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Wei Ying never thought he would say this, but he was beyond ready to give birth.
Even before he was pregnant, and he and Lan Zhan enjoyed their everyday , he had lingering anxieties about the actual birthing process, considering that sole responsibility lay on his shoulders. Especially after hearing about how difficult delivery had been for his jiejie, he wasn’t looking forward to it. But the elation of actually being pregnant…
The joy of it—of knowing there was a little life growing inside him, half him, half Lan Zhan—softened those fears. For a while, they disappeared completely. He loved it more than he ever thought he would. He had taken pride in the way his body changed—his softness, the curve of his belly, the evidence of life. He felt powerful, cherished, utterly seen.
There was something sacred in the way his silhouette shifted over time, the slow rounding of his stomach like the waxing of the moon. He’d stand before the mirror and trace the gentle swell with curious fingers, not out of vanity but reverence—like he was witnessing a quiet miracle unfolding from the inside out.
He began moving differently—slower, sometimes, but more deliberately. With care. With awareness. And Lan Zhan moved with him, instinctively adapting, always close. When his lower back ached, Lan Zhan's hands would find him without a word. When his feet swelled, he’d press them into his husband’s lap, and Lan Zhan would kneel without complaint, rubbing slow circles into the arches until he melted into sleep. There were evenings they would lie together, Wei Ying's head on Lan Zhan’s shoulder, his belly bare between them, and simply be . Breathing, listening, feeling the tiny kicks and rolls beneath his skin like secret messages only they could understand.
Wei Ying loved the way his body held Hanguang-jun’s baby. It was a fullness that went beyond the gentle swell of his belly or the way his clothes fit a little tighter across his hips. It was a warmth deep inside him, steady and real, like a quiet pulse beneath his skin. Sometimes he would close his eyes and just breathe, feeling the subtle shifts and fluttering movements as the baby stirred, tiny reminders of the life growing between them. The sensation was humbling, a mix of strength and vulnerability that settled into his bones and stretched through his soul.
When Wei Ying walked into a room, the change was undeniable—not just in the physical way his body moved, but in the softness in his eyes and the way he carried himself. Other cultivators and disciples noticed it—the gentle glow of someone who was carrying a secret and a promise all at once. It wasn’t just the visible evidence of pregnancy; it was something deeper, a quiet radiance born from love and hope. Those who knew him well, or even just caught a glimpse, could see the tenderness in his gaze whenever it flickered to the place beneath his ribs, where the baby lay nestled.
It made Wei Ying’s cheeks flush, knowing that with just one glance, anyone knew exactly who had put that baby inside his womb. And he loved that. He loved that everyone could see it—not just the pregnancy, but the bond it represented. It made him feel deeply seen, profoundly loved, and more than anything, it made him ready—so ready—to meet the little one waiting just beneath his heart.
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It wasn’t until Wen Qing began mentioning things like birthing plans and labor positions that the nerves began to return, creeping in around the edges.
And now, 4 days, 6 hours, and 17 minutes past his due date, not that he was counting , his entire body ached in ways he couldn’t have imagined. He felt as wide as the Jingshi itself, courtyards included. None of his or Lan Zhan’s robes fit anymore, and his ankles had long since given up the fight, swollen and sore no matter how he propped them up or how many times Lan Zhan massaged them. Maternity robes, of all things—he’d never thought he’d need them. Yet here he was, almost ten months pregnant, carrying their baby bunny.
Still, every morning, he made slow laps around the courtyard, determined to keep moving. Lan Zhan sometimes watched him from the doorway, equal parts proud and exasperated, offering quiet encouragement and the occasional suggestion to rest. But Wei Ying kept going, one gentle step at a time, hand over his belly, whispering softly to the baby inside.
This particular morning, Wei Ying felt a quiet pull to rise with the sun. The world was still, wrapped in a hush only early light could bring. Birds greeted the new day with soft, melodic calls, and the Cloud Recesses, ever tranquil, were at their most peaceful. Somewhere nearby, the other cultivators were likely just beginning their morning meditations or making their way to breakfast.
But for Wei Ying, the reason for waking wasn’t quite so poetic. The baby nestled in his womb had shifted again—pressing on everything —and stirring him awake with an urgent need to relieve his bladder.
“Good morning, Bunny,” he murmured, voice soft with affection. “I hope today’s the day you decide to make your grand appearance. Your baba and diedie are so ready to meet you.”
He rubbed slow, gentle circles across his belly, the way Lan Zhan often did.
Two firm kicks landed just below his navel in response, and a laugh threatened to spill from his smiling lips. Bunny really was the perfect nickname—especially after that first kick, light but insistent, like a hop from inside.
The deep ache that had settled into his lower back and hips since his sixth month had only grown more persistent as Bunny stretched and thrived within him. By now, it was a constant companion. As he pushed himself up from his seat on the bed—after much determined effort—the pain stole the breath from his lungs.
He paused, hand braced on the mattress, the other steady on his belly, taking a moment to find his balance. Or, well, as much balance as one could have with what felt like a full sack of rice perched precariously on their hips.
The groan that slipped from his lips was far from new. He'd made a similar sound nearly every time he moved these days. Wen Qing hadn’t helped either, matter-of-factly warning him that, thanks to the combination of his and Lan Zhan’s strong qi and Wei Ying’s rather enthusiastic appetite, their baby would likely be on the larger side.
“Big bunny,” he muttered with a fond, exasperated sigh. “So eager to stretch their legs already.”
His hand drifted over the crest of his belly, fingers splayed as if to soothe the tiny foot that had just jabbed near his ribs. The kicks had been getting stronger lately—more insistent, more precise—and this morning, the baby seemed particularly determined to explore every inch of space they had left. Wei Ying shifted, wincing slightly as another movement pressed low against his side.
He hummed softly to himself as he managed—mostly struggled—to slip on an outer robe. The morning air still held a lingering chill, and the extra layer was necessary, even if it added to the challenge.
With his right hand, he cradled the underside of his belly for support, while his left pressed against his lower back, instinctively trying to soothe the constant strain. The weight of the robe put a light but uncomfortable pressure on his chest—tender, sensitive, and yet another thing he hadn’t expected.
