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dancing bird of paradise

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Anyone would think that Lan Zhan would be anti-party. Before they became friends Wei Ying would have said anti-fun in general, and anti-Wei Ying-Having-Fun specifically. But as it turns out, it’s not that — it’s about the environment, the vibe, the specific people. She wouldn’t be found at a big college party surrounded by strangers, and doesn't like going to loud bars, but these days Lan Zhan is the one who hosts parties. Partially because Lan Zhan, being a certified functional human being, has a real adult job and family money and therefore the biggest condo, but it’s also because she has more control over the people invited, the volume level, and when it ends. She likes being the place where her friends can gather, and then, when she’s done for the night, not having to go anywhere.

This also works out well for Wei Ying, certified non-functional barely-human being, who has the honor of an open invitation to crash on Lan Zhan’s couch. No more stumbling home from a mediocre club at three a.m. or paying for a ride when Lan Zhan keeps pajamas and a toothbrush for her and even feeds her in the mornings. And not just cereal, which is all that Jiang Cheng bothers to keep around their apartment, but real, hot food! Never has anyone had a better best friend.

Wei Ying loves Lan Zhan’s parties. They’re just exceptionally chill, and after the wild times she’d had during and just after undergrad, that’s the energy Wei Ying needs in her life right now. Just good times with her favorite people. Someone always has a playlist that perfectly fits the Mood™, whether that’s American pop they all end up scream-singing along to, or instrumental lo-fi beats, or the experimental orchestral shit that Lan Zhan is into right now, which, for the record, goes way harder than it has any right to. (Admittedly, sometimes the Mood™ is just incredibly weird.) Wen Ning usually brings along a new board game with a million rules to explain, and Wen Qing inevitably kicks their asses (this activity is banned when Jiang Cheng attends, because he and Lan Zhan inevitably come to blows). Nie Huaisang makes either the best or the worst drinks depending on who you ask, but more importantly, through channels unknown, he has that dispensary-grade weed. And he’s always happy to share.

Wei Ying loves smoking with Lan Zhan.

Maybe that’s a weird thing to specifically love, but she’s been made aware that she doesn’t have a very good metric for weird when it comes to Lan Zhan. They’d met briefly in college and got along like oil and water then, but fell back into each other’s orbit years later, when they both moved home to be close to family. She can’t explain what changed—things just clicked, the second time. Maybe Wei Ying became less obnoxious, or Lan Zhan less uptight, or maybe they’re just at a place in their lives when they need each other. Whatever the reason, now Wei Ying can’t imagine a world where she doesn’t have Lan Zhan.

Jiang Cheng describes them as attached at the hip, or when he’s feeling less charitable, weirdly obsessed with each other. “It’s bizarre,” he’d said once, in that blunt way he says everything. They were babysitting their nephew, who had just learned to hold up his giant head, and Wei Ying had been texting Lan Zhan pictures of Jin Ling all afternoon. “She used to hate you, and somehow you, what, annoyed her into falling in love with you?”

Wei Ying glanced up from her phone, where she’d been grinning at a GIF of a sleepy baby rabbit which Lan Zhan texted her. She was the cutest. The rabbit, yes, but mostly Lan Zhan. “Just because she’s a lesbian doesn’t automatically mean she’s in love with me. Don’t be homophobic.”

“I’m not homophobic!” Jiang Cheng snapped loudly, getting them weird looks from the other caretakers at the playground. “I wouldn’t care if you were gay.”

“Okay.”

“It would be fine. If you were.”

“Okay! I’m not, though.”

“Shut up! It’s not like you’ve ever dated anyway.”

In her lap, Jin Ling tugged at Wei Ying’s earring like he wanted to tear it out. Attempting to uncurl his freakishly strong baby fist without losing the earring or making Jin Ling cry, Wei Ying replied, “I have standards. When did this become about my love life? Ow, ow, stop that!” She didn’t mention that one of her standards is that Lan Zhan likes whatever guy she dates, because in her opinion that’s a given, but it probably wouldn’t help her case. The list of straight men that Lan Zhan approves of is very short, so it’s not entirely Wei Ying’s fault that at twenty-five she’s only done a little kissing.

Maybe she’d have more luck with bi guys…

Jiang Cheng huffed, mad for no reason that Wei Ying could see, which was his default setting. He scooped Jin Ling out of Wei Ying’s lap, carrying him over to the baby swings. “Whatever. I just don’t get your whole thing.”

Their thing. Wei Ying doesn’t know how to label their thing. If pressed she might say “platonic life partner,” but Jiang Cheng is adamant that that sounds even more gay. She would consult with Lan Zhan on that, if it weren’t the most embarrassing scenario she could conceive of. And does it matter if Jiang Cheng gets it? Quite simply, Lan Zhan is her best friend, and so effortlessly cool it sometimes makes Wei Ying ache to look at her, and any future boyfriend Wei Ying manages to find (any day now, please!!) will just have to accept that they’re a package deal. 

