Fandom: Heated Rivalry
Rated: M because it's mostly not smut
Summary: Shane likes watching Ilya Rozanov's goals.
Teaser:
Rozanov’s goals are pretty on TV. There’s no other word for them. The way he weaves through the defense, finds open ice long enough to pick his target, then elevates the puck to the top corner—it’s all just so damn pretty. Such a display of raw skill and power.
Shane has no idea how it happened, but his cock is in his hand.
(AU where Yuna and David aren’t coming over for dinner that very night. Give Shane some time to process, damn it!)
Rating: E (but the emphasis is not on the sex by any means)
Tags: Episode Tag, Coda, Praise Kink, Established Relationship, Comfort, Comfort Sex, Anxiety, Pampering, Massage, Foot Massage, Bathing/Washing, the cottage, Ilya Rozanov Takes Care of Shane Hollander
Teaser:
He wasn’t ready for his life to change today. Even though everything went just about as well as he could have hoped, even though he couldn’t ask for better parents or a more loving and warm boyfriend, everything’s different today than it was yesterday. He had brought Ilya here so that they could have private time, time together with no prying eyes and no cameras and microphones and no teammates jabbering about how much they hate each other. The whole point was that nothing was going to happen. It was supposed to be safe here.
And it wasn’t. The earth that had seemed so solid underneath him had given way, and he’d had to face something he wasn’t ready to face. Something that he can never undo. He can never go back to the way things were. Never again.
Maybe that will end up being a good thing, in the end. But right now, it is so, so scary.
It takes a lot to get Lan Wangji’s head out of his book when he’s riding the bus on his way to campus. And this? This is a lot.
He’d been engrossed in a book of poems and had closed his eyes to savor a line when the bus stopped to pick up some more passengers. When he opens his eyes again, a pretty, college-age girl is boarding the bus, sliding her card through the machine at the front. Lan Wangji has seen lots of pretty girls, so this is not remarkable. He is about to put his nose back in his book when she moves aside and the most beautiful boy Lan Wangji’s ever seen enters behind her.
At first, to Lan Wangji, he looks like a bird. A hummingbird, maybe, because he’s humming here and there—saying something to the bus driver that makes her laugh, eyes lighting up when the girl beckons him to an open seat, chatting amiably with her as the bus lurches to life and continues down the road. There’s something almost elfin about his features. Sharp nose, pretty angled eyes, a long sheaf of black hair tied into a high ponytail behind him. It’s not jut his face that reminds Lan Wangji of a bird. He’s slender, small-boned, but still clearly masculine. Lan Wangji would like to hold him in the palm of his hand, stroke his hair like you would stroke a baby bird’s feathers. Watch him sing.
The book falls useless between Lan Wangji’s thighs. Poetry is forgotten. Lan Wangji stares.
As he talks to the girl, this beautiful boy glances around curiously at the bus around him. His eyes are dark, and they dart around as though trying to take in every detail at once. For a terrifying instant, those eyes land on him. But then they are gone again. Lan Wangji is glad. He doesn't want to disturb a bird in the wild.
Then, the boy’s gaze is on him again. And this time it stays, for two endless seconds.
Thankfully, that glance, too, is short-lived, and he returns to looking at and chatting with the girl, who must—must!—be his girlfriend, although they don’t hold each other or lean in the way Lan Wangji has seen lovers do on campus. What girl wouldn’t want to be the girlfriend of this rare bird? Lan Wangji doesn’t know why this irritates him, but it does. He picks up the book where it lies limp and shuffles the pages, trying to find where he left off.
Movement in his peripheral vision. Lan Wangji looks up. The beautiful bird is getting out of his seat, speaking one last word to the girl, and—what?—is heading to the back of the bus where Lan Wangji sits. A flood of panic comes over Lan Wangji, like when he was at that violin recital at age 10 and his violin was hopelessly out of tune. Don’t let him notice me. Don’t let me be perceived.
No such luck. The boy stops right in front of Lan Wangji’s seat and locks eyes with him. “She’s cute, isn’t she?” he says.
He might well be speaking Arabic for all that Lan Wangji understands these words. “What?”
“Mianmian.” The boy hooks a thumb forward, toward his companion. “I saw you looking at her. She’s available, you know. If you like, you can come up and I’ll introduce you. She’s a sweetheart."
The boy thinks he was staring at his friend. This realization dawns on Lan Wangji slowly, a sluggish sunrise. “No, thank you,” he says.
