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A Good Enough Reason

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The lighter clicks on. Lan Zhan slowly draws the needle through the flame. He releases the tab of the lighter, and the flame vanishes. He sets down the lighter, carefully transfers the needle to his right hand, and stabs it into the pad of his left middle finger without a change of expression. Wei Ying watches with a ravenous intensity as Lan Zhan squeezes the sides of his finger until a perfect, dark droplet of blood blooms from the skin.

Lan Zhan holds his hand up with a questioning glance. Wei Ying nods eagerly, his breath coming quickly. Lan Zhan pops the finger in his own mouth instead, and Wei Ying makes an offended noise.

“Hungry?” Lan Zhan asks.

“Yes!” Wei Ying whines. “You know that!”

Lan Zhan hums. He massages another drop of blood to the surface, and this one he offers to Wei Ying, who laps at it eagerly.

“Moooore,” he whines when Lan Zhan pulls his finger back. “Lan Zhan, more, please?”

Lan Zhan allows Wei Ying to take his finger into his mouth and suckle for a moment. Wei Ying’s tongue curls against and around him like a dog with a spoon of peanut butter, and Lan Zhan’s chest grows warm with contentment. Then Wei Ying starts to bite down. Lan Zhan pulls his finger away and uses the same hand to slap Wei Ying, open-handed, across the face.

“I’m sorry,” Wei Ying cries. “The needle was so small, there’s barely any blood, Lan Zhan, please, I’m so hungry--”

“You take what I give you,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying shudders through a moan and slumps back against the leather straps around his wrists, his waist, and his throat. He tilts his head up to stare at the ceiling and whispers, “Yes.”

Lan Zhan steps closer, holds up his hand again. “Open.”

Wei Ying opens his mouth, and his tongue slips out: flat, wide, wanting. Lan Zhan uses his right hand to slide Wei Ying’s lips back from his teeth and runs his thumb along one sharp, curved tooth. Wei Ying closes his eyes and whimpers as his jaw twitches, instinct demanding that he bite. Lan Zhan runs his thumb further up, along Wei Ying’s gums, and then down the other fang. When he runs the pad of his thumb against the point, Wei Ying makes a strangled sound and throws his head back against the cushioned board. He’s trembling with the effort of holding his mouth open.

“Very good,” Lan Zhan says, swiping his pricked finger against Wei Ying’s tongue. Wei Ying’s tongue flexes against it, but he otherwise remains still. Lan Zhan hums his approval. He prepares another drop of blood, which Wei Ying receives quietly. He takes another two drops before his head snaps down, pulling painfully against the leather across his throat. Lan Zhan carefully sets another drop on his fingertip and holds it just out of Wei Ying’s reach. Wei Ying leans forward further, stretching his tongue out, panting. Lan Zhan taps the droplet against Wei Ying’s tongue, and Wei Ying bares his teeth and growls.

“Lan Zhan.” His voice comes out of him like gravel.

“I know,” Lan Zhan says. Wei Ying growls again, his whole body shaking with it.

“Lan Zhan,” he says, louder.

“Look at me,” Lan Zhan orders. Wei Ying shakes his head. Lan Zhan uses his right hand to slap him again, hard. Wei Ying looks to the side and keeps his eyes lowered. Lan Zhan waits for another bead of red to form on his left hand, and then holds it where he knows Wei Ying can see. Wei Ying shudders. When Lan Zhan moves his hand, Wei Ying’s eyes follow. He meets Lan Zhan’s eyes, and Lan Zhan can see that Wei Ying’s irises have turned bright red, the light glowing through the tiny muscles around the pupil. Lan Zhan turns his left palm to the floor and flicks the blood down and away.

Wei Ying shouts as he lunges forward, only to be yanked back by the restraints. He pants harder, the air rattling through his throat and turning each breath into a snarl. He hates being like this in front of Lan Zhan.

“You obey,” Lan Zhan tells him.

Wei Ying bares his fangs at him. “You wasted my blood.”

Lan Zhan takes Wei Ying’s jaw in one hand. He squeezes hard enough to cause pain, and when Wei Ying tries to throw his head to the side, he keeps him in place. Wei Ying’s pupils dilate.