What was her point? Oh, right, the point is, she loves Lan Zhan’s parties and she loves smoking with her, watching the stiff way she holds herself fade away, her shoulders relaxing and jaw unclenching. Lan Zhan gets killer migraines when she has more than a few sips of alcohol, so marijuana is her vice of choice. Sometimes cigarettes, but only if she’s really stressed, and Lan Huan isn’t allowed to know that. The first time Wei Ying watched Lan Zhan get giddy-high, laying on the floor giggling over some stupid inside joke of theirs, she’d felt her heart grow three sizes — that ache, again.

She hasn’t been giggly like that tonight, just quiet and happy, not talking much, listening to the conversation flow around her. The Mood™ is relaxed. Mianmian and Wen Qing are out on the back deck talking quietly, heads close together, and Lan Zhan’s brother is in the kitchen, she thinks, making a snack, and the rest of them are sprawled on the couch or the floor. Nie Huaisang brought his new bong, but he’s too caught up in gushing about the glassblower he commissioned it from to pass the damn thing. Lan Zhan’s couch is L-shaped with one end having one of those chaise lounge-style extensions, which probably has a name Wei Ying is forgetting, and Wei Ying has monopolized it and all the throw pillows, with Lan Zhan on the floor besides her, head tucked against Wei Ying’s thigh. Wei Ying, a beer and a glass of wine in, on her way to crossfaded, smiles dopily as she reaches down to run her fingers through Lan Zhan’s shiny, perfectly straight black hair. A pleased little thrill runs through her when Lan Zhan leans into it, nudging into her hand like a cat asking to be pet.

“I bet your shampoo is like, twelve bucks a bottle,” Wei Ying says. She has to pause to accept the bong as it finally makes its way to her, but she returns to Lan Zhan’s hair immediately once she’s handed her the bong. She’s fascinated by how it feels, silky, smooth, a jet black river. “There’s no possible explanation for this except money. Or witchcraft.”

“Twenty dollars,” Lan Zhan says, taking a hit off the bong. She coughs a little — she uses a pipe, normally — and passes it along.

“Bourgeoisie scum,” Wei Ying says, flopping back against her cushion throne, though she keeps her hand in Lan Zhan’s hair, because if she’s going to spend that kind of money on hair care Wei Ying might as well reap the benefits. Usually Wei Ying is the life of the party, the one goading her friends into stupid drinking games, but tonight—tonight she’s content to be quiet, to let the buzz of conversation roll over her. The playlist comes up with a song she knows about half the words to, enough to hum along, and Jiang Cheng isn’t here to make her feel self-conscious about how she and Lan Zhan must look when they’re all over each other like this. She gets so tactile when she’s stoned, though only with Wei Ying. Another thing Wei Ying loves. She’d cuddle any of her friends, but it feels more special with Lan Zhan.

The evening eventually winds down, everyone out one by one, starting with Mianmian and Wen Qing slipping out quietly together, hand in hand. They’re clearly trying to be discreet about it, so Wei Ying valiantly refrains from catcalling them like she wants to (though she does text Wen Qing an obnoxious string of emojis). She watches them leave with a weird twinge in her gut that doesn’t fully make sense to her, since she’s been rooting for them for ages. Maybe it’s just her own perpetual singleness. She wants to date! She does! It’s just never the right person, the right time. She’s good with her life right now, for once. And any time she tries to imagine bringing a guy around to one of these get-togethers— nameless and faceless, the Platonic Ideal of Guy—the image dissolves.

They stay up a while after everyone leaves, with the automatic post-playlist recommendations continuing softly from the Bluetooth speaker on the table, the lights dim. At some point Wei Ying got annoyed with her pillow fortress and kicked it to the floor, and turned over on her belly, head resting on her arms at the far end of the chaise lounge thingy. Lan Zhan remains rooted on the floor. Secretly, sometimes this is her favorite time, more than the parties themselves—the quiet aftermath with Lan Zhan, their late-night murmurings, the certainty of a place to stay tonight. Getting ready for bed together, shoulder to shoulder while they brush their teeth. Lan Zhan’s quiet “Sleep well, Wei Ying,” before her bedroom door shuts and Wei Ying drifts off on the couch with the vague plan of waking up earlier to cook breakfast for once (so far she’s never managed it.) One notable night, too drunk to move, she’d slept in Lan Zhan’s bed, insisted on Lan Zhan staying with her, but she hadn’t slept much — too aware of the soft curved shape of the body beside her, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, every accidental brush of their feet under the covers. Her stomach hurt in ways that didn’t have anything to do with the wine.