“Okay,” says the boy sunnily. “Thought I’d ask. Have a good one!”
And he turns with a flourish and heads back to his seat.
The bus stops again, Lan Wangji’s jerked forward in his seat. The shock breaks him out of the daze he’d fallen into. The boy talked to him! Lan Wangji got to hear his voice! A lovely, musical tenor. His vowels were resonant and clear. Crisp consonants. He danced through the words as much as spoke them.
Delight soars through Lan Wangji, and then he attempts to remember what he said.
Lan Wangji was caught staring. Which couldn’t be helped because he was staring. Was, and still is, because his eyes have remained fixed, stubbornly, on this boy since the moment he turned his back. Lan Wangji is not used to having such little control over his body. But his eyes keep telling him this boy is a feast, and he must drink him in for as long as he can. After all, once the bus arrives at his stop, or theirs, he will likely never see him again.
Somehow this feels like impending doom.
The boy glances back at him once more in mid-conversation with Mianmian. Who is not the boy’s girlfriend, and that’s a relief. Lan Wangji is not entirely sure why. His brain is racing to catch up to his heart and his fascinated eyes.
Leaning in toward Mianmian, the boy says something that makes her laugh, and then he glances again toward the back of the bus and Lan Wangji. When their eyes meet, he offers a blinding smile. He says one more thing to Mianmian, and then he’s up again, making his way to Lan Wangji’s seat one more time.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to introduce you?” he says sunnily. “You’re staring pretty hard.”
Lan Wangji is, but not at Mianmian. His eyes are full of this wild bird, so close, and his hands itch to reach out and move his hand across the collarbone that juts out from his loose T-shirt, just to see what his skin feels like there.
Oh. He wants to touch. That’s new. Lan Wangji doesn't think he’s ever felt such a strange urge before. His mind is still scrambling to find out what it means.
“You know,” the boy says, “most people would find that creepy.”
Lan Wangji takes in a tense gulp of breath. He had been so enthralled, he hadn’t thought abut what the boy would think of his staring. He forces some words into his throat. “I was not—”
“Oh, I know you’re not,” the boy says. “I can tell. Mianmian thinks so too.” Had Mianmian also turned to look at him? Lan Wangji hadn’t noticed. “It’s really okay if you want to meet her. You look kind of nervous, but she’s good with it. Wei Ying, by the way.” And wonder of wonders, this boy holds out his hand for a handshake.
Lan Wangji’s brain, already running like molasses, shudders to a halt entirely. He gets to touch?
“Lan—” What is his name? Lan Wangji has momentarily forgotten. “Lan Zhan.” His hand slips into Wei Ying’s and this is the most perfect second of his life.
Wei Ying is warm.
Which is to say, he’s real.
This boy who had appeared to Lan Wangji like a bird, like some otherworldly creature, has a warm body and a name. Wei Ying.
Wei Ying’s gaze flutters down to the book in Lan Wangji’s hand. “Are you a student?” he asks. “Mianmian and I are at Gusu. The campus is really nice, but the grading’s strict. I’m surprised they even let me in.”
Lan Wangji’s heart is racing. Now that Wei Ying is a real person, Lan Wangji had better act normal around him. “I, too.” he says. “Gusu.” He could have strung that together a bit more artfully.
Wei Ying leans against the pole to steady himself as he gazes at Lan Wangji. “Oh, really? Sweet. Maybe we’ll see you in classes one of these days.”
If Lan Wangji had Wei Ying in his class, he might never hear a word the professor says. “Perhaps.”
“What are you studying? What is that? Poetry?” Wei Ying leans forward to take a look at the book. “I freaking love poetry. Especially the dirty kind.” He laughs, and Lan Wangji catches his breath at the beautiful sound of it. “Are you a literature major?”
“No,” Lan Wangji says, and his brain is awake now, thank God, even though every half-second his heart skips several beats. “I’m in the music program.”
“Oh, wow!” Wei Ying’s eyes widen. “Wow, I’m so jealous. I’m in social sciences. Mianmian, too. Some of the classes are so awfully boring. But that’s what you’ve gotta do to be a social worker. I’m gonna help people for a living.”
Wei Ying has warm skin, and a name, and a purpose. Lan Wangji has never before had the urge to just reach up and pull a man into his lap before, but it would be so nice if he could.
“Well, I better get back to Mianmian. This bus ride is so long. Why is West Campus housing like in the next town over? Argh. See you, Lan Zhan!”
And then Wei Ying is scampering back to his seat just in time to reclaim it before another patron can take it away.
