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“I’m an undefeated kissing champion,” Wei Ying boasts, hands on his hips. Jin Zixun’s laughter is unkind, which of course goads him further down the path to ruin.

“Yeah, right,” Jin Zixun mocks. “Who’d want to kiss you? You’d probably talk through it, anyway; you’re not worth the trouble.”

The thing is: Wei Ying’s never actually kissed anyone. He figures he’ll be pretty good at it—he’s practiced on his hand sometimes, and he can tie a cherry stem with his tongue, check and mate—but he’s running low on practical experience. He really has no leg to stand on.

Pity that’s never stopped him.

“You just don’t want me to play because you know I’ll win,” Wei Ying taunts, the promise of laughter dancing in his mouth. “I’ll be the reigning king of Guess Who. You’ll be sad, alone, and unkissed for the rest of your days.”

There’s tittering from the crowd of teenagers around them. Wei Ying holds out his hand, delighted by Jin Zixun’s petulant glare.

“Blindfold. Gimme.”

Clearly, Jin Zixun had originally proposed the game so that he would be the one kissed—now he’s floundering. Unfortunately for Wei Ying, he’s not as much of an idiot as Wei Ying wishes he was. He looks at all the expectant faces around them and his expression shifts.

Wei Ying is too busy flashing a thumbs up at Jiang Cheng to notice.

“Fine,” he says, holding out the long strip of black cloth to Wei Ying. Even the blindfold looks expensive—the Jins are on another level. Wei Ying ruminates on how he can ruin this thing before he passes it off to the next person, but that thought only holds his attention momentarily.

The prospect of a mystery first kiss is more thrilling than it has any right to be; it consumes almost all of his focus.

Wei Ying is directed up to one of the guest rooms—thankfully, it looks as though no one has fucked in here yet, though the night is still young—and deposits himself on the bed, tying the blindfold snug around his head, just beneath his high ponytail.

“Don’t line up all at once!” he calls out, lost and a little floaty without any sense of direction. He laughs at his own joke, listening as most of the people who led him here depart, laughing and talking among themselves.

“You really are an idiot, Wei Ying.” Jin Zixun’s awful voice makes him wrinkle his nose.

Before he can refute that claim, the door slams shut. Wei Ying sits abandoned, now, bouncing his heel against the carpet.

He’s not really sure how the game is supposed to work. People obviously want to make out with him, he’s very handsome and charming, but will they know where to find him? Will they know he’s available?

All questions he should have asked before he got shut up in a bedroom.

Maybe he can make a quick escape, just to make himself more available. Nothing wrong with being available! He has a mouth made for kissing, and he’s decided it will be kissed. Tonight. What else is this game good for?

Wei Ying eases off the bed with care. He could take off the blindfold—after all, there’s no one there to see him—but it would feel a little like defeat. He leaves it on. He can feel his way around here, can’t he?

It’s harder than it looks.

He tries to walk around, bumping his knee on the bed frame three separate times before giving up and settling on a crawl. Humiliating, sure, but he won’t give up now, his stubborn streak kicking in. Wei Ying makes it to the door and levers himself up by the handle, turning and pushing only to find himself… caught?

He tries again. The door locks from the inside, he can feel the lock against his palm, but there’s something blocking it from the outside.

Annoyance fills him. So this was Jin Zixun’s real plan. Can’t get enough attention when Wei Ying is there to steal the show, so how best to get him out of the way? By making him think it’s his idea, of course.

Wei Ying has been duped.

The thought is bitter on his tongue, but only momentarily; Wei Ying isn’t the type to stay down about anything for long. This is fine. Eventually, Jiang Cheng or Jiang Yanli will notice his absence and find him up here. He’s just going to be really bored while he waits.

He thinks about taking off the blindfold, but ultimately decides against it. Not for sportsmanship or anything, just—it feels good? It knocks the usual distractions out of his head, which of course brews new distractions, but they’re new, and he’s bored, so they’ve become fascinating.

To preoccupy himself, he tries to identify everything in the room he can touch, taking slow steps and trailing his hand along the furniture to keep balanced. He makes it all the way to the nightstand before the door rattles.

Wei Ying whirls in what he hopes is the right direction, smile blooming. “Come to rescue me?”

Silence fills the room. His smile falters, then reappears, taking on a different tone.

“Or is this a kissing mission? Finally, someone who knows how to play the game!” Wei Ying sticks out his lip in a theatrical pout. “I was worried Jin Zixun told everyone the wrong room.”

The sound of the door shutting pricks gooseflesh across his skin. There’s a heavy gaze on him, so intense he can feel it in the way the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. He swallows.

Whoever she is, she doesn’t make a sound, though he hears a few quiet footsteps moving toward him. Wei Ying finds himself leaning a little against the nightstand, not quite sitting on it, not quite standing. He tries to keep facing the right direction.

“Not a big talker, hm?” Wei Ying tilts his head to one side. “That’s okay, I’ve been told I’m a good enough conversationalist for three. My tongue is multi-talented and—”

He has just enough time to feel her palm on the back of his neck and think, oh, her hands are so big, before his words are being stolen into her mouth.

The kiss is not shy. He wonders if he’s been cornered by someone from the women’s lacrosse team, because she’s very strong, her hand tight on his neck as she devours his mouth. My first kiss, he thinks, dizzy, bordering on delirious and wanting to touch. After a moment of indecision, he slides his hands into her hair; it’s long, with a cool, silken texture he can’t get enough of. Tugging gently at it rewards him with a hot gasp.

