I’m not not trying to compliment you either!” Wei Wuxian sits up abruptly. “I just mean, you’re so – and this place is so – and I know if someone who looked and talked like me but wasn’t me tried to talk to someone like you, without coin, then – ah, Lan Zhan, I’m sorry,” Wei Wuxian says, throwing up his hands. “I’m usually very good at talking. I really am! Blame the liquor.”


Lan Wangji understands essentially nothing of what Wei Wuxian just said, but he allows his mouth to tic up into the faintest smile. It is enough to make Wei Wuxian stand, and cross the room.  


Wei Wuxian sits right in front of Lan Zhan’s guqin, propping his chin on his hands. Lan Zhan stops playing, leaving his hands to rest gently upon the strings. He waits.


“Where did you come from, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asks. “How did you end up in Yiling?”


“Employment,” Lan Wangji says.


“But you – you could find work anywhere,” says Wei Wuxian, and there is something almost awed in his voice. “A courtesan like you could charge any price. I’m not flattering you. You have to believe me, Lan Zhan! You must know it’s true.”


As Lan Wangji is not actually a courtesan, he does not know anything of the sort.


“Mn,” Lan Wangji says.


“I know what people outside of Yiling say about this place,” Wei Wuxian says. “And about me. Surely you’ve heard all of it.”




“Have you heard that I’m a monster, Lan Zhan? That I raise the dead? That I want to destroy the last great cultivation sects, and turn the world towards darkness?”


“Gossip is… inelegant,” Lan Wangji murmurs. He keeps his gaze fixed upon his own hands, and thinks of the knife concealed beneath his guqin. Long and thin, it is an ideal tool to pierce a man through the throat.


Wei Wuxian covers Lan Wangji’s hands gently with his own.


“Why are you here, Lan Zhan?” When Lan Wangji briefly, sharply, glances at his face, he sees that Wei Wuxian’s eyes are wide, his gaze painfully earnest. “No matter what you’ve heard, you’ve seen how I am. You can ask any of the others here. You can tell me the truth.”


What answer would Lan Wangji give, if he were the man he is pretending to be?


“A previous patron,” he begins, then stops. The lie on the tip of his tongue is far too close to the truth.


My previous patron was a cruel and exacting man.


My patron demanded I do things I found distasteful.


My patron did not see me as a person.


He cannot say it. The only lie in those words, after all, would be the claim that he is no longer under the patronage of a dangerous man. That he is not indebted and indentured in ways Wei Wuxian cannot possibly understand.


“This one does not wish to say,” Lan Wangji says finally. His voice is thin.


“Oh.” Wei Wuxian exhales. He lifts his hands, and folds them over his knees.


“I’d love to hear a song from you,” Wei Wuxian says. “Will you sing for me?”


“What shall this humble servant sing, Patriarch?” Lan Wangji asks.


“Anything you like.”


Wei Wuxian returns to his cushions. Takes up his liquor.


Lan Wangji allows himself the brief pleasure of watching Wei Wuxian’s head tip back, throat beautifully exposed, as he downs another drink. Then Lan Wangji begins to sing, an old piece about the waves upon the shore.


How curious it is, that the Demon of Yiling does not enjoy seeing his pain. If Lan Wangji was not already aware of the Demon’s power – if Lan Wangji did not have a duty – he would perhaps begin to think this man does not deserve to die after all.




Wei Wuxian does not return to the brothel for a month. He has gone to war, once again, with Lanling Jin. But after the first week he sends a gift to the brothel addressed to Lan Zhan.


There are no secrets in this place. A gaggle of courtesans gather around Lan Zhan and forcefully encourage him to open the gift in their presence. Unwilling to be mauled alive, Lan Zhan obeys. Inside is a small hand-held mirror of beaten metal.


Since you don’t know how nice you look I thought I’d help! says the accompanying note. One of the courtesans confirms that the scrawled characters are, in fact, in Wei Wuxian’s hand.


