Archive of Our Own ^beta

The evening starts like most others. You, A-Qing, and your companion share a meal which he cooked. He’s a surprisingly good cook, considering the small amount of background information you’ve been given over the last three years. He doesn’t seem to come from a place where culinary skills would be cultivated nor appreciated.

You did meet by finding him half-dead in a field, after all.

And you know that’s why he keeps his identity a secret. Because he was clearly on the run, and needs to stay unknown. Anonymous. Only you might know him better than anyone by now. You know that he prefers candy over compliments, although at the right time, in the right situation, he’ll allow you to give both freely. You know that he’s the funniest person you’ve ever met, that he makes you laugh every single day with his sharp, sly commentary, never missing a thing. He’s an astute observer of people, which is beneficial because you cannot see anything at all.

But your other senses are sharper for the blindness. And you know all the sounds your companion makes and see them in your head like facial expressions. His huff of impatient laughter when the stall vendors try to charge too much. His softness when he speaks with A-Qing although he’ll deny it, complaining that’s she’s a pain in the ass, even as he shares his own candy with her.

His words when you’re in bed together, going from endearing to filthy like the flick of a coin, the things he says cracking you wide open while making you feel more whole than you’ve ever been.

Even when you were with your estranged best friend and former lover.

But you don’t want to think of Zichen tonight. The evening's too pleasant, the fire warm enough that you can imagine the friendly, flickering flames of it. Can picture how it would play over your companion’s face. A face you’ve never seen but mapped out with your fingers too many times to count. It’s a topography you will remember until your dying day, even though you know it will eventually start to shift with age.

You feel his gaze on you, knowing he stares because he can. Because A-Qing, seated between you, rustling some sort of blanket, can’t see it either. He doesn’t know that you can feel it, burning into your skin hotter than any blaze. That though you pretend the intensity of his stare is unnoticed, not marking your very soul like a brand, it holds you in its thrall like it does every single time he looks at you like that.

Like you’re sweeter than any candy you could ever buy him.

The conversation continues to be easy as the air grows more chill, slipping into true nightfall. You imagine the stars overhead, shining and numerous, multitudes of tiny pinpricks of light. You miss seeing them, although you do not regret the reason why you do not.

Even if the current owner of your eyes sent you away with words more bitter than any poison, filled with blame and accusation and pain that you felt in the very marrow of your bones.

Ah, but there you go again. Ruminating on a thing you cannot alter, on a person you will never meet again in this lifetime. Better to think on pleasanter things.

“It’s getting pretty late,” your companion says, attempting to sound casual, but it’s pointed. Directly at A-Qing and you know what her response will be before she utters a single word. It will be the same as it is every time your companion tries to hint to her to make herself scarce.

“I’m not tired.” She doesn’t usually sound petulant but she always does here, and you know it’s because she doesn’t fully trust your companion, although you can’t put your finger on why. Sure, he was acerbic and sharp-edged when you first found him, and you could hear her reluctance to help him at all in her voice. But over time those edges softened and while he could still shock you with his words at times, mostly he’s just witty and a little biting in his commentary. You find it to your taste, to have someone who teases you and keeps you on your toes, both in words and deed because when you two go out on night hunts, it always impresses you anew how skilled he is with his sword. Not that you can see it, of course, but you can hear the ring of metal, the sing of steel as he covers your guard, guiding your own sword to the nearest fierce corpse. You’ve slain so many together that your camaraderie is nearly as airtight as—

No. No thinking of him anymore tonight.

“A-Qing,” you say, with just a trace of admonishment in your voice. “It’s time for bed.”

“Ugh. Fine.” You can hear her rolling her eyes, feel the air shift as she stands. “Whatever. Just keep it down out here. I’m a light sleeper, you know.”

She's not. Once she’s asleep, she is one of the dead. Nothing can wake her short of a calamity and you know this because when you and your companion make love, he is not quiet.

Neither are you, since you know you are free to not be.

You wait a good amount of time before you decide to shift closer to your lover, ears tuned to the small sounds inside until they settle into silence. And you wait longer than that, until you’re certain A-Qing is well and truly asleep, until you’re able to detect her slow, deep breathing with just a small exertion of spiritual energy.