Before bed, though, they’ll just talk late into the night, maybe cuddle, if Lan Zhan is still stoned and touchy-feely — if she wants to hold Wei Ying’s head in her lap to play with her hair, run her fingers over whatever bare skin is in reach. Like now, when Wei Ying surfaces from some infodump about an artist she’s been reading about, realizing that she doesn’t know how long Lan Zhan has been peacefully trailing her long fingers up and down Wei Ying’s bare legs, tickling the soft, dark hair on her shins that thins out to almost nothing above the knee. So blissed out that the touch just faded into the background.

“Having fun down there, sweetheart?” Wei Ying giggles, turning her head to glance back. She’s very aware now. Lan Zhan’s touch tickles, but in a way that makes her want to squirm toward it instead of away. She wonders offhandedly if Lan Zhan gets horny when she’s stoned, like Wei Ying sometimes does — like she kind of is now, in a vague and distant way, floaty and so nice.

“Mm. Soft,” Lan Zhan says, dreamy, like that’s all the explanation necessary. Oh, she’s stoned stoned, single-syllable stoned. God bless Nie Huaisang’s bong, long may she reign, etcetera. “So long.”

“I haven’t even shaved.”

“Good,” Lan Zhan says with feeling, and, well, if Lan Zhan likes her legs hairy that’s all Wei Ying, certified dirtbag, needs to be convinced to never shave again. She won’t shave anything, armpits, whatever, if Lan Zhan tells her not to. Lan Zhan’s hand continues it’s path up and down the pale back of Wei Ying’s thighs. Though perpetually skinny, she’s at a healthy weight for the first time in her life (crazy what a little stability in your life can do!) and she’s come to like where the new weight has settled — her hips, thighs, even her softer belly, though it hasn’t done anything for her tits, alas. Lan Zhan appears to like it too, squeezing where her thighs are thickest, dipping into the gap between them. It’s nice. It’s just cuddling, and cuddling your friends is great and everyone should give it a try, in Wei Ying’s opinion, yay for platonic intimacy — and no, she responds to the tiny Jiang Cheng that lives in her head, just because the friend in question is a gold-star lesbian doesn’t make it automatically gay to cuddle her —

Ah, she’s thinking too hard, even if her thoughts are scattered all over like dry beans spilled over the countertop. She’d rather not think at all. She props herself up, reaching for the pipe she’d packed earlier before Nie Huaisang appeared with superior weed; lights up and takes a long, deep drag. Annihilate those brain cells. There’s still green left, crackling as it burns. She holds the smoke deep in her lungs and twists around to hold the pipe out to Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan doesn’t reach for it, hands otherwise occupied, the weight of them curled around Wei Ying’s thigh, but she leans in to let Wei Ying hold the pipe to her mouth, the curtain of her hair falling over her eyes. Her lips are plush and pink around the glass, where Wei Ying’s mouth had just been, eyes blown out and half-lidded, the ember flaring as she breathes in. 

Wei Ying realizes she hasn’t let her own breath out, vision a touch fuzzy at the edges, too busy staring. Staring at her best friend like this is some new thing, not someone she smokes with regularly. She holds eye contact — Lan Zhan’s eyes so dark and intense — as she lets out the long, steady stream of smoke. She’s good at holding her breath, hardly ever coughs — she thinks she’d be good at shotgunning if she got the chance to try. 

Lan Zhan, a gentlewoman, kindly allows Wei Ying to finish exhaling and lay her head back down before her wandering fingers decide to trace the crease where her legs meet her ass — a good thing or Wei Ying might have choked in surprise. As it is, Wei Ying just kind of blinks about it, bleary and pleasantly confused, not particularly wanting whatever is happening to stop. The thing is, about half of her ass cheek is showing in these stupid shorts, so. So.

Earlier it had seemed like a really good idea to show up in these tiny shorts — the red sporty ones that almost manage to make it look like she has curves — and black mock-neck tank top, comfy and cute, until she’d arrived at Lan Zhan’s door trying to balance three bottles of wine in her arms (if she had to drop one, she’d already decided it would be the nasty rosé that Nie Huaisang always fucking requests). Lan Zhan had given her this up and down look, like maybe she disapproved? Her nostrils flared! A whole facial expression! It was weird, but she was already wearing it, so if Lan Zhan didn’t like it, she’d just have to deal.

She’s reevaluating Lan Zhan’s reaction now as her long fingers slip, just barely, under the hem of said tiny shorts. Maybe the nostril-flare had actually been about the nasty rosé, because all data currently points toward Lan Zhan approving very strongly of the tiny shorts.