The week after, another gift arrives. Inside this one lies a hair comb, a beautiful and delicate thing carved of dark blue stone that resembles waves breaking on the shore. One of the boys sighs over it, and insists on putting it in Lan Wangji’s hair. The letter with it is brief. It is simply a line from the song Lan Wangji sang to him on his last visit.


Lan Wangji has a terrible suspicion that he is being wooed.


Wei Wuxian sends a gift every week. His colleagues find Wei Wuxian’s fixation upon him absolutely baffling. In truth, so does Lan Wangji.


“Wei Wuxian likes everyone and Lan Zhan hates everyone,” he hears one courtesan say, when she does not know he is within hearing distance. “It confuses me too, but maybe it makes sense...?”


“Or maybe Wei Wuxian just likes getting spanked,” another says knowingly.


“Oh, or that,” she agrees, and Lan Wangji goes back to his room and spends another day not stabbing anything or anyone with a knife, much to his disappointment.




Wei Wuxian returns triumphant from his last skirmish. He arrives at the brothel when Lan Wangji is with another client, but he waits patiently enough until Lan Wangji is free, then saunters in and sprawls out on the bolster cushions upon the floor.


Lan Wangji kneels at his guqin, dressed tonight in ivory that shimmers with opalescent colour under fire light . The blue comb is in his hair.


“Haven’t you missed me, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian whines. He is still dressed for the battlefield, his heavy, dark clothing slashed through with red, his hair bound back severely from his face. He still wears his spiritual weapon, a black dizi, at his waist. He looks like the demon he is and yet – soft. His voice is cajoling, sweet. “I missed you. Did you like my gifts?”


“They were beautiful,” Lan Wangji says. “The Patriarch’s thoughtfulness is undeniable.”


“I did my best,” Wei Wuxian says brightly. “I saw so many places while I travelled, this time. And I wondered every time if you’d ever seen any of them. Have you travelled very much, Lan Zhan?”


“A fair amount.”


“I love Yunmeng,” says Wei Wuxian with a sigh. “It’s one of the prettiest places I’ve ever gone to war. Beautiful lakes.” He slumps down further onto the cushions. “The only place that might compare is Gusu. You’ve never seen mountains like those.”


Lan Wangji feels a terrible chill run through him. Wei Wuxian cannot know – nobody knows – but Lan Wangji’s hands falter upon the guqin regardless. He finds his fingering again after a brief pause, but he cannot lift his head. He can only look upon his own hands, gliding their way through music.


Time passes.


“Why won’t you look at me, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian’s voice is thoughtful and gentle, but Lan Wangji can feel the steady weight of his gaze.


“It is respectful,” says Lan Wangji, “to lower one’s eyes before a patron.”


“Is it?” Wei Wuxian taps his fingers against his knee. “Hm. That sounds like it must be true. You are very wise after all. But you know, when you avoid my eyes, it makes me feel as if you don’t consider me worthy of your attention.” He sees Wei Wuxian move a little, from the corner of his eye, tilting his head to regard Lan Wangji. “Am I unworthy of your attention, Lan Zhan?”


“This humble servant apologises for his error,” replies Lan Wangji. “This humble servant has no desire to offend. He begs your forgiveness.”


“Then this humble servant,” Wei Wuxian says, amused, “should raise his eyes.”


Lan Wangji tries to appear soft. He lifts his hands from his guqin, his sleeve artfully drawn back to reveal his wrist. He tilts his head, just so, to give Wei Wuxian a glimpse of the bare lines of his throat. He raises his own gaze, and hopes these small glimpses of skin are enough distraction from his face, which has never been his greatest asset in spy craft.


They are not. He meets Wei Wuxian’s eyes and watches Wei Wuxian’s mouth curl into a curiously feral smile.


“Ah, Lan Zhan,” the Demon of Yiling says, delighted. “Your gaze is so cold. No wonder you didn’t want to look at me. You look like you want to murder me.”


“I do not,” Lan Wangji says truthfully. It is, in fact, becoming a problem.


Then – because desperate times call for desperate measure – he exhales and very carefully bites down on his lower lip. He is still staring back at Wei Wuxian, so he does not miss it when the man’s breath freezes, and his own eyes darken.


