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fan_flashworks2025-07-01 04:13 pm
china_shop) wrote in fan_flashworks2025-07-01 04:13 pm
Entry tags:
Borrowed Title: Guardian: fanfic: Pages for You
Title: Pages for You
Fandom: Guardian (TV)
Rating: T-rated
Length: 1,767 words
Notes: Title from a novel by Sylvia Brownrigg. Much thanks totrobadora for beta. <3
Tags: Shen Wei/Zhao Yunlan, Post-Canon, Everyone Lives AU, Established Relationship, Domesticity, Fade to Black
Summary: Over the course of the evening, an impulse had taken root, and now Shen Wei submitted to it. He switched on his desk lamp, laid out several large sheets of paper and quietly ground some ink. If Zhao Yunlan wanted to read of their time together through the eyes of a Dixingren soldier, who better than Shen Wei to write an account—to show Zhao Yunlan exactly how much his arrival had meant to the war effort and to Shen Wei himself.
When Shen Wei came home from his first faculty meeting since Ye Zun’s final defeat and imprisonment and the restoration of the Hallows to Dixing, he found Zhao Yunlan engrossed in a book. This wasn’t entirely unprecedented; Shen Wei had uncovered a dozen paperbacks and graphic novels when he’d first cleaned the flat nearly a year ago, and Zhao Yunlan often did something on his phone that he claimed constituted reading. But this time, the book looked very old, and as soon as Shen Wei laid eyes on it, he sensed danger.
“What is that?” he asked, sharply, before a closer look revealed only residual traces of dark energy; the book wasn’t imbued with a power. Ye Zun’s flurry of stratagems and assaults had kept Shen Wei on high alert for so long that it was hard to remember they were safe now. As well, he had only recently been able to repair his energy structures, and his senses were more acute than they had been in some months. He was still recalibrating.
Zhao Yunlan had looked up at his arrival; now he laid the book on the coffee table. “Ancient history. How was your meeting?”
Shen Wei relayed the latest mundane news from the university while he stowed his briefcase, took off his jacket and folded his glasses. He sat next to Zhao Yunlan on the couch and, as Zhao Yunlan leaned across to greet him, finished with, “And Jiajia has enrolled in the PhD programme.”
The last word was lost in a light, savouring kiss. Shen Wei answered him in kind until his surge of adrenaline had completely subsided and their bodies were pressed together. Finally, Zhao Yunlan laid his head on Shen Wei’s shoulder, heavy and relaxed, and said, “Hi.”
“History?” prompted Shen Wei, who hadn’t forgotten, and wasn’t sure if Zhao Yunlan were deliberately avoiding the subject.
A note of lazy amusement entered Zhao Yunlan’s voice. “You know I made friends with Head Archivist Zheng. She was kind enough to send me some materials on loan.”
Shen Wei remembered the palace archivist pressing a small carved box of incense cones into Zhao Yunlan’s hands during their last trip to Dixing, but he hadn’t expected Zhao Yunlan to use them so soon. “Are you researching something in particular? I could help.”
“I just wanted to see if there was any ancient gossip about us.” Zhao Yunlan grinned. “I know it was a long time ago for you, but—”
He had only returned from the ancient past a month ago; it must be vivid and fresh in his mind. Shen Wei kissed him again, recalling lollipops, moonlight, and Kunlun’s warm smile and acceptance. For all his torn jeans, Zhao Yunlan was the same man; it was Shen Wei who had changed. He indicated the book. “Well? Have you satisfied your curiosity?”
“Shen Wei, Shen Wei—” There was real laughter in his voice now. “—you know my curiosity is bottomless.” The kiss that followed was more than welcoming, more than lazy, and the subject was soon set aside.
*
Later that night when Zhao Yunlan was fast asleep, Shen Wei slid out of bed and went into the tiny spare room where his work desk now resided. He had never needed much rest, even compared to other Dixingren; it was one of the reasons he’d often taken night sentry duty during the war.