Wei Ying feels a tug at the ribbon in his hair, stolen from jiejie’s sewing kit because he thought it looked pretty. The two of them trade hot breaths as it’s undone, first the bow then the simple knot falling away, leaving the shoulder-length waves to fall around his face. They break apart to breathe.

“I’m supposed to guess, now,” he murmurs, lips slightly tender, “but I honestly have no clue.” Wei Ying laughs a little, thready and weak. “You’re the strongest girl I’ve ever met, that’s for sure!”

Her hand wraps around his wrist and squeezes tight. Wei Ying probably shouldn’t feel hot about that, right? Definitely not. The head rush he feels as she presses his wrists together behind his back is just, well, a reaction to the situation. He’s alone with a girl, with her soft mouth and silky hair, and they just made out. Anyone would be horny. It has nothing to do with the sensation of his own ribbon sliding across his skin, which—

“Hey, hey! You can’t just tie me up. That’s not—not how this works.”

She ignores him, which he knows he’s not supposed to find hot. His dick twitches in his pants and ignores him entirely.

The ribbon is tight. Not so secure he couldn’t wiggle out, but it would take a lot of work. Wei Ying swallows around the sudden rush of saliva filling his mouth, coming to a realization:

“You’re not playing, are you?”

His only answer is a kiss. If the first was bruising, this one is biting; her teeth drag a moan from him as they sink into his lower lip. He wants to pull her hair again, but the ribbon bites into his wrist, and that makes him moan again.

Wei Ying never thought he’d be so loud. He’s managed to jerk off without Jiang Cheng noticing for years, even when they still shared a room, so why is he—why is he—

“Ah!”

He yelps as she breaks their kiss to bite at his throat. It hurts, it hurts, but when he rocks his hips he’s disappointed by the feeling of open air. If he could just press—just feel something, against him, over him, he could—fuck this is good, how does this feel so good?

His head falls back of its own accord, jeans uncomfortably tight as all the blood in his body rushes south. “Can’t,” he pants, unable to finish the sentence when she latches onto the skin just beneath his jaw, sucking at the beginnings of what feels like a ferocious bruise. “Can’t you be nicer?” His voice is not his own, high and whining at the back of his throat. “No one’s ever kissed me—there.” He stutters over it, almost spilling the truth before remembering all the bragging he did downstairs.

She pauses, an almost contemplative freeze, before he feels a single kittenish lick pass over the bruise she just left.

He laughs, breathless with it; she kisses the laughter from his lips, swallowing it down, her mouth a fraction sweeter than it was before. When her tongue touches his, warm and wet and so intimate it’s nearly unbearable, Wei Ying melts.

It’s an invasion. Every time he tries to take charge, the way he knows he’s supposed to—don’t girls like that sort of thing?—she overwhelms him again, until all he can do is take what she gives him.

She’s very giving, this mystery girl. She sucks on his tongue and he thinks he’s going to die.

He wishes he could touch her in return, but there’s no leverage and his hands are tied. He tries to get an ankle around her calf—it feels strong and sturdy under his touch—but she kicks out from under him, not bothering to let him regain his balance. The hand at his neck tightens; Wei Ying groans.

“Unfair,” he breathes as her teeth scrape over the bob of his throat. “I wanna—nnh, what.” She bites him harder than she had before, riding a fine line between pain and pleasure. Wei Ying loses his train of thought altogether. The throb of it takes up all his concentration. He flails again—not because he wants to be free but because his body feels too small to contain this feeling, whatever it is—and her hands fly down to his waist, holding him in place.

“Be still,” they say, the words pressed against his neck. Both of them freeze.

That’s—not a member of the women’s lacrosse team. He knows that voice.

“Lan Zhan?” he asks, feeling his brain shut down. Wei Ying.exe is no longer working. Someone will have to reboot him; probably shouldn’t be Lan Zhan. Perfect, prissy Lan Zhan, always cold until he’s not, until he’s apparently scorching heat against Wei Ying’s mouth, biting at his throat like an animal.

He can’t be hearing right. This has to be a joke, or a mistake, or—

Lan Zhan’s hands tighten around him again. What the fuck, how are his hands so big? He can practically encircle Wei Ying’s waist with them alone. “Still,” he says, and then he just—kisses him again, and what is Wei Ying supposed to do with that?

Maybe he misunderstood the parameters of the game. The thought settles over him like a cloak, obfuscating any other reasons he could have for the desperate way he kisses Lan Zhan back, squirming in spite of the instructions, overwhelmed and hot under the collar. He can’t lose, alright, especially not to Lan Zhan, his overbearing co-valedictorian.

They’re equals. In marks, and almost in height, and in—in kissing, they have to be equals too, he can’t let Lan Zhan dismantle him like this!

So he moves, like he isn’t supposed to, pressing his thighs together so that Lan Zhan can’t get closer and ignoring the barely-extant pressure it puts on his dick, because that’s not what it’s about, it’s just, it’s a side benefit. When he tugs at the ribbon and his wrists feel raw, he gasps into Lan Zhan’s mouth.

“Untie me,” he pants, “untie me, now, you can’t just tie people up who don’t want to be tied up, Lan Zhan, where are your manners?” He hates the breathy quality of his voice, the whining, nasal tone. If he could figure out how to sound normal again, he would, but he thinks maybe his throat is affected by the way Lan Zhan is sucking on it. Will there be any skin left unbruised, when he’s done? Or will he wear them like—like a collar?