“What are you doing?” Wei Ying attempts to say, but her tongue feels too big in her mouth and it comes out more like “Mmmngh.” She’s still holding the pipe. She lets it clatter back onto the coffee table.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan agrees. Before Wei Ying registers how Lan Zhan’s voice vibrates so close to her skin, Lan Zhan nuzzles against Wei Ying’s leg, a bit above the knee.

Wei Ying swallows. It has not, actually, occurred to her to tell Lan Zhan to stop. It has occurred to her that it hasn’t occurred to her to tell Lan Zhan to stop, which is kind of a funny distinction. “You like my legs?” She asks, her voice too high.

Lan Zhan nods, cheek rubbing against her. Wei Ying can feel her eyelashes as they flutter. “Soft,” Lan Zhan repeats. “I like them.” Her hand is still nearly on Wei Ying’s butt, fingertips brushing the hem of her shorts. That spot is, somehow, the hottest point on Wei Ying’s entire body, makes her want to squeeze her legs together, to squirm, do something about the achey, slow heat that she now realizes has been pooling low in her belly, her hips — 

Lan Zhan kisses the crook of her knee, and then licks a stripe to her inner thigh, and then bites gently at the soft skin.

“Lan Zhan! ” Wei Ying laughs, breathlessly delighted, and really squirming now, though she can’t get anywhere on her belly like this, with Lan Zhan half atop her. Not that she really wants to. “Zhanzhan, who knew you were like this? Haha, so do you like the shorts after all? I thought you might when I put them on.” She had, and it was a weird fucking thought to have about your friend, she’s not too clueless to recognize that. It just seems unimportant now, considering the relative level of weirdness currently occurring.

Lan Zhan kneads at her thighs, blunt rounded nails digging in, just a little — not enough to hurt, just tiny points of pressure, and Wei Ying thinks — shivers as she thinks it and wonders if Lan Zhan feels it — thinks about Lan Zhan running those short nails all the way up and down her legs, leaving red trails behind. Lan Zhan’s lips on her skin are so soft, plush and warm as she continues her exploration and Wei Ying continues to just — lay there and take it. Vaguely aware she shouldn’t, shouldn’t lead Lan Zhan on if she thinks there’s something happening here, but — well, it’s not as if she hasn’t thought about what it might be like to kiss Lan Zhan. More than once. Everyone gets curious, it’s normal — her best friend is the most gorgeous woman on the planet, that’s a scientific fact, and Wei Ying feels safe around her. So if she was going to kiss a girl, just to try it — she’s open to any new experience — of course it would be Lan Zhan. That just makes sense!

God, but she wonders what she must look like right now, from Lan Zhan’s perspective — if she’s leaving behind bite marks, if Wei Ying will find them later when she’s getting dressed. If she might leave a darker mark, a full-on hickey — fuck but a hickey on her inner thigh would be so hot. But she can’t just ask for something like that, even if she wants it — Lan Zhan’s mouth latched onto her like that, bruising - 

“Listen to you,” Lan Zhan says, voice low, rough from smoke and the late night and what must, Wei Ying belatedly realizes, be arousal — and Wei Ying hadn’t even known she was making noise until Lan Zhan pointed it out and now she’s all too aware of the hitching, high-pitched panting and the tiny moans slipping from her mouth, where it hangs open against the suede of the couch —

“Jiejie,” she whispers.

Lan Zhan slips those beautiful, long fingers up under Wei Ying’s shorts and panties, pushes them up and aside, and bites at the curve of her ass. Not gently, this time.

The sound Wei Ying makes sounds like it should be in lesbian porn (the kind Wei Ying watches on occasion, just because straight porn can be so uncomfortable — nothing hot about a disembodied dick and an obviously uninterested woman, right?). She feels Lan Zhan’s sharp inhale, feels the hand on her other butt cheek squeeze hard, which is — is nice, is really nice in conjunction with Lan Zhan continuing to mouth at her, tongue and teeth along the line where her leg meets her ass, the line of her shorts.

Side note, totally unrelated: she’s wet. She must have been getting wet for a while, this whole time, slick when she squirms, and her underwear hardly covers anything because she had to wear the stupid tiny panties with the stupid tiny shorts, so now the light fabric will probably be soaked — and Lan Zhan will notice, this close. She’ll see how much she’s turning Wei Ying on. Wei Ying’s face burns, half in embarrassment and half in obliterating arousal, unsure whether to move away or to push back into the touch; maybe it’s the weed, or maybe Lan Zhan has magical lesbian powers, but she has never gotten so wet before even getting a hand on herself. She squeezes her legs together and gasps loudly at how good it feels, the relief of that tiny bit of pressure, how it only makes her need more.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan sounds fucking desperate, breath hot on Wei Ying’s skin. Wei Ying had no idea she could be so sensitive until Lan Zhan touched her, lit her up like fireworks. “Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t stop,” Wei Ying blurts, squeezing her eyes shut in shame, but she can’t take it back and she doesn’t want Lan Zhan to stop, not if Lan Zhan wants it too, even though she should, even though they’re both so high — she wants Lan Zhan’s hands, her mouth, wants to know what it’s like with a girl. She wants to have sex with Lan Zhan, oh shit, that’s what they’re doing, isn’t it? She’s having sex with Lan Zhan — she thinks she sounds half-panicked when she says, “Jiejie, please —”

