Lan Zhan is on top of him, holding him, surrounding him. When Lan Zhan had reeled Wei Ying in, Wei Ying went easily, went where Lan Zhan put him, happy to let Lan Zhan do what he wanted. He always does. He wonders what it would be like if he didn’t, if he pushed back. What would change.
He knows the answer: nothing.
Even at his strongest, without his core, he’s no match for Lan Zhan.
“You don’t have to stop,” Wei Ying says, wondering.
“I am not stopping,” Lan Zhan says, and if anything that’s true, he’s been fucking him steadily harder. Rich, bruising thrusts that drive Wei Ying up the bed, that scrape the mattress across his face.
“No, I --” Wei Ying loses track for a moment, breath tightening as Lan Zhan fucks him. “Even if I wanted you to. I couldn’t make you.”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, threatening, and his hands clench on Wei Ying’s hips.
“You’re so much stronger than me.” So strong. Wei Ying's seen Lan Zhan do handstands, seen him fight off armies, his arms never wavering. “There’s nothing I could do. I could fight you as hard as I could and it wouldn’t even make a dent, would it? Not even a scratch.” He kicks out a leg, a thought exercise, really, feels it connect. The force of it barely jars Wei Ying’s heel, hardly any impact at all. The best kick he can muster isn’t even half as strong as the grip Lan Zhan has on his hips. A grip that’s going to bruise, Wei Ying thinks. He’s so fragile that even this is too much for his body to handle.
Lan Zhan slaps Wei Ying's leg down, a sharp, resounding sound. It smarts, but not as much as Wei Ying's face burns. That kick is all he can manage and Lan Zhan treats it like it’s of less concern than a fly buzzing around his face. The only challenge he can offer, like the barest nuisance.
Wei Ying picks his leg up, getting the knee back under him to try again. As soon as he readies himself to kick, knee lifting just slightly, Lan Zhan presses forward, his hips to Wei Ying's ass, and drives him flat into the bed. It forces the breath from Wei Ying’s lungs. He struggles to take air back in, like Lan Zhan doesn’t want him to have it, doesn’t want Wei Ying to have anything else inside of him other than his cock.
He’s pinned, the implacable weight of Lan Zhan holding him down against the bed. Lan Zhan’s never stopped fucking him, and he doesn’t stop now, rolling his hips against Wei Ying’s. The thrusts are less harsh in this position, but what they’ve lost in force, they’ve made up in inescapability. There’s nowhere he can go with Lan Zhan pressed against him.
Lan Zhan’s weight is a real presence on his back, blanketing him. Wei Ying gasps and Lan Zhan places his mouth on the knob of Wei Ying’s spine. It’s a wet kiss at first, and then Lan Zhan presses down with his teeth, raising his hips and driving Wei Ying’s face further into the bed. The thrust inside is a relief, the spreading of Lan Zhan’s weight along his body lets Wei Ying lift his head, just a little, just enough to sip at the air. Wei Ying tries to turn his head but Lan Zhan worries his teeth, keeps Wei Ying’s face straight down. Even this small freedom, this small movement, is denied him. It hurts.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whispers, sound produced by moving lips and struggling tongue, a suggestion more than the words itself. He feels a sob working its way up his throat and his chest hitches.
Lan Zhan pulls out. Wei Ying can’t do anything to stop that either, trying to clench down on him as much as he can to hold him inside. Not enough. He grabs with his hands, weak clutching motions that Lan Zhan can easily evade.
Then Wei Ying is alone. He draws himself forward on the mattress with his hands, to get some distance, to get away, maybe. He makes it an arm-length, maybe half of one before Lan Zhan is back, one arm a bar underneath Wei Ying’s armpit, across his chest, tugging. Wei Ying scrabbles to find something to hold onto, but there’s nothing, there’s just Lan Zhan’s arm pulling him up from the mattress, pulling him up until his knees are back under him, and then pulling him more until he’s falling, he’s going to fall.
His shoulder blades hit the firm wall of Lan Zhan’s chest and Lan Zhan’s hands are all over him, tweaking his nipples, sliding down his ribs. Lan Zhan presses one hand between Wei Ying’s cock and belly, the soft hair sweat-slicked. “You’re so hard for me,” Lan Zhan mutters, lips pressed to Wei Ying’s ear.
Wei Ying’s breath hitches again, and the tears that have pooled in his eyes fall. One splashes on Lan Zhan’s forearm, still cradling his stomach.
He squeezes his eyes shut, only to feel a sense of vertigo as Lan Zhan lifts him again, turning this time so they’re face-to-face. Wei Ying’s legs are spread around Lan Zhan’s thighs, too weak to usefully cling. It’s the cage of Lan Zhan’s arms that keeps him upright at all.
Wei Ying opens his eyes and Lan Zhan is staring at him, like he’s looking into Wei Ying, like his gaze could tear Wei Ying apart.