Those old days were alive in his memory tonight. Zhao Yunlan’s reading had piqued his own curiosity, and he’d skimmed the old book, smiling at the sight of his title and Kunlun’s side by side. But the book, being mostly concerned with what had come after the Treaty was signed, described little of their day-to-day. Even the final events of the war were only recorded in summary, as hearsay.
Over the course of the evening, an impulse had taken root, and now Shen Wei submitted to it. He switched on his desk lamp, laid out several large sheets of paper and quietly ground some ink. If Zhao Yunlan wanted to read of their time together through the eyes of a Dixingren soldier, who better than Shen Wei to write an account—to show Zhao Yunlan exactly how much his arrival had meant to the war effort and to Shen Wei himself.
The inkstick sang like a night cricket. Gradually the ink thickened.
When he was satisfied, he cleaned off the inkstick and, his first characters already clear in his mind, dipped his brush in the fresh ink. He was eager to get started, to express those old feelings. But as the gleaming brush tip hovered over the paper, he found himself hesitating. Past moments that had always felt close slipped from his grasp like silver fish evading a net. He laid his brush on its rest and stared at the snowy expanse of paper.
How could he write the story from all these years in the future? The “I” he was now knew far too much—not just his own modern life and every complex step of the path that had led him here, but ‘Kunlun’s’ past, too. Kunlun’s true identity. Wouldn’t Zhao Yunlan find it odd for Shen Wei to rhapsodise about him as if he were someone else—a man Shen Wei had once looked up to and admired above all others?
There was much Shen Wei wanted to say, but he could not write it as himself.
He glanced at his bookshelves, the academic texts and traditional Haixing literature, the dry histories and modern novels. He had read widely since his arrival. He had learned how written stories were supposed to sound.
Fine, then. He would recreate their past as if it were a work of fiction. Zhao Yunlan would understand the need and would no doubt be amused by the result. In fact—
Shen Wei smiled to himself, amused in advance. In fact, a veil of fiction would allow him to embellish the events. He could paint Kunlun as the great warrior he had purported to be—and in the process, tease Zhao Yunlan a little. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
This time when he picked up his brush, it moved fluidly down the page, with no hesitation at all. The Dixing army’s young general known as Hei Pao Shi was a masked, solitary figure. Even his own men were cautious in his presence. No one knew his true face. But one day, after a desperate battle, all that changed…
*
“What are you doing?”
The quiet question from the doorway took a moment to penetrate Shen Wei’s absorption.
“Just a minute,” he said, absently, without looking up. Two or three paragraphs to go. He already knew how the story ended.
Zhao Yunlan didn’t reply. Shen Wei finished writing, set down his brush and swivelled his chair around.
Zhao Yunlan was leaning in the doorway, barefoot, a lollipop bulging his cheek, and an inexpressibly fond look on his face. Beyond him, the rest of the flat was bright with daylight, which haloed his bed-messy hair and the curves of his shoulder and waist. He tipped his head towards the stack of papers on the corner of the desk. “It looks like you’ve been busy. Did you discover a new scientific theory?”
“Not exactly.” Now the excitement of writing was fading, Shen Wei felt a little foolish. He almost wanted to cover the papers, or fold them and shove them into a drawer. But they were meant for Zhao Yunlan’s eyes. He alone would appreciate the allusions Shen Wei had woven into the story—elements of their modern cases and colleagues transplanted into a tale set in the distant past about a lonely young soldier and his mysterious dashing benefactor. And he would understand if the tale were inexpertly told. He’d be kind. “Since you were interested in writings about the ancient war—”
It was such a small room that it only took Zhao Yunlan one and a half strides to come and stand between his knees. He placed his hands on Shen Wei’s shoulders and bent so they were eye to eye. “A history?”
“A novelisation,” confessed Shen Wei. “I—It was easier.”
Zhao Yunlan laughed with incredulous delight. There was nothing mocking in it, but it still made Shen Wei self-conscious.
“I’ve changed my mind. It needs revision before you can see it.”
