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butter my biscuit

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Wei Ying habitually moans in his sleep. He sometimes holds entire, nonsensical conversations and almost always hikes his leg over on top of Lan Zhan no matter how hot it is under the covers. On occasion, he twitches so violently Lan Zhan wonders what his dreams look like—if he’s falling somewhere Lan Zhan can’t catch him.

Lan Zhan wakes at 5 a.m. to an unnatural stillness. The white noise machine hums on their dresser. Pale blue light is just beginning to sheer through the curtains.

Next to him, Wei Ying is sleeping deeply. He has his arms crossed under the pillow, one leg hitched up as if he face-planted into bed and then didn’t move again. Lan Zhan rolls onto his side—it’s a Saturday; he has no other obligations aside from lingering next to Wei Ying, wondering why their bodies didn’t complete their nightly migration together.

He pulls the comforter out of Wei Ying’s lax grip where it’s pressed against his cheek, down across the wings of his shoulders and the dip of his back. Then stops.

An exposed line of elastic stretches over Wei Ying’s hips, bursting from the seam. The soft, grey cotton panties cup the curves of Wei Ying’s ass, rumpled as they stretch across his center—a testament to how often they have been worn, how well-loved they are. Lan Zhan takes a careful breath and gets out of bed.

Nothing has changed by the time he comes back, nudging a cup onto Wei Ying’s nightstand amidst the familiar clutter. It rattles softly. Lan Zhan draws their comforter all the way down, revealing the hairy backs of Wei Ying’s legs, the clean tuck of his feet against the sheets. He need only spread the one out a bit further. Deadweight, it imprints where he puts it.

Lan Zhan sinks too as he climbs up and sits back—becoming focused, feeling the first flint-strike of arousal when he sinks his hands into Wei Ying’s thighs and massages up, fingers slipping under the panties to cup his ass. Wei Ying doesn’t move. Doesn’t make a sound. There’s no enticing little wiggle, or croon, or whine like usual. 

Just the quiet hum of noise and the ghost of Wei Ying’s engineering, his outline for Lan Zhan to follow so they both enjoy this to the fullest. Touch me, really just touch me how you like, he’d said. You’ll miss me being a noisy brat, don’t even lie. I think you’ll just have to try really hard to get me to react!

And Lan Zhan had replied, I will try, but I do not think it will be hard.

Under the stretchy-soft cotton panties, Lan Zhan squeezes both handfuls, running his thumbs under the curves. He can never do this uninterrupted while Wei Ying is awake. There’s always the bowing of his body backwards into it, a cry for more, movement that requires suppression or capture. That is half the fun. 

But rather than go where I put you, do as I say, it turns us both on when I have to make you, the thirsty work of pressure and reinforcement, this is pure indulgence. He digs his fingers in. Wei Ying’s skin molds to them, overly soft. Lan Zhan has fond memories of using the mounds of his ass as a pillow and also of sticking his face and cock in between them.  

That’s not what will be happening tonight. Lan Zhan doesn’t worry about stretching the panties—they have been stretched plenty—as he roves his palms downward, both thumbs brushing against where Wei Ying is hot and naturally damp, inner folds rolling under the motion. He strains his thumb, hand framing Wei Ying’s cunt in the reach for his clit, which is almost pressed to the bed and almost hidden from the angle of his hips. 

As featherlight as possible, he flexes the top part of his thumb across it. A muscle jumps in Wei Ying’s inner thigh. Lan Zhan smiles to himself—I told you it would not be difficult—and moves to sit astride Wei Ying instead. There’s no reason to speak or gloat aloud. Compliments and heated whispers are only useful when Wei Ying can hear them. 

He saves each on the tip of his tongue for later and puts his hand back down Wei Ying’s panties. One is enough, cupping the entire expanse between Wei Ying’s legs and curving down. Even though they do not often have sex there, Lan Zhan knows it well enough. Has been taught well enough. Wei Ying deserves no less than his full attention wherever he wants it. 

So, he stiffens his fingers, but uses the middle one in particular—like a caterpillar, Wei Ying had explained around the third time, making Lan Zhan regret ever asking—to stroke back and forth. The other is free to touch. It follows the divot of Wei Ying’s spine up to the base then back down, exerting light pressure. He spreads it across the middle of Wei Ying’s back while his finger speeds up. 

