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Sometimes it goes like this.

Wei Ying’s fingers pull at Lan Wangji’s hair. His teeth bite at his lip. Wei Ying kisses him and draws blood, raw and copper, between them. A noise escapes Lan Wangji, and Wei Ying pulls back. His eyes are wild. His cheeks are flushed. His hair falls in dark waves rumpled by Lan Wangji’s own questing hands.

Lips parted, he stares at Lan Wangji’s mouth. Lan Wangji watches him, watches his eyes flicker over damage done. “Lan Zhan, I--”

It is nothing, no hurt at all. Lan Wangji touches his tongue to the heated throb of his bottom lip and sees with satisfaction the way Wei Ying’s gaze focuses. When he reaches for Wei Ying, his hands don’t have far to go, they’re already so close. “Wei Ying,” he says, “come here.”

Who is to say if Wei Ying obeys or Lan Wangji compels? In the next moment, Wei Ying is in his lap, thighs against his sides. He is close, and hot through his robes, and hard. His fingers tighten in Lan Wangji’s hair, and Lan Wangji feels his heart strain against it, feels the center of him pulled tight by those clever fingers. He anticipates the crush of Wei Ying’s mouth and then gasps when, feather-light, Wei Ying’s lips brush his.

Wei Ying’s hold loosens, his fist becomes a cradle becomes a caress at the back of Lan Wangji’s head.

Lan Wangji’s hands tighten in Wei Ying’s robes, and Wei Ying meets his gaze, fits their mouths together with more care than Lan Wangji thinks he’d ever take for himself alone. His heart aches. He closes his eyes and presses his palms to Wei Ying’s shoulder blades, the small of his back. He kisses, and lets himself be kissed, the tang of blood fading to something less raw but still alive. Wei Ying’s mouth is hot and wet and soft, the muscles of his back hard and shifting. Lan Wangji wants so much.

The gentle sounds of their mouths fill his ears. He is aware of the thud of his heart in the soles of his feet and palms of his hands, his throat, his chest, his cock. Wei Ying pins him in place with nothing more than his weight, the ten tips of his fingers, the solemn worship of his mouth. It is everything.

Lan Wangji pulls Wei Ying flush to him, catching his sound of surprise between teeth and tongue. He groans when Wei Ying’s arms shift and tighten around him to compensate, holding him closer.

There are entirely too many layers of clothing. He wants skin. He wants to spread his hands on Wei Ying’s sides and feel the heat of him, the sure expanse of each breath. To feel Wei Ying alive beneath his mouth as he licks and bites and sucks, and then tomorrow to go about his day with the secret knowledge of what lays beneath Wei Ying’s robes and sunny smiles.

He pulls away. Their breaths fill the space between them, then Lan Wangji’s hands. Then Wei Ying’s. They fumble, sleeves tangling. Wei Ying laughs, and Lan Wangji ducks his head and finds his mouth, takes that joy inside him where it spreads like wildfire. His hands find Wei Ying’s ribs and his mouth finds the arch of his collarbone. Wei Ying’s hands pause where they’re caught in Lan Wangji’s robes and he sighs, breath gusting against his loose hair.

“Shameless.” There’s laughter in his voice, and fondness. Lan Wangji is infinitely grateful to be known by this man, and so well.

He hums agreement against Wei Ying’s skin. What is there to argue?

Wei Ying’s hands are at his shoulders, pinching and pulling ineffectually. He whines, the sound turning into a groan when Lan Wangji sucks just so. “Ah, Lan Zhan,” he says, “you are distracting me.”

Fingers and thumbs find nipples, and Wei Ying squirms, hands and thighs tightening.

“That doesn’t--” Breath hisses tight through his teeth as Lan Wangji presses the edge of his thumbnail to Wei Ying’s nipple, as he tongues at the livid red mark he’s left on his skin. “Doesn’t actually help.”

He noses Wei Ying’s robes open farther, eyes slipping shut as one of Wei Ying’s hands slides back into his hair. He shivers, and those fingers flex against him, tugging gently until they’re looking at each other, eyes hungry as hearts, hungry as hands. They kiss, and then Wei Ying is bare chested. And then he is bare, his clothes a heap on the floor, his hair a mess. He leans back on his elbows, letting Lan Wangji look. The shape of Lan Wangji’s mouth glows against his skin, beacons urging him to light more.

Wei Ying smiles at him, corners of his eyes and mouth gone soft. He is so beautiful, he is so…

Lan Wangji bends over him, presses his mouth to the place a Wen brand once rested another life ago. Lets himself wander to a nipple, to follow the line of Wei Ying’s chest to his breastbone and then up, up to the line of his neck, his jaw, his open mouth.

“Lan Zhan,” he whines. “Are you feeling nostalgic? It’s not fair that I’m naked and you’re not.”

“Wei Ying is correct.” He follows his jaw to the spot he’s found below Wei Ying’s ear that makes him moan.

It does the trick.

“Ah, you’re not playing fair.”