“No, no, no!” Zhao Yunlan snatched the pages off the desk and clutched them to his chest. “You wrote this epic saga for me, your beloved. I want it exactly as it is. What kind of monster would I be if I made you revise a gift when you’ve already worked all night?”
“Zhao Yunlan,” protested Shen Wei, and then gave in. He did want Zhao Yunlan to read it. Just— “Be kind.”
“I’m always kind,” declared Zhao Yunlan. “I am the most benevolent and loving of souls. And I can’t wait to read your novel.”
“-isation,” Shen Wei finished for him.
“Exactly. I bet it’s brilliant, just like you.” Zhao Yunlan hugged the story to him tighter, as if he expected Shen Wei to take it back.
Shen Wei could, of course. It would take the merest gesture to wipe the pages blank, or to temporarily transport them to another dimension. If he did, he knew Zhao Yunlan wouldn’t hold it against him, that any pouting would only be for show.
But instead Shen Wei stood up and crowded Zhao Yunlan against the open door to kiss him with the pages crinkling between them. Zhao Yunlan’s open enthusiasm for the project and for the kiss acted as a catalyst, transmuting Shen Wei’s self-consciousness into—not precisely the same feeling as finishing a scientific paper or a large stack of grading, but a warmer, more private sense of accomplishment. The same anticipatory pleasure he’d felt in the throes of composition. He was looking forward to Zhao Yunlan’s reaction.
And he was desperately thirsty. It had been a long night, and he needed a pot of tea. “Breakfast.”
“Breakfast,” agreed Zhao Yunlan. “You cook. I’m calling Wang Zheng to say I’ll be late.” He grinned at Shen Wei as they moved towards the living-room and kitchen respectively. “Am I in here? I’m in here, aren’t I? Wait, exactly how detailed is this? Did you write historical erotica about us?”
Shen Wei couldn’t help laughing. “You’ll have to read it and find out.”
He took ingredients from the fridge and went to make breakfast, already anticipating a pleasurable reenactment of one scene in particular, in the very near future.
END
Fandom: Guardian (TV)
Rating: T-rated
Length: 1,767 words
Notes: Title from a novel by Sylvia Brownrigg. Much thanks to
trobadora for beta. <3Tags: Shen Wei/Zhao Yunlan, Post-Canon, Everyone Lives AU, Established Relationship, Domesticity, Fade to Black
Summary: Over the course of the evening, an impulse had taken root, and now Shen Wei submitted to it. He switched on his desk lamp, laid out several large sheets of paper and quietly ground some ink. If Zhao Yunlan wanted to read of their time together through the eyes of a Dixingren soldier, who better than Shen Wei to write an account—to show Zhao Yunlan exactly how much his arrival had meant to the war effort and to Shen Wei himself.
When Shen Wei came home from his first faculty meeting since Ye Zun’s final defeat and imprisonment and the restoration of the Hallows to Dixing, he found Zhao Yunlan engrossed in a book. This wasn’t entirely unprecedented; Shen Wei had uncovered a dozen paperbacks and graphic novels when he’d first cleaned the flat nearly a year ago, and Zhao Yunlan often did something on his phone that he claimed constituted reading. But this time, the book looked very old, and as soon as Shen Wei laid eyes on it, he sensed danger.
“What is that?” he asked, sharply, before a closer look revealed only residual traces of dark energy; the book wasn’t imbued with a power. Ye Zun’s flurry of stratagems and assaults had kept Shen Wei on high alert for so long that it was hard to remember they were safe now. As well, he had only recently been able to repair his energy structures, and his senses were more acute than they had been in some months. He was still recalibrating.
Zhao Yunlan had looked up at his arrival; now he laid the book on the coffee table. “Ancient history. How was your meeting?”
Shen Wei relayed the latest mundane news from the university while he stowed his briefcase, took off his jacket and folded his glasses. He sat next to Zhao Yunlan on the couch and, as Zhao Yunlan leaned across to greet him, finished with, “And Jiajia has enrolled in the PhD programme.”