Wei Ying’s breathing quickens against his palm, a low, sleepy sound dragging out of his throat. 

Lan Zhan keeps going. If this is anything like the other times, Wei Ying will not wake up, no matter what Lan Zhan does to him. The memories of those other times catch like brush-fire through his stomach and into his cock. He shifts to two fingers, pressing harder. 

“Mmn,” Wei Ying hums, nuzzling the pillow then settling back still. Yes, yes, more, just like that. 

Now, there is more than the natural humidity of Wei Ying’s cunt gathering against his palm. Even asleep, his clit has swelled, hardening from the attention. 

At this point during any other play, Lan Zhan would probably stop. He’d have his arms full of squirming, begging Wei Ying. He’d have to ask him to be good, or he’d simply have to make him be so. 

Like this, Wei Ying is helpless, implicitly trusting. Lan Zhan pulls his hand free and licks the pads of the two fingers he was just using, brushing lightly across his lips to breathe in the scent of Wei Ying’s cunt on them before cupping him again over the panties. He circles his hand, pushing all the wetness into the cotton. They grow slick, fabric darkening. 

You come so easily, Lan Zhan thinks as Wei Ying’s hips lift just the barest, instinctual little bit as Lan Zhan drives him there, closer and closer, then pulls away. Wei Ying has the audacity to whine at the end of his next sleep-heavy breath.  

Lan Zhan tickles his inner thigh with the very tips of his fingers, smiling as he flinches gently, then moves on. The next piece of the outline is: take my panties off, but don’t ruin them, whatever you do. I’ll actually never forgive you. Lan Zhan need not point out he could buy Wei Ying as many grey cotton pairs of panties as he wants. He pulls them down, side by side, as carefully as possible, until they are hanging around Wei Ying’s ankles and able to be freed with ease. 

It’ll probably be easiest if you have me on my back, huh? Lan Zhan rolls him onto his back. 

And have my hips lifted up with our sex pillow. Lan Zhan pushes their malleable and chunky pillow with its very machine-washable rabbit-eared cover under Wei Ying’s hips, one side at a time until he looks comfortable. 

Then—Wei Ying had smiled as he narrated this part—you should tell me how pretty I look! Even if I’m drooling and snoring. Alright? 

Lan Zhan reaches over to the nightstand before spreading Wei Ying’s legs and sitting between them with the cup. He’s also taken his phone off of its charger and put it within reach nearby. With every passing minute, the sky outside lightens, birds twittering excitedly to welcome the dawn. It seems Wei Ying will be bringing in the new day by coming under Lan Zhan’s guidance, more deserving of worship than the sun. 

Laying flat, he keeps the cup safe within the crook of his left elbow. Wei Ying is still sound asleep, not drooling, but with his mouth slightly open. His hair was rucked around his head when Lan Zhan rolled him. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan whispers, pressing a kiss to his inner thigh and not feeling at all ridiculous. “You are so beautiful.”

Tongue flat, he cleans up the small trail of wet from earlier trickling down and gets to work stiffening his clit back to full hardness, probably aching after being denied. He suckles at it long enough to make Wei Ying whine again, shoulders twitching as if he’s dreaming of arching into the motions, longing to come.

Tease me as much as you want. It’s not like I’ll be able to do anything about it. And—you remember that thing you did with the ice the other week? Yeah. I want that again. 

Lan Zhan plucks a slippery cube out of the cup and pops it into his mouth. He sucks on it until it’s gone, then places another one on his tongue. Holding it curled there, he presses his mouth against Wei Ying’s clit and rolls the piece there and around, juggling both. Water and drool melt down his chin. Cold mingles with the hot, throbbing peak of Wei Ying’s clit and the flesh around it. 

Wei Ying’s thighs tighten the barest amount, muscles jumping with small shocks. Underneath his lids, his eyes have begun to roll. Dreaming, perhaps, of this exact scenario. Slurping against him, Lan Zhan gets another piece and pushes it inside as far as it will go until his two fingers are soaked. Then, without waiting, he pushes another in and holds his fingers there, keeping them inside. 