Lan Wangji pulls away, waits for Wei Ying’s eyes to slip open, his eyebrow to slip up. He waits until Wei Ying is watching him. “Not playing.”

Color suffuses Wei Ying’s cheeks and chest, pale pink blossoming beneath the marks already there. In his chest, Lan Wangji’s heart clenches. Without looking away, he reaches for the ties of his own robes, shrugging them off so they pool around his waist. Wei Ying wants to look--there’s a tension in his gaze that belies its steadiness--and the knowledge fills Lan Wangji with warmth, a heat that pools low in his stomach.

He presses forward, shifting onto his knees, shifting between Wei Ying’s. His heart races. There is a damp spot on the front of his pants from the head of his cock. He knows the moment Wei Ying’s hungry eyes notice, can see the way they catch and stare before they drag up his stomach to his chest, his face. Their eyes meet and Lan Wangji understands the swell of need that can draw blood, the desire to want and take and have more.

There is so much that he wants. There is only Wei Ying.

Wei Ying’s mouth is red, his eyes black. He reaches for Lan Wangji with a steady hand to trace the outline of him through the fabric of his pants. “Not playing, either.”

Lan Wangji falls on him, Wei Ying welcoming him greedily. His hands are everywhere--tangling in Lan Wangji’s hair, hooking around the back of his thigh, spanning the width of his back. As though if Wei Ying tries hard enough, he can touch him everywhere at once. Lan Wangji leans his weight into him, swallows the moan that rises out of Wei Ying in response. And then he slips away, mouthing kisses as he goes. He follows the shockingly delicate lines of Wei Ying’s throat, pausing where his heart beats hardest.

He has watched Wei Ying speak, watched him teach, watched him read and write and play, and his eyes have lingered on the hollow of his throat between the panels of his robes, and he knows Wei Ying has seen him, and he doesn’t care who sees him because this--Wei Ying’s heart fluttering against his lips--is his.

Wei Ying vibrates beneath him, but his hands are gentle on the back of Lan Wangji’s head. Fingers trail down his neck to his shoulders as Lan Wangji noses at his breastbone. He finds the mark he left before, fading now, and encourages it back to vividness.

Wei Ying whines high in the back of his throat. His hips push against Lan Wangji’s, and their cocks drag together, nothing between them but damp cloth. Holding himself steady, Lan Wangji lets him rock against him as he bites here, sucks there. Wei Ying is alive beneath him, muscles shifting, skin turning pink then red then blood-dark. Wei Ying bemoans the distance when Lan Wangji shifts farther down his body, gasps out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan as Lan Wangji finds a spot along his ribs that proves ticklish.

He holds Wei Ying down and discovers more, mouthing the curve of his side, kissing the whorl of his navel, tonguing the crease between thigh and hip. Wei Ying squirms, and Lan Wangji nips at the rise of hip bone before going farther, settling between his legs. The smell of him is thick on Lan Wangji’s tongue, salt and musk, his cock flushed dark at the head. Liquid beads at the tip. Lan Wangji’s mouth waters, so he presses it there, feels Wei Ying on his lips and tongue, tastes him against the back of his teeth.

Their eyes meet as Lan Wangji wraps a hand around him, and they hold as he lowers his head again, lips parted to take Wei Ying between them. Wei Ying’s eyes are hot and dark and bottomless; Lan Wangji feels like he has been falling half his life. To land here in the cradle of his thighs at last is a gift.

“Lan Zhan.”

Wei Ying sees him. He watches Lan Wangji as he slowly lowers his mouth around him, taking him deeper before easing off. He strokes Wei Ying, and watches. Leans down and sucks a mouth-shaped bruise into the pale curve of Wei Ying’s thigh.

In his hair, Wei Ying’s fingers tighten. So does the muscle under Lan Wangji’s tongue. So does the heat, low in his belly. He takes Wei Ying in his mouth again, takes him deeper. Keeps his eyes open until Wei Ying’s are closed and then swallows him down.

Lan Wangji tracks time in the curl and uncurl of Wei Ying’s fingers, the salt on his tongue, the ache in his jaw. He loses himself in the rhythm of his breathing, his hands, Wei Ying’s hips. The throb of his own pulse in his cock caught between his hips and the bed. He takes his time, savoring the drag of skin on skin, the smell of Wei Ying thick in the air. Wei Ying himself thick on the back of his tongue.

There is no place for them to be, no duties to perform. The day is complete. The pace he sets is slow, the memory of copper long ago replaced. Wei Ying hums beneath him, and Lan Wangji feels it in the pit of his stomach.

At first, Wei Ying’s fingers are light against his brow, his cheek. They press and Lan Wangji knows Wei Ying can feel himself there, in his mouth, and the intimacy of it makes him shudder. He opens his eyes to meet Wei Ying’s.

“Your mouth,” he says, fingers soft above Lan Wangji’s top lip then lower to his lip, lower to the wet slide of his cock.

Lan Wangji moans, pulls off to suck those fingers instead. Teeth scrape over knuckles, he tongues at the edge of a nail.