The last word was lost in a light, savouring kiss. Shen Wei answered him in kind until his surge of adrenaline had completely subsided and their bodies were pressed together. Finally, Zhao Yunlan laid his head on Shen Wei’s shoulder, heavy and relaxed, and said, “Hi.”
“History?” prompted Shen Wei, who hadn’t forgotten, and wasn’t sure if Zhao Yunlan were deliberately avoiding the subject.
A note of lazy amusement entered Zhao Yunlan’s voice. “You know I made friends with Head Archivist Zheng. She was kind enough to send me some materials on loan.”
Shen Wei remembered the palace archivist pressing a small carved box of incense cones into Zhao Yunlan’s hands during their last trip to Dixing, but he hadn’t expected Zhao Yunlan to use them so soon. “Are you researching something in particular? I could help.”
“I just wanted to see if there was any ancient gossip about us.” Zhao Yunlan grinned. “I know it was a long time ago for you, but—”
He had only returned from the ancient past a month ago; it must be vivid and fresh in his mind. Shen Wei kissed him again, recalling lollipops, moonlight, and Kunlun’s warm smile and acceptance. For all his torn jeans, Zhao Yunlan was the same man; it was Shen Wei who had changed. He indicated the book. “Well? Have you satisfied your curiosity?”
“Shen Wei, Shen Wei—” There was real laughter in his voice now. “—you know my curiosity is bottomless.” The kiss that followed was more than welcoming, more than lazy, and the subject was soon set aside.
*
Later that night when Zhao Yunlan was fast asleep, Shen Wei slid out of bed and went into the tiny spare room where his work desk now resided. He had never needed much rest, even compared to other Dixingren; it was one of the reasons he’d often taken night sentry duty during the war.
Those old days were alive in his memory tonight. Zhao Yunlan’s reading had piqued his own curiosity, and he’d skimmed the old book, smiling at the sight of his title and Kunlun’s side by side. But the book, being mostly concerned with what had come after the Treaty was signed, described little of their day-to-day. Even the final events of the war were only recorded in summary, as hearsay.
Over the course of the evening, an impulse had taken root, and now Shen Wei submitted to it. He switched on his desk lamp, laid out several large sheets of paper and quietly ground some ink. If Zhao Yunlan wanted to read of their time together through the eyes of a Dixingren soldier, who better than Shen Wei to write an account—to show Zhao Yunlan exactly how much his arrival had meant to the war effort and to Shen Wei himself.
The inkstick sang like a night cricket. Gradually the ink thickened.
When he was satisfied, he cleaned off the inkstick and, his first characters already clear in his mind, dipped his brush in the fresh ink. He was eager to get started, to express those old feelings. But as the gleaming brush tip hovered over the paper, he found himself hesitating. Past moments that had always felt close slipped from his grasp like silver fish evading a net. He laid his brush on its rest and stared at the snowy expanse of paper.
How could he write the story from all these years in the future? The “I” he was now knew far too much—not just his own modern life and every complex step of the path that had led him here, but ‘Kunlun’s’ past, too. Kunlun’s true identity. Wouldn’t Zhao Yunlan find it odd for Shen Wei to rhapsodise about him as if he were someone else—a man Shen Wei had once looked up to and admired above all others?
There was much Shen Wei wanted to say, but he could not write it as himself.
He glanced at his bookshelves, the academic texts and traditional Haixing literature, the dry histories and modern novels. He had read widely since his arrival. He had learned how written stories were supposed to sound.
Fine, then. He would recreate their past as if it were a work of fiction. Zhao Yunlan would understand the need and would no doubt be amused by the result. In fact—
Shen Wei smiled to himself, amused in advance. In fact, a veil of fiction would allow him to embellish the events. He could paint Kunlun as the great warrior he had purported to be—and in the process, tease Zhao Yunlan a little. It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
This time when he picked up his brush, it moved fluidly down the page, with no hesitation at all. The Dixing army’s young general known as Hei Pao Shi was a masked, solitary figure. Even his own men were cautious in his presence. No one knew his true face. But one day, after a desperate battle, all that changed…
*
“What are you doing?”