“How will you entertain me now, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asks. “A pretty song? A poem?”


“How would the Patriarch like to be entertained?” Lan Wangji responds.


“Ah, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian replies, apparently simply for the pleasure of saying Lan Wangji’s name. He smiles, but there is a sharpness to that smile – something repressed and hungry. “I like whatever you like.”


Well, then.


Lan Wangji stands. His robes whisper against the floor, as he crosses over to the bolster pillows.


As he kneels down before Wei Wuxian.


Wei Wuxian startles, freezing like a rabbit faced with a predator.


“I don’t,” Wei Wuxian begins, then stops. “I don’t expect you to – you don’t – ”


“I wish to serve you,” says Lan Wangji. He holds Wei Wuxian’s gaze even as he presses his hands over Wei Wuxian’s knees. “If you will allow it, Patriarch.”


For a moment, Wei Wuxian is silent as Lan Wangji’s hands slide up from his knees to his thighs – as Lan Wangji leans forward. Then, with deadly swift speed, Wei Wuxian takes him by the hair. It is not a rough touch, it is not unkind, but it holds Lan Wangji fast.


“Why?” Wei Wuxian asks. And there is something in his voice – something tense as a wire – that demands an answer. He will not let go until Lan Wangji answers.


Lan Wangji considers how best to respond.


He considers what he knows of Wei Wuxian.


Wei Wuxian is a man who spends his time with courtesans and does not consider fucking them. He sends Lan Wangji gifts but does not seem to know how to ask for the pleasure he desires. When presented with Lan Wangji on his knees, he tenses and frets and demands to know why Lan Wangji – a courtesan – would be on his knees before Wei Wuxian – a client. As if the reason is not clear. As if they are not playing a game with clear rules.


Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji realises, wants to be wanted. He wants it desperately. He has told Lan Wangji with his eyes and his words that he considers Lan Wangji desirable. But he has never suggested that he, Wei Wuxian, is desirable also. He comes to a place where he cannot be rejected, and even then he holds himself back, afraid the sharp lash of refusal will shatter him.


That is something Lan Wangji can use. He can make Wei Wuxian trust him. He can make Wei Wuxian vulnerable enough for the knife in the dark.


And worst and most foolishly of all, that is something that makes Lan Wangji near feral with want. It bolts through him like an arrow. It leaves him breathless.


Lan Wangji knows the nature of powerful men. He has served one since childhood. He has killed many, many more.


He has never held one in his power as completely as he is about to hold Wei Wuxian.


Instead of answering with an explanation, Lan Wangji exhales. He tilts his head forward, tugging pointedly against Wei Wuxian’s grip on his hair.


“Please,” he murmurs. “Patriarch. Wei Wuxian.” He feels the shudder that goes through Wei Wuxian, at the sound of Lan Wangji finally uttering his name. “I am not fond of pleading for what I want.”


He bites his lip again; worries at it with his teeth, and feels Wei Wuxian’s hand tighten with a reflexive shudder, then abruptly release him.


Lan Wangji slides his hands a little higher. Wei Wuxian’s thighs are warm. The muscles twitch a little beneath his palms.


“May I?” Lan Wangji asks.


A beat of silence.


“Do it,” Wei Wuxian chokes out.


He opens the lacings of Wei Wuxian’s trousers. Wei Wuxian is already half hard.


When his hair brushes Wei Wuxian’s thighs, Lan Wangji sees the tremor that runs through him; the way his cock rises even further at the taunt of Lan Wangji’s hair against him. Lan Wangji lets out an exhale, slow and deliberate, and watches as Wei Wuxian’s hips give the smallest jerk upward.


A true courtesan no doubt trains for this task, but Lan Wangji places his trust in his own instincts, and his own imagination. He brushes his lips over Wei Wuxian’s cock, root to tip, in a cruel tease. Then he tastes him – open-mouthed kisses over his length as Wei Wuxian’s hands clench and release at his sides and he lets out tiny, hungry exhalations of breath. Wei Wuxian is utterly still now under his mouth, as if afraid to move.