“Lan Zhan.” Honey-dipped, Wei Ying draws out the syllables of his name. He groans, and Lan Wangji curls his tongue around him, moves his tongue between his fore- and middle fingers. Wei Ying’s eyelids lower without closing. “So hot. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

He understands. He very much understands. He has stood beside Wei Ying in meetings, watched him in training sessions, listened to him laugh and sing and inquire after the rabbits’ health and wanted nothing more than to wrap him up and away. To find someplace private to press mouth to mouth and skin to skin. Now that he can, now that this is theirs to have.

The pad of Wei Ying’s thumb is soft against the hollow of his cheek. When he speaks his voice is low and rough, only for Lan Wangji’s ears. “None of them know what you’re thinking. But I know. Sometimes you can’t help yourself either.”

It’s true; he can’t. Any defenses he had against Wei Ying, he dismantled himself long ago. He sucks at Wei Ying’s fingers, and Wei Ying’s mouth tenses, his cock twitching. Saliva and precome shine on his skin, and Lan Wangji knows his own lips are slick with it. That they’re as kiss-bitten as Wei Ying’s.

Wei Ying’s other other hand curls against his jaw, fingers gentle against his ear then slipping into his hair. Lan Wangji leans into it, eyes slipping shut as Wei Ying chuckles. “Er-gege,” he says, then, “Hanguang-Jun,” each syllable distinct. Each hit lands. He knows Wei Ying can feel the increased heat in his ears--he doesn’t care; all he can think about is the increased heat in his cock, the throb of want that goes through him as Wei Ying continues.

“Look at you.” He pulls his fingers out to spread saliva across Lan Wangji’s bottom lip. Lan Wangji opens his eyes, and lets him. The tip of his tongue follows, and Wei Ying moans, eyes focusing there as his thumb follows the same path, pushing between his lips. “Never a hair out of place. Except here with me. For me. Lan Zhan, even your headband is gone.”

It is. Somewhere on the bed no doubt, mixed in with their robes. Wei Ying had it last. That’s all that matters; Wei Ying removed it, and he’ll help him replace it. (Not that he needs it. Not that he’ll refuse.)

“Everyone hangs on your words when you part your lips. I can’t stop thinking about putting my cock between them.”

His teeth close on the knob of Wei Ying’s knuckle. His cock aches. He’s thought about it, too, though usually when Wei Ying has the floor, his stride confident, his gestures theatrical. Wei Ying has always had presence; Lan Wangji orients to him like a blossom to the sun. Of course he’s thought about it.

Wei Ying’s fingers are tacky where they brush his throat. “You want it so much.” His thumb slides out of Lan Wangji’s mouth, a slow drag.“Shameless,” he says again, voice rough, and then his hands are pulling Lan Wangji’s face toward him, and they’re kissing. Bent in half and stretched awkwardly, perfect and not enough.

He pulls away from Wei Ying and his mouth--his clever tongue, his wicked teeth--with a look that tells Wei Ying to stay, to let him. With Wei Ying’s eyes on him, he rubs his cheek, his mouth against the hard line of his cock. He’ll smell of Wei Ying, after; he’ll wash, but the scent will linger as he falls asleep and he will dream of Wei Ying in his arms and when he wakes in the morning, there Wei Ying will be. Shifting between Wei Ying’s legs, he lets his hips settle more firmly against the bed before kissing the wet head of his cock, fitting lips around him, taking him in.

Wei Ying’s saliva-sticky fingers press against Lan Wangji’s cheekbone, his bare forehead. “Gege,” he says. “Fuck, Lan Zhan. You’re so--” He swallows. “You’re so good, you’re so good to me.”

It doesn’t take long after that, Wei Ying’s voice gone breathy, his fingers in Lan Wangji’s hair insistent. He comes with Lan Wangji’s name on his tongue and Lan Wangji’s tongue on his skin, and Lan Wangji swallows him down. His world is no more than the shape of this bed, and Wei Ying.

All it takes is the touch of his own hand, the sweet release of pressure followed by the heat of skin, and he is lost himself, there between Wei Ying’s thighs.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says. “Come here, come--Did you already--?”

He fits himself over Wei Ying, hiding his face against Wei Ying’s neck when he huffs out a breathless laugh, one hand caught between them.

“You did!” He noses at the side of Lan Wangji’s head, jostling him. “That’s so--” His breath is hot; Lan Wangji shivers when it meets damp hair, cooling sweat. Wei Ying squirms beneath him until his arm is free, and then they’re both wrapped around Lan Wangji, one hand gentle on the back of his head. “I wanted you to fuck me, but to have you come like that? Ah, Lan Zhan.”

Lan Wangji bites at the nearest part of his neck. “Wait.”



Wei Ying hums, stretching as he does so, muscles pulling taunt and back bowing beneath Lan Wangji’s weight. Lan Wangji lifts his head to look at him, and--still messy with his own spend--his cock twitches. Wei Ying’s mouth is full and ripe, and Lan Wangji understands all too well the need to take a bite.