Wei Ying was sprawled on the floor in front of the oscillating fan with a pack of frozen cherries on her chest when Lan Zhan got home from work. The toothy grind of keys in the lock startled her out of a daydream, made her think about covering up. She was just in a tank top and linen shorts, but the heat made her feel exposed for some reason: something about the faint sheen of sweat on her collarbones, the baby hairs sticking to her temples and the nape of her neck. The fan was rotating slowly, a cool wave that passed over her from head to toe, toe to head. Maybe it was that. Cool air on her flushed skin, but not all at once, like a trailing touch.
She’d smoked half a blunt earlier, exhaling out the window as the sky shifted like a field growing wildflowers: forget-me-not blue, then gentian indigo, then purple and clover pink dotted with clouds. She was pleasantly stoned now. Hazy but aware. Sunset light pooled around her like orange blossom syrup, sticky dark gold.
The front door whined open. Lan Zhan slipped inside, turned, and paused.
“Yo,” said Wei Ying, giving a halfhearted peace sign. She let her arm flop back down. “Lan Zhan, how are you even alive? If I’m this hot, you must be dying.”
“…Pardon?” said Lan Zhan.
“Like, my tolerance is way higher than yours. I like hot weather. But this is awful, Lan Zhan. I’m too hot to move, I feel like I’m breathing soup, I’m melting into the floor. If it’s this unbearable for me, you must really be suffering!”
“Ah,” said Lan Zhan, toeing off her shoes. “Yes. It’s not pleasant.”
Wei Ying hummed, turning her face back toward the fan and closing her eyes, waiting for the air to reach her flushed cheeks. She listened to the familiar home-sounds of Lan Zhan going back to the bedroom to change out of her work clothes, returning to the kitchen. The freezer opened and shut, then a cupboard, then the click of glass on counter. A few moments later, Lan Zhan settled on the floor beside Wei Ying.
Wei Ying turned her head. Lan Zhan was sitting cross-legged at her hip, having changed into hanfu-style loungewear, light wheat-colored cotton, the black river of her hair gathered and spilling over one shoulder. She was holding out a glass container of cubed watermelon, the sides fogged from the freezer. Wei Ying hadn’t even noticed it in there.
“For you,” Lan Zhan said.
“I didn’t know we had watermelon.”
“Mm. I bought it on the way home yesterday.”
Then she’d apparently cut it into neat, perfect cubes to be frozen overnight, just so Wei Ying could eat it today.
“Thank you,” Wei Ying said softly, and took one of the cubes, the bag of cherries on her chest crinkling with the movement. It was melting rapidly, trickling frost-water and leaving dark patches on her faded red tank top. The fan blew her sweaty bangs into her eyes, cool wave traveling back down her body—arm, belly, thigh. The watermelon was an icy burst of pink flavor on her tongue, the taste of summer, humidity and heat shimmer, the bang of a screen door. “Hey, you wanna lie down with me?”
“After you eat.”
Wei Ying pouted. “But I’m too lazy, I don’t want to move my arms.”
It had the desired effect. Lan Zhan’s eyebrow twitched, calling Wei Ying’s bullshit, but she picked up a cube of watermelon and scooted closer, holding it to Wei Ying’s lips. Wei Ying opened her mouth obediently and allowed herself to be fed, Lan Zhan’s thumb brushing her bottom lip. Heat throbbed behind her navel as the watermelon dissolved on her tongue, cubed small enough that it didn’t give her brain freeze. Lan Zhan was the best. The most wonderful, the most thoughtful, the most everything. And she was so handsome in the tangerine light, dark brows and dark ember eyes, soft nose, soft mouth.
“Hey baby,” said Wei Ying, and grabbed a piece of watermelon, holding it up to Lan Zhan’s lips. “Hi, hi, hi. Wow, impeccable timing on your part, I was just thinking tragically about how much I missed you and your face. My two favorite things!”
Lan Zhan’s eyes dropped to the watermelon. “I thought you were too lazy to move,” she said reproachfully, but opened her mouth to accept it. Her ears had gone pink.
“Not if it’s Lan Zhan.”
“Eat up, eat up.”
Instead, Lan Zhan picked up another cube and fed it to Wei Ying. “Missed you,” she said, and this time Wei Ying did get brain freeze when she accidentally crushed the watermelon to the roof of her mouth.