"Fuck," Lan Zhan says. Wei Ying isn’t sure she’s ever heard her swear before, not like that, so low and growly. Just that makes her shudder, makes her wetter, she can feel her shorts clinging between her legs. Lan Zhan tugs at the shorts, not down but up, so they’re wedged all up Wei Ying’s crotch like a thong. It’s almost uncomfortable, too tight over her pussy, but putting pressure on her clit that she wants to rock into anyway. Her legs are spread, one knee halfway off the couch, on display. “Look at you. You want this. Practically begging for it.”

"Yeah…”

“You’re wet for me,” she sounds awestruck, and she’s feeling between Wei Ying’s legs, just thin fabric between Lan Zhan’s hand and her pussy. Rubbing two fingers roughly over Wei Ying’s entrance, her clit. 

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says weakly. “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan —"

“Mmm,” Lan Zhan hums, soft vibrations where she’s nuzzling at Wei Ying’s thigh, like she wants to just shove her face in Wei Ying’s pussy, and Wei Ying would let her, let her do anything, whatever she wants, if she could only get herself to shut up

“I think I might be bi,” Wei Ying blurts out.

This has the unfortunate effect of Lan Zhan rapidly lifting her head away from between Wei Ying’s legs, when really she’s certain it should be the opposite. Wei Ying’s heart pounds. She’s ruined it somehow, she’s sure she’s ruined it — like, maybe Lan Zhan doesn’t fuck bi girls, or she’s turned off by Wei Ying’s fucking sexuality crisis right when she was about to get her pussy eaten because she’s a fucking moron. Wei Ying turns over on her back, suddenly feeling ridiculous with her ass up in the air like this, eyes squeezed shut and face red, until Lan Zhan murmurs, “A-Ying, look at me.”

She does. At some point Lan Zhan had come to sit up on the couch, and she still has her hand on Wei Ying’s leg, firm and grounding. Lan Zhan’s eyes are so big and serious, bright red. She’s beautiful, and she’s Wei Ying’s best friend, and Wei Ying wants to know what her mouth tastes like. But mostly she’s just stuck on her beautiful eyes, almond-shaped and gold-brown when they catch the light. Her favorite person, her favorite everything. 

“Hey,” she says, with a watery smile.

“Do you.” Lan Zhan runs her tongue over her lips, and Wei Ying tracks the motion of it, pink and soft. Her lips are all red, a little puffy. “Do you want to… talk. About that.”

“Nope,” Wei Ying says brightly. “All good here.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, brow pinched. 

“I’m not freaking out!” Wei Ying insists. She sits up, head a little spinny, but she’s… well, now that she’s looked at Lan Zhan’s face, she can’t find anything to be scared of. Maybe she should be freaking out — maybe she will, and Lan Zhan will talk her through it when she does, because there’s no one better than her. But right now, it’s just a lot of things slotting into place.  She reaches out to brush her fingers over the furrow of Lan Zhan’s brow, like she can smooth it out, and lets her hand rest against her cheek. “Really. I’m okay! It makes sense, actually! Like — fellas, is it gay to think about marrying your best friend —”

Lan Zhan has this nice, low voice that Wei Ying has always found unbearably sexy (another thing that she is just now realizing is Not Very Straight, boy does she have some reevaluating to do once she regains her higher brain functions), so when she exclaims "Marrying?” it’s in a tone Wei Ying has never heard before.

"Well, yeah! Who wouldn't want to marry you? You're amazing. You're perfect."

"That's more than a little gay."

Wei Ying laughs, a little bit hysterical. It sure does sound that way now that she’s saying it out loud, doesn’t it? But Lan Zhan is smiling, not just with her eyes but with her mouth too, and Wei Ying wants to keep making her look like that forever and — maybe she can. "I might be an idiot?" 

"Wei Ying," Lan Zhan, exasperated and fond and still smiling, and then she's pulling Wei Ying up and into her lap, finally kissing her, deep and dirty, and fuck, if she thought her head was spinning before it’s nothing compared to this. Lan Zhan's mouth tastes kind of like weed and Wei Ying's lipgloss and mostly like girl, whatever that means, doesn't matter, it's all Lan Zhan. It's always been Lan Zhan. She's clumsy at first, kissing back, but she makes up for lack of skill with unbridled enthusiasm as Lan Zhan licks into her mouth. 