And then you find you don’t have to move at all because your companion has come to you. Slides his fingers through the stray strands of hair by your face, tucking them behind your ear. Whispers, “Daozhang,” into it, his breath sliding over your skin like a caress. Just before he presses his mouth to the tender flesh just in front of it, your pulse beginning to pound against his lips.

“Yes,” you breathe, in answer and encouragement. If you had eyes, you would close them against the brush of his soft kisses, just before they become more demanding, biting little nips into your neck with sharp canines before he soothes the marks with his tongue. Continues down the column of your neck, his fingers now drawing away the collar of your robes just before he clamps down on your clavicle, making you moan.

“Shh, Daozhang, do you want to wake the entire neighborhood?” he asks. Then giggles against your shoulder. Right before he sucks the curve of it into his mouth, warm and wet and just this side of too much. The cool air hitting skin that’s usually so well-covered is its own form of tease, and when your lover moves his mouth away, it makes you shiver as it dries.

“Is it too cold, Daozhang? Should we go inside?” Your lover’s voice goes from taunting to solicitous. “It might be more comfortable than rutting in the dirt like animals, anyway.”

The unexpected lewdness makes you laugh. It’s his specialty, unnerving you with some crude remark at the most unexpected time. You like it because it’s open and honest and completely without guile. That he just says what’s on his mind and doesn’t feel the need to filter or sugarcoat it for your delicate ears.

You nod and he slides his hand down to clasp yours, pulling you both to your feet. “Good,” he says, offhand. Flippant. “Because if you’re going to shake and shiver I want it to be because of how good I feel when you’re fucking me.”

That remark earns a gasp, torn from your mouth, arousal spearing down your spine. You haul him into you, the kisses you bestow not gentle nor soft. They’re open-mouthed and deep and have you both starved for air. When you finally break apart, panting, lips and fingertips and toes tingling, you have to stop yourself from shoving your lover down and, in his words, rutting in the dirt like animals. You let him hasten you inside, his fingers urgent as they tug at your belt, as they tease apart the layers of your robes, peeling each one off with a hurried reverence. You are more deliberate and not just because you cannot see what you are doing. It’s because you want to tease him a little. You know he likes it when you’re careful with him, treating him like fine porcelain, like he’s fragile, like you could break him if you only willed it.

Even if he lies and says he likes it better when you’re rough.

“Daozhang,” he pants, drawing one hand down your bare chest, then tracing the line of your ribs to your sides, his touch turning devoted, worshipful. “Daozhang, hurry. I want you right this fucking minute. Want your tongue in my mouth. Your cock in my mouth. I want you to finger me open and fuck me until I cry. Fuck me hard and fast and rough and don’t let me come until I’m sobbing. Please Daozhang.” He comes closer, even if it makes your job harder.

And then makes it more difficult because while you’re trying to concentrate on the ties holding his inner robes together, he’s stroking along the length of your already hard cock. Dipping the very tips of his fingers into the pre-cum there, sliding it over the head before he takes them away and noisily sucks at them.

You pause to fumble for his wrist, drawing his hand away so you can kiss him, can taste yourself on his tongue, and he deftly helps you finish undressing him and then your fingers are stroking over him. You can see his cock in your mind’s eye: thicker than yours but not as long, It’s probably flushed, contrasting with the golden skin you always imagine your lover has, and it’s hard and weeping onto your fingers. You drop to your knees and draw it into your mouth.

“Fuck. Daozhang.” Your lover leans back, angling his hips towards you. “I love your mouth on me. Those fucking lips stretched around me. Deeper.” You take him deeper, the tip sliding against your soft palate. “That’s it, Daozhang. Use your tongue.” You do, running up along the underside, then pressing it right at the frenulum, just as you draw back. But only until his head is still in your mouth before you surge forward again and take him deeper still, until he hits the back of your throat. “Fuck,” he breathes, drawing the word out over his entire exhale.

You continue to suck and tongue at his cock, until you can take it completely, suppressing your gag reflex, sliding him down your throat. Until you feel twin streaks of something damp down your cheeks, coming from beneath your pristine white bandage—at least it was pristine when you donned it this morning. Now, it’s probably stained red, since that is what your companion has told you happens when you weep. You’re not crying now, not precisely, it’s just that everything is almost too much. Part of it is physiological, like how you would tear up when you’re choking.