Wei Ying shudders, afraid.

“You like it,” Lan Zhan says into his skin, the vibration of his voice against tender flesh making Wei Ying want to run, to lean back, to escape, but he can’t, he’s trapped against the night stand. He opens his mouth to fight back, his tongue the only weapon left at his disposal—Lan Zhan is clearly terrible at reading cues if he thinks Wei Ying likes it—while Lan Zhan slides a hand down to his ass and pulls him closer, recapturing his mouth and sliding his tongue into Wei Ying’s mouth like it belongs there.

The sound Wei Ying makes is obviously a sign of discontent. Who would whine like that unless they were in pain, or afraid? It’s so high, and embarrassing, and he squirms to avoid it and ends up pushing his ass back toward Lan Zhan’s fingers, which are big and strong enough to press between his cheeks even through his jeans.

His legs part as—as an automatic reaction, just the body moving instinctually, traitor that it is.

Wei Ying can feel Lan Zhan’s cock against his stomach. Or at least, what should be his cock. He has to have stuffed something down his pants, though, because it feels—no one has a cock that big in real life, right? He reassures himself it has to be a sock. Two socks.

Lan Zhan tugs at him again. For a moment, he thinks he might fall off the nightstand altogether; in his panic, what is there but Lan Zhan to latch onto? He can’t do it with his hands, but his legs go around Lan Zhan’s hips easy enough, and that—oh. That’s two socks against—against his dick, which is uncomfortably wet, now, how did it get so wet?

He tries to avoid it but arches the wrong way, pressing up closer to Lan Zhan, who breaks their kiss at last to huff out a harsh breath. Is he turned on by this? Wei Ying can’t tell, on account of—of the socks, which they definitely are, no matter that they feel harder against him than they did a second ago.

Taking advantage of Wei Ying’s panicked clinginess, Lan Zhan lifts him bodily off the nightstand, hands shaping his ass and squeezing. “Lan Zhan!” he squeaks, pitching forward. With his hands tied behind his back, the only way he can be sure he won’t fall is to tip forward into Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

Wei Ying bites at it in retaliation, hoping to get a rise out of him. Lan Zhan doesn’t even react, that brute.

He keeps the fabric of his shirt in his mouth, staining it with drool, grinding it between his teeth in a petulant display. Lan Zhan hates being dirty. He’s sure he’ll hate the wet spot against his skin even more.

Lan Zhan sitting on the bed causes Wei Ying to slump against him. He can’t be sure, of course, but It feels like the bed beneath them, soft against his heels as they touch down, still hooked around each other behind Lan Zhan’s back. The weight of gravity pushes his dick down against whatever heat Lan Zhan is packing, startling a stuttering, wet sound from his throat, muffled by Lan Zhan’s shirt in his mouth. He drops it at last, struggling to sit up without the use of his arms.

Lan Zhan’s hand cups the back of his neck.

“W-what are you doing?” Wei Ying gulps, moving in whatever direction Lan Zhan pushes him. It’s not like he has a choice.

Lan Zhan reaches up for the blindfold, miraculously still in place despite the fall of his hair. It’s hooked around the nape of his neck, now, tugging his ears down a little. “I want you to see,” he says, undoing the knot with one hand.

The blindfold falls away. Wei Ying’s mouth falls open.

Wei Ying is not a coward. He can compartmentalize the difference between aesthetically pleasing and sexually attractive just fine, and he’s not so insecure in his masculinity or heterosexuality as to deny that some men are pretty. But.

He’s never seen Lan Zhan’s eyes so dark before, their champagne color poisoned by the night around them, something closer to whiskey or amber with wide, hungry pupils. He doesn’t know what he expected—expressionless Lan Zhan, maybe, or something of his usual frigidity—but it wasn’t this.

Wei Ying’s eyes zero in on the wet patch he left on Lan Zhan’s shoulder, unable to look him in the eye a second longer.

Lan Zhan picks up the blindfold from where it’s fallen between them, tossing it over Wei Ying’s shoulder. The shivery feeling is back, right at the center of his chest. Wei Ying grits his teeth against it.

“Okay, okay,” he says when he can breathe again, laughing high in the back of his throat. “Lan Zhan, you won! Game over. You can untie me now.”

The knot has loosened during his struggle—it’s only a ribbon, after all—but he still can’t wiggle out of it. Lan Zhan covers the entire side of his face with one hand as he tilts Wei Ying’s face back toward his, rubbing a thumb over Wei Ying’s throbbing lower lip. He must have bitten it a hundred times. Is that satisfaction he reads on Lan Zhan’s features?

He presses his thumb against Wei Ying’s lips, forcing his mouth open. “No.”

They’re kissing again. Had Wei Ying allowed that? He isn’t sure, but he kisses back, Lan Zhan’s mouth coaxing his into shape around it. Lan Zhan has stolen not only Wei Ying’s first kiss, but possibly his first five hundred. He’ll remember to be mad about that when he can breathe again.

The sound of kissing is just—obscene. No one told him it would sound like that. Is it supposed to sound like that? So—wet, and loud in his ears, Lan Zhan’s slick tongue curling over the roof of his mouth and coaxing a whimper from his throat. He shudders when Lan Zhan does it again. He’s ticklish! He just didn’t know he was ticklish on the roof of his mouth, before. You can’t tickle yourself.