“Haahhh,” she whined, and shivered.
Lan Zhan pressed a hand to Wei Ying's stomach. It was an instinctive movement, as if settling an animal. Her fingers spread out, a heat sink, and Wei Ying’s shivers dissipated.
Their eyes met. Wei Ying felt it like a drumbeat in the pit of her belly. A summer thunderclap. There was a moment in which Lan Zhan could have moved her hand, or Wei Ying could have laughed and broken the tension, and they both decided not to.
“Brain freeze,” Wei Ying said quietly, which was sort of a funny thing to say all quiet and dramatic in the face of someone who looked like they wanted to eat her alive.
“Ah,” Lan Zhan said. Her hand rested on Wei Ying’s stomach for another moment, as if waiting for Wei Ying to laugh it off, high-pitched and awkward, like she always did. Wei Ying did not laugh. Lan Zhan’s hand trailed over her side, stroking lightly over the xylophone of her ribs, then back to her belly, to her hipbone. Lazy figure eights.
Her gaze was on Wei Ying’s face, careful. Assessing.
"That feels, ah. That feels nice," Wei Ying said, hearing her voice dip and unable to do anything about it. She didn’t know for sure what was going on, but it felt so good. She felt so good, all hazy and hot and dripping: smoke, flame, and molten wax. She felt even better when Lan Zhan’s big hand continued to skim over her sides. She was ticklish. She was wet.
She hadn’t really known that was a thing before she’d moved in with Lan Zhan. Of course she’d known she could get wet in general; she was great at jacking off. But she’d thought getting wet, in the horny sense, was something that happened on purpose after you worked at it for a while—not like a random involuntary boner. Then one night she’d made Lan Zhan curl up in bed and watch anime with her, because they were friends and Wei Ying liked cuddling with her friends. Lan Zhan had rested a hand on the dip of Wei Ying’s waist, her thumb tracing slow circles over Wei Ying’s t-shirt, and Wei Ying hadn’t been able to concentrate on the show even a little. She’d felt flushed and tingly all over, her focus narrowed to that single point on her waist. They’d finished the episode and Lan Zhan had left to go back to her own room, her own bed, and Wei Ying had stuck a hand into her pajama shorts and found herself so wet it was stringy between her fingers, her underwear soaked through, so wet it had made an obscene noise when she’d squeezed her legs shut. After that, it kept happening. Whenever Lan Zhan’s hand lingered on her waist, her shoulder, the small of her back. Wetness. Like she was a fucking teenage boy or something, a hair trigger. She’d never been a hair trigger. She’d never had sex dreams, not even during puberty, but now she woke up hot and squirmy on a regular basis, a slick throb between her thighs, unable to remember the details, only that Lan Zhan had been there, touching her, hands sliding over her skin.
“Are you done with this?” Lan Zhan asked, indicating the bag of frozen cherries on Wei Ying's chest. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Ice water dripped onto her skin when Lan Zhan picked up the bag, setting it beside the container of watermelon. Lan Zhan's movements were measured, not at all hurried or nervous. But Wei Ying knew her, and Lan Zhan’s ears always gave her away. She was flustered. Hot and bothered, even. Coral pink in the setting sun.
Fuck it, Wei Ying thought. She wasn’t stoned enough to blame any of this on lowered inhibitions. She was just herself, and she wanted Lan Zhan.
She took Lan Zhan’s hand and placed it on her chest, in the damp spot where the frozen cherries had sat limply between her breasts. Her tank top was sticking to her skin. She wasn’t wearing a bra—never did at home—and her nipples were visibly hard, she’d known it, she’d felt it, and now Lan Zhan knew it, too.
“Wei Ying….” Lan Zhan’s breath shuddered out of her. She ran two fingers over the swell of one breast, then the other, tripping over the neckline of Wei Ying’s tank top to where her nipple peaked the thin, wet fabric. She looked entranced. Her touch was so light, pressureless, but Wei Ying felt her own breathing quicken, chest rising and falling a little faster. She was so wet.
“Lan Zhan,” she whispered, irrationally scared that if she talked too loud (too much), if she made any sudden movements, Lan Zhan would come to her senses and pull away. “You can….”
She couldn’t say it.
But of course, she didn’t need to. Lan Zhan always knew what she wanted—what she needed. Even now, in this uncharted area of the map.