His cheeks flushed at the thought of how Lan Zhan had taken to gravitating toward him there during their everyday . Wei Ying huffed a soft laugh under his breath. Trust Lan Zhan to make swollen nipples into something sacred. Still, there was a flicker of pride beneath the embarrassment. The thought that he’d be able to nourish their baby, to provide exactly what Bunny would need once they arrived—that made everything feel worth it.
He carefully waddled down the stairs and onto the stone path winding through the courtyard, beginning his slow laps—his own version of morning meditation. By now, his body moved out of habit, following the rhythm of the routine. His mind, however, wandered freely.
Truth be told he missed his husband.
He wished Lan Zhan were there, steady and calm, offering his quiet and reverent presence and support. Not that Wei Ying needed him—he was strong, capable, independent. But… sometimes he did.
The past few weeks of oversensitivity had his tear ducts working overtime. Simple things would set him off: seeing the little Lan juniors toddling around in their white robes and tiny headbands, not being able to see his feet anymore, the constant ache of fullness in his body. His belly was tight and low, but still, there was no sign of the baby. His usual spirited energy felt muted, overwhelmed by the deep, aching longing to finally hold the little one he’d carried inside for so long.
Sometimes, he just wanted an extra set of hands to help him out of bed or slip on his slippers when his belly blocked the view. Sometimes, he craved the quiet reassurance of Lan Zhan’s palm resting against his spine as they walked together through Cloud Recesses. He missed the way Lan Zhan’s intense golden gaze flicked between him and his plate at every meal, as if sheer focus alone could will nutrients into their child through Wei Ying’s body.
And at night… he missed the way Lan Zhan held them both—arms firm around him, body heat pressed close, breath slow and warm against the curve of his neck. Lan Zhan’s hand would always find its place on his belly, large and sure, fingers splaying over the softest, most sensitive parts of his skin. He never rushed, never demanded—just traced slow, deliberate circles, coaxing tiny movements from within.
His eyes began to sting just thinking about how much he loves his Lan Zhan—and how deeply he wanted to have this baby with him. Not just for them, but so that someone else in this world could experience the fierce, all-encompassing love Lan Zhan has to give. A love that wraps around you like a shield, steady and unwavering. It makes Wei Ying’s heart ache in the best way.
Unfortunately, the Grand Cultivation Conference had stolen his soulmate away.
Held in Caiyi this year, it had dragged Lan Zhan from his side for the past week. Lan Zhan had made quite the fuss about not going—rightfully so, since Wei Ying’s due date landed smack in the middle of the conference. But after reassurances from both Wei Ying and Wen Qing that any sign of labor would be reported immediately, he had left. Reluctantly. Very reluctantly.
Not without making Wei Ying swear to send daily updates via pigeon—or whatever bird the sect had at hand these days. He had insisted on full condition reports, as if Wei Ying were a field medic and not an incredibly pregnant man who could barely bend over.
Still, Wei Ying couldn’t fault him. Lan Zhan is the Cultivation Chief. Of course his presence is required.
Wei Ying manages a few more laps around the courtyard before the dull ache in his pelvis begins to sharpen, edging into a low, rhythmic thrum. His body stiffens as a contraction rolls across his belly, stealing the air from his lungs in one swift motion. He pauses, eyes fluttering shut, hand pressing instinctively to his bump.
It wasn’t the first time.
Earlier in his pregnancy, the first few contractions had sent both him and Lan Zhan into a flurry of panic—Lan Zhan already halfway out the door to summon Wen Qing before Wei Ying could even put his slippers on. But Wen Qing had calmly explained, in her ever-pragmatic way, that no, he wasn’t in labor—his body was simply rehearsing. Braxton Hicks, she’d called them. Practice runs.
Since then, he’d learned how to cope. He inhales slowly, then exhales just as steadily, grounding himself through the discomfort. A gentle sway of his hips side to side helps ease the tightness. It’s not exactly pleasant, but it’s familiar. Still, something about this one lingers—just a second longer, just a shade deeper.
But Wei Ying, ever stubborn, shakes it off with a quiet huff.
“Not yet,” he murmurs, giving his belly a reassuring rub. “Let’s not start the party without your diedie.”
Once the contraction passes, he’s left feeling shaky and exposed—uncomfortably aware of how alone he is, still standing out in the courtyard. The breeze, gentle as it is, feels too sharp against his skin now. Absent-mindedly feeling Bunny roll within his womb and give his ribs a few strong kicks, showing their displeasure with the cold morning.
He gathers himself with slow breaths and begins waddling back toward the Jingshi. Each step feels heavier than the last. By the time he reaches the doors, he closes them with more force than usual, sealing out the morning chill along with the creeping sense of unease. What started as a simple walk drains him completely.
Before long, he’s back in bed, nestled beneath the covers, the familiar scent of sandalwood and clean linen doing little to fill the space Lan Zhan has left behind. Wei Ying curls instinctively onto his side, one arm around his belly.
He misses Lan Zhan more than ever.
————————————————————————————————————
When Wei Ying wakes for the second time, it’s with a gasp.
A contraction hits him hard—sharper, deeper than before—pulling the air from his lungs and leaving him clawing at the sheets, desperate for something solid to hold onto. His fingers twist in the fabric, knuckles white, as he rides the wave of pain, struggling to find breath between clenched teeth.
“Bunny, please,” he hisses, voice taut. “Go easy on baba—I can’t breathe.”
It feels like the contraction lasts forever, like time folds in on itself, dragging him under. His whole body feels wrung out.
With a grunt of effort, he pushes himself into a sitting position, knees splayed wide to ease the pressure in his hips. Both hands find their way to his belly, pressing gently as he tries to steady his breathing—long, slow inhales through his nose, shaky exhales from his mouth.
Once his lungs work again, he reaches down and tugs the top blanket from the bed, wrapping it around his shoulders in a cocoon of warmth. The shivering doesn’t stop.
Something is different now. Something has shifted .
He doesn’t know how long he sits there—just breathing, blanket clutched tight around his shoulders, heart pounding in his chest—when a soft knock breaks through the silence.
“Wei Ying, it’s Wen Qing. I’m here to check on you,” comes her voice, clear and calm through the door.