“If you’re going to cry,” Lan Zhan says, “then I want to see it.”
Wei Ying presses his lips together. He won’t give him the satisfaction.
Lan Zhan lifts Wei Ying up like he weighs nothing, holds him one-handed. Wei Ying scratches at Lan Zhan’s chest, mean, trying to break the skin, leave a mark, some sign that he’s here, that he’s not just a plaything for Lan Zhan to toss around and slide onto his dick like he doesn’t care if Wei Ying can take it. Lan Zhan ignores him, ignores the whine that comes from deep in Wei Ying’s chest, pushed out by the inexorable heft of Lan Zhan’s dick stretching him wide, sliding back where it belongs. He’s so full.
When Lan Zhan is back inside, Wei Ying braces himself. He waits to get jostled, to have his teeth knocked against the roof of his mouth, to get fucked so hard his eyes roll and his head falls back he becomes a mindless, drooling thing. He waits for Lan Zhan to take him out of his mind because if he can’t do anything, if Lan Zhan controls him so much, then the least he can do is make Wei Ying not have to think about it. Not have to think at all.
But nothing happens.
“Ride,” Lan Zhan says.
Wei Ying gasps. He shakes his head.
Lan Zhan nudges his hips up once, a reminder, as if Wei Ying could ever forget where he is, or how Lan Zhan has him.
“You can,” Wei Ying tries, and swallows the break in his own voice, “you can do whatever you want to me, but you can’t make me do anything.” Lan Zhan can’t be stopped, but Wei Ying controls his own body.
“I think I can,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying will not look at him, does not want to see the certainty in his eyes. “I think I can make you do whatever I want.” Lan Zhan spreads his thighs and Wei Ying wobbles in his lap as he tries to accommodate, thighs tensing. It’s a small bounce, but he still whimpers. Maybe that counts, maybe that small shake was enough and Lan Zhan will be satisfied. Wei Ying is so spread now, so open. Lan Zhan kisses him, wet and hard and consuming. He holds Wei Ying’s face still with both of his hands, like he hasn’t already proven that Wei Ying can’t get away, and takes what he wants.
Lan Zhan pulls back, leans back on his hands. If Wei Ying wanted to get away, this would be the moment. Except. Before he can think it, Lan Zhan puts one hand around Wei Ying’s ankle. The grip is firm, but not bruising. But it’s enough. If Wei Ying pushed up, Lan Zhan could drag him back down, bring him crashing to the ground.
“I told you to ride.”
Lan Zhan’s kiss has brought him back to himself though, and Wei Ying’s eyes spark. Lan Zhan sees it and his gaze sharpens.
“Very well,” Lan Zhan says. He sits back up all the way, getting into Wei Ying’s space, imposing. He pinches Wei Ying, hard, on the ass.
Wei Ying yelps, jerks away, feels the small slide of Lan Zhan’s cock in him. Lan Zhan lets go and Wei Ying holds the position. There’s a strain in his thighs, trying to stay still like this, but he can take it. His ass is more exposed now, lifted, and Lan Zhan pinches him again, right on the soft curve where his left ass cheek meets his thigh. He yelps again, lifts himself higher, but his legs can’t support him, so weak, and he falls back down.
“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, “like that.”
Wei Ying’s face burns. He tucks it in against Lan Zhan’s throat.
Lan Zhan’s voice is gentle when he asks, “Do you need further instruction?”
Yes, Wei Ying thinks. Pinch me again, bruise me more, make it so any time I try to sit down, I can’t, so that everyone knows how easy it was for you to take me, to control me. The bite on the back of his neck throbs. He imagines what that could feel like all over, to feel his heart beat in the rhythm of Lan Zhan’s teeth, his cruel fingers.
Instead, he rides, an answer in itself. He keeps his face tucked into Lan Zhan’s neck, as he starts to roll his hips, a gentle rocking motion that serves to keep Lan Zhan deep inside of him, holding him open. I can do this, Wei Ying thinks.
He thinks that until Lan Zhan pulls his hair, hard, forcing Wei Ying’s neck back, forcing his spine to arch. Wei Ying’s hands barely come up in time to grab onto Lan Zhan’s shoulders. “I told you I wanted to see,” Lan Zhan says.
See what? Wei Ying wonders.
Wei Ying keeps up the motion, legs working harder now, a rise and fall. It’s a good rhythm, he thinks, steady. It will get Lan Zhan there, he knows.
Lan Zhan pinches him again, close to his crease, and it stings, stings so much.
“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying cries out. “I was doing it! I was!”
“Yes,” Lan Zhan says. Then he raises an expectant eyebrow. Wei Ying stopped moving when Lan Zhan pinched him, but he understands Lan Zhan’s message: the reprieve is over. He starts to move his hips again, hopes it’s enough for Lan Zhan to be satisfied.