She loses track of how long they make out, at once lazy and intense, holding Lan Zhan’s face between her hands. The playlist is still going in the background, some lo-fi track Wei Ying doesn’t recognize, as she explores Lan Zhan, how it feels to angle herself this way, how Lan Zhan’s tongue can curl around hers, how Lan Zhan exhales shakily when Wei Ying tugs at her lower lip with her teeth. She lets her hands wander, down Lan Zhan’s arms, her sides, tentatively cupping her breasts over her low cut shirt and bra, a perfect fit in her palm. Lan Zhan’s tits are a firm and pleasant weight in her hands, and she wants to shove her face in them and suffocate there. She tugs Lan Zhan’s blouse over her head, tragically has to stop kissing her to do it. “This okay?” Wei Ying gasps against Lan Zhan’s cheek as she reaches to fumble with the clasp of her pretty, powder-blue bra. Lan Zhan nods, reaching behind herself to unclasp it, letting it fall to the floor with her shirt.

It’s not the first time Wei Ying has seen Lan Zhan topless — they’ve changed in front of each other before and it was never weird — but it’s the first time she’s let herself look. Her bra left behind light red marks on her shoulders, leading the eye down to heavy breasts, a few stretch marks along the sides, the same way that Wei Ying has them on her thighs. Turns out, boobs? Pretty fucking great. That’s not a surprise, Wei Ying just assumed that people of all genders found boobs sexy, but maybe she needs to reevaluate that too. Wei Ying herself doesn’t have much to work with in that department — she’s not even wearing a bra tonight. “Can I,” she asks, shocked at how her own voice sounds, breathless, hungry. She doesn’t wait for an answer, scoots back off Lan Zhan’s lap and ducks her head down, kissing the swell of each breast before taking one hardening nipple into her mouth.

The sound Lan Zhan makes shoots down Wei Ying’s spine like a lightning bolt, a shuddery gasp as she threads her fingers through Wei Ying’s loose ponytail. Every soft sound seems deafening to Wei Ying’s ears in the quiet apartment. Encouraged, she sucks a little harder, teasing with the tip of her tongue as she rolls the other nipple beneath her thumb. Trades sides, delighted to find that Lan Zhan may be more sensitive here as her hand tightens in Wei Ying’s hair. She drags Wei Ying up and kisses her with teeth and tongue, holding her in place by her hair, and Wei Ying is unable to do anything but clumsily kiss back.

“Lay down,” Lan Zhan orders, abruptly standing up.

Wei Ying scrambles to obey, dazed, laying flat on her back. “I had no idea you were so forceful, Zhanzhan, really,” she babbles, and cuts herself off with a surprised squeak as Lan Zhan grabs her by the hips and hauls her forward until her legs are dangling off the end of the couch. She peels Wei Ying’s shorts and the stupid tiny panties off at the same time, not even sparing them a glance as she lets them fall to the floor and kneels between Wei Ying’s legs. Something about the picture Lan Zhan paints, naked from the waist up, but still in her jeans, is just - it’s just - Wei Ying might be a little in love with her. Maybe more than a little.

“Look at you,” Lan Zhan marvels again, lips parted. Goosebumps rise on Wei Ying’s exposed skin, worse when Lan Zhan pushes her shirt up under her armpits. Her eyes go wide and dark seeing that Wei Ying isn’t wearing a bra, small brown nipples hard in the cool air, Lan Zhan’s expression hungry as she drinks her fill. Wei Ying wants to close her legs, but can't with Lan Zhan sitting between them. Lan Zhan brushes one finger ever so slightly over Wei Ying’s clit, and she’s so keyed up that even that has Wei Ying arching up toward her. “You’re so wet. I could fuck you without any lube.”

“Jiejie,” Wei Ying whines. She doesn’t know if she should be embarrassed or turned on or both. “Don’t tease me!”

“You teased me all night.” That finger dips down, slides over Wei Ying’s entrance where she’s slickest. Just — god, just playing with her. Wei Ying rocks her hips down, looking for more, a firmer touch, anything, but Lan Zhan doesn’t give it. “Coming here in those fucking shorts. I wanted to rip them off you. Or cover you up, so no one could see you but me.”

Wei Ying can’t do anything but laugh. She stares up at the ceiling because looking at Lan Zhan while she talks like this is too much; she watches the fan as it spins, the ceiling lights off, the only other light in the room from dimmed lamps. Cozy and safe — she’s never felt safer than she does in Lan Zhan’s apartment, with Lan Zhan’s hands on her, even like this, even with her heart pounding out of her chest. “So you did like the shorts,” she teases.