Relief surges through him so swiftly it nearly brings tears to his eyes. Wen Qing—his doctor, his doula, his reluctant but dedicated midwife—is finally here to rescue him from whatever torment his child has decided to put him through.
“Thank goodness,” he breathes out, sagging. “Come in, please.”
Wen Qing catches the faint echo of his voice drifting from deep within the inner chambers, the sound guiding her steps until she finds him seated in the stillness of his room. Their eyes met, and she smiled with quiet affection, her gaze soft as she takes him in. Wei Ying’s fingers move in slow, swirling patterns over his bump—like a lullaby drawn in touch, instinctive and tender. She feels something tighten in her chest at the sight: the exhaustion in his posture, the gentleness in his hands, the vulnerability etched into his features.
He shifts, clearly intending to rise and greet her properly, but the moment he pushes himself onto his feet, his body freezes.
A sudden pressure drops low in his abdomen, sharp and heavy, and then—
A warm rush floods between his legs.
His breath hitches as he looks down—clear fluid already trailing down his thighs, pooling on the polished floor beneath him. Slowly, he lifts his gaze back to her, eyes wide and stunned.
‘I… I think my water just broke.’
————————————————————————————————————
The next few hours blur into a haze of numbing pain, wracking his body at unpredictable intervals. Wei Ying doesn’t know when he starts letting out deep, guttural moans during contractions, but it’s the only thing that brings relief. He tries not to panic at the reality that he’s in labor—and Lan Zhan isn’t here .
Judging by the light filtering through the windows, it’s around 3 PM. But knowing how cultivation conferences usually drag on, Lan Zhan likely won’t be home for several more hours—cultivator arguments be damned.
Wei Ying tries to remain calm, but with every cresting wave of pain, he grows more restless.
‘Wen Qing… please,” he gasped between ragged breaths, sweat slick on his brow and tears stinging his eyes. His voice trembles, barely above a whisper. “ Please … tell me Lan Zhan’s on his way. I don’t know how much longer I can—.”
A sharp contraction steals his words, his fists clenching his pillow, a low, primal sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
Now kneeling at the side of the bed, Wei Ying’s knees are cushioned against the wooden floor, splayed wide enough to enable him to sway his hips to ease the pain of the contractions. His inner robe damp with sweat and tears. He yearns to shed it and let the cool air soothe his overheated skin, but he still has some dignity left. Even if, at this point, Wen Qing has seen everything in the name of being his midwife.
His chest rests against the edge of the bed, his arms shifting positions depending on the moment—sometimes folded beneath his head while he rests between contractions, other times outstretched in a death grip around his poor pillow. His long black hair is tied up and away from his flushed face, but with every restless rub against the bedding, wisps break free—baby hairs sticking to his damp skin. Sweat beads on his brow, drawn tight with concentration and pain, as another wave rolls through him, his body tensing at the pain.
‘Unghhhhh… Oh god… hngggg,’ The sounds tear from Wei Ying’s throat as the contraction crashes over him, his voice rising with the pain—louder, rawer- the intensity catching him off guard in the worst possible way.
“Wen Qing… I can’t— I can’t do this anymore. Please …please get Lan Zhan!”
Hot tears sting his eyes, spilling down his cheeks and dripping from his chin as he sobs—small, broken, and helpless. The contraction finally releases him, leaving behind a hollow ache and a bone-deep exhaustion. He slumps against the edge of the bed, gasping for breath, trying to brace himself for the next wave.
Wen Qing, calm and steady in a way he can’t be, appears at his side with a cup of water. She doesn’t say anything—just holds it in front of him until he registers it.
His movements are slow, cautious, like any sudden shift might summon the pain back early. The water is a fleeting mercy, cool and clean, but barely cuts through the raw burn of his throat—shredded from hours of panting, crying, begging for it to end.
He stays limp against the bed, chest heaving, too drained to move. Each breath is loud in the quiet, drawn in through his open mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.
‘Your contractions are still 5 minutes apart, there is still a while to go…” Wen Qing says evenly, like she hasn’t just driven an arrow straight through his chest.
Wei Ying has no justification for the pitiful whimper that escapes him. He swallows hard, but it does nothing to ease the pressure rising in his chest, or the sob building at the back of his throat, ready to break loose with the next contraction.
Then—a hand rests lightly against his back. He turns, half-prepared to snap that he doesn’t want to be touched —but then he sees them.
His favorite golden eyes.
His breath catches. The fight drains from him in an instant, muscles going slack as he realizes it’s him. Lan Zhan.
“Lan Zhan—my Lan Zhan, y-you’re here,” Wei Ying breathes, his voice catching as fresh tears spill hot and unstoppable down his cheeks. His gaze locks onto the only face he’s been aching to see. “You’re here …”
He stares, overwhelmed—relief and love written into every trembling breath. The sight of his husband, whole and solid and real, unravels him. His body shudders under the weight of it all—pain, fear, and now the sharp, gut-deep release that rips a sob from his chest. He crumples where he kneels, undone.
‘ Wei Ying, ’ Lan Zhan murmurs, barely more than a breath, as he kneels beside him and presses a soft kiss to his sweat-damp brow.
The moment Lan Zhan’s scent hits—faint sandalwood, clean and grounding—something inside Wei Ying splinters. His entire body softens, muscles finally loosening, and his breath stutters out of him like he’s been holding it in for hours, waiting—for this.
As if some part of him had known he couldn’t let go until Lan Zhan was here.
——————————————————————————————————
When it came time to make a Birth Plan, Wei Ying felt completely out of his depth. How was he supposed to know whether he wanted pain-assistance talismans, a water birth, or delayed cord cutting?! There were so many details to consider to ensure their baby arrived safely—but one thing he knew for certain: he wanted to give birth in the comfort of the Jingshi, with no one else present except Lan Zhan.
In hindsight, he had thought it would be a quick and simple affair—that by dinnertime, he’d be cuddling their brand-new baby, breathing in their sweet newborn scent, and sharing content smiles with his husband. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
Dusk blanketed Cloud Recesses, but still no baby.
Wen Qing had left quietly between bouts of contractions, although he’s not quite sure. The rolling pain of his contractions made time a blur.