Wei Ying should really break the news to Lan Zhan—hey, this was, uh, not nice, but not bad, but I really don’t like dudes that way, can we go back to being co-valedictorians? Or friends, I would take friends!—but he’s once again interrupted by a hand on his ass. It’s beginning to feel like a pattern. With his legs around Lan Zhan’s back still, he doesn’t have any leverage to move, forward or back, which is why he can do absolutely nothing as Lan Zhan presses up, pulling Wei Ying forward and urging his hips into a messy roll.

Frankly, the noise he makes is undignified, but he’ll worry about it when he isn’t being forcibly dry-humped in Jin Zixuan’s spare bedroom.

He really means to say something about that, but breaking his mouth from Lan Zhan’s, all he can do is breathe, mouth wet and open against Lan Zhan’s cheek. He grinds them together again, squeezing Wei Ying’s ass, and it feels so good.

How could he not know something would feel that good? He’s a scion of pleasure! Isn’t he?

The next time he does it, Wei Ying makes a “hhnnuh” sound, mouth hovering by Lan Zhan’s ear. Lan Zhan responds by sliding his hands over Wei Ying’s hips, making him wriggle, and unbuttoning his pants.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, sternly, so why does it come out so raspy? Not at all how he meant it. He tries again. “Lan—Zhan,” he whines, scrunching his face against the sensation of Lan Zhan’s hand brushing his dick over his underwear. That’s fine, it’s fine, a hand is just a hand, isn’t it? Any girl could have a hand, and his eyes are shut, and if his body forgets it’s Lan Zhan, that can’t be helped.

Then Lan Zhan grabs him fully, and Wei Ying remembers how wet he is. A heavy wave of shame rolls over him, crawling beneath his skin, making him shake. It should—if Lan Zhan were a gentleman, he would stop, can’t he see how Wei Ying wants to get away? He tries the ribbon again, frustrated that he forgot for a while, but it doesn’t seem to loosen any further, like he’s tightened the knot too much already.

Abruptly, Lan Zhan’s hands return to his ass, long enough to throw him down on the bed in a reversal of their positions. Wei Ying yelps at the tug against his arms, laying on his tied hands like this. Lan Zhan’s dark gaze meets his for a moment before he flips Wei Ying onto his front, ignoring the muffled sound of protest as he works on untying Wei Ying’s hands. It’s too tight. There’s no way he’ll be able to undo it, not with hands so big and the knot so tiny.

The next moment, he feels Lan Zhan tear the ribbon off his wrists altogether, snapping him free.

How the hell did he get so strong? Wei Ying’s cock pulses, his underwear ridiculously sticky at this point. What sort of man lets a girl push him around and likes it?

Only it’s not a girl, it’s Lan Zhan, so it doesn’t matter, because Wei Ying is just here for his enjoyment. Not Wei Ying’s. He’s just stopped fighting because, well, he doesn’t hate Lan Zhan, you know? If he wants this so bad, maybe he can get it out of his system. Wei Ying will just take it. He won’t enjoy it. It won’t feel really good. His cock is just—reacting, right now, and that’s normal, but he’s not going to come or anything.

Maybe Lan Zhan will jerk off on him? The thought sends lightning through him—Wei Ying interprets this as fear.

Lan Zhan takes the time to massage feeling back into Wei Ying’s wrists, which is considerate. The consideration does not last.

When he’s satisfied, he rolls Wei Ying onto his back again and tugs him upward enough to get his shirt off. Wei Ying accepts this—he can’t let Lan Zhan jerk off onto his clothes—but when Lan Zhan turns him over onto his front again, he kicks a little. That’s not fair. He can’t see anything like this, he can’t—he just wants to see, he’s curious, he doesn’t want to miss Lan Zhan pulling the pair of socks out of his pants, ha ha, Wei Ying, you actually thought anyone’s cock was that big? You little fool.

Wei Ying tries to prop himself up onto his elbows, but Lan Zhan presses a hand to his back, keeping him pressed down on his front, palms up, head to the side. Anything he might see is curtained by his own hair, a little damp where it falls across his face.

“Lan Zhan,” he asks, “what are you going to do?”

Ignoring him, Lan Zhan’s fingers hook into both his waistbands, tugging them down his legs and exposing his ass to the cooler air. “Lan Zhan!” he yells, horrified. He didn’t think he would take his pants off, that’s—that’s just—

He’s naked, now, toes touching the carpet as his ass hangs off the bed a little. Wei Ying hears a rustle and feels Lan Zhan’s hands on him again before he realizes he just had an opportunity to escape. He whines in a new way, the skittish sound of a prey animal. Lan Zhan’s bare thigh brushes his and he can’t stop. This is too, it’s too much, it’s more—more than he wanted. No, more than he would accept, he didn’t want any of it.

He doesn’t.

Lan Zhan palms his ass, which feels—excruciatingly different, is what it feels like. He’s too sensitive. He never thought he could be that sensitive, but he is under Lan Zhan’s fingers, digging in just enough to push a groan from his lips. “Nh,” he says, which should be no, but the pressure of Lan Zhan’s hand rocks him into the bed and gives just enough friction to his cock that he can’t get the rest of the sound out.

The next feeling shocks him. A hot breath passes across his skin just before Lan Zhan kisses him, right on the ass, his mouth on Wei Ying’s ass. “What,” he gasps, “what are you—”

He chokes on a whine as Lan Zhan sinks his teeth into the flesh. It makes him cough, but Lan Zhan doesn’t stop, his other hand rubbing a soothing motion over the other cheek before smacking it once. It’s light, barely a spank, but a rush of embarrassment hits him so fiercely he feels tears welling in his eyes.