But it’s not all of it.

Giving your lover such pleasure, hearing his utterly unconcealed moans and filthy pleas for more is better than anything on this earth. Having his hips stutter against you, tasting the bittersweet result of his desire on your tongue—it’s like nothing else. It’s food for your soul and you would rather die than deprive either of you of it. Ever.

“Fuck, Daozhang.” Your companion starts to pull back but you stop him. Only he’s insistent. “Stop, please, or I’m going to come and I don’t wanna until you’re inside me.”

You stop. Let him pull out. Then you hear the slam of his knees as they bark against the hard floor of the coffin house. He pulls you into him for a kiss that’s so dirty and messy and wet that you feel yourself getting close and have to end it. Like you’re both playing a game of who can bring the other nearer to the edge without toppling over.

“Daozhang,” he says, a prayer and a promise. “Please, fuck me.” He sucks in a harsh breath. Pushes it past lips you know are pursed. “Sweetheart.”

He rarely uses endearments. Saves them for when he’s truly desperate with want. When he needs to convey the love and desire he can never confess. Because he’s never once told you he loves you but you know it as surely as the certainty that the sun will rise each morning and set each night. It’s as immutable as the moon affecting the tide, as the stars twinkling in the night sky.

“Yes,” you murmur into his skin as you press your mouth to it. As you suck a mark into his neck you wish you could see. “Lie back for me, A-Yang.” You hear the rustle as he moves up and over onto the bed you share and you chase him there, straddle his body, lean into him to press more kisses over his soft skin. To draw more of it into your mouth, running your tongue over flesh you know is reddening and growing oversensitive by the sound of your lover’s breathing above.

“Fuck.” Your lover’s hips arch beneath yours, and you feel his cock twitch beside your own. You lean back to set your fingers against his throat, past his Adam’s apple and into the shallow beneath, then down his sternum before you stray to stroke a nipple, feeling it harden beneath your fingertips. “Daozhang.” He sounds needy now, just the way you want him. You glide your fingers back and forth until the nipple peaks, then pinch it, reveling in the arch of his back. Then move on to the other one, not stopping until you wrest a broken open cry from his lips. Only then do you feel your way to his chest with your mouth, stroking each nipple in turn with the flat of your tongue. Over and over until he’s breathless and whining beneath you, until he’s mindlessly bucking into you.

“Ssh,” you soothe into the skin of his neck. “I’ll take care of you, A-Yang.” You fumble a bit, searching, until you feel your lover press a vial of oil into your palm.

“It’s the good stuff, Daozhang,” he says on a chuckle. “The one that smells like the expensive incense you won’t let Little Blind buy.”

It perfumes the air when you uncork it with the strong sweet scent of long xian xiang and an undercurrent of xiang gen cao. The reason why you won’t let A-Qing buy the incense is because it costs enough to feed the three of you for a week. The reason why you have this oil, which surely would cost more, is because it was a gift given to you after a night hunt and you felt like it would be an insult to the giver to sell it.

You tip as little as necessary into your left palm, nearly spilling the vial when you try to reseal it but it’s saved when your lover takes it from you. “Let me, Daozhang.” You hear the rustle as he moves to put it away. Only then do you close your fingers and slide those of the right through it. Only the first three are needed but you ensure they are well-slicked before you rub the rest over your cock, so that you don’t waste the small amount still in your palm. Your cock fills even more against your hand.

“Now, please, now Daozhang. I’ve been thinking about this all evening. I want you all the time, you know.” You know. You feel the heat of that gaze enough and hear the truth in his words.

“You can have me whenever you want. All you have to do is ask.” You hope he hears the truth in your words. That your desire for him is an ever-present thing. Much of the day, when there are tasks to do around the coffin house and errands to run at the market, it lies dormant. Coiled and sleeping, unobtrusive. But when everything is done—or even in the quiet moments between jobs—it wakes, unbidden, and unfurls and stretches and slithers into your consciousness. You can’t always feed it when it’s hungry but if your lover were to ask—

“I’m asking you now, Daozhang. Please.” You lower your body over his, savoring the feeling of warm, soft skin beneath your own. You know from mapping it countless times that it’s covered in scars, sure each one’s a story, but you don’t dare pry. It’s not your way, to ask for information that isn’t freely offered.