“I like everything you wear. Everything you do. You’re beautiful,” Lan Zhan says, before she buries her face in Wei Ying’s cunt.

Wei Ying’s hands fly out to grip the couch cushions like she has to stabilize herself, like she’ll float away. She very well might. Lan Zhan’s mouth is so warm, so wet, tongue teasing over the folds of her, lapping up slickness like nectar. “Fuck, fuck, your mouth,” Wei Ying babbles, shutting her eyes tight, “That’s good, that’s so — that’s so good Lan Zhan, like that —” she hardly knows what she’s saying, and endless stream of begging and praise and hopefully nothing too stupid. When Lan Zhan presses the flat of her tongue to Wei Ying’s clit she shouts, hips twitching, not knowing if she needs to move away or closer, she’s so sensitive. She had no idea she was that sensitive. Lan Zhan doesn’t let her move in any case, pinning Wei Ying’s hips to the couch with her arms. 

“Do you like this?” Wei Ying asks inanely, as if Lan Zhan isn’t moaning against her, like Lan Zhan would be slipping her tongue inside Wei Ying’s cunt if she didn’t like it. “Nnngh, Lan Zhan — is it fun? I always thought it looks so fun, fuck, I want to —” An idea springs to mind, an image so hot she can hardly stand it. She taps Lan Zhan on the shoulder, urging her to sit up. “Come here, on top of me.”

They figure it out despite Wei Ying’s inability to explain what she wants without blushing like the virgin she is. Lan Zhan stands, peeling off her straight-legged jeans, and Wei Ying doesn’t get nearly enough time to admire her naked, her long legs and strong, broad shoulders, before she straddles Wei Ying’s face. Wei Ying isn’t sure if sixty-nineing is actually a thing or just a porn thing, but by god she’s going to give it her all, once she’s done staring kind of stupidly at Lan Zhan’s pussy suddenly this closer to her face. It’s pretty; she doesn’t know if pussies are supposed to be pretty, but she thinks Lan Zhan’s is, not shaved but neatly trimmed, brown and flushed and shiny wet already, just from going down on Wei Ying. She shivers all over as Lan Zhan seals her mouth over her swollen clit, laving over it with the tip of her tongue.

Wei Ying has no idea what she’s doing. Once again, she plans to make up for it with sheer eagerness to please. She licks experimentally at Lan Zhan’s clit, a light touch at first, then firmer — learning as she goes what gets a response, what makes her grind down into Wei Ying’s eager mouth and grow even wetter. She plays with her lips and the edges of her slit with her fingers, dipping inside when Lan Zhan makes an encouraging sound. She kind of expected it to taste like more, but it’s not really bad or good, just a clean, neutral body-taste. All she knows is it feels amazing to have something in her mouth, to draw the rare noise of pleasure from Lan Zhan’s throat, knowing she’s making her feel good too.

Or, she hopes she is. Wei Ying has no idea if she’s good at this yet, and it turns out that it’s hard to focus on anything when she’s still halfway high and Lan Zhan is so good with her mouth, bringing her closer and closer to the edge already. She pants against the inside of Lan Zhan’s thigh, legs shaking a little, but she’s not quite — she doesn’t know what she needs -  

“Can you,” she tries, throat dry, suddenly shy about asking, but Lan Zhan lifts her head, making a questioning noise. Wei Ying swallows, biting at the inside of Lan Zhan’s thigh while she gets up the nerve to ask, “Can you, your fingers —?”

"Yes,” Lan Zhan says, and oh, she sounds so sexy, so wrecked. She bows her head again, at the same time slipping her fingers inside, two at once, Wei Ying so wet that they go easily. Wei Ying moans, too loud, taking Lan Zhan back into her mouth to shut herself up, but even then she can’t help but make noise, that’s it, exactly what she needed, Lan Zhan’s fingers give her something to clench around. She crooks them up with devastating precision, immediately finding the spot that has Wei Ying shaking, clinging to Lan Zhan’s legs like she’ll fall apart without an anchor.

“Lan Zhan,” she sobs, rolling her hips, up into Lan Zhan’s mouth sucking at her clit and down onto her fingers, trapped between the two, all the wet noises that shouldn’t be so fucking hot — it all sparks a livewire in her, a building inferno. “Lan Zhan, I, I’m — I’m —”

She comes, back arched, head pressed back against the couch, twisting as if to get away but with nowhere to go. She can hear Lan Zhan groaning against her, doubling down even as Wei Ying comes and comes and comes like it’s never going to end — it doesn’t stop and she realizes that it’s because Lan Zhan is still fucking her, harder now, even her wrist must be getting tired with the angle. “Lan Zha-ah- an, ” her voice slurred, head lolling to the side. She’s shaking all over, overwhelmed. “Baby, I c-can’t—”

“You can,” Lan Zhan says as she fucks in with a third finger, and Wei Ying sees stars. She isn’t sure if she comes again or if it’s the same orgasm dragged on and on, but either way she’s a puddle when Lan Zhan finally pulls off, tingling down to her fingertips, breathing hard. 