The quiet question from the doorway took a moment to penetrate Shen Wei’s absorption.
“Just a minute,” he said, absently, without looking up. Two or three paragraphs to go. He already knew how the story ended.
Zhao Yunlan didn’t reply. Shen Wei finished writing, set down his brush and swivelled his chair around.
Zhao Yunlan was leaning in the doorway, barefoot, a lollipop bulging his cheek, and an inexpressibly fond look on his face. Beyond him, the rest of the flat was bright with daylight, which haloed his bed-messy hair and the curves of his shoulder and waist. He tipped his head towards the stack of papers on the corner of the desk. “It looks like you’ve been busy. Did you discover a new scientific theory?”
“Not exactly.” Now the excitement of writing was fading, Shen Wei felt a little foolish. He almost wanted to cover the papers, or fold them and shove them into a drawer. But they were meant for Zhao Yunlan’s eyes. He alone would appreciate the allusions Shen Wei had woven into the story—elements of their modern cases and colleagues transplanted into a tale set in the distant past about a lonely young soldier and his mysterious dashing benefactor. And he would understand if the tale were inexpertly told. He’d be kind. “Since you were interested in writings about the ancient war—”
It was such a small room that it only took Zhao Yunlan one and a half strides to come and stand between his knees. He placed his hands on Shen Wei’s shoulders and bent so they were eye to eye. “A history?”
“A novelisation,” confessed Shen Wei. “I—It was easier.”
Zhao Yunlan laughed with incredulous delight. There was nothing mocking in it, but it still made Shen Wei self-conscious.
“I’ve changed my mind. It needs revision before you can see it.”
“No, no, no!” Zhao Yunlan snatched the pages off the desk and clutched them to his chest. “You wrote this epic saga for me, your beloved. I want it exactly as it is. What kind of monster would I be if I made you revise a gift when you’ve already worked all night?”
“Zhao Yunlan,” protested Shen Wei, and then gave in. He did want Zhao Yunlan to read it. Just— “Be kind.”
“I’m always kind,” declared Zhao Yunlan. “I am the most benevolent and loving of souls. And I can’t wait to read your novel.”
“-isation,” Shen Wei finished for him.
“Exactly. I bet it’s brilliant, just like you.” Zhao Yunlan hugged the story to him tighter, as if he expected Shen Wei to take it back.
Shen Wei could, of course. It would take the merest gesture to wipe the pages blank, or to temporarily transport them to another dimension. If he did, he knew Zhao Yunlan wouldn’t hold it against him, that any pouting would only be for show.
But instead Shen Wei stood up and crowded Zhao Yunlan against the open door to kiss him with the pages crinkling between them. Zhao Yunlan’s open enthusiasm for the project and for the kiss acted as a catalyst, transmuting Shen Wei’s self-consciousness into—not precisely the same feeling as finishing a scientific paper or a large stack of grading, but a warmer, more private sense of accomplishment. The same anticipatory pleasure he’d felt in the throes of composition. He was looking forward to Zhao Yunlan’s reaction.
And he was desperately thirsty. It had been a long night, and he needed a pot of tea. “Breakfast.”
“Breakfast,” agreed Zhao Yunlan. “You cook. I’m calling Wang Zheng to say I’ll be late.” He grinned at Shen Wei as they moved towards the living-room and kitchen respectively. “Am I in here? I’m in here, aren’t I? Wait, exactly how detailed is this? Did you write historical erotica about us?”
Shen Wei couldn’t help laughing. “You’ll have to read it and find out.”
He took ingredients from the fridge and went to make breakfast, already anticipating a pleasurable reenactment of one scene in particular, in the very near future.
END
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no subject
LOL, a very good chance. Luckily, given it was the first faculty meeting in a while, the semester probably hasn't started yet. ;-)
Thanks so much! :D