Wei Ying was far beyond the point of decorum. His inner robe hung loose and open around his trembling frame, hair slipping free from the bun atop his head. Sweat and tears streak his flushed face, currently buried against Lan Zhan’s chest.
As the hours stretch on, Wei Ying shifts through position after position, desperate for any small relief. At first, he clings to Lan Zhan while standing, swaying in slow, rhythmic circles with each wave, an intimate dance against the weight of time and agony. His head tucked beneath Lan Zhan’s chin, murmuring broken things between moans.
When his legs begin to tremble, he maneuvers onto a birthing ball, where he leans forward onto the bed, Lan Zhan rubbing slow circles into his lower back as he breathes through another contraction. It offers little reprieve, and eventually Wei Ying drops to all fours on a soft mat, knees wide and trembling. The pressure in his pelvis is relentless, like his bones are being pried apart from the inside. He pants, breath ragged and shallow, hips rocking back in short, instinctive bursts. His long hair clings to the damp nape of his neck, his inner thighs shaking with every movement.
Lan Zhan is there, always—kneeling behind him, steady and calm. As the next contraction hits, Wei Ying cries out, his arms quivering beneath him.
“I’m breaking—Lan Zhan, it’s too much—ah—!” he gasps, voice cracking as he presses his forehead to the mat, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity.
“You can do it baobei,” Lan Zhan says, his voice low, firm, grounding.“You are stronger than this moment. Trust in that.”
Without a word or hesitation, Lan Zhan’s hands find their place on either side of Wei Ying’s pelvis. He presses inward with steady, sure strength—his touch both firm and tender, moving naturally, as if he’s always known exactly what Wei Ying needs.
Wei Ying keens, the sudden counter pressure sending a jolt of relief through his system. “Fuck— yes , right there,” he sobs, voice breaking as the contraction crests. “Don’t stop, don’t stop , it helps—”
“I won’t.” Lan Zhan’s hands stay strong, his breath steady even as Wei Ying shakes with exertion.
The pain is still there—sharp, stretching, visceral—but it’s no longer a tidal wave threatening to drown him. Each squeeze from Lan Zhan’s hands pushes him just enough back into his body, back into control.
‘Lan Zhan, I love you— fuck —I’ll give you all the babies you want, an entire sect’s worth. You only have to ask, and I’ll do it, I love you so damn much —ah…,” Wei Ying rasps between contractions, his mouth twisted into a half-grimace, half-smile despite the tears running down his face.
Lan Zhan huffs a breath of laughter, quiet but full of warmth as he continues to press steady hands to Wei Ying’s hips to help counter the pain. “Mn. One at a time, Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying manages a broken laugh through the tears. “Fine, but don’t think I won’t hold you to it.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Night finally settles over Cloud Recesses, draping the mountains in silvery mist and shadow. The air is still and clean, touched with the faintest scent of pine and distant rain. Lanterns flicker along stone pathways, casting soft, amber halos onto white robes and polished steps. The usual hush of the Cloud Recesses deepens, more reverent than silent—a place holding its breath.
Crickets hum in the brush, and the occasional rustle of wind slips through bamboo groves like a secret. Moonlight spills across the courtyard in gentle strokes, painting pale outlines over rooftops and flowering trees. Even the stars seem softened by the fog that clings lightly to the peaks, as though the heavens themselves are keeping vigil.
Inside, the quiet becomes more intimate—sacred. Time blurs and stretches thin, each moment dense with anticipation, every breath a quiet ache of waiting. The room is dim, lit only by a single low-burning lamp, shadows dancing gently along the walls.
Wei Ying labors, his breath catching and breaking with each wave that rises inside him. The space around him contracts and expands with every contraction, every sound, every heartbeat. The world has narrowed to this room, this moment, this body working with all it has. The cool night air brushes against sweat-damp skin, and the silence outside only amplifies the low, shuddering sounds of effort and endurance within.
“I can’t—Lan Zhan, I can’t do it!” he sobs, voice cracking.
“Just a little longer, sweetheart,” Lan Zhan whispers, steady and close. “You can do this. Keep breathing—I’ve got you. Just think about how excited you are to meet Bunny.”
And somehow, those words are enough. Truer ones have never been spoken.
Wei Ying keens, high and desperate at the back of his throat, clinging to his husband’s gentle voice like a lifeline. He absorbs every word as if it were law, drawing from Lan Zhan’s unwavering love and pride just enough strength to keep going— to see it through.
Wei Ying barely has time to catch his breath when something shifts—deep, low, and undeniable. A pressure so intense it steals the air from his lungs, rooted in his spine and bearing down with the weight of inevitability.
“Oh god…” he cries out. “Lan Zhan, there’s so much pressure—what do I do?!”
“Deep breaths, baobei,” Lan Zhan murmurs soothingly, lips brushing the side of Wei Ying’s damp temple. “Just listen to your body. It knows what it needs.”
His knees nearly give out as the pressure builds, deep and unbearable. It doesn’t feel like the others. It feels final, splitting, unstoppable .
Wei Ying lets out a choked, panicked sound. “Lan Zhan—Lan Zhan, it’s too much—I—” His voice cracks, eyes wide and glassy, chest heaving in short, ragged bursts.
The waves of pain crash over him as he tries to stay afloat, he takes three deep breaths to recenter his mind, knowing exactly what comes next, steeling himself to bear down and push.
——————————————————————————————
He pushes for what feels like hours.
Lan Zhan sat on the edge of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor, legs bracketing Wei Ying’s trembling form. Wei Ying knelt on the floor between them, head bowed and pressed to Lan Zhan’s chest, each contraction stole his breath, and his grip on Lan Zhan’s forearms tightened, knuckles white.
Lan Zhan held him without hesitation, steady hands supporting his trembling frame from his arms and waist.
Each push tears through him like lightning. It isn’t just pressure—it’s fire, ripping through his spine, curling into his thighs, stealing his breath and replacing it with a scream. His whole body shakes. He clutched at Lan Zhan as though he might fall apart if he let go.
“It hurts—Lan Zhan—it hurts, I—”
“I know honey,” comes the quiet answer, calm and firm. “Just one push at a time. You don’t have to do everything at once.”