“Hush, A-Yang. Hush. I’ll take care of you. I always do.” You kiss him but hold back, keeping it soft and sweet and gentle despite his efforts to make it dirty. Because you want to hear the startled, surprised sound he makes into your mouth when you reach down and press your index finger against his rim.

He gives you better, his entire body flexing beneath you. And then he juts his hips, impatient, trying to push himself onto your finger. You both know that’s not how it works, but he tries it just the same. So you give him what he wants.

Mostly.

“’Fuck finally. I was gonna lose my mind.” His entire body relaxes to let you in, yielding to you, the muscles melting underneath you. And you take your time, making your way in with inexorable slowness, creeping that single digit until you reach the first knuckle. And then you stop. “Daozhang. Darling. Please. I’m dying here.”

“Nobody has perished from this,” you say, your voice teasing. And then you slide in until the second knuckle, a bit faster than the first.

“How would you know? The world is wide and vast and cruel.” There’s an edge to your lover’s voice you do not like, so you continue to make it soften. “Someone could have died from lack of dick. You don’t know.”

That wrests a laugh from you and you bottom your finger out. Kiss his delicious, filthy mouth and withdraw. Then continue until there’s no resistance before you add the second finger, keeping a slow but steady rhythm, his pelvis following your pace. “Better?” You ask against his lips, your breaths now one and the same.

His lips curve up in a smile so you know he’s going to say something nasty. “You know I like it rougher, Daozhang. Why you gotta go so slow? I’m ready. I was born ready.”

“Really?” You tease. Consider a third finger, but decide to wait it out. “You emerged from your mother’s womb wanting to have sex?”

Your lover’s laugh is bright and high like windchimes. “Yes,” he finally manages, but he’s panting a bit as well. “Came right outta there ready to dick down.”

And now you’re laughing, so hard you have to stop halfway in. You slump into him, a helpless, giggling mess. He’s so crude at just the right moment and it disarms you every single time. You recover, then reward him by abruptly pulling out and threading your three fingers together.

This time you’re not nearly as gentle.

You let them spear into him, eliciting the most delicious moan and as you fuck into him, you unfurl them, spreading him even more open. And on the way out you twist and curl until your fingertips reach that one spot that makes him convulse.

“Fuck, Daozhang.” He nearly shouts it. Bucks his hips up and into yours, and you glance down, imagining how his cock must look when he does that, red and hard and dripping with pre-cum. But don’t let yourself wish you could see it because that’s not a path that leads anywhere good. Besides, you can go by feel alone by now. Know exactly what your lover wants and needs by practice and other stimuli besides sight.

Like now, for instance. He skin starts to feel hotter, and starts to grow damp with sweat, and you can smell him and his arousal, more heady than any drug you could ever buy from the market apothecary—not that you indulge in such things. You press your mouth to his neck and taste the salt of his skin, suck it into your mouth until you know it’ll leave a mark to match the other side.

Now, he’s ready. Open. And desperate—beautifully, achingly so.

“Daozhang,” he says on an exhale, an entreaty and a prayer that you intend to answer. “Please, darling, please.”

“Yes, A-Yang, yes,” your murmur against his lips. Just before you rise, reluctant to break the contact, but the tradeoff will be worth it. You position yourself at the same time you hear a rustle and know your companion has placed a cushion at the small of his back to lift himself to you. So you wait. Until he’s got it in place. Until he’s truly ready.

And then you wait just a bit longer, because the anticipation is so tasty.

“Daozhang,” he whines. “How many times do I have to beg you? You know, people think you’re so kind and generous. ‘The gentle breeze’ my ass. In bed you’re such a vicious tease. Fuck me—”

You thrust into him, smooth and sure and more than halfway in at once, cutting off his words. He grunts instead.

“Yes. Fuck. Finally.” And then he doesn’t speak for a bit, but makes a little punched-out noise when you fuck further into him until you bottom out. And then every time you do afterward, your hands steady and firm on his chest, until you change the angle, sitting up straighter so that you can stroke against that one spot each time, which makes him keen.