Lan Zhan cupped Wei Ying’s breast over her tank top, squeezing, first gentle and then with a firmer grip. She caught Wei Ying’s nipple between two fingers and pinched it, rolling it in a circle, shifting her hand to the other breast. Kneading. Rubbing her palm over the nipple. Her eyes were hot and dark, her lips parted to reveal the tip of her pink tongue. She looked like she wanted to put her mouth where her fingers were, and Wei Ying…. Wei Ying….
“You can,” she said again, and swallowed hard. “You can, um. If you want, you can….” Her hands found the hem of her tank top and she pushed it up a little, exposing the bare skin of her lower belly. Lan Zhan’s gaze flicked down, then back to Wei Ying’s face, searching. Wei Ying had no idea what she was looking for or how to give it to her, but whatever Lan Zhan found there made her move abruptly, climbing on top of Wei Ying and inserting a knee between her thighs. One hand was braced on the floor by Wei Ying’s shoulder, the other pushing Wei Ying’s tank top up in one swift motion, baring her breasts. “Oh,” Wei Ying gasped, staring in shock at her own hard brown nipples, her sweat-damp skin, then Lan Zhan’s head swooped down. She took Wei Ying in her mouth—her nipple, sucking hard, scraping her teeth over the sensitive tip. Bent over Wei Ying, her hands fell to Wei Ying’s ribs, tugging her up to meet Lan Zhan’s mouth. Wei Ying’s back arched off the floor like the curve of a violin, Lan Zhan’s mouth all over her tits, kissing, sucking little crimson half-moons into her skin, like fingernail marks. “Oh,” Wei Ying sighed, pushing up into her, “oh god, Lan Zhan, you really like this, don’t you?”
Lan Zhan hummed a reverent noise into the underside of her breast.
“Lan Zhan,” said Wei Ying, biting her lip. “Is it okay if—I kinda wanna make out.”
A hot tongue swirled over her nipple. Lan Zhan’s big hands slid from her ribs to her breasts, kneading rhythmically as she sealed her mouth over Wei Ying’s nipples one at a time, dark head moving between them, tongue fluttering. Her mouth trailed to the side, nipping at the delicate skin under Wei Ying’s armpit, sucking hot, open kisses over the swell of her breast, up the flat valley of her sternum—over her bunched-up tank top—to the sunlit ridges of her collarbones, the shadowed hollow of her throat. Wei Ying moaned, tilting her head back as Lan Zhan kissed her neck, dragging her tongue over the seashell curve of it, over Wei Ying’s jaw to her open, panting mouth. She lapped at Wei Ying’s tongue before even kissing her, sucking almost playfully at the tip, then Wei Ying got too impatient and surged up into her, sliding their mouths together in a hard, biting kiss. It wasn’t the right angle until Lan Zhan’s hands flew to her face, holding her still while Lan Zhan tilted her head, and then it was deep and messy and perfect, cool and sweet from the watermelon, exactly what Wei Ying had wanted: making out like making love, being kissed so deeply it made her dizzy. She twined her arms around Lan Zhan’s neck and melted into her, kissing and kissing—she probably tasted like weed-smoke under the watermelon, she hoped it was okay—Lan Zhan’s hand drifted back down to her breasts, massaging, tugging lightly at her nipples, rolling them between thumb and forefinger as they kissed.
“More,” Wei Ying panted into the next kiss, mouth open, “more, more, please, I’m, I’m so—ah—”
“So what?” Lan Zhan said, pushing her thigh between Wei Ying’s legs, and suddenly Wei Ying could feel how wet she was, underwear sliding over her pussy. She rocked her hips, grinding into Lan Zhan’s thigh as they kissed, Lan Zhan’s tongue fucking into her mouth, stroking into her, pulling away—“You’re so what, Wei Ying?”
“Hah—I’m so… so turned on, Lan Zhan, I want more, I want....”
“Let me make you feel good,” Lan Zhan murmured, catching Wei Ying’s bottom lip between her teeth and sucking on it, releasing it to press her lips to the center of Wei Ying’s mouth, a kiss that went on and on. Her tongue swept into Wei Ying’s mouth like a kite dipping through clouds. Her hand strayed down between their bodies, slipping under the waistband of Wei Ying’s shorts, further, into her plain cotton undies—
Lan Zhan’s breath hitched in surprise.