But it feels like everything is happening at once. His body has become a force of nature, bearing down whether he wants it to or not. Wei Ying pants, his lips cracked and swollen, sweat slicking his neck and chest. His knees threaten to buckle with each new wave. The room spins. The floor sways. He thinks he might throw up.
“Again,” someone says—he doesn’t know if it’s Lan Zhan or his own voice—but he bears down, crying out as pain roars through his hips.
He sobs openly now, shaking, clinging. The pressure is relentless. Blinding. His body is trembling so hard it’s hard to tell where he ends and the pain begins.
“It’s too much—it’s too much—” he whimpers, words barely intelligible through the tears.
The next one hits harder. He throws his head back with a ragged cry, hands scrabbling at Lan Zhan’s arms, the fabric of his robes. His thighs burn. His back arches. He bears down again, and it feels like he might split in two.
Time becomes meaningless. Just wave after wave. Pressure, burn, push. Rest. Pressure, burn, push. Rest. He screams, sobs, pleads—there is no dignity left, only the raw fight to bring their child into the world. At some point, his voice gives out entirely. He pushes in silence, mouth open in a voiceless cry, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
He holds Wei Ying tighter, arms wrapping fully around him like a shield.
“It’s too much,” he whispers, brokenly. “I don’t have anything left. I’m so tired, Lan Zhan… I’m so—” His voice catches on a sob. “ I don’t know how to do this anymore. ”
Wei Ying squeezes his eyes shut. Hot tears spill freely down his cheeks. Every part of him aches. His body feels like it’s been torn down to the bone, and yet the pain keeps coming, wave after wave.
‘I know, love. I know you’re tired,” he says gently, lips brushing his temple. “I’ve got you. You keep breathing and pushing— baobei is almost here, they want to meet you so badly.”
‘I feel like I’m breaking,” he chokes, barely audible. “I don’t think I can survive this.”
Lan Zhan doesn’t flinch.
“You’ve already come so far, sweetheart. Just a little more. You’re almost there—I promise.” he murmurs, his fingers softly brushing the tears from Wei Ying’s cheeks.
Wei Ying sobs, not out of pain this time, but from the unbearable tenderness of it all. From being seen. From being loved like this . He nods weakly into Lan Zhan’s chest. He’s still scared, still exhausted—but somehow, with Lan Zhan’s arms around him, he finds the strength to keep going.
———————————————————————————————-
With each push, the searing stretch tears him further from reason, splintering thought and breath alike. Until it builds—unyielding, blinding—and then it crowns. Quite literally.
Wei Ying sobs, not out of fear now, but sheer exhaustion—raw and full-bodied. “It burns,” he gasps, voice thin and wrecked. “Lan Zhan, it’s—oh gods, it’s burning —”
“You’re almost there,” Lan Zhan murmurs, voice low and warm against his ear, one hand steady at the small of his back, the other gently cupping Wei Ying’s cheek. His thumb brushes across damp skin, catching fresh tears as they fall. “You’re doing so well. It’s happening, love.”
Another contraction barrels through him, and his body takes over, bearing down with instinctive force. He cries out as the baby’s head begins to emerge, the pain splitting but purposeful.
“That’s it,” Lan Zhan says, awe threading through every syllable. “The head is almost out—you’re doing it.”
Wei Ying bears down again, raw and shaking, and with another small push, he feels it—the baby’s head slipping free, sudden and surreal, crowned in warmth and slickness.
Between the fierce contractions, in a brief moment of stillness, he reaches trembling fingers down between his legs. His breath hitches as he feels it—the soft, damp mound of their baby’s head, crowned and waiting. A sob escapes him, part wonder, part fear. He gently feels around the tiny head, searching by instinct and memory, recalling Wen Qing’s steady voice, her firm reminders echoing in his mind. Check the cord. Always check the cord.
His fingers find nothing tangled—no loop, no resistance. Just warmth. Life.
A wave of shaky relief floods him, and he lets out a broken laugh through his tears, forehead falling briefly to Lan Zhan’s shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, more to himself than anyone. “It’s okay…”
He has only precious seconds before the next contraction tears through him—but in that brief lull, he slumps fully into Lan Zhan’s embrace, breath ragged, body trembling. His right hand remains between his legs, cradling the soft curve of their baby’s head. He feels the softest brush of hair against his fingertips—so fine, so real—and tears spring to his eyes.
The end is near.
His heart swells, positively aching with a kind of love he didn’t know a body could hold. It spills into every corner of him—fierce, tender, desperate. The longing to meet their baby is so intense it feels like another kind of pain, one he welcomes, one he clings to.
They’ve waited so long. Dreamed of this moment in whispered conversations under moonlight, in soft touches across his belly, in the way Lan Zhan would press his ear to the swell of him just to hear the smallest movement. And now—now that their child is finally here, so close he can touch them, feel their silken hair and the delicate curve of their head—it’s nearly too much.
Tears stream freely down his face, not from pain this time, but from the unbearable pressure of joy pressing against his ribs. A love so vast it shakes him. He wants to see them. Hold them. Hear their first cry. Kiss the little fingers he’s imagined for months.
He gasps around a sob, voice trembling. “I just want to meet them, Lan Zhan. I want to hold them—I want to see their face.”
Lan Zhan kisses his brow, voice thick with emotion. “You will. So soon, love. They’re almost here.”
Lan Zhan watches, breath caught in his throat, as Wei Ying cradles their baby’s crown with trembling fingers, tears sliding silently down his flushed cheeks. He has never seen anything more beautiful.
Not because the moment is serene—gods, no. Wei Ying is shaking, wrung out, his body bowed under the weight of pain and love and exhaustion. But there’s something transcendent in his determination, in the way he still leans into the pain for the sake of the life they’ve created.
Wei Ying’s breath hitches when Lan Zhan’s hand covers his, warm and steady, grounding him in a way nothing else can. Together, they cradle the crown of their child’s head—together, they wait in the breathless pause before everything changes. Their last moments as just Wei Ying and Lan Zhan.