She watches dazedly as Lan Zhan sits up, turning around. Neat, pristine Lan Zhan with her face a mess, all wet with spit and slick, a hair stuck to her face and looking like she’s never been more at peace — and maybe it’s the multiple orgasms talking or maybe it’s just always been under the surface where Wei Ying couldn’t reach, but Wei Ying loves her. She would tell her now if she could remember how to talk, hypnotized watching Lan Zhan stretch out her wrist and lick the mess off her own fingers — bending down to kiss Wei Ying with her taste still on her tongue. Wei Ying moans into her mouth, reaching for her clumsily, for her hips and her tits and whatever she can reach. 

“Good girl,” Lan Zhan murmurs between sticky-sweet kisses. Wei Ying strains her neck to chase her every time she moves away. “I’m going to fuck your face.”

“I’m so fucking obsessed with you,” Wei Ying groans. She opens her mouth as Lan Zhan settles over her again, licking up into her at this new angle. Lan Zhan’s thighs are warm around her head and she’s so wet that Wei Ying could happily drown in her. Even though it’s Wei Ying’s mouth on her, it’s Lan Zhan in control; she really does ride Wei Ying’s face, grinding against her tongue as Wei Ying tries to remember how to breathe through her nose. She’s never as loud as Wei Ying, not even like this, but she shows Wei Ying what she wants without words, taking what she needs from her eager mouth. Something that Lan Zhan did to her earlier comes to mind, and Wei Ying decides to try it, thinking that maybe she did it because she likes it too. She urges Lan Zhan to spread her legs further, then delves the tip of her tongue inside.

Lan Zhan’s hand immediately finds purchase in Wei Ying’s hair, holding her right there. If her mouth weren’t occupied she would grin. She fucks into Lan Zhan with her tongue, unbelievably hot and tight around her, in and in and in until her jaw feels sore with the effort. She can feel Lan Zhan move above her, clenching around her tongue while her fingers move over her own clit in sharp, precise circles. Come in my mouth, Wei Ying wants to tell her, closing her eyes as Lan Zhan’s hips jerk and she gasps, bowed over, thighs clenching around Wei Ying’s ears and pussy clenching around her tongue as she comes. More wetness fills Wei Ying’s mouth, and she laps it up like the last morsels of sauce on a plate, gentle as she works Lan Zhan through it, petting her trembling thighs.

Lan Zhan climbs off her, but Wei Ying doesn’t have time to miss the weight of her before she collapses half-atop Wei Ying, kissing her soundly — doing all the work, which is good because Wei Ying’s jaw aches and her tongue is slack — before she nuzzles into the crook of her neck, the dip of her collarbone. Wei Ying wraps her arms around her, hugs her tight and close as their breathing slows and steadies, eyes closed.

She’s not really high anymore, but not entirely down either — sleepy and drifting and calm. Her mouth is deliciously sore in places she didn’t know it could be, and her eyes are dry from the smoke earlier, but every bodily need seems far away when Lan Zhan is naked on top of her, her soft breasts squished between them. She feels Lan Zhan’s hand sneak up, trailing over her ribs to cup one small tit in her hand, just holding it. Wei Ying laughs softly, rubbing her nose against Lan Zhan’s temple.

“Not so straight, then,” Lan Zhan says after a while, as they come back to themselves. Her voice is muffled, not bothering to lift her head, but Wei Ying can pick out the smug amusement in her tone.

She laughs again. She feels like she’ll never stop laughing, exhausted and warm and deliriously happy. “I really like you,” she says, and feels more than hears Lan Zhan’s shaky inhale. “I like you so, so much, Zhanzhan.”

Lan Zhan lifts her head, turns Wei Ying’s face toward hers and kisses her, slow and deep, “Like you,” Lan Zhan mumbles against her mouth, and Wei Ying grins into it. “For so long, Wei Ying.” 

And it doesn’t feel scary, even though it’s all new and big — not scary at all in the dim glow of Lan Zhan’s apartment, with her best friend in the world, late in the night when nothing feels quite real. She wants to kiss Lan Zhan when she wakes up, and as she falls asleep, and as many times in between as Lan Zhan will let her. She wants to fuck Lan Zhan again in the morning. She wants to brush her teeth shoulder-to-shoulder in the tiny bathroom, and fall asleep in Lan Zhan’s bed, and watch her cook breakfast, and keep thinking of excuses to stay right here — everything different now, and still the same. Everything exactly as it’s supposed to be.