“Shut up,” Wei Ying whimpered, fighting the urge to cover her face. She was so wet, humiliatingly wet just from making out and getting her tits groped, so wet she could have been fucked with a cock—Lan Zhan fucking her with a cock, hips snapping, fucking her from behind, shoving her face into the bedspread, fuck—a hand on the back of her neck, her legs spread, her entrance open and pulsing as Lan Zhan dragged the tip of her cock through Wei Ying’s folds without pushing inside, without filling her, no matter how much she pleaded to be fucked—she could feel it dripping out of her, down her perineum, slicking all the way to her asshole. That was so much. Too much, too messy, she’d never had this problem before. Lan Zhan ran two fingers up and down her pussy, smearing the pooling wetness, then slid her middle finger inside. It went so easily. Sank in to the hilt, Lan Zhan’s knuckles pressed to either side of her entrance. “Oh fuck,” Wei Ying sighed, and spread her thighs wider, heels skimming over the floor. “Ohh, Lan Zhan. Okay. Oh, god.”
There was a slight disconnect, watching Lan Zhan’s hand move in her shorts but not being able to see what was actually happening, only feel it. A second finger pushed into her, a brief sharp stretch, pain like a floating spark, and they were kissing again, Wei Ying making breathy little h-hah-ahh noises into Lan Zhan’s mouth as the fingers inside her began to fuck in and out, constrained by her underwear but still hitting deep enough to make her whine and circle her hips. Lan Zhan switched between fingering her and spreading slick all over her pussy, tracing a vee around her clit without touching it directly. “You’re so wet,” she said, her lips at Wei Ying’s ear, teeth closing around her earlobe. “Listen.”
She swirled her fingers through Wei Ying’s folds, tapped lightly at her entrance: wet clicking noises. “Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying said, shoving at her shoulder. “Ah, stop, it’s embarrassing!”
“It’s not embarrassing,” Lan Zhan said, ducking to mouth wetly at her throat, fingers sliding back inside. The heel of her palm brushed the sensitive bud of Wei Ying’s clit; Wei Ying gasped, knees jerking, and tilted her head back as Lan Zhan sucked a mark into her throat, kissed her way down between Wei Ying’s breasts—didn’t stop there, brushed gentle kisses over her stomach, humming a little when Wei Ying’s abdominal muscles twitched. She kissed one hip bone, then the other, shuffling down to kneel between Wei Ying’s legs. Somehow, that was when Wei Ying figured out what was about to happen.
“Lan Zhan,” she said quickly, “oh, you’re so—you’re so nice, but you don’t have to!”
Lan Zhan paused.
“Really, I know it’s not, um. Yeah. You don’t have to.”
“You know it’s not… what?” said Lan Zhan, and fuck, her voice was low. Her mouth was red and wet, hanging open a little. Individual strands of her hair sailed upward whenever the fan passed over her, briefly suspended in the air like outlined ocean swells. She looked hungry.
“I mean.” Wei Ying’s cheeks were so hot. She threw an arm over her face, finally giving into the urge to hide, though she could still feel the heat of Lan Zhan’s gaze. “No, I was just saying, you don’t have to. Like, I can do it.”
“You can eat yourself out?” Lan Zhan sounded intrigued.
Wei Ying was so shocked she burst out laughing. “NO! No, shut up, I just meant I can like, I can take care of it.”
“So can I,” Lan Zhan pointed out. “And I’m already down here.”
“Ai, you…!” Wei Ying let out another helpless, half hysterical laugh into the sweaty bend of her elbow. She was trying not to fixate on Lan Zhan saying eat yourself out. Lan Zhan was going to—oh, god, Lan Zhan was going to eat her out, Lan Zhan was going to put her mouth on Wei Ying’s wet pussy. “O-okay. I just wanted to say, you don’t have to.”
“I want to. Very much. Do you not want me to?”
“No, I do, I-I want it, it’s just....” She was blushing so hard she could feel her heartbeat in her cheeks. She tried not to squirm even as more wetness trickled out of her like honey. “What if it doesn’t taste good?” she blurted out. “I don’t know, guys don’t always wanna—I don’t know.”
Lan Zhan was staring at her.
“I’m so wet,” Wei Ying whispered. “It’s just. It's like you said. I’m so wet.”
Lan Zhan blinked, almost dazed. Her tongue flicked over her bottom lip. “Yes," she said. "Yes. You're going to taste good."