With his brain fully working again, Lan Wangji takes a moment to summarize what’s happened. Physically, he knows this is attraction. He’s attracted to Wei Ying. It feels, though, like so much more than that. He can’t find a word that encompasses the enormity of how he’s felt ever since Wei Ying got on the bus. He knows it’s not love, because love is something you build and that comes with time, but crush feels like an inadequate word for this much emotion.
He may not have a word for what he feels, but he knows what he wants. He wants to follow Wei Ying off the bus. Into his boring social science classes. Into the quad, where Lan Wangji wants to layer his body over Wei Ying’s and kiss him in the grass. He wants to feel Wei Ying’s weight on him, and sleep beside him, and have him there every day when Lan Wangji wakes up. This boy with whom he’s exchanged maybe a few dozen words. This much wanting is not a crush. Whatever it is, it has completely swallowed him up.
As he watches, still helpless to look away, Wei Ying chats with Mianmian. They both look back toward him quite a bit. And then Mianmian says something, tilting her head, that makes Wei Ying stop and sit there with his mouth hanging open. He looks at Lan Wangji. He looks at Mianmian. The two talk for another minute.
A familiar building catches Lan Wangji’s eye as the bus passes it. Oh no. Lan Wangji’s stop is coming up. Pretty soon he’ll have to take his eyes off Wei Ying and exit, and while he may meet him again on campus, he may not. Ever. It’s too tragic for Lan Wangji to stand. He clenches a fist around his poetry book.
He’s so busy contemplating the sorrow of this moment that he almost misses the fact that Wei Ying is heading back to talk to him again. Wei Ying’s cheeks are slightly rosy, and he’s all the more appealing for it.
“Hey, uh, Lan Zhan,” he says, “Mianmian thinks maybe you weren’t staring at her. You were staring at me.” His cheeks flush all the more. “Is that … is that true?”
Heat rises to Lan Wangji’s own face in answer. Without thinking to, he nods.
Wei Ying just stares at him for a moment, a taste of Lan Wangji’s own medicine, and he deserves it, he’s made this Wei Ying so uncomfortable. He should have had better control of himself. He should never have--
“Give me your hand,” Wei Ying says. And then, when Lan Wangji doesn’t move, he repeats it.
Lan Wangji holds out his hand, not sure what to expect.
Wei Ying grabs him by the wrist, pulls out a ball-point pen, and scrawls a phone number across Lan Wangji’s palm.
“Call me,” he says with a smile.
And he runs to the front of the bus, Mianmian rising and following behind him, as they reach Lan Wangji’s stop.
Lan Wangji is too stunned to move and misses the stop entirely.
That’s okay, though. He can always walk from the next stop. It’s not so far. The only thing he regrets is being unable to follow Wei Ying further. He has his number, though. And he has time.
Wei Ying. A wild bird. And now, Lan Wangji holds the means to catch him, right here, in the palm of his hand.
Now that my directing gig is over I really am feeling the need to be creative/write. As always, the concept with which to start is always the hardest! As the internet fills with prompt generators and (gasp) AI idea helpers, I continue to crawl to Tumblr to look for inspiration. I really do want to branch out into Heated Rivalry/Game Changers-verse fics, but the old standards (Check Please, MDZS, other danmei) are still and always appealing. (I really don't feel SPN anymore, however.)
I am a romance fiend and will almost always want to write shippy things, but have been known to do gen on occasion. You can find my stuff on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39. Look for the "Stuff Tippy Wrote" collections for my short/tumblr fic.
Your prompts are still and always welcome! I generally freewrite and post without too much editing from prompts, but occasionally one will spark a longfic idea.
https://stufftippywrote.tumblr.com/ask
Scott/Kip or Hollanov: kisses under the city lights at night
greater than the sum of its parts
(THE LONG GAME spoilers)
Shane is giddy, walking out of the commissioner's office. Giddy and terrified too, but also strangely solid. Once upon a time he would have frozen, or worse, broke down. He would never have been able to say the things he did in that room. But if he's learned anything from this whole ordeal of hiding, of being outed, of coming into his own, it's this: he can be bent, but he will not break.
And Ilya is beside him like a hearthfire, like the source of light and heat that he's been for Shane since the beginning. Shane drinks from that source greedily, has for years, and when he looks into Ilya's eyes and sees the flush on his cheeks, Shane knows he's just the same. They build each other up, draw strength from each other. Somehow the two of them together make something even greater than each of them added up. The whole greater than the sum of its parts. He used to get frustrated when his parents used that phrase. It made no sense. You can't add two things together and get something bigger than it's supposed to be, that' just basic math, he used to complain.