“Don’t!” he shouts, panicking. “Don’t do that!”

Lan Zhan pauses, letting Wei Ying feel the harsh imprint of his teeth a while longer before he lets go. “If not that,” he says, mouth never leaving Wei Ying’s skin, “then.”

Wei Ying waits for him to finish, but Lan Zhan spreads his cheeks instead, looking at him—there. At this point, the mortification sinks into him so deeply he doesn’t know what to do. At least it can’t get worse. At least he doesn’t like it, so he can just—

Lan Zhan spits into his hole. Wei Ying gasps, arching into the bed and grinding his cock desperately into the blanket. He’s so hard. What was he thinking? How can this make him so hard? Do people like this? Would he, if he was—if he liked guys?

He breathes in, ready to tell Lan Zhan to cut it out, when he feels something wet and soft at his hole.

“Lan Zhan!” It’s out of breath and desperate, the sound of Wei Ying’s absolute shame. “Don’t—you can’t, that’s—”

Dirty. Wrong. Lan Zhan is better than that, isn’t he? How could he want—that?

None of the words have enough air to come past his lips, because he can’t possibly do anything but focus on breathing. Lan Zhan’s tongue on him feels so good, like he’s just grown a thousand new nerve endings to meet his tongue. It’s terrible, it’s so terrible and it messes him up so much he starts feeling like he could enjoy it, like he wants to come, like his stomach is so sticky with pre-come he wonders if he hasn’t already and still feels so good he just can’t tell.

Lan Zhan licks him like he doesn’t know what the words dirty or wrong mean, and maybe he doesn’t, because he’s far too enthusiastic. His tongue is strong, pushing at Wei Ying’s hole, darting inside. Sometimes he makes noises, these small, bitten-off sounds, like he can’t help vocalizing how much he likes what he’s doing, making a mess of Wei Ying.

It’s too filthy for words. Wei Ying can’t stop the high, strange noises he’s making—keening sounds. He turns his face into the blanket to try and muffle them.

Lan Zhan’s thumbs spread him wide. “Let me hear you,” he says, his tone one that expects obedience. Wei Ying shakes his head, seeing stars behind his eyes.

Pulled a little toward the edge of the bed, Wei Ying yelps in surprise as Lan Zhan flips him over. He stares over him, eyes roving his torso and pausing at his nipples before fixing a long, hard stare on his cock, pressed messy and wet against his stomach. Once Lan Zhan’s had his fill, he reaches under Wei Ying and throws him up the bed, so his head now bounces against the pillows.

Fuck. Lan Zhan is so—strong. Decisive. Insane.

“This way,” he says, bending and retrieving something from his pants, “you cannot hide.”

It’s only when he says it that Wei Ying realizes he’s been trying. He has his legs bent and held tightly together; Lan Zhan kneels and slides a hand up his thigh, pulling him open again. He sets something on the bed beside them.

“What if,” Wei Ying says, stuttering over it, “what if people hear?”

“Good.” Oh, fuck Lan Zhan really is mad. Wei Ying’s cock dribbles onto his stomach.

He thinks Lan Zhan might tilt him up and put his mouth there again, but instead, he reaches for whatever he put on the bed. It turns out to be a packet of lube, larger than Wei Ying’s ever seen before. Of all the shocking things to happen tonight, he doesn’t know why he’s still so surprised to see Lan Zhan carrying something like this confidently in his pocket.

Why does he have it? Does he do this a lot? Wei Ying doesn’t like that thought at all. He should be special, for how bullied he feels.

Lan Zhan coats his fingers, a slick, obscene sound, and wastes no time before passing them over Wei Ying’s hole. He holds him open at the inner thigh, ignoring the way his legs twitch when Lan Zhan presses there. It’s a little cold, but it warms fast against Wei Ying’s body, overheated as it is.

“I don’t know if you should,” Wei Ying begins. Lan Zhan takes that opportunity to push his finger inside.

It’s only one finger, but it’s the biggest thing that’s ever been in Wei Ying’s ass. The tip of his finger one time when he felt feisty was nothing compared to this. He feels himself clenching around it, impossibly tight, but slick enough that it doesn’t matter as much.

“Wei Ying,” he hears in the dark, the first time Lan Zhan has sounded shaky.

He says nothing, mortification following the flush of his neck and shoulders. He said he wouldn’t enjoy it! He said he wouldn’t, so he isn’t, but it’s a lot, the thought of Lan Zhan doing—that. Lan Zhan is opening him up, taking and making space for himself in Wei Ying’s body.

He draws out, considering, then pushes in again, curling his finger on the way back out, establishing a rhythm.

Wei Ying falls entirely apart.

He moans so loud he should be banned from having a mouth, arching his neck and his back to try and press closer or move away, he can’t really be sure. It feels so—it’s so—

“Mn,” Lan Zhan hums, eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Sensitive.”

Wei Ying tries to curl in on himself, but it doesn’t work—he’s still horribly exposed to Lan Zhan, face paper-thin, embarrassment lighting up across his skin. “No,” he says, voice small. Fuck, what is Lan Zhan doing to him?

“You are.” He doesn’t even sound like he’s making an argument. He just—says it, like he’s reading something out of a textbook. Wei Ying’s hole is sensitive.

Lan Zhan puts another finger in him.