He leans further into Lan Zhan’s chest, barely able to hold himself upright, muscles trembling with the effort of simply staying present. But Lan Zhan doesn’t let him fall. He holds him like he always has—silently, reverently, without question or condition.
“You’ve given everything,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “I’m so proud of you, Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying’s eyes flutter closed under the soft praises, another wave of tears slipping down. “I’m so tired,” he breathes, voice nothing more than a ghost of sound. “But I’m ready. I want to see them. I need to .”
Lan Zhan’s hand slides up to the back of his neck, fingers threading gently into damp hair. His forehead presses to Wei Ying’s, their breaths mingling.
“You’ve carried them so gracefully, I owe everything to you Wei Ying,” he murmurs, voice thick and low.
Lan Zhan closes his eyes, memorizing the feeling of Wei Ying in his arms like this: undone and radiant, trembling and still the strongest thing he’s ever witnessed.
The moment soon breaks as another contraction builds—sudden, brutal, and all-consuming. Wei Ying’s body arches instinctively, a guttural cry tearing from his throat as the pressure returns with a vengeance.
“Lan Zhan—oh gods, I have to—” he pants, panic rising again as his body bears down. Wei Ying grits his teeth as the primal urge takes over, unstoppable now. His hands tighten around Lan Zhan’s arm as he pushes, muscles straining, mind blanking beneath the force of it.
"That's it,” Lan Zhan murmurs, breath warm against his ear.
“One more,” Lan Zhan says, voice breaking with emotion. “You can do it, sweetheart. Just one more, come on—come on.”
“That’s it,” Lan Zhan whispers, awestruck, eyes locked on Wei Ying like nothing else exists. “Just one more push, baby. Bring them to us.”
With a sobbing breath, Wei Ying bears down with everything he has left—every scream, every moment of waiting, every piece of his heart poured into one final push. He feels one shoulder slip free, then the other, and his trembling hands move instinctively, reaching down to guide the slippery weight into the world.
And then— relief.
A rush of warmth, wetness, and weight—and a cry. Small, sharp, alive .
A tiny, miraculous body slides free into his waiting hands, and for a beat, the world stills. Wei Ying stares down, heart stuttering, as their child lets out another wail—the sound slicing through the quiet like something holy. He watches as their small limbs span wide, adapting to all the free space they have now.
His arms tremble as gently brings the baby up from between his legs. Gathering the newborn close, awe and disbelief crashing over him like a wave. He cradles them to his chest instinctively, as if he’s done it a thousand times before. The newborn’s tiny limbs flailing against his skin- warm and real and here .
“Oh- oh my sweet bunny. I’ve got you… baba’s got you,” he whimpers, voice ragged with emotion, vision blurred with tears. Chest heaving as he works to catch his breath.
His body sags, muscles finally giving out as he slumps back onto his heels, doubled over their child. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks—he hadn’t thought he had any left, but this moment proves him wrong.
The baby lets out another indignant cry, then quiets as Wei Ying instinctively adjusts them against his chest, skin to skin, tucking them close inside the folds of his robe. He doesn’t care about the fluids or the mess—only the precious, wriggling weight nestled over his heart, right where they belong.
For a moment, he forgets everything else—until he hears Lan Zhan’s voice, soft and full of awe. “ Wei Ying .”
He looks up, meeting tear-filled eyes that mirror his own. Something in him cracks open all over again. Wei Ying surges forward, pressing a desperate, tear-slicked kiss to Lan Zhan’s lips.
“I did it, A-Zhan,” he breathes, voice trembling. “I did it.”
Lan Zhan delicately cradles his face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. His eyes are shining—open, and unguarded in a way only Wei Ying ever gets to see.
“You did,” Lan Zhan whispers, voice thick. “ You’re incredible, A-Ying .”
Wei Ying lets out a breathless laugh, overwhelmed and shaking. Lan Zhan wraps them both in his arms—one hand around Wei Ying’s back, the other brushing softly over the small bundle nestled in Wei Ying’s robe.
Wei Ying melts into Lan Zhan’s embrace, careful not to jostle the tiny bundle nestled between them, but already feeling the bone-deep weariness settle in after sixteen long hours of labor. He buries his face in the familiar scent of sandalwood that clings to Lan Zhan’s robes, breathing it in like a balm to his frayed nerves—part of him hoping their little bunny can smell it too, and know that this… this is home .
The thought makes him huff another quiet, breathless laugh, but the sound quickly dissolves into a fresh wave of tears. He cries not from pain, but from the sheer, staggering truth of what he's just done—one of the hardest, most terrifying, and miraculous things he’s ever faced. And even so, in the cradle of Lan Zhan’s arms, with their child warm and alive against his chest, he knows without question—he’d do it all again. Just to feel this. This heady, all-consuming, overwhelming love.
The tears soaking into Lan Zhan’s robes don’t seem to faze him. If anything, he just holds Wei Ying tighter, close, steady, reverent—as tight as he dares. His hands speak what words cannot: You’re safe. You did it.
When Wei Ying feels steady enough, he gently pulls back from Lan Zhan’s embrace. His eyes find his husband's, and he offers a quiet, tearful smile, a soft encouragement wordlessly urging Lan Zhan to finally look, really look , at the tiny miracle resting against his chest.
Together, they ease open the folds of Wei Ying’s robe, peering down at the impossibly small shape cradled there.
The shock of dark hair isn’t what steals Wei Ying’s breath—it’s the face . Despite being pink and wrinkled and damp with that newborn softness—so new they look like an old man and an angel all at once—they bear the unmistakable, uncanny likeness of Lan Zhan.
“Oh, A-Zhan…” he whispers, voice breaking with awe. “They look just like you.”
The gentle slope of Lan Zhan’s nose, the familiar shape of his mouth, the soft line of his brow, and even the delicate curl of his ears, all Lan Zhan. He traces a gentle finger over the baby’s downy cheek, marveling at the familiar features on such a tiny, new face.
‘You look just like your diedie,” he whispers with a teary laugh. “I carried you for nearly ten months, and you still came out looking like your diedie…. I love you so so much .’
But there’s no bitterness in his voice. Only wonder. Only pride. He presses a soft kiss to the baby’s temple, his heart full to bursting. Lan Zhan is quiet beside him, eyes fixed on the baby, and Wei Ying doesn’t even need to look to know—he’s smiling too.