“Mmm,” Wei Ying moans. His breathing quickens. Lan Zhan watches him, how his brows squinch together and his eyelids flutter with each motion; against Lan Zhan’s fingers, his opening flexes helplessly. Water trickles onto the pillow around them, still cold. 

He hums, pleased with how swollen and tender Wei Ying’s clit feels against his lips and tongue, how he smells and tastes especially. Ducking down, he hooks a finger inside, popping one of the only half-melted cubes back out and back onto his tongue. “Mmm,” he answers Wei Ying’s moan as he swallows it.

And then, after you’ve teased me with that, make me come? Make me come as hard as you can and see if you can wake me up, yeah? Lan Zhan pushes another ice cube inside of Wei Ying’s cunt and follows it with his fingers. 

He mixes the natural slick of him with drool, tongue warming again, to offset how rough the water makes the slide inside. Eases the way for his fingers to curl as his tongue finds its rhythm and chases it without mercy. Wei Ying cannot squirm, but it looks as if he wants to. His thighs shake, too soft to even set off a Richter scale. Fingers trying to grip into the covers. 

Lan Zhan closes his eyes. Listens to the wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth and the quiet, dream-bound whimpers of Wei Ying falling over the edge as he curves his fingers until the pulses of orgasm crest then begin to fade. Even though Wei Ying’s body didn’t react with any sort of strength, there’s a flush across his cheeks that wasn’t there before. 

Face dripping and cold fingers pruny, Lan Zhan sits up. Wiping his hands as best he can in the bedsheets, he grabs his phone and swipes over to video. The cup gets moved back onto the nightstand. As he relaxes back on his haunches once more, he hits the record button. 

Morning light is now encroaching fully into their room. Because Wei Ying will want to see, Lan Zhan grabs him by the knee and folds him, one leg over the other. It closes off his cunt, presses his orgasm-dark flesh into two round halves leading up into the curves of his ass. 

“Look at you,” Lan Zhan whispers. Wei Ying once said him being ‘pervy’ over his sleeping body was ‘the hottest fucking thing in the world,’ and then proved it by coming almost instantly from watching the first video Lan Zhan had narrated. 

“I did not wake you up,” he continues, “however, I am sure you enjoyed yourself. You can see just how much.”

He films the giant wet spot from the ice, and then he shows Wei Ying how wet his thigh is becoming from the residual trickle. “It was not difficult. Did you have a nice dream when you came?” And then, because Wei Ying knows the sound better than anything, will be waiting for it, he keeps the camera pointed forward but reaches into his pajama pants for his cock, stroking it. Does nothing but let the microphone catch the sound of rustling fabric and the jump in his breathing. 

Already, he’s close. “Where should I come on you this time?” he whispers. His breath shudders out as he strokes himself—why aren’t you showing me your dick?!—and the bed creaks as he knee walks closer to Wei Ying’s prone body. “On your ass? Your hole? Your face?”

Anywhere, Lan Zhan, I don’t care! I just want it so bad—he strokes himself harder and finally lets the camera drift down to get point-of-view vision of his hand and his dick, hovering just over Wei Ying’s thigh and ass. 

How shameless he’s become. Head tilting back, Lan Zhan loses himself to the pleasure, thinking how Wei Ying will wake up later with the very wet dream fresh on his mind, begging to watch the video and then begging to get fucked as he watches it on loop, so turned on he’ll hardly want to wait. “Ahhh, baby,” he groans, coming. 

It splashes across Wei Ying’s thigh and immediately begins oozing down into the crevices of his cunt. Lan Zhan films everything, aiming the last pulse of it directly onto his folds and smearing it around. Lazy bliss rolls through him. He lets himself pant in the aftermath, playing with the creamy mess until it’s everywhere. Pushing up the fleshy cheek of Wei Ying’s ass, he lets him see through the camera how he’s painted from top to bottom. 

And then, because Wei Ying will not be expecting it, he smacks him lightly, the wet splat of it truly titillating, before sitting back with a satisfied sigh. 

He whispers, “Wake up soon,” and hits the button to stop recording.