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2020-07-25
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No Color In Itself

Summary:

An alternate ending to the Wen Remnants' dinner party in episode 29: Wei Ying and Wen Qing blow off some steam together.

Notes:

A little warning for possible dubious consent due to alcohol. Like, in the fic they are fine but IRL this wouldn't be a great idea.

Work Text:

Wen Qing is not a person to be trifled with.

This is a problem, because trifling with powerful people is basically a compulsion with Wei Wuxian, and she’s the only one around at the moment. So one day when she’s badgering him about taking better care of his health, and he’s heckling her about being so domineering, she slaps him. And he kisses her. She pushes him off, glaring, but doesn’t let go of his collar. He grins, bratty and daring. It’s not that he’s been looking at her that way, exactly. It’s more that there’s something constantly buzzing under his skin these days, something wild and stupid and nameless, and he needs to push up against it and see what happens. Wen Qing is here, so he pushes Wen Qing. She pushes back.

Things get kind of wild after that.

They reach an arrangement quickly. The edges remain vague, but the core of it is exceedingly clear.

One day they host an esteemed visitor, and Wei Ying sees him off down the hill, carrying A-Yuan back on his shoulders and singing a song all the way. Then there’s a party, liquor. The Yiling moonshine. It’s strong. He knows his cheeks are red with it — funny, that never used to happen. Golden core something something, probably. Whatever. He loves this drink. He loves his little baby sect. He loves it here. He’s gonna stay here forever. Forever and ever, keeping these people safe, building this. Growing radishes. He lifts his bowl for another sip, but finds it empty.

“Wen Qing,” he whines, stumbling over to where she is clearing away the remnants of the meal.

“It’s gone, you drank it all,” she says, not looking at him.

“It’s not that,” he says. Was it that? Anyway, he has a different idea now. He sidles up to her, bumping his shoulder against hers and turning his mouth to her ear. “A-Qing. You should get your stuff out.”

She turns to glare at him, then huffs and turns away.

“Drunk,” she says, and he loves how she says it, just the one word, inarguable. It reminds him of someone that he isn’t thinking about right now.

“Mm, yeah, I am drunk,” he announces to the empty room. “Shameless. Obnoxious. Boring!”

“Wei Ying! Come here.”

He goes. She grabs him by the shoulders, then by the chin, probably to keep his head from doing that. Well.

“Wei Ying, you are really very drunk,” she says sternly, giving him a little shake. “You can’t just guzzle it like you used to.”

“Right right,” he slurs. “‘M out of hand. You better keep me in line.”

She makes a dismissive noise, but keeps hold of him, her eyes searching.

“I’m not that drunk,” he says carefully. “I just want to play with you. A-Qing.”

She slaps him hard across the cheek.

“Sorry, Wen-guniang.” Her eyes narrow dangerously, and she slaps him across the other cheek. It stings; she’s really strong, and her hands are small so the force is concentrated.

“All right then. Go,” she orders, with a thrust of her chin. “Wait for me.”

He knows where to go: up a little back winding of the Demon Subdue Palace cave, past the good ol’ Blood Pool, there’s a smaller chamber with an old wooden door and a ward on it for blocking sound. There’s a bed and some candles in there. It’s for whoever wants to use it, since it’s hard to find privacy in the Palace and it’s not really safe to slip away to random parts of the Burial Mounds for alone time. Or together time, either, which is what they’re doing.

Wei Ying lights some candles. It takes him a couple of tries. Then he sits down on the bed. Oh! Right. He gets undressed. The bed coverings are coarse but clean — it’s not like they’re living in squalor here. It’s just a weird old cave. He’s naked in a weird old cave. Pretty drunk, too. He pulls the ribbon out of his leather hair ornament and shakes his hair out, taking a moment to scritch at his scalp where it’s been pulling. The motion makes his head spin a little too much, so he lies down. He puts his hands on his face, because they feel cool and make it darker.

Wen Qing comes in, and he doesn’t want her to think he’s too drunk, so he puts his hands down and smiles at her. She’s changed into a single loose robe, tied with a sash. She has her things.