Wei Ying shifts slightly, adjusting his hold, and it’s only then that he pauses—eyes widening just a little as he takes a closer look. His lips part in surprise, then curl into a soft, disbelieving smile.
“A boy,” he whispers, voice catching with emotion. “A-Zhan… he’s a boy.”
Lan Zhan’s breath catches—just a hitch, barely audible—but Wei Ying feels it like a tremor through the quiet. His husband leans in without a word, the movement careful, almost shy, as though afraid he might startle the tiny life nestled between them. The baby ever so softly gurgles, nuzzling infinitely closer to his baba.
With shaking fingers, Lan Zhan reaches out, brushing his knuckles along the baby’s back, then the soft curve of his head. His hand lingers there, cradling the fragile warmth as if it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever touched. Lan Zhan lowers his head, pressing a kiss to Wei Ying’s temple, then another to the baby’s crown. He lets his gaze fall back to the baby’s face, still nestled warm and sleepy against his chest.
“Our son ,” Lan Zhan breathes, voice hushed and reverent. “A-Yuan.”
With the first calling of his name, the newborn gently stirs against Wei Ying’s chest. Tiny fingers stretch and curl, delicate as petals opening to morning light.
Both parents watch with bated breath as A-Yuan slowly turns towards Lan Zhan’s voice, A-Yuan’s eyes blink open—dark, glossy orbs adjusting to the warm, dim world around him. His gaze is wide, innocent, and filled with quiet wonder, as if he’s taking in everything for the very first time. Wei Ying sucks in a breath- those are his eyes staring back at him. Wide and wondering and impossibly familiar.
“Oh,” Wei Ying breathes, a trembling hand brushing over their baby’s cheek. “A-Zhan, look… he has my eyes.”
Lan Zhan leans closer, his breath caught in his throat. And it’s true. In a face that mirrors so much of him—the soft brow, the elegant shape of his lips—it’s Wei Ying’s eyes that shine back the strongest. Big and expressive, filled with life. Something breaks gently open in Lan Zhan’s chest. Not from pain, but from the sheer, staggering tenderness of it.
He presses a kiss into Wei Ying’s temple, voice hushed. “He’s perfect.”
Wei Ying’s breath catches, his heart swelling so fiercely it almost hurts. He leans closer, voice barely a whisper, trembling with awe. “Hello, little bunny,” he says softly. “I’m your baba and this is your diedie, we love you so much.’
Lan Zhan watches in quiet reverence, eyes glistening with tears he doesn’t try to hide. In his heart, he feels a deep, steady calm settle over him—an unshakable certainty that they have created something beautiful and whole. Every breath Lan Zhan takes is slower now, more measured, as if trying to imprint this perfect moment into his very soul.
The baby’s gaze drifts between them, wide and searching, before finally settling on Wei Ying’s face. A tiny yawn parts his lips, followed by the softest coo—so delicate and sweet that it sends an ache of joy straight through Wei Ying’s chest.
At only twelve minutes old, it’s clear A-Yuan is already tired from the monumental effort of being born. His heavy lids blink slowly, as if trying to memorize their faces. Then, with the sweetest little sigh, he burrows closer into Wei Ying’s chest, his eyes fluttering shut once more.
—————————————————————————————-
He doesn’t know how long they sit there— finally a family of three. Hearts beating in sync, wrapped in their own perfect bubble of bliss. Time seems to bend around them, measured only by the steady breaths of their newborn son, the quiet rustle of fabric, and the fading rhythm of residual contractions.
Exhausted beyond words but still feeling a tinge of pain with the last contractions, with his husband’s steady hands bracing his hips, Wei Ying bears down one last time. A moment later, the warm, slippery mass of the placenta slips free with a soft, wet sound.
Lan Zhan tends to it carefully, as tradition dictates— cutting the cord with the small ceremonial blade they had set aside, then wrapping the placenta carefully in red silk. It will be buried beneath the old Osmanthus tree in the courtyard at dawn, a gesture meant to root their son’s life in strength and fortune.
Wei Ying keeps their baby close the entire time, tucked snugly against his bare chest inside his robe. The warmth of their skin-to-skin contact is more than comfort—it’s protection. Wen Qing’s earlier advice rings in his ears: “Keep the baby warm. Keep yourself warm. Don’t let the wind touch your skin.” Not even for a moment does he risk exposing their A-Yuan to the cool air of the room. The room stays warm, the brazier gently stoked nearby.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s only for a moment—just long enough to change into a clean, softer robe—when Lan Zhan carefully lifts A-Yuan from Wei Ying’s arms to clean and swaddle him. But the ache his absence leaves behind catches Wei Ying completely off guard.
His arms feel too light. Too empty. The sudden loss of warmth where their son had nestled just seconds ago sends an unexpected pang through his chest. He blinks rapidly, throat tightening, watching Lan Zhan cradle the baby with practiced, reverent care.
Having his body and arms empty so suddenly makes him feel vulnerable in a way he never anticipated. A quiet panic begins to rise.
“I know,” Lan Zhan murmurs softly, sensing the shift in him without looking. “Just for a moment, love. He’ll be right back with you.”
He gently places the baby on the bed, nestled between two pillows to keep him safe, but Wei Ying can’t help the knot that forms in his chest. A-Yuan looks so small— too small —against the wide stretch of bedding. It doesn’t matter that he’s right there in front of him; something about the separation feels wrong. Wei Ying’s arms twitch with the urge to hold him again, his body instinctively protesting the distance. A-Yuan should be in someone’s arms, not lying alone on a mattress. Not yet .
He swallows hard, blinking against the sudden sting in his eyes. Wei Ying lingers on the edge of the bed for a moment, robe falling open, damp with the mess of birth, and feels strangely hollow. A-Yuan’s scent lingers against his skin, new and irreplaceable, and the absence of their shared heartbeat against his chest leaves him unmoored.
He swipes at his eyes, trying to laugh at himself but managing only a shaky, broken sound. “It’s ridiculous, I know—he was with me for so long, and now he’s... over there.”