Now he gets it. He gets it.
They have dinner in town, toast each other, drink enough for a slight buzz but not too much. As the sun goes down on the city, red light reflecting off panes of glass on skyscrapers, they walk hand in hand through the park. The world is muted around them, as though they are separated from everything by the glass of a snow globe. Music floats by, a saxophonist in the park somewhere. Chatter of children out too late. Shane has the strange sensation that he's dipped into the future, where walking hand in hand in the park is something they've done for years, not something wonderfully, drastically new.
"You okay?" Ilya says, cocking his head.
"Mm." And, because he knows now that Ilya needs checking in on too: "You?"
"Mm."
At the edge of the park, where the lights of the city glitter around them, Ilya kisses him, slow and sure. Shane's eyes close, and he tastes and feels that old familiarity in this new setting: out in the world, in front of who knows who. Unafraid. Proud, even. And joyful, a strange new kind of joy, one that makes Shane smile into the kiss. When he opens his eyes, the city lights twirl and sparkle around him like dancers.
"You think this is funny?" Ilya ribs him, biting his own lip to keep from smiling just as wide.
"A little. A little funny," Shane answers.
"Fuck you," Ilya says. He allows himself to smile back.
The city lights dim and blur behind Shane's tears.
YO DESIRE FANS
If you're like me you desperately need to see the scene after Shen Wen Lang and Gao Tu reunite!
So I wrote it in a mad frenzy after seeing the last episode this morning. Enjoy!!!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Gonna post this either later today or tomorrow on AO3.
Sunao ni Nare (Be Honest)
Fandom: Junjou Romantica
Pairing: Misaki Takahashi/Akihiko Usami
Summary: Misaki knows he should express his feelings more often. It’s just that it’s hard to get the words out.
-----
“We should tell Takahiro about us,” Usagi says, apropos of nothing, in the middle of an otherwise normal Sunday. Misaki is reading Za Kan manga on the couch and Usagi is floating somewhere nearby, alternating between pretending to do work and looking over Misaki’s shoulder. When he speaks, Usagi leans down and plants the words right into Misaki’s ear.
Misaki flies to the other end of the couch in a hot second. “W-what?”
“He should know,” Usagi says bluntly.
This is the worst possible idea that Usagi could ever come up with, even in his already-zany universe of ideas. “Why? We’re doing fine as-is. Why would he need to know?”
“I read,” Usagi says, “that it’s good if you have someone you can talk to about your relationship.”
Dread sinks like a stone into Misaki’s stomach. “Usagi-san. Please don’t talk to my brother about us.”
“Not me. You.”
“Me what?”
Usagi reaches out and draws his fingers through Misaki’s hair, tousling it. “You should have someone to talk to about our relationship.”
Misaki gets suspicious. “So that you can ask my brother what I’ve said about you? No, thank you.”
“I swear I will not ask him,” Usagi says, and oh shit, he’s serious, isn’t he? Usagi honestly thinks this is the best course of action. For Misaki’s sake. How could it possibly be?
“Uh, what did you read that gave you this idea?” Misaki asks, a little afraid to know the answer.
“An American novel. It was rather tragic.” An air of gloom sees to rise around Usagi. “The characters kept their love affair secret and the woman died from stress.”
Misaki wrinkles his nose. “That’s depressing … but more important, that’s American! They’re weird about love in America. Japanese people don’t need that.”
“The suicide rate in Japan is twice that in America,” Usagi says, with the same air of gloom. “It could be because Japanese people don’t talk about their feelings enough.”
“So move to America!” Fuck, what is with the depressing shit today?
“If you want to move to America, I will go with you.”
Misaki hits him with a throw pillow.
Usagi seems to get the hint and heads back toward his office. But just before he enters, he stops and turns. “Ii kagen ni sunao ni nare,” he says. “Let yourself be honest already. Even if it’s not with me. With someone.”
(There's no smut in this chapter, just lovey dovey lovies.)
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
[you didn’t think I was going to time skip after that chapter, did you?]
“Wei Ying, what’s wrong?”
Lan Zhan’s hand, gentle, on the back of his head. It just makes Wei Ying want to bury his head further in Lan Zhan’s chest and burst into tears. “Nothing,” he mumbles, and sniffs back another flood. God, he’s so confused. When did this happen? When did he start to fall for Lan Zhan? Why didn’t he feel any of this before?