“You don’t know that.”
Lan Zhan let her silence answer: Then let me find out.
“Fuck. Okay,” Wei Ying breathed. “Oh god, okay Lan Zhan, if you insist on being so terribly stubborn….” She lifted her hips off the floor and Lan Zhan wasted no time taking the offering, tugging Wei Ying’s shorts and underwear down around her thighs—the shorts caught on Wei Ying’s ankle and she kicked, giggling, which made Lan Zhan’s beautiful mouth tilt up—and then Wei Ying was almost entirely naked, tank top bunched around her armpits, her bare breasts shiny-wet from Lan Zhan’s spit, teardrop pearls of wetness clinging to the thatch of fine black hair between her legs. Honestly, her ass was kind of sticking to the fake wood floorboards. This felt like both the sluttiest and least slutty thing she’d ever done. Naked on the floor, legs spread for her hot lesbian roommate. Naked, legs spread for Lan Zhan.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said, in a voice that made Wei Ying ache and arch her back, thighs falling open even wider. The air from the fan passed over her pussy and she shivered again, head tipping back involuntarily. Hazily, she watched through her lashes as Lan Zhan shifted to lie on her belly, elbows braced on the floor with her hands hooked around Wei Ying’s outer thighs. Her eyes were round and black as new moons, a flush high in her cheekbones. She was breathing quickly, shallowly.
“Please,” Wei Ying said, “please, please, your tongue, your fingers, anything—”
Lan Zhan leaned in and pressed her nose to the crease of Wei Ying’s thigh, inhaling deeply, so close to the outer lips of her pussy. Her eyes fluttered shut. She took another slow breath, through her mouth this time as if tasting Wei Ying’s scent on the air, her warm exhale tickling Wei Ying’s inner thigh. Then, just as Wei Ying was about to start begging, Lan Zhan nudged sideways and slid her mouth over Wei Ying’s pussy in a hot, open kiss.
“Lan Zhan, oh—”
“Mmmnnn.” It was one of Lan Zhan’s first vocalizations, a rumble of sound, like she couldn’t—like she couldn’t help it. Eyes closed, brow furrowed, she lapped slowly at Wei Ying’s pussy, broad strokes from her pulsing entrance to her hard little clit, collecting Wei Ying’s pooling wetness on her tongue, pausing every so often to press her nose to Wei Ying’s mound—her wet pubic hair—and breathe in. She kissed Wei Ying’s pussy like she’d kissed her mouth, thoroughly and everywhere, kissing the slick skin under her entrance, sucking gently at her inner and outer lips, feather-light kisses around her clit. Licked her again, the tip of her tongue flicking over Wei Ying’s entrance where she was wettest, where the slick just kept coming. “You taste clean and perfect,” Lan Zhan said, words smeared, tongue tracing through Wei Ying’s folds. It was like she was trying to clean her, while making her even messier. “You taste like Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying made a noise halfway to a sob, hands coming up to grasp at her own breasts. Lan Zhan gave her a few more broad licks, then sealed her mouth around Wei Ying's clit and sucked, light and then harder, tongue circling and fluttering over the bud. Her nose was digging into Wei Ying's mound, a blunt pressure that felt almost as intimate as the act itself. At one point Lan Zhan pulled away to kiss and bite at Wei Ying's inner thighs, licking insistently to get a pubic hair off her tongue—Wei Ying started to apologize, somehow embarrassed by the sight of that single hair now stuck to her thigh, but her words melted into a moan as Lan Zhan buried her face in Wei Ying's pussy again, letting out a low, vibrating hum.
It didn't take long at all before Wei Ying's breath was coming in vocal gasps, fingers twisting in Lan Zhan's hair as she rutted helplessly against her face. "Lan Zhan," she managed, "Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan ah, oh, god, I—I think I'm gonna come—" Lan Zhan fucked her tongue into Wei Ying's entrance once, twice, and returned to her swollen clit, drawing it into her mouth and sucking, long and slow and rhythmic, a hot zing that spiraled into a stormlike pressure. "Lan Zhan," Wei Ying cried out, tossing her head back, and pleasure spasmed through her in a breathless, wrecking wave. Lan Zhan licked her though it, eyes on Wei Ying's face—then kissed over her clit, achingly tender, and shoved herself up onto her knees. She got an arm around Wei Ying's back and dragged her upright, so Wei Ying—limp, panting, stars wheeling around her head—was straddling Lan Zhan's lap.