“Ah, Wen Qing, you look good,” he says.

“Wei Ying,” she says, a neutral greeting, as she closes and latches the door behind her. He wiggles his feet, grinning with anticipation. With a calm smile, she sits down on the bed beside him, and he half sits up to start unfastening her clothes.

She’s pretty. He likes undressing her; the sash is no trouble even for his clumsy fingers, and the folds of cloth part to show her breasts, round and pale, traced with blue veins. He brushes his fingers over each of them, and her lips part. She is soft; he takes liberties, stroking the scant curve of her belly, looking up at her through his lashes. She looks back a moment, then takes his wrist in a firm grip, and puts the equipment in his hand.

“Oh, not in the mood to wait, huh?” he says, and she rolls her eyes at him. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

She kneels up on the bed, and for a moment he can see her dark-furred pubic mound with its delicate cleavage, but in this moment he must focus on his work, which is to equip her with the thing she has brought. What it is, is an arrangement of soft leather straps, with little silver buckles, all contrived to support a certain object, made of dark golden wood, gently curved, finely carved and highly polished. He has no idea how long she has had it or where she got it. Maybe it’s just part of her doctor kit? It’s a mystery. He’s not going to ask, and anyway the point is that he really, really likes it.

“Is this a test?” he teases, sorting out the straps. “If I can’t buckle it, you’ll say I’m too drunk and leave me all alone?”

She doesn’t answer; it probably is a test. So he bites his tongue and makes his fingers obey, one…two…three…four times, there, and he leans back on his elbow to enjoy the sight of her, all willowy and sharp and kitted out for their fun. The candlelight catches in her hairpin as she glances imperiously up and down his body. He’s a little proud of being this hard while drunk. He gives her a flirtatious smile.

“No smiling.”

“You’re so strict,” he pouts.

“Silence.”

He shuts his mouth with a click, surprised as something dark and hot wells up inside him at the command. She keeps staring, a flicker of feeling in her eyes that he can’t quite name. Then she jerks her chin in another command, and although he understands, it takes a breathless second for him to obey, turning over to face away from her. The movement makes him aware of how unsettled his energy is, juddering weirdly beneath the soft haze of the liquor. He summons enough discipline to quell it as she takes a moment to arrange him, pulling up his knee so that his foot stands flat on the bed. A gentle tinkle of porcelain announces her little jade-green jar of ointment, whose contents are by now familiar. Then she slides down to lie close behind him, her breasts pressing into his back, much warmer and softer than her phallus, which bumps against his thigh.

It’s such an effort not to talk; this isn’t how they usually are together. Usually he acts bratty and she slaps him and calls him names and he provokes her until she loses her temper and fucks him breathless. This…commanding presence…thing. It’s new. No doubt he could test it, could talk back and misbehave and naughty-flirt until she relents and goes back to their old pattern. But he likes the idea that she can shut him up; not many people can do that. Only one before. Without the shield of words, he’s undefended when her fingers breach him, and he only makes a wordless, indrawn sound and holds his breath. She gives the tiniest response, a little satisfied “Hn”, and works at him relentlessly. I’ll be good for you, he thinks of saying, but he’s not supposed to speak, so he just lets his breath go uncontrolled, mouth open, eyes shut, drunk and floating as her fingers pet and stretch and tease.

Wei Ying is no stranger to fooling around; his youthful experiments in this area have been wide ranging. But when Wen Qing first did this to him, it was a shock, both because of her audacity and, it turned out, how good it felt. Her nimble fingers know exactly how to please him, finding his most sensitive nerves and sending waves of heat straight into his cock without ever touching it, keeping him suspended on a wave of bliss. The alcohol makes everything feel gentler than it usually does; she takes her time with him, and he doesn’t mind at all. He could go on like this for ages.

Maybe his mind wanders a little, to places where it shouldn’t go. Maybe he thinks of someone. Suddenly he feels wide open and aching. He squeezes his eyes shut and allows himself a quiet sound.