Did you? a voice inside him says. Did you really not feel anything before?
He has three and a half years of memories to interrogate about this. Their first meeting, Lan Zhan telling him not to drink so much. Wei Ying deciding he was fun to tease. Their argument calming into a sort of banter. Even then, Wei Ying was terrible to him. He didn’t try to see Lan Zhan’s side of things, he just kept poking, like Lan Zhan was a child’s toy with big colorful buttons to push.
Was I fascinated by him, even then?
Fast forward. They’re friends by now. Lan Zhan has bought him dinner. Wei Ying is talking animatedly about something that happened in his sociology class. He keeps laughing at his own jokes. Lan Zhan gives him an appreciative chuckle now and then but otherwise stays silent, just gazing at him with those eyes that glint golden in the light. From the way Wei Ying is talking on and on, Lan Zhan might as well not be there at all.
I’ve really been a terrible friend.
“What’s wrong.” Lan Zhan asks again—no, it isn’t an ask. It’s a demand. Wei Ying has to say something. He opens his mouth with no idea what’s about to come out.
“What are we even doing?” is what he hears, in his own voice, sounding a bit too plaintive. “What is this?”
Lan Zhan answers as Lan Zhan always does: straightforwardly. “You called it Netflix and chill.”
Wei Ying has to laugh a little, a bitter sound. “I did, didn’t I?” he says. “What an idiot I am. Lan Zhan, you know what that means, right?”
“I looked it up.”
“So you get that it means that we’re just fooling around. We’re not. You know. Boyfriends or anything.”
He nods. “I am aware.”
“And that’s okay with you?”
Lan Zhan doesn’t pause. It’s not a pause. But it’s the barest whisper of a shadow of a pause. “I am okay with whatever Wei Ying wants,” he says.
Can he infer some hope in that not-quite-a-pause? A part of Wei Ying’s brain wants to go there. But whenever he thinks he’s ready to say something, his mind rebels. You’re not good for him and you know that. He deserves so much better.
Wei Ying doesn’t have low self-esteem, as a rule. But right now he just wants to shrink down into the couch cushions and stay lodged there forever, like months-old gum.
There’s warmth on his cheek. Lan Zhan’s hand is there. He’s turning Wei Ying’s face upward, not letting him hide in the comfort of his chest. Wei Ying is trapped, staring at him, those golden eyes burning into his own. His heart is pounding, and he’s acutely aware of every plane and angle on Lan Zhan’s face. Something about it loosens his tongue.
“Suppose I wanted--” he starts.
At the same time, Lan Zhan says, “Is this what--”
Silence. Any other time, Wei Ying would laugh, declare a jinx, tell Lan Zhan he owes him a dollar. Now, he can’t. The spark of courage that had momentarily opened his lips has died out.
Thank God, Lan Zhan is willing to go on. “Is this what you want?” he asks. “Do you want something else?”
His thumb rubs a slow caress into Wei Ying’s cheek. IT’s just enough encouragement, just enough to lift a glittering piece of hope into his chest.
“Yeah,” he says, “I don’t know. I was just thinking. What-- what if we tried being a thing?”
He expects Lan Zhan to repeat a thing? with a blank expression. But Lan Zhan stays silent, thumb going still on Wei Ying’s cheek. His whole body has actually gone still; Wei Ying’s not sure if he’s breathing.
Agh, the tension! Wei Ying regrets saying a thing. “Ah, but I’d be no good at that sort of thing,” he declares, painting a grin onto his face. “Forget it, forget I said anyth—”
The scent of Lan Zhan surrounds him. Lan Zhan is holding him, both arms thrown around him trembling. Lan Zhan buries his head in Wei Ying’s shoulder. “I would like it,” he says, sound vibrating into Wei Ying’s bare skin, “very much, if we could be a thing.”
They have touched so, so much since this whole thing began, but nothing has been more intimate than this embrace. Happiness is bursting like a sunrise through Wei Ying, an effervescent emotion that’s extending to the tips of his toes and up through to the top of his head. How could he have doubted he wanted this? He wants it so much. He wants to be with Lan Zhan. He always has. The knowledge blooms through him like heat, spilling everywhere.
But… but!
“Why?”
He’s pushed into Lan Zhan’s chest so firmly the word almost doesn’t make it out. But he doesn’t understand. He has to know. “Why?”
Lan Zhan’s embrace loosens, and he pulls back enough that they can look at each other. “Why do you ask why?” Lan Zhan says, and he really looks as though he has no idea.