“Mine,” Lan Zhan says.

Wei Ying snarls at him again. “Mine!”

“Come take it, then,” Lan Zhan says. He holds the finger of his left hand out of Wei Ying’s reach, and Wei Ying strains against his bindings with a single-minded focus. Lan Zhan abruptly grabs him by the roots of his hair, drawing Wei Ying’s head up, and then smears the trace of blood over his gums. Wei Ying goes slack for a moment as he seeks the taste, savors it, and in that time, Lan Zhan picks up the ball gag from the table beside them. Wei Ying opens his mouth expectantly as Lan Zhan brings his hands closer, then squawks when Lan Zhan shoves the gag into his mouth.

It’s the work of a moment for Lan Zhan to buckle the soft leather against Wei Ying’s hair -- conveniently tied up in a ponytail before they began -- even with Wei Ying writhing beneath his hands. When the gag is secured, Lan Zhan has a messy smear of blood on his finger, and he wipes it off across the curve of Wei Ying’s upper lip, just below his nose. Wei Ying has just enough presence of mind left to stare at him with eyes gone wide with betrayal before he catches the scent fully. He keens around the gag, and his fangs click against the polished metal as he tries to dislodge it.

“My blood,” Lan Zhan says quietly, flicking another drop to the floor. “My Wei Ying.”

His blood-mad Wei Ying growls with frustration as his tongue and lips and jaw tire of fighting the silver ball gag. Lan Zhan watches Wei Ying try to bring his wrists and head closer together; Lan Zhan watches the custom restraints he designed and commissioned hold steady. He feels the smile on his lips, and he licks his finger absently just to watch Wei Ying thrash in fury.

Lan Zhan places his hands on the button of Wei Ying’s jeans. Wei Ying tries to kick him. Lan Zhan crowds against him, pinning Wei Ying with his hips and thighs as he quickly strips him below the waist. Lan Zhan steps back to fold Wei Ying’s clothes and set them on the table, and when he turns back, Wei Ying’s cock has begun to swell despite his persistent, guttural complaints behind the gag.

“Good,” Lan Zhan murmurs. He takes lube from the table and doesn’t bother warming it. He seizes Wei Ying’s shin in his left hand and forces it nearly to Wei Ying’s shoulder. He knocks Wei Ying’s other leg away with his knee, and sets about opening Wei Ying’s rim without further preparation. Wei Ying jerks against the restraints, but Lan Zhan only uses the movement to kick his leg again, harder, until Wei Ying recoils and his full weight rests against the cushioned board and leather cuffs. “Good,” Lan Zhan says again.

Wei Ying whines: high, keening, and miserable things that hold no trace of his earlier fury. He whimpers when Lan Zhan pulls his finger fully out, and then squeaks when Lan Zhan puts two back inside. At the third finger, he starts to cry.

When Lan Zhan deems him prepared enough, he drops Wei Ying’s leg and steps back again to wipe down his fingers. Wei Ying slumps forward, glaring, and Lan Zhan feels the weight of it on his back. He turns around to show Wei Ying as he takes up the needle and lighter again, sterilizes the needle, and draws twin scratches along the meat of both his thumbs. They bleed quickly, and Wei Ying’s eyes flare brighter as he summons the energy to lunge forward again. He makes a choked sound when he fails to get anywhere.

Lan Zhan realizes that he’s gotten ahead of himself. He fastidiously undoes his own fly, keeping his hands arched so that blood doesn’t drip onto his slacks, and pulls the waistband of his briefs down below his balls. Wei Ying is too focused on the smell of blood to protest as Lan Zhan crouches, takes both of Wei Ying’s ankles in a punishing grip, hooks them over his shoulders, and then stands. Face to face again, Lan Zhan takes the space of a long breath to appreciate the glistening spit dripping from Wei Ying’s mouth. Wei Ying shakes his head, pulling toward Lan Zhan’s blood -- smeared over his bare right calf -- and Lan Zhan smirks.