It’s too much at once, the stretch of it stealing air from his lungs, but Lan Zhan doesn’t give him a break. Of course not. Why would he? He’s so—selfish, taking what he wants, like Wei Ying was offering or something.

He curls his fingers inside Wei Ying again. Fine. Maybe he can be selfish, so long as he keeps doing that.

When he goes for a third finger, Wei Ying feels that frisson of fear build again. “Aren’t you—done?” His breath hitches between his words, that tantalizing, awful stretch hitting him with the same force it had before. It hurts, enough that his dick flags a little where it rests against his stomach, but he wiggles a little closer, too. If he can’t stop Lan Zhan, he should make it easier, right?

And he definitely can’t stop Lan Zhan. He’s been trying, hasn’t he? Lan Zhan is just too stubborn, too set in his ways, but this—

“Is it enough?” He thought he was asking isn’t it enough, but this is close, almost what he meant to say. Lan Zhan is distracting him, wrapping his hand around Wei Ying’s softening dick and swiping his thumb over the head. His three fingers are mostly inside of Wei Ying at this point.

He feels so—full. Filled. He clenches tight around them, watching Lan Zhan’s mouth drop open as he strokes Wei Ying back to hardness.

Why does he care if Wei Ying is hard? Does he—is he expecting Wei Ying to like it?

“No.”

“No?!” Wei Ying is going to die. Lan Zhan is going to kill him. It will be all over the news, Local Valedictorian Kills Co-Valedictorian In Horny Frenzy. If he’s very lucky, Lust-Filled Teen Snaps, Murders Local Goth. The saddest part is only that Wei Ying will be dead before he sees it.

“No,” Lan Zhan agrees, twisting his fingers and spreading them apart. It’s a strange sensation, but every time Wei Ying thinks about saying so, Lan Zhan’s fingers brush that terribly sensitive spot and all words fly out of his head. “Wei Ying. How does it feel?”

“Full,” he gasps out, twitching his hips away. It’s overwhelming. It’s impossible, he can’t—can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t remember what he was going to tell Lan Zhan if he ever got the proper chance to speak. There’s only his hands on Wei Ying’s body, inside of him, tearing him apart from both sides and remaking him to Lan Zhan’s liking.

Lan Zhan threatens a fourth finger, but he doesn’t press in just yet. Instead, Wei Ying just feels it there, a phantom weight, pressure he can’t help pushing closer to. He hates anticipation, hates waiting for anything, Lan Zhan should just do it already, push them inside him, stretch him so full—

“Yes,” he hears. Wei Ying realizes he must have said several of those thoughts aloud, shame curling in his stomach until he wants to crawl out of his skin.

“I didn’t,” he stutters out, back arching as Lan Zhan tries to push four fingers inside, “I didn’t mean it, I—”

There’s no way, there’s no way they’ll fit, he’s going to break, somehow, down there, but Lan Zhan doesn’t stop, taking his stupid word as gospel, thinking he wants it. Taking Wei Ying’s leaking cock and breathless keening at face value, just like that.

“If you cannot take this,” Lan Zhan points out, voice dark, “how will you take me?”

“You?” Wei Ying has to be hearing things. He can’t—Lan Zhan’s cock is huge, unreasonably big, cartoonish and impossible. He can’t mean that. He can’t mean that Wei Ying would—

Lan Zhan takes his hand off Wei Ying’s cock, slick with his pre-come, and slides it down his own. Wei Ying’s fake jizz is on him, holy shit. Gross. He can’t stop looking at it, head tilted up in spite of how exhausted he feels, his neck starting to hurt almost immediately.

Lan Zhan, touching himself, wetting his dick with stuff from Wei Ying’s dick.

Wei Ying blinks. He doesn’t like dicks like that, though. He just—

“Me,” Lan Zhan answers at last, cock flushed where it emerges from his hand. Fuck, his hands are big, and even they don’t make his cock look small.

Wei Ying whimpers.

“Or you could,” he gasps, head hitting the pillows as he tries to think past the rocking of his hips, the way his needy body has opened up beneath Lan Zhan in spite of his feelings. “You could come on me,” he babbles, searching for something to pacify Lan Zhan’s need, “on—on my chest, or my dick, or my—” He can’t say the last word, his mouth sticking on the word hole and turning round and round as he clenches around Lan Zhan’s fingers and comes, just like that, just from the thought. Lan Zhan isn’t even touching him.

It’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him.

He loses time, maybe a few seconds, but it’s enough that feeling Lan Zhan plastered to his front is a surprise. They’re—kissing? Wei Ying kisses back on instinct, the buzz of his lingering orgasm making him loose and lazy. It takes him a moment to realize the emptiness he feels is because Lan Zhan has removed his fingers, though he feels something hard and soft sliding through the wet mess Lan Zhan made of his ass, catching on his hole for a second but not pushing in.

Lan Zhan does it again, pressing Wei Ying’s knees toward his chest. He knows he’s flexible, knows many years of dance lessons weren’t just for show, but there’s something about Lan Zhan bending him that sends an ache through his body. He cries out into their kiss, half in discomfort and half overwhelmed.

Taking pity, Lan Zhan runs a soothing hand down his thigh.

He breaks their kiss, hands around Wei Ying’s waist for a moment before he feels himself flipped onto his front. Wei Ying instinctively catches himself, hands on the pillows, elbows pressed into the bed. “Lan Zhan?” It comes out more lost than he expected, small, like a child’s voice. He hates it.

Lan Zhan’s hand runs down the knobs of his spine, almost like he’s counting. “Hush.”