Lan Wangji wants to make him move.


Lan Wangji draws back a little. Licks the tip of his cock, tasting the salt of him, the slick of it, as Wei Wuxian gives a deep, helpless moan.


“How – how can you look so untouchable when you’re doing this?” Wei Wuxian gasps. “How can you…?”


“Do not be afraid to touch me,” Lan Wangji says. He takes one of Wei Wuxian’s hands in his own. Places it in his hair, over the comb that Wei Wuxian gifted him. “Use me,” Lan Wangji tells him, then sucks the head of Wei Wuxian’s cock into his mouth, laving it with his tongue.


The noise Wei Wuxian makes is barely human. It is all pleasure, unadulterated and abandoned, as Lan Wangji sucks him deeper, pressing his tongue to the heavy weight of Wei Wuxian’s cock, swallowing as Wei Wuxian begins to move his hips in tiny back and forth motions, unable to control his own need. The feel of him fucking into Lan Wangji’s mouth even in this small way is indescribable.


Lan Wangji imagines Wei Wuxian using him properly, fucking his mouth deep and fast, and feels another sharp jolt of pleasure through his bloodstream. He imagines pinning Wei Wuxian’s narrow, tempting waist with both of his hands and teasing his cock to the edge of pleasure until Wei Wuxian begs him, and finds himself letting out a groan of his own. He takes Wei Wuxian deeper, ignoring the spasm of his throat, the salt-heat of him a pleasurable pain that makes Lan Wangji’s own cock ache.  


Wei Wuxian’s hand tightens in his hair, and Lan Wangji looks up.


Wei Wuxian looks utterly destroyed. He must have bitten his own lip, because it is swollen, his eyes wet, his face flushed red. The flush runs down his beautiful throat. His robes are rumpled enough that Lan Wangji can see the sharp wings of his collarbones, the hollow of his throat where the salt of his sweat has begun to pool.


“Eyes are still – cold,” Wei Wuxian bites out with a laugh, then presses his own hand between his teeth as his spine arches and his hips thrust up sharply. Lan Wangji allows it, moving with him as if Wei Wuxian is a tide, a force of nature. He swallows when Wei Wuxian comes, as Wei Wuxian orgasms and howls into his hand, pressing his teeth into his own skin.


When Wei Wuxian finally lifts his hand, gasping for breath, Lan Wangji lowers his own hand. Presses a palm to his own cock through his robes with a silent, open-mouthed gasp. He hears Wei Wuxian make a questioning noise, then quite suddenly scramble forward to hold Lan Wangji’s own waist.


“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian gasps out. “Lan Zhan, can I…?”

When Lan Wangji manages a nod, and Wei Wuxian shudders out an exhale and licks his own palm. He reaches beneath Lan Wangji’s robes. He is clumsy, still trembling from his own orgasm, but in a matter of moments Lan Wangji feels Wei Wuxian’s callused fingers against his thigh, the crease of his hip. His cock.


Wei Wuxian’s hand closes around him, palm faintly slick, and Lan Wangji fucks into his grip. Again, and again, and again, as Wei Wuxian moves his hand back and forth and shifts his fingers in careful increments, learning the weight and feel of Lan Wangji’s cock in his hand.


Wei Wuxian is staring into his face. Drinking in his every expression. Every hitch of Lan Wangji’s breath makes his eyes darken further. He is not smiling or joyful. He looks hungry. Intent.


“May I kiss you, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asks. His voice is low, heady. “I want to kiss you so much.”


“Yes,” Lan Wangji manages to say. He lifts his own hands. He thinks, distantly, of his knives. Of his hands around Wei Wuxian’s throat. Instead, he clutches him by the upper arms, and rolls his own hips and says, “Wei Wuxian.”


“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian whispers.


I will kill him another night, Lan Wangji tells himself, almost deliriously, as Wei Wuxian’s mouth touches, ever so gently, to Lan Wangji’s own. Another night. Another.


Tonight, he is mine.