Wen Qing shifts up, pressing a quick kiss to his shoulder. “Wei Ying.” Her voice is husky. Catching his breath, he nods fractionally.

“Up then,” she says, tapping his hip, and he levers himself up shakily to all fours, his hair hanging down around his face. She grabs the bolster and sets it under his hips, and he sinks down again, face pillowed on his crossed arms. They usually go face to face, but this is…good. The close and dark. Her silken thighs brush between his own; cool fingers pull his hair to one side. He wonders if he looks as wrecked as he feels; that would be good, wouldn’t it? She’d like that. He squirms a little, pressing his cock into the pillow, while she makes use of the little green jar again, and then comes the cold, firm press against his softened entrance, slow but relentless, and he gasps around the edges of a word, pressing up to meet her as much as he can. She leans forward, taking her weight on her arms, and sinks in to the hilt — it always surprises him how deep it goes. Her breath is heavy. He doesn’t know if she gets direct pleasure from this, but she definitely likes it. When the toy bottoms out she gives a sigh of satisfaction, taking a moment to get comfortable while he lies there impaled, tense and waiting for her to move.

She moves. She’s strong; her hips pull back and snap forward with an impact that makes him grunt. He bites back his cries as she takes up a fast, relentless rhythm, the smooth, unyielding object sliding exquisitely against his sensitized flesh, making it impossible to think or feel anything else. You wouldn’t know from looking at it that it would feel so thick. His breath turns ragged, his hands fisting in the bedclothes. Without slowing down at all she shifts, puts one hand on his hip and then the other, pulling him toward her, and he pushes up to his elbows, thighs spread wide to keep himself low enough for her. With the change in angle, she can go even deeper, and the curve comes into play, hitting him just…there—

He moans out load, because he can’t follow rules when he’s melting like this.

She pulls him up further, and now he’s kneeling over her lap, still impaled, the muscles of his thighs taking the strain. She has just enough room to keep punching up into him, and he can’t do much but balance there and take it. Her arms come around him, her hand on his cock.

“Wen Qing,” he sighs, at the edge of what he can bear.

“Be silent,” she snaps, and that’s what makes him come, utterly voiceless, an image in his mind of pale robes open like a flower.

He blinks back wetness from his eyes, swaying a little when she lets go of him. Easing off of her, he flops gracelessly down onto the bed, then rolls to his back, hoping she’ll come close to him. She does, and wordlessly he presses his face into her skin, presses his mouth to her softness while with shaking fingers he performs the reverse of his previous feat of dexterity. He gets the two left buckles open, then gives up and pushes the harness to the side, and slides his fingers down to pierce her juicy crevice. He follows quickly with his tongue, smelling her sweat and the lingering tang of the leather. She is velvety and swollen, and it takes only a few sweeps of his tongue to have her pulsing around his fingers, her whole body moving with it.

“Another,” she says, not so commanding now, so he goes on, crooking his fingers inside her, sucking her clit between his lips. She lays her fingers in his hair; he goes more gently. She bucks on the bed, her breath coming in sharp little cries, and then she quakes and pulls his face against her as she comes.

He waits a moment for her to subside — if she still wanted more, it wouldn’t be the first time — then crawls up and presses his face to her side, wrapping his arm around her lower half. They breathe together for a time. She strokes his hair idly, and it feels so tender, so unlike her, and yet so like. How could such a fierce companion touch him this way?

“Wen Qing, how do you know me so well?” he murmurs against her skin. But that’s a stupid question. What they’ve been through together goes deeper than knowing. Their bond was sealed on a mountaintop.

“Drunk,” she whispers. “That’s enough, now. Get some sleep.”

He closes his eyes. The room still feels a little tilted. Jiang Cheng is in his dream, which is strange, and Lan Zhan is there, angrier than Wei Ying has ever seen him. He’s angry on Wei Ying’s behalf, and, oh, Wei Ying loves him, still, beyond bearing, but in the dream it’s all right to think about it. Wen Ning is there. Wen Qing is there, too, but the others can’t see her, because she’s curled up tight in the empty space at the center of his body.