“Because … because .. because look at me, Lan Zhan.”
“I am looking.”
Okay, yes, he is, but it’s a rhetorical look-at-me. “Stop that. You know what I mean.”
“I don’t.” He’s having fun interrupting, isn’t he? Damn it. If only that weren’t so cute of him.
Still. Enough of that. “Well if you’d let me say something—” and for once, Lan Zhan does. “Look, what I mean is, look at me! I’m not even a good friend to you. Why would you want me to be a boyfriend?”
This time, Lan Zhan really doesn’t seem to understand. “Wei Ying is the best friend,” he says, unironically, without a single shred of doubt in his voice.
It makes Wei Ying feel like an absolute heel.
“How?” he bursts out. “I don’t even remember your birthday. I do nothing but talk about myself. I don’t ever ask you any questions about your life. How could you possibly want to be with me? I’m the literal worst.” He buries his head in Lan Zhan’s shoulder, which is also the worst possible thing to do, because it’s just using Lan Zhan again after he’s just confessed that he uses Lan Zhan.
Above him, Lan Zhan’s voice is soft. “Do you remember when I was sick, sophomore year?”
Wei Ying pulls away, blindsided. “What?”
Is Lan Zhan smiling, just a little? “Do you remember?” he repeats.
Wei Ying wracks his brain for the memory. Yeah, that’s right. Lan Zhan got sick, so Wei Ying headed off campus to his apartment and climbed up the fire escape to sneak into his room. And then he—
He flushes. “Yeah, I remember. I made you eat that super spicy soup, and you nearly choked on it. I made everything worse.”
“You came over to take care of me,” says Lan Zhan.
“Yeah, and I sucked at it!”
“You came over,” Lan Zhan says again slower, “to take care of me.”
Okay. So yeah, he did, he can’t deny that. But it takes more than one bowl of soup and too much sriracha to be a good friend. “All right,” he mumbles, pouting a little. “That was one time.”
Lan Zhan doesn’t miss a beat. “Does Wei Ying remember when I missed the last train?”
That was this year. Last month. The subway doesn’t run all night, and Lan Zhan was in the computer lab perfecting his project.
He goes on. “You told me to come over, and you slept on the floor.”
Lan Zhan’s getting at something, Wei Ying knows, but he’s wrong. “Yeah, well, you didn’t have a place to stay. What else was I supposed to do?”
“You slept on the floor.”
“I’m good at sleeping in weird places. You’re not. Of course I would let you have the bed. Lan Zhan, would you cut it out? Okay, so I was passably nice to you a couple of times. It doesn’t change the fact that most of the time, I’m kind of a crappy friend.”
Lan Zhan puts a hand on the crown of his head as though admonishing him. “You are not.”
“So, what, you’re okay with me going on about myself all day? And talking so much you can’t get a word in edgewise? And bragging about—”
Pat, pat, goes the hand on his head. “Yes.”
“Why?” Wei Ying catches his gaze.
The tenderness in Lan Zhan’s eyes bring him to a complete standstill. He sucks in a breath and holds it.
Lan Zhan’s hand drifts down from the top of his head to his hairline, his ear, his cheek. “Because I love you,” he says.
Because I love you.
No drama, no pain, no longing. Just a simple fact. Spoken as evenly as if it were the sky is blue.
Lan Zhan loves him. Simple as that.
The happiness, that euphoria that Wei Ying had tried his best to subdue earlier, comes roaring back like thunder in his ears. He can’t hold it back now, and the emotion puts a grin onto his face that he can’t suppress. His eyes are watering. The tears he can hold back; the smile he absolutely can’t. He throws his arms around Lan Zhan’s shoulders, presses his face into his neck. “Lan Zhan,” he says, “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, are you for real? Do you mean it?”
Lan Zhan’s lips brush his skin. “Yes.”
“You love me? Like, like you’re in love with me?”
“Yes.”
“You were in love with me this whole time? Like, while we were Netflix and chilling?”
Lan Zhan’s hand rests on his upper back stroking back and forth there in a wonderful wave of warmth. “Yes.”
“And…” oh, there comes the despair again, but Wei Ying can’t sustain it this time, can’t possibly make himself miserable when he’s so damn happy. “And I said we weren’t boyfriends, and you were okay with that too, because you loved me?”
“Yes.” Lan Zhan kisses his cheek, his chin. Wei Ying leans back and Lan Zhan captures his mouth in one brief, hot kiss that means everything. “Will Wei Ying please be my boyfriend?”