Wei Ying goes quiet.

When Lan Zhan grabs his hips, lifting them so Wei Ying’s back falls in an obscene arch, he doesn’t even fight. It’s not that he can’t. It’s much worse than that, in fact.

He’s beginning to suspect he might want it?

He certainly doesn’t like how hollow he feels, like all the important parts of him have been sucked right out now that Lan Zhan’s fingers aren’t inside him. Maybe he would feel better if Lan Zhan—if he—

“Are you gonna fuck me?”

That. If he did that.

Lan Zhan hums, his thighs bracing Wei Ying’s from behind as he palms his ass. Wei Ying flinches, thinking he might spank him again, but he only tucks his thumbs into the cleft, spreading him wide.

“Yes.”

He sounds so sure. Wei Ying presses his forehead into the pillows. “Oh, good,” he says before breaking into the worst sort of high-pitched laughter.

Lan Zhan presses his cockhead against Wei Ying’s hole. Even with the lube from before, it was only one packet, and he’s so big. The slide is by no means easy. After a moment, Lan Zhan huffs—is that annoyance?—and pulls away, causing a whine of protest to escape Wei Ying’s throat unbidden. He can’t just leave, he has to finish what he started!

Before he can do something shameful, something like begging, Lan Zhan presses a thumb against his hole. “Tight,” he says, voice hoarse, and then he’s spitting on it again. Inside him. Wei Ying shoves his own fingers in his mouth to muffle the noise he makes.

He does it twice more, to Wei Ying’s eternal mortification, before he’s satisfied enough to sit up and realign his cock. It helps a little, just wet enough to make the intrusion possible.

It hurts. Wei Ying rocks back into it anyway, knowing the pain will end. It has to end, right? It did every time before, with every finger Lan Zhan added, only this is—more. More than the fingers, it’s Lan Zhan’s cock, and it’s inside him.

“I am here,” Lan Zhan says, before Wei Ying can even ask, though he was going to, once he figured out how to remove his fingers from his mouth. He’s so—long. Does he have a never-ending cock?

“Lan Zhan,” he breathes, mouth still brushing his wet fingertips, knowing he’ll need them soon, “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, are you in?”

“Halfway.”

Wei Ying lets the tears well in his eyes. Halfway? Only half? It seems impossible, but he’s never known Lan Zhan to lie.

He’s never known that he fucks, either, but he is. Fucking. Wei Ying. He’s fucking Wei Ying. He’s going to fuck Wei Ying. Fuck.

“I can’t,” Wei Ying moans. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

“You can,” Lan Zhan assures him, sounding strangled himself. It’s the first time Lan Zhan has sounded so affected. Wei Ying’s cock twitches.

“Is it good?” he asks, trying to distract himself from the inexorable slide. “Do you like it?” He’s only doing this for Lan Zhan, after all. The fact that he might like it is just—it’s a side bonus. Nothing special. This is to get it out of Lan Zhan’s system. If it’s not good for him, won’t he want to try again? Wei Ying can’t have that.

Lan Zhan’s hands tighten on Wei Ying’s hips. “It’s good.” His voice is so low, and so confident. It’s good. Of course it’s good, it’s Wei Ying, and of course he’d be a natural at fucking. Or at—getting fucked. Oh. Oh.

By the time Lan Zhan bottoms out inside him, Wei Ying has genuinely forgotten there’s an end to it. He’s accepted that Lan Zhan’s cock never ends, it’s going to slide into him forever, he’ll never be rid of it, it’ll fuck right through his throat and drip precome on his tongue. He’s delirious, maybe, but the feeling of Lan Zhan’s balls pressed tight against his ass, the crinkle of his pubes brushing the sensitive skin there, all of it brings him back to a stark reality.

That’s Lan Zhan’s real, human-sized (probably) dick in his ass. His brain cracks open around that fact, too impossible to be comprehended, too real to ignore.

Things get fuzzy for a minute. He’s flushed all over, sweat dripping down his thighs as they spread wider against the bed, gasping for air and mostly getting pillows. He can’t close his mouth, he’s drooling, when did he start drooling? He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t know how to make it stop, either, because if he closes his mouth he’ll never be able to breathe.

Lan Zhan takes none of that into consideration.

He fucks Wei Ying like he’s a pro, like both of them are pros. Again, that flicker of irritation; has he done this before? How many times? To boys? To boys who didn’t know they—who didn’t know—

The thought loses focus, splitting into white noise as Lan Zhan finds that spot inside him again, adjusting Wei Ying’s hips and slamming against it so hard he can hear their skin slap together.

It comes to his attention that he’s been keening again, high, ridiculous noises from the back of his throat, more animal than man. That the shivery, desperate feeling he hasn’t been willing to name is pleasure, that his dick is so hard against the bedspread that he’s going to leave a huge stain.

The combined wave of embarrassment and heat is so intense that he starts crawling forward, trying to escape.

He gets one knee moving forward, hands steadying him against the pillows, when Lan Zhan catches on. He threads his hand through Wei Ying’s hair, pulling it taut, forcing him back into a near-painful arch. He can’t breathe, it hurts, it feels so fucking good his whole body tingles. He feels high out of his mind, floating on something he doesn’t understand, choked gasps falling from his lips because it’s the only sound he has enough breath to make.

“Going somewhere?” Lan Zhan asks, almost like he could be taking an evening stroll, if not for how out of breath he sounds. Ha, Wei Ying thinks, smug, I did that, and then Lan Zhan pulls a little tighter on his hair, and Wei Ying can think no thoughts but more and too much at the same time.