“Not ridiculous,” Lan Zhan says gently. “You’ve carried him for nearly ten months. Of course you miss him. He belongs with you.”
Wei Ying can only whimper pitifully in response.
‘I know, sweetheart,” he adds, brushing Wei Ying’s hair back. “He’ll be all yours in just a second. Let me help you change.”
Wei Ying nods, shoulders slumping as he shrugs out of the robe with trembling fingers. His breath hitches—not from pain, but from the sheer emotional weight of it all. The robe feels heavier than it should—it carries the memory of every contraction, every push, every moment of love and desperation that brought their son into the world.
Lan Zhan helps him into a fresh robe—warm, soft, and lined for comfort—and Wei Ying exhales, finally leaning into his husband’s shoulder, his legs unsteady beneath him.
After Lan Zhan tucks him into the covers of their bed, propped up by their pillows, he presses a kiss into his hair. Turning to gather baby A-Yuan from his place on the bedding.
The moment A-Yuan is returned to his chest, Wei Ying cradles him instinctively, drawing him close with trembling arms. The ache in his chest eases at once, replaced by a deep, settling relief.
A-Yuan lets out a soft whimper, followed by a series of tiny, hiccuping breaths as he shifts and resettles against Wei Ying’s skin. He makes a small, snuffling noise, rooting briefly before letting out a tiny sigh. His soft cheek squishes against Wei Ying’s chest, and he curls up instinctively, limbs tucking close in that unmistakable Newborn Scrunch. His knees draw up beneath him, fists tucked under his chin, spine gently curved like he’s still trying to fit inside the space he came from.
The weight of him is hardly anything—but the presence of him, real and warm and here, is everything .
With a soft intake of breath, Wei Ying reaches to his side table and retrieves the swaddle he’s had ready for months—the softest cotton, pale and covered in the tiniest bunnies. The one he’d picked out for this moment. He’d chosen it for its gentle touch, safe and soft against A-Yuan’s brand new, sensitive skin. His chest bubbles with love and joy as he gently wraps it around his baby bunny, tucking it close with hands still trembling from awe.
Wei Ying presses a kiss to the top of his damp, dark hair, breathing in that precious, indescribable scent. “There you are,” he whispers hoarsely, fingers stroking gently down A-Yuan’s tiny back. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
Wei Ying lets out a teary laugh and presses a kiss into the fine, damp hair at the crown of A-Yuan’s head, breathing in that sacred, impossible scent.
“All those sounds, so fierce already. Just like your die-die.”
Lan Zhan carefully climbs into bed behind Wei Ying, settling in close and curving his body protectively around him. His arms gently encircle both of them, chin tucked near Wei Ying’s shoulder so he can peer down at their baby nestled against Wei Ying’s chest.
A-Yuan squirms, letting out a soft, high-pitched whimper that quickly builds into a fussier sound—tiny, broken cries that hitch in his chest. His little hands flex and flutter against Wei Ying’s robe, face scrunching with the effort of being new and overwhelmed.
A-Yuan’s cries grow more insistent—tiny but determined, his face crumpling in frustration as he squirms against Wei Ying’s chest. The rooting reflex is unmistakable, his little mouth turning instinctively, seeking.
Wei Ying glances down, startled for just a moment before understanding dawns. “Oh, you’re hungry, baobei?” he murmurs with a soft smile, brushing a gentle thumb over A-Yuan’s flushed cheek. Humming as A-Yuan follows the sensation with an open mouth, a sure sign of a hungry baby. “Of course you are. You’ve had a very big day.”
Lan Zhan shifts slightly behind him, ever steady, hands warm at Wei Ying’s waist in quiet support. “I’ll help you sit up,” he offers softly, already adjusting pillows around them so Wei Ying is propped comfortably against his chest.
Wei Ying adjusts his robe and brings A-Yuan closer. Wei Ying brings A-Yuan’s mouth to his nipple, but it isn’t right. A-Yuan’s tiny cries grow sharper, mouth opening and closing in frustrated little bursts. His head bobs, nose scrunching as he turns instinctively toward Wei Ying’s chest, seeking but not quite finding what he’s looking for.
Wei Ying shifts nervously, trying to help him along. “Come on, baobei,” he whispers, guiding A-Yuan closer. But the newborn fusses, his lips brushing past the nipple and missing it, letting out an indignant squeak that makes Wei Ying’s heart squeeze.
He tries again—adjusting his hold, lifting his arm—but his hands are shaking, and A-Yuan’s distress only grows; he lets out the most pitiful little whimpers, each one cutting deeper into Wei Ying’s heart. “I—he’s trying—why can’t I—” Wei Ying stammers, a flicker of panic rising in his throat. “He’s hungry and I can’t even —”
“Shh,” Lan Zhan says gently behind him, his voice a low, grounding balm. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
Before Wei Ying can protest, Lan Zhan’s hands slide up from his hips, steady and assured. One arm encircles his, guiding his trembling hands into position, while the other moves with careful precision to cradle A-Yuan’s head—tilting it just so, helping him latch with quiet, practiced tenderness.
“Try now,” Lan Zhan murmurs.
Wei Ying holds his breath—and in the next second, A-Yuan latches.
The sudden pull tugs a small, involuntary sound from Wei Ying—part relief, part surprise. His body slumps slightly against Lan Zhan’s chest as A-Yuan begins to nurse in earnest, his earlier cries dissolving into contented, rhythmic suckling.
‘Oh,” Wei Ying whispers, blinking rapidly as emotion wells up in his throat. “Oh, thank the heavens—he’s doing it.”
Lan Zhan presses a quiet kiss to the side of his head, arms still wrapped around them both. “You both are.”
A-Yuan lets out soft, snuffling grunts as he feeds, one tiny hand splayed across Wei Ying’s chest like he’s claiming it, like he knows exactly where he belongs. Wei Ying exhales shakily, tears slipping freely down his cheeks now—not from fear, but from the aching tenderness of it all.
“He just needed a little help,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers through A-Yuan’s hair. “Thank you, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Zhan’s voice is warm against his ear. “Always.”
Cradling the baby, Wei Ying lets his head rest against Lan Zhan’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as his body begins to tremble with aftershocks and relief.
He did it. They did it.