Wei Ying might very well explode with happiness.
“Yes,” he says, and kisses Lan Zhan’s mouth again. “Yes, yes, yes,” a kiss with each yes, Lan Zhan’s lips pursing against his, the heat starting to rise between them again. “Lan Zhan, I love you too—I didn’t know it—but I do—and I do.” Lan Zhan ravishes him in a kiss so deep and searing that Wei Ying thinks he’ll break apart. Lan Zhan’s tongue in his mouth is so sweet and strange, that big muscle licking into him in a way that sends excitement spiraling into his core. He’s hard again, he wants Lan Zhan to lay him down and do whatever to him, but his heart is also singing with a kind of magic that makes everything seem fuzzy and sweet. If this is love, he might die of it.
“Lan Zhan,” he whispers, over and over, half of his words blunted with kisses. He tries to wriggle away, but Lan Zhan’s holding him tightly. At last he has to take both palms and push against Lan Zhan’s chest to break them apart. “Lan Zhan, will you give me ten minutes?”
Those gorgeous, talented lips of his are slow in relaxing. “Ten minutes for what?” he asks, the words coming out between labored breaths.
“I am going to get dressed,” Wei Ying says, “and I am going to go out, and I am going to get the stuff we need, and then I am going to come back here and get undressed again and you are going to fu—” He stops himself. “You are going to make love to me. Okay with you?”
Lan Zhan pauses. Then he smiles in a way that can only be called beatific.
It’s a stunningly beautiful smile. Wei Ying wants to snap a photo and frame it and put it on his bedside table to look at every day.
The Haus kitchen on one late fall day. Muffins in the oven. Bitty has the Lemonade album on, because classics never go out of style.
Dex peeks around the corner into the kitchen. ”Bitty …” he stage-whispers. “Can we talk?”
For a long time now, the kitchen has served as many things: sometimes courtroom, sometimes therapy space, sometimes bar. Bitty wears a multitude of hats in this room. “Of course,” he says lightly, sensing that some tea is about to be spilled but keeping his voice and smile light.
Dex sits backward on one of the chairs near the table. “It’s about Nurse.”
This is not the biggest surprise in the world. “Oh?”
“You know he gets on my nerves.”
“Oh, no,” says Bitty, “what did you two get into it about now?”
Dex grumbles. “Nothing,” he says. “It’s not that.” And before Bitty can inquire what it is, Dex gets up from the chair and pokes his head out in the hallway, looking in both directions as though trying to check if anyone’s in earshot. Satisfied, he returns to the chair, sits on it properly this time, and leans toward Bitty furtively.
“Bitty,” he mumbles, “I think I might kind of like him.”
Oh, this is much better than Bitty was expecting. “Well, that’s good!” he says. “That’s progress. You two should try to be friends.”
“No, no.” Dex’s cheeks are a faint pink. “I don’t mean as a friend.” He lowers his voice again as though he didn’t just check to see if they were alone. “I mean I might like him like him.”
Bitty has learned that at Samwell, any expectations one might have of others’ sexual orientations should be chucked out a window upon arrival. He didn’t see this one coming, but maybe neither did Dex. “Oh, okay! That’s good too, I guess. So … was there something you wanted to ask me about it?”
“I don’t know.” Dex’s hand, resting on the table, tightens. “I don’t know. Maybe I just wanted to say it out loud to somebody. I don’t know.”
He looks like he’s going to say I don’t know a dozen times, so Bitty decides to direct the conversation. “Well, how did you figure this out?”
The hand on the table clenches into a fist. “It’s so frustrating! I just happened to pass by one day and he was just sitting there, under a tree, reading. It was sunset and something about the light—I don’t know! All of a sudden he looked hot. Why is this happening to me? What crime did I commit in a past life?”
Bitty hasn’t told the team about him and Jack yet. He feels a swell of pity for Dex, who is not responding to this liking-someone thing the way Bitty really feels he should. “Now, now,” he chides, “Liking someone should feel good! Try not to stress. Try to … enjoy it? If you can.”
The timer for the muffins goes off then, and Bitty turns to the oven to check on their progress. Behind him, he can practically hear the gears of Dex’s mind turning, grinding over and over trying to process the idea. At last Dex grumbles, “Sounds fake.” A moment of silence, and then— “But I’ll try. Just, Bitty?”
“Mm-hm?”
“Whatever you do, don’t tell him.”