“Nh, nuh, no,” he slurs, feeling stupid. Who needs three tries just to say no? But his tongue doesn’t work; Lan Zhan probably broke that too. “I just—I gotta—”

“What?”

Wei Ying feels suspended in mid-air, held over the edge of a cliff. Every time he thinks he can’t break further, Lan Zhan bends and twists until he’s further dismantled, leaving no part of him unscathed. He takes a long, shaky breath, trying to get enough air in his lungs.

Lan Zhan is so patient. Wei Ying’s never liked that in a man.

“It’s too. It’s.”

Lan Zhan runs a hand down his flank, the way you would soothe a skittish horse. “Too what?”

And Wei Ying shatters.

“Good,” he sobs, the tears he’s been holding onto finally spilling from his eyes. There’s something to admitting it, something freeing yet harrowing; Wei Ying is dizzy and distressed, but he thinks he could come just from this, if Lan Zhan would fuck him harder, sink teeth into the back of his neck and hold him there. He could sprawl across him like a full-body hug and grind at that sinful little angle and Wei Ying would come all over this stupidly expensive blanket.

It seems to unlock something in Lan Zhan, too. He groans, louder than he’s been all night, and Wei Ying feels himself growing slicker inside, like Lan Zhan is leaking into him, filling him more than he already has. He makes a high, desperate noise in response, shoving himself back into it, and oh, that’s so good, that’s even better than it was. He does it again. Lan Zhan’s hands are going to leave such deep bruises in his hips when this is done.

Wei Ying being Wei Ying, he fixates on the sound, wondering what he can do to make it reappear. He can’t be the only one who’s falling to pieces, that’s—wrong. Shouldn’t Lan Zhan have to give up a little of that steely control, too?

“Lan Zhan, it’s so good, I’ve never—I haven’t—”

“Never?” The question is breathy, barely audible.

“I didn’t know,” he whines, “I didn’t know it was like this, I didn’t know it was so—”

“So sensitive,” Lan Zhan murmurs, almost to himself. “Hungry. You were not getting what you need.”

He parts his ass again, presumably to watch himself fuck into Wei Ying’s hole. Why is that hot? He rocks back, hoping Lan Zhan likes the show, at last understanding why the weight of his gaze has always felt so heavy. Was he thinking of this, he wonders, all those times he looked at me and I thought he would kill me, was he thinking about this instead?

“What is,” Wei Ying tries to ask, clumsy and overstimulated, “what did I need?”

Lan Zhan freezes, cockhead the only thing in Wei Ying’s hole, adjusting his grip on the sweaty skin beneath his palms. “To be filled,” he says, like that’s a thing people say out loud with a straight face. “Your hole is greedy and wants to be full.”

“Lan Zhan!” He isn’t sure if he wants him to stop or keep going, hating every moment even as his balls tighten, hole clenching tight around Lan Zhan’s cock. He needs a little more, just a little, anything, even the rocking of his hips, but Lan Zhan’s pinned him too tightly now, forcing him not to move or bounce much at all, and it’s not enough.

“Shh,” he hears, benevolent and cruel at once, “I have it. I have you.”

Lan Zhan’s pulsing rhythm increases, then breaks down entirely, leaving them two flushed creatures rutting against each other without rhyme or reason. His whole body is tight, he wants to come so badly, he’s never wanted anything more, but there’s something missing, he just needs—

“Please,” he begs, not quite knowing what he’s begging for, but Lan Zhan will know. Hadn’t he just said so? He knows what Wei Ying needs, he has him. “Please, please, ah, ah, ah!”

Lan Zhan bottoms out, deeper than he’s ever felt before, and groans, his mouth wet and open against the skin of Wei Ying’s back. Inside him, pulsing, liquid warmth fills him, and that—that feeling—

Wei Ying really does need it. He comes harder than he understood was possible, spurting into the blanket and letting Lan Zhan fuck him through the aftershocks, sliding wet through his own mess. The sound he makes shouldn’t be possible, shouldn’t be so loud, but it is, and what had he expected, really?

He comes back to himself in increments. Lan Zhan remains inside him, softening but still menacingly huge. Lan Zhan, all around him, body over his, a steady weight that holds him to the earth. Wei Ying, sticky and wet seemingly everywhere. His body is his, but it’s not. It feels like too much for one person to bear, all this new knowledge stuffed in his head.

He can only bear a few moments of silence. “Lan Zhan?” he tries, but he’s speaking into the pillow and his tongue isn’t feeling that capable to begin with, so it comes out closer to “luh zuh?”

Lan Zhan hums, sounding tired himself. Good, Wei Ying thinks, wanting to laugh but afraid to break the moment.

“Zz—good?”

Lan Zhan presses a kiss to his back, still an oppressive weight, but a welcome one. Wei Ying thinks he might be able to lay under him forever, even if he suffocates. “Wei Ying was good.” His own voice sounds thick in his throat. Lan Zhan never sounds so undone. Wei Ying did that?

He takes stock of how he feels. Sore, uncomfortably damp, oddly euphoric. “Again?” he asks, because he’s truly gone mad. “Later, later.”

This time, Lan Zhan’s hum is even more approving. It rumbles through his chest, which makes it rumble through Wei Ying’s chest, and that’s—satisfying. Again. Once he can think again, they can figure out the logistics, but the promise of again is enough to let him live another few minutes in the present.