He can’t believe Lan Zhan would do this, why would he do that? His Lan Zhan who kissed him softly where his hair meets his forehead, who worked Wei Ying open for so long, dripping with oil, Lan Zhan rubbing it into his ass, his thighs, his cock, until he was boneless and breathless and so relaxed. How could that be the same Lan Zhan who pinched him because he felt like it, who held him down and fucked him without caring if he was dying?
Wei Ying starts to cry, silent, nothing to distract from the loud slap of skin-on-skin whenever he lets his body fall limp back onto Lan Zhan’s cock. He works himself up again, scraping Lan Zhan’s cock against his insides, tears falling down his cheeks, off his chin, onto his chest.
Wei Ying thinks, surely, surely that Lan Zhan, the one who kisses and pets him, that Lan Zhan would stop if he asked, if he really couldn’t take it. But then he thinks, maybe he would, but he doesn’t have to.
Lan Zhan doesn’t have to do anything he doesn’t want.
Lan Zhan, supposed distinguished gentleman, licks him. He drags his tongue up from Wei Ying’s collarbone, up his neck, across his cheek. His tongue is warm and it makes Wei Ying feel wetter, his whole cheek soaked with it. Lan Zhan licks up further, swirling his tongue on Wei Ying’s temple, closing his lips right at the corner of Wei Ying’s eye.
Then, Lan Zhan kisses him. It tastes salty. He realises: Lan Zhan is making him drink his own tears. Wei Ying jerks back, but Lan Zhan is ready. His hand cups the back of Wei Ying’s head, keeping their lips pressed together. Lan Zhan’s hips cant up and now that they’re so close together, each thrust presses the head of Wei Ying’s cock into Lan Zhan’s taut stomach. It slides against the muscles there, sticking with the pre-cum that Wei Ying is leaking. How could Lan Zhan want this? Wei Ying, who can’t take Lan Zhan’s cock without crying, who makes their kisses taste like salt water. Lan Zhan keeps kissing him as Wei Ying swallows and moans and takes Lan Zhan’s cock and rubs off against his stomach because nothing is ever enough.
Stars expand behind Wei Ying’s eyes as he comes, sobbing harder with the force of it. His body shakes as Lan Zhan holds him down, keeps him ridden and full to the brim. He’s still trembling when Lan Zhan lets him fall. “Lets” is the wrong word. When Lan Zhan throws him to the bed, his cock slipping out of Wei Ying like a punch to Wei Ying’s solar plexus.
Wei Ying bounces once, and not again because Lan Zhan is on top of him, crawling over him clumsy as he arranges Wei Ying’s arms, legs, gets them spread and lifted so Lan Zhan can get between them, shove in with no finesse at all. Lan Zhan fucks him hard, and fast, and sloppy. It’s too much, too rough when Wei Ying is this sensitive, when every drag of the fat head of Lan Zhan's cock feels like it’s sanding something away inside of him, like it’s turning Wei Ying into nothing but a sheath for Lan Zhan to rut into.
Wei Ying’s hands come up to push Lan Zhan back. Flat on his chest. “Too -- it’s -- I can’t, I can’t take it,” Wei Ying says. He shoves as hard as he can, knuckles going white from the effort and Lan Zhan moves not at all. He puts new nail marks on the scratches he left earlier and Lan Zhan’s muscles don’t even tense.
“You can,” Lan Zhan says. “You can take anything.” Lan Zhan pins his upper arms to the bed, hands curling and squeezing. His thumbs dig into the soft flesh, yet another place Lan Zhan is marking him.
And Wei Ying does take it, no option to do anything else. He takes Lan Zhan’s harsh thrusts, the grip on his arms, the soft grunts that sound punched out of him every time he bottoms out. The ones that mean he’s close. Lan Zhan’s rhythm, already irregular since he pushed inside, loses all coherency. It becomes one endless thrust in and if Lan Zhan wasn’t holding him still, Wei Ying would be sliding up the bed. But it’s so easy for Lan Zhan to hold him, and Lan Zhan does, slamming into him an uncountable number of times more before he presses in as far as he can get, jerking inside. Wei Ying moans.
After, Lan Zhan curls into Wei Ying gently. Lan Zhan rolls Wei Ying onto his side, scooping him up to hold him, a solid line against the small curve of his back. His body is a blanket, it surrounds and warms him.
“I’m sticky,” Wei Ying complains, wiggling into Lan Zhan, pressing back to feel the sharp ache on his ass, the deeper one inside. “You should take responsibility.”
Wei Ying feels Lan Zhan nod against the back of his neck, nose rubbing into his hairline.
Lan Zhan gathers him up into his arms and Wei Ying hums, presses his face into Lan Zhan’s neck and this time Lan Zhan lets Wei Ying, lets Wei Ying burrow in bring his hands up to play with the soft hairs that Lan Zhan grows right behind his ears.
He wonders what else Lan Zhan would let him do.