"Wei Ying," Lan Zhan said, the entire lower half of her face flushed and wet, her mouth the red of pomegranate. "Beautiful," she said, and kissed Wei Ying—sour, tart, musk, her own come, her taste—and they were making out again, Wei Ying too orgasm-addled to really participate other than letting Lan Zhan take her mouth, hard and deep, licking into her. She finally had enough presence of mind to yank her tank top the rest of the way off, tossing it aside, then to grab at Lan Zhan's loose shirt, pulling it up and over her head. Lan Zhan emerged staticky-haired and wide-eyed, blinking, naked from the waist up. Her small breasts curved toward Wei Ying's, nipples dark and pebbled, the flawless blue-veined skin rippled with gooseflesh. Wei Ying kissed her. Hand drifting to Lan Zhan's breasts, she kissed her, cute and sloppy. They moved against each other, breasts melding as they kissed.
"Oh my god," Wei Ying said after a while, happening to glance down. Lan Zhan was still in her cotton pants, and there was a long, shaded patch up her thigh where Wei Ying had been absentmindedly grinding on her. “It looks like I’m a snail,” she said, and cackled at Lan Zhan’s expression. “Don’t give me that face, you know I’m right! It looks like you received a visit from a very adventurous little snail. It’s my snail slime, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Zhan looked pained. “Why slime. Why that word.”
“My snail ooze? Hey, isn’t that supposed to be good for your skin? I’ve definitely done a snail face mask before. So like, you’re welcome for the youthful glow.”
“On my thigh.”
“Jiejie, it’s all over your face.”
They looked at each other. “Hold still,” said Lan Zhan.
Holding eye contact, Lan Zhan reached between them to cup Wei Ying’s pussy again. That was all the warning Wei Ying got before Lan Zhan fucked two fingers back into her, a single, hard movement, hooking—catching her, pinning her between the arm around her back and the fingers inside her. Wei Ying gasped, mouth falling open, expecting to be kissed, but Lan Zhan didn’t kiss her. Didn’t lean in. Held her there, watching her face intently with eyes like banked embers, dark with a hot spark at the center. She moved her fingers inside Wei Ying, not fucking in and out but rubbing slowly, a continuous, rhythmic pressure. The heel of her palm was grinding gently over the mound of Wei Ying’s pussy, not touching her oversensitive clit but letting the sensation spread through the whole area, warming her again, making her shiver. Wei Ying clutched at Lan Zhan’s shoulders, rocking her hips. Lan Zhan was just… watching her, just her face, not even glancing down at her breasts or her hot, flushed pussy, the place where Lan Zhan’s fingers disappeared inside her.
“What are you….” Wei Ying was panting, mouth open. “Lan—hnn—mm—what are you…?”
“Hold still, Wei Ying.”
She tried to stop moving her hips. Her thighs were tensed, trembling, splayed over Lan Zhan’s lap. Holding still and open. “I, I don’t know if I can….”
“I think you can,” Lan Zhan said calmly.
“You’re mean,” Wei Ying whined. “What did I—hahh—d-do to deserve such cruel treatment, ah….”
Stillness in this position meant clenching.
In pulses. Fucking—kegels. Was that what this was? God.
“Lan Zhan,” she breathed, and Lan Zhan’s eyes dropped when the tip of her tongue formed the La. “Lan Zhan,” she said again, playing it up, flicking her tongue—Lan Zhan licked her. Just dipped in and licked her tongue, a dragonfly to water, brows furrowed cutely when she leaned back. Wei Ying felt a sudden fall inside her, the abrupt collapse of a structure she hadn’t even realized was there, like secret towers holding up the fabric of the night sky, crumbling, to a flood of light—stampeding constellations, a hot bright sweep over a dark landscape. This was what it felt like, maybe. Oh. Oh, this was what it felt like. Oh, no.
“You’re doing well,” Lan Zhan murmured. “You’re going to come.” An observation, not an order. Wei Ying couldn’t help it, she shivered and let go of Lan Zhan’s shoulder with one hand to grip her own breasts. Lan Zhan’s eyes narrowed like shutters dropping, cutting off the glow of a room at night, but her mouth softened: it was a joke, she wasn’t really mad. Wei Ying pouted and squirmed, trying to look defiant, but broke immediately. She put her hand back on Lan Zhan’s shoulder—smooth skin, strands of long, silky hair shifting under her fingers, a fine grain—and was rewarded with a quirk of Lan Zhan’s fingers inside her.