----
Two days later, Bitty enters the kitchen to discover Nursey there, running his fingers through his hair so obsessively it’s getting unkempt and frizzy. He does not look at all like his usual “chill” self. “Something bothering you, Nursey?” Bitty asks as he pulls some ingredients from the cupboard.
“No,” answers Nursey immediately. Followed by “Yeah. Kind of.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No,” he says again. “Maybe. Yes.”
Bitty pours out a measure of flour into a glass bowl. “Well, go ahead!”
“It’s about Poindexter.”
A sense of deja vu stills Bitty for a minute. He opens the sugar canister. “What about him? Did something happen?”
“No. Um…”
Bitty can’t help but smile. “I’m starting to have trouble believing you when you say no.”
“N… uh.” Nursey frizzes up his hair again. “Yeah. So. We’re in the showers after practice this morning, right? And I’m not, like, looking at him. I just kind of glance over and you know, it’s Dex, right? He looks like Dex. Not super ripped, but his shoulders are just.. Anyway, I’m still not looking, but he’s got his eyes closed and he’s smiling a little like he’s got some kind of a secret and…”
Nursey trails off. Bitty waits a beat, then asks tentatively, “...and you want to write a poem about him now?”
“No! Stop making me say no when I don’t mean it.” Nursey leans forward and bangs his frizzy head on the table. “Anyway. He just looked hot. Like, even his dumb ears looked hot.”
He looks at Bitty as if pleading for the next words to come from him. Bitty, meanwhile, is trying very hard to keep from laughing. “So, in other words…” he begins.
“NO!” It’s the loudest no yet. “I’m gonna say it myself.”
Getting up from his seat, Nursey juts out his chin and looks pointedly at a spot just behind Bitty on the kitchen all. “Anyway. I thought. Thought maybe I like him. There, I said it. Got it off my chest. Chill. Thanks, Bits. Whatever you do, don’t tell him about this. Chill. Bye.”
And before Bitty can say another word, Nursey is gone like the proverbial wind.
----
Dex corners him outside the locker room and hisses. “Bitty. Did you see his takeaway at the end of the first period there? What am I supposed to do? He keeps on being hot.”
It takes a moment to realize Dex is talking about Nursey. “Well…”
“Agh. So frustrating!” Dex punches a wall. “Don’t tell him anything, OK?” And he’s stalking down the hall and gone.
----
Nursey sidles up to him in the dining hall. “Yo, Bits, did you see Dex during that charity skate? How he was with that little girl? Man, I’m telling you, he was so stupid cute. The way he smiled at her… anyway. Don’t tell him I said anything.”
----
Dex, the day after a kegster. “Bitty, I can’t seem to get rid of this stupid crush. The taddies got so drunk last night and Nursey like deposits them on the couch and then takes each one of them home last night on his back. Like fucking Superman.”
Bitty consults his severely lacking comic book knowledge. “Does Superman take home drunk college students?”
“Like SUPERMAN,” Dex repeats. “How am I supposed to stop liking him? He can’t do anything normally. Shit, it’s like, hard to breathe around him sometimes. I’m gonna give myself an asthma attack.”
“Maybe,” Bitty ventures, “you should..”
“Anyway. Thanks for listening. Don’t tell him.”
----
Nursey, pulling Bitty aside after team breakfast. “Bitty, I am so fucked! I am so motherfucking fucked!”
“Dex?”
“You’re goddamn right, Dex! After the game yesterday he told me my forecheck was ‘pretty fantastic.’ He used those words! My heart was beating like a million miles an hour! But also I had just been on the ice for over a minute. Still! How do I stop liking him more every time I see him?”
Bitty tries not to sigh. “Maybe you should think about…”
“Okay. Okay.” Nursey pushes out three breaths like he’s a woman in labor. “It’s good. I’m good. Just needed to say that. Thanks, Bitty. Don’t tell him.”
----
When Dex enters the Haus kitchen next, he sees Nursey sitting there and points at him like he’s picking a suspect out of a lineup. “What’s he doing here?”
Bitty slaps a wooden spoon against his open palm. “Listen, you two,” he declares. “I am not going to say a thing. I’m going to leave this kitchen and the two of you are going to have a conversation and say what’s on your minds. Got it?” He smiles. “Okay, good luck!”
And he marches out of the kitchen and toward the front door. As he goes, he overhears:
“Bitty, how can you do this to me?”
“Bitty, you traitor—”
“Wait. Wait, what have you been saying to him?”
“Me? What have you been telling him?”
“