“Daozhang,” he pants after a bit. “It’s too much. I’m gonna come but I don’t wanna without you.” And this feels so good. Amazing, like it does every time. But no two times are the same and you aren’t that close yet so you slide your hands up his chest as you lower your body, getting a lovely thrill at the feel of his sweat-slick body against your own. You move your hands along his biceps, wiry but roped with muscle.

“That’s better, Daozhang. I wanna last for you. Wanna feel you come inside me before I do. I want you to fill me up, wanna feel it spill deep inside.” He’s babbling as you press your bodies closer, the thrusting less intense but so much more intimate. You bring your mouth to his neck as your hands reach his forearms, as your fingers flex against them.

“Daozhang,” He’s repeating it like a litany now, worshipful with each thrust of your hips. With each stroke. You can tell he’s mindless and you’re halfway there yourself but you hold back. You can tell he’s close by his near-trance, by the way he’s writhing beneath you.

He won’t get his wish, because he’s going to come first. You know it with the certainty that comes with doing this countless times. But you decide to let him try to outlast you.

You shift up a bit just as your hands move down his arms to his wrists. He doesn’t usually let you hold him down like this, but he’s too far gone to protest. So you bring them to either side of his head and press up and off him for leverage. You finally give what he’s been asking for since the start of this. You go faster, and rougher, setting an almost punishing pace because you won’t be able to keep it up but it’ll keep him from coming as long as he has no friction. But to offset the ferocity, you stroke the pads of your thumbs against his palms with contrasting tenderness.

“Fuck Daozhang, yes, harder please. Daozhang, fuck you feel so good. I can’t take much—”

You freeze mid-thrust, cutting him off.

Because when you just moved your right thumb away it brushed against something wrong. Something that should be a finger but instead feels like leather. Holding your breath you touch it again, hopefully too carefully for him to notice, praying to any god who’s listening that you’re mistaken.

You are not mistaken.

You gasp, but the sound is not one of pleasure. It’s sudden, abject horror. Your companion and lover, whom you lived with for three years—and shared your bed with for at least half that is—

“Why’d you stop, Daozhang?” His voice is still breathy and teasing. He hasn’t noticed the full-body shift you’re going through. “Is this some new form of torment you’ve invented just for me?” You can hear it now—his voice. You glance down and though you can’t see his face, you take the one from your memory—and occasional nightmare—and superimpose it over what you know from multitudes of touches.

They match perfectly, and you can’t help but shudder. Both because of whom that face belongs to and because of your own sheer, utter stupidity that you never put the two together.

“Daozhang?” His voice is a bit more uncertain, punctuated with a small laugh and—that’s not the same. He had the good sense to cover that, at least. And now that you hear it, he pitched his voice just a bit different. Assumed a dialect that never belonged to him.

It did belong to Zichen.

But he doesn’t know you know, and you’re not sure what to do.

“Daozhang, is something wrong?” He sounds sharper and if you don’t do something and very soon, he’s going to suspect and you don’t know if that’s what you want.

“No, nothing’s wrong. Just—” You can’t think of a single excuse.

“Aw, c’mon Daozhang, now you’re just fucking with me.” You hear a rustle and it’s him leaning up because his lips are now at the base of your throat, licking into the hollow. “You came too close and you didn’t wanna so you needed a cooldown, huh?”

“Yes,” you manage but it’s little more than a croak. You still can’t quite believe that the man beneath you, the man you’re currently—in his words, balls-deep in—is him.

The reason you could not see the deception you’ve been living under for years. It’s unspeakable, unbearable, and—he’s the reason you’re estranged from Zichen. Who should’ve been the love of your life. He should be right here, right now; you should be making love to him instead but—

Something snaps in you. You can scarcely think through your rage. This man took everything from you, then took your trust, took your honesty, took your love. All the while knowing he deserved absolutely none of it.

The only thing he deserves is to die. And that is a gift you can bestow. Readily.

You bring your right hand down and wrap it around his throat. Not hard, not like you’re going to choke him but—

“Oh, sweetheart, you wanna try something new, huh?” He laughs, and that one, that one is familiar. It stokes the fire of righteous wrath building in your belly. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as one for really rough play, but I’m not complaining. You wanna choke me, Daozhang?”

Yes. Yes, You’d like nothing more than to close your hand, bring the other to help, to press your thumbs into his windpipe until it collapses, cutting of his air supply.