“Ohh….” she sighed, letting her head tip back. She really wasn’t good at this holding-still thing. So it was good that Lan Zhan had such a firm grip on her. Even if Wei Ying messed up, Lan Zhan was there to hold her steady, Wei Ying’s body a ribbon caught between two fingers, rippling but secure. “I’m—Lan Zhan, can you—h-harder, not, not a lot but please…. Yes—yes like that, yes, ah…!”
“Look at me.”
She wasn’t? Oh. No, she’d closed her eyes. Hazily, she obeyed. Lan Zhan’s cheeks were flushed deeper, a drunken glow. Her ears were so pink, Wei Ying wanted to cup them in her hands like shells. “I think—I think I’m, mm, close.”
“Tighten your pelvic floor muscles when you come.”
“That’s certainly a response,” Wei Ying gasped. “O-oh my god. Okay laoshi, whatever you want.”
Lan Zhan gave her an unimpressed look. Her fingers stilled inside.
“Ai, I was joking, you—! Please, please, Lan Zhan ah, please, I’m close—"
Lan Zhan crooked her fingers again, pushing up toward Wei Ying’s navel, and Wei Ying could have cried in relief, kind of wanted to cry anyway, or laugh—she bit her lip, thighs spread so wide her gracilis muscles ached, a constant thrum of pain adding to the swirling pleasure. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said hoarsely, “pretty girl, I want you to come,” and Wei Ying did, clenching at the crest and feeling it in her muscles, a hard, prolonged shudder; coming and coming, racked by orgasm, wetness flooding out of her. She was tense and then collapsed, held upright only by Lan Zhan’s arm around her back as Lan Zhan fucked her gently through it, letting Wei Ying ride her fingers. Then Wei Ying was whimpering, batting clumsily at Lan Zhan’s wrist—too sensitive—and Lan Zhan pulled out with a slick noise. Wei Ying felt her own come drool out of her.
“Lan Zhan, hah….” She slumped forward onto Lan Zhan’s shoulder. Lan Zhan’s other arm came up to wrap around her back, wet fingers skating over Wei Ying’s spine. Her breasts brushed Wei Ying’s ribs with every inhale. “I can’t…. I can’t believe how mean you are, ah, really….”
“You’re perfect,” said Lan Zhan, and squeezed her.
“L-Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying squeaked. “You can’t—agh! You can’t just say things like that!” She realized her mistake when Lan Zhan went stiff under her. “Ah, that is to say, um. You can’t say things like that, because… because I like it too much.”
Lan Zhan was silent, but gathered Wei Ying closer. Pressed her face to Wei Ying’s messy, sun-warmed hair.
“That’s okay?” Wei Ying whispered.
Lan Zhan nodded—nuzzled. She smelled bright and citrus-sweet, like the puffs of scent off an orange peel. Lan Zhan was the kind of person who changed her perfume with the seasons: citrus and florals in spring and summer—jasmine, osmanthus, neroli—and woodsy, musky fragrances in fall and winter, teak and pepper. Wei Ying didn’t really wear perfume, but sometimes she borrowed some of Lan Zhan’s and spent the whole day sniffing the inside of her wrist, thinking, This is what her skin smells like. In retrospect, perhaps not the most platonic or heterosexual impulse of all time.
“It’s okay,” Lan Zhan said after a while. Her voice was a little raspy. “I like you very much.”
“I think you meant: I like you too much.”
“No. That’s not what I meant.”
Wei Ying shivered. Her chin was hooked over Lan Zhan’s shoulder, fingers playing with the ends of Lan Zhan’s hair. Their bodies were interlocked, brown-gold in the fading light. How silly, to fuck on the floor. Watermelon and cherries melting beside them, cool air fanning over their sweaty limbs. Wei Ying’s breasts were sticking to Lan Zhan’s chest in a way that made her want to cling tighter, stick everywhere, a girl-shaped burr. “I didn’t know I liked you,” she said, “and then I did.”
Lan Zhan nodded again, hand bumping over the beads of Wei Ying’s spine.
“I wanna eat you out like you ate me.”
And Wei Ying laughed.