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“The 'Legendary Lewd Lotus,’” Jiang Cheng reads off the jar’s label, voice dripping with the specific sarcastic skepticism that always zings straight to Wei Wuxian’s dick. He lifts an eyebrow at the translucent jar in Wei Wuxian’s hands. Said jar contains one very ugly, very expensive flower, its golden center and fleshy-pink petals shimmering with qi-infused pollen. “Really?”
“Hey, Huaisang swears by it!” Wei Wuxian says. “One whiff of this flower and we’re guaranteed an average of a full three and up to ten days of wild, raw, nonstop sex, driven to the loudest, loftiest, most fluttering-of-a-thousand-beating-wings orgasms of our lives. Sounds fantastic!”
“Sounds tiring,” says Jiang Cheng, making a face. (A hypocritical face, since he’s been running himself ragged over the discussion conference Lotus Pier just finished hosting. Even though it’s all over now and went well—i.e. super boringly—Jiang Cheng is still insisting he can’t take a rest yet, despite how the bags under his eyes have practically developed their own bags. That’s what’s tiring! Wei Wuxian, genius Jiang-furen extraordinaire, is going to ride his husband’s brains out and then crash him so hard Jiang Cheng sleeps for a week.) “And also sounds like marketing bullshit. ‘An average of.’ ‘Up to.’ Sex spells are famously imprecise; the effects vary a lot from person to person. It might not do anything at all.”
“Win-win either way, then. If it works, we have a great, sexy at-least-three days—”
“On average, apparently.”
“—and if it doesn’t, you get to complain to Huaisang about his shitty recommendation! It’s enrichment for you. You love complaining.”
“Deal. But I never complain,” Jiang Cheng complains, then yelps when Wei Wuxian yanks at the tight lid of the jar. “Hey, what, I didn’t mean now, I still have a million things I need to do tonight—”
“Your zongzhu duties have been fulfilled and your husbandly duties have been neglected, A-Cheng. The only thing you need to do tonight is huff some pollen, lie back all pretty and let me sit on your dick!”
With that persuasive declaration, the lid comes free with a loud pop, and a glittering cloud of pink powder explodes all over the bedroom.
Wei Wuxian had half-expected to start throbbing with lust as soon as the pollen touched him. Mostly he feels dusty. He spits and opens his eyes, which he’d instinctively slammed shut. There’s pollen gritted between his teeth, pollen prickling his eyelids, pollen stinging in his nose, pollen stuffing up his lungs, and pollen all over his husband, who is also spitting and blinking and looking murderous. This is a great sign, since Jiang Cheng looking murderous is often a precursor to sex.
“Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng hisses, pollen puffing from between his lips. His eyes have blown dark and his cheeks are flushed red and his whole body shimmers and glitters, tiny points of light shifting all over him as he lunges forward to seize Wei Wuxian’s wrists in his scorching-hot hands. Love burns all over Wei Wuxian’s body, especially in his nose, as they topple over into the pollen-stained bedding. He laughs, which makes Jiang Cheng snort, which makes more powder puff out of his nose, which makes Wei Wuxian laugh harder and drop the jar so he can wrap his arms and legs around Jiang Cheng. His husband is so pretty and pissy and proud, and as Jiang Cheng’s face twists above his in some unidentifiable expression, Wei Wuxian thinks a week in bed with him won’t be nearly enough.
Jiang Cheng’s unidentifiable expression becomes abruptly and appallingly definable as Jiang Cheng sneezes right in Wei Wuxian’s face.
The love burning in Wei Wuxian’s nose intensifies beyond bearing. He sneezes back.
~
The only consolation for being hit in the face with a huge dose of sex pollen that he has turned out to be horrifically allergic to, Jiang Cheng informs him (snottily, in both the literal and metaphorical sense), is that Wei Wuxian is also horrifically allergic to the sex pollen.
Wei Wuxian sniffles with disdain. Jiang Cheng gives him a cursory swat in retaliation, then just lets his arm flop back down over him. They’re both too swollen-eyed, too boogery, and too tired from coughing and sneezing to roughhouse (or, eyebrow-wiggle, roughhouse) properly, and there’s not even enough space for it, shunted off as they have been to a tiny guest room to recover while Jiang-zongzhu’s bedroom is deep-cleaned to get all the pollen out. It may take a while; there’s a lot of powder-collecting crevices in that room.
Wei Wuxian pensively blows his nose into the pillowcase and cuddles closer to his husband, smiling as Jiang Cheng’s hoarse squawks of disgust steadily quiet into tired mumbles, then murmurs, then snores.
Welp. It’s not how he’d originally intended to get his husband to rest in bed with him all week, but Wei Wuxian supposes it’ll do.