But then you recall your teachings on the mountain, about meridians and qi pathways and how blood flows and you know there’s an easier way. More controlled, less likely to allow him to struggle.

You find when you think about this, your cock, which began to wilt, is already filling once more. And you’re not about to explore what that means, not how this man may have managed to corrupt your very soul without your knowledge.

So you smile so he can see it, the one he says he likes best, lean in to his ear, and whisper, “I’ve got something more…pleasurable in mind.”

“Fuck.” He—no Xue Yang, there’s power in acknowledging his name, of stripping his carefully crafted anonymity from him—moans loud and long. “I’m yours, Daozhang. Do your worst.”

Xue Yang should mark his words.

You keep your hand at his neck, just below his hyoid, and press just enough that he feels it, but not enough to cut off his breath. And then you start to move again, and because he’s still so plaint and open and receptive you set a brutal pace you’ve never so much as contemplated before. Your hips are snapping, bottoming out relentlessly, the pounding of flesh against flesh obscene.

Xue Yang loves it. Of course he does.

“Oh, Daozhang! I didn’t know you had it in you. God, fucking fuck. This feels so good. You feel so—”

You cut off his tirade by closing the gap between your fingers and thumb. He can still breathe—just. But you hope it will shut him up because you cannot bear another single one of his lies.

Although he never once said he loved you, did he? At least he was honest enough there. A disgusting monster like him is not capable of love. Once you might have thought him redeemable, and when you consider the last three years—

No. He was pretending. Nothing more. Taking advantage of a convenient hiding place, of company and food and shelter and warmth—with two people who could never, ever identify him.

“Daozhang,” he rasps. “I’m—fuck, I’m—” you know that he’s about to come. You can feel all the telltale signs. And you consider killing him first but you know it’ll be easier to do what you must if he’s basking in his afterglow.

He doesn’t know it’ll be his last.

He curses once more, then shudders beneath you, his body bowing into yours. And that is when you release his wrist to rest your left hand above the other. You find the thundering pulse beneath your fingertips and press in. Compressing the blood vessels to his brain. Cutting off his circulation.

He’s too blissed out to notice, his body still twitching beneath yours as you chase your own pleasure, growing more insistent with the knowledge that you’re holding back his life’s blood at the same time.

“Daozhang, let go.” His fingers curl around your wrists to try to tug your hands away, but you just dig in deeper. Fuck in deeper.

“Daozhang, I’m getting dizzy. And not in a good way. Everything’s getting fuzzy…” he trails off, his words slurring together. And then he turns boneless beneath you.

You’re close so close and he’s so limp and you never realized that some muscle resistance was necessary. Still, you continue to press your fingers harder, feeling the pulse slowing, slowing, slowing, even as you move faster, not so much fucking now as just shifting the two of you up and down the bed, connected.

The friction is gone but the rutting is still enough. One more thrust, then another, then—

You wail when your orgasm crests over you, your entire body convulsing, including your fingers still wound around Xue Yang’s neck. You ride the wave like a bit of debris, just staying above water. And then you collapse.

When you come back to yourself—and it takes far longer than usual—you feel no pulse beneath the tips of your fingers. When you shift, pressing your ear to Xue Yang’s mouth, there’s no warm, damp huff of breath.

He is utterly silent and still and dead.

Because he can’t stop you, you slide one trembling hand up along his left arm again until you reach his hand. You stroke the glove which serves as a semblance of that little finger, soft and tender like you treated the rest of him these last years. And then you bury your face in his neck and weep, knowing it’s blood, knowing it’ll run down both sides in rivulets, staining the bedsheets like you sliced his neck clean open.

You hate him. You despise him. He tricked you and lied to you and now you can’t ever ever ask him why. Ask him whether he was just that cruel or—if he found something here he never had before. Stability. Comfort. Love.

Love.

As much as you hate yourself for it, you love him. Loved him.

So you allow yourself to weep. To grieve. Because in the morning, when A-Qing wakes, you will not be allowed that. You will have to be righteous and stalwart and strong and pretend that your soul isn’t rent into a hundred thousand pieces that scrape your insides raw.

But for the rest of tonight, you can be weak. Can pretend, for one shining, sparkling moment, that what you had was real.