He takes his dick lightly between his fingertips to probe Wei Ying’s ass until he feels the give and sees Wei Ying fidget through the haze of his bloodlust. Lan Zhan gives him no time to settle. He shoves inside, and Wei Ying wails, but Lan Zhan brings his bleeding right hand to Wei Ying’s cheek, and Wei Ying quickly refocuses. Lan Zhan smears the blood around, down his jawbone, along his cheek, up his temples, until Wei Ying’s entire body is tense with desperation. Then Lan Zhan starts fucking him.

The metal links that attach the leather to the bolts in the board clink pleasantly with each upward shift of Wei Ying’s body. Lan Zhan spares a moment to consider how satisfying the sound would be if used as an underlying beat for a song. Wei Ying yowls, which means Lan Zhan must have inadvertently brushed his prostate, and Lan Zhan brings his attention back to Wei Ying’s face. Wei Ying’s tears have resumed, drawing paths through the blood on his cheeks, and Lan Zhan kisses one of them. He licks some of the blood away, but Wei Ying is so far gone that he doesn’t react to the irony. Lan Zhan thrusts against his prostate on purpose, just once.

Whenever Wei Ying becomes too quiescent, Lan Zhan brings a hand to his face, and it sets him spasming and straining. The first time this fails to draw a reaction, Lan Zhan fucks deep into Wei Ying and stays there, grinding his hips forward to make Wei Ying shudder, and then rubs the meat of his thumb over Wei Ying’s upper lip. Wei Ying leans forward weakly, chasing the scent, and Lan Zhan brings his hips back down to resume his punishing pace.

He only has to do that twice before Wei Ying fails to respond to the blood at all, and then Lan Zhan starts to deliberately rub against Wei Ying’s prostate on each thrust, and he brings Wei Ying to climax within moments. Wei Ying’s come spatters across Lan Zhan’s bare chest -- his shirt lies folded on the table -- and Wei Ying’s shirt. Lan Zhan finds the symmetry of their undress pleasing. Wei Ying’s miserable crying and the way his ass clenches around Lan Zhan’s dick makes him want to come himself, so he pauses for just a moment to catch his breath.

“So scary,” he croons into Wei Ying’s ear. “However will I protect myself?”

In response, Wei Ying sobs so hard that Lan Zhan can feel it around his dick. Lan Zhan kisses his forehead. He continues to fuck him.

They’re both sweaty. Lan Zhan has a great deal of stamina, and Wei Ying is slightly tilted away from him and supported by the cushioned bondage frame, but the effort of rutting against him for so hard and so long is no insignificant thing. Wei Ying’s legs have gone from trembling on either side of Lan Zhan’s face to lying limply when Lan Zhan finally lets himself come.

He slumps against Wei Ying as his hips stutter forward. Wei Ying sniffles quietly, too spent to cry in earnest. Lan Zhan kisses his ear, his temple, his jaw. He loves him so, so much.

When Lan Zhan has collected himself, he kisses Wei Ying’s knee and carefully eases his legs down until Wei Ying can place both feet on the ground. His knees give out immediately, but the leather still holds him up.

“So good,” Lan Zhan murmurs as he unbuckles Wei Ying’s wrists. They drop immediately over Lan Zhan’s shoulders, and when he unbuckles the collar at his throat, Wei Ying drops his head there too. Lan Zhan kisses the back of Wei Ying’s head as he undoes the waist restraint, and Wei Ying sags forward so that Lan Zhan supports all his weight.

When Lan Zhan finally removes the ball gag, Wei Ying is too far beyond words to say anything, but his moan has the same cadence his speech does when says Lan Zhan’s name in complaint.

“I know,” Lan Zhan murmurs with another kiss to Wei Ying’s hair. Wei Ying continues to slump against him, and Lan Zhan taps the corner of his drool-covered mouth lightly. “Come on. You’re hungry.”

Wei Ying makes another inarticulate, pitiful sound, and Lan Zhan manually tips his head into the correct position.

“Do you need me to penetrate my own neck?” Lan Zhan asks.

Only then does Wei Ying find the energy to draw back, squinting at Lan Zhan, to say, deeply affronted, “Not a good enough reason to use the word penetrate.”

Lan Zhan smiles as Wei Ying sets his fangs against the thin skin over his pulse. Wei Ying rests there for eight beats of Lan Zhan’s heart, and Lan Zhan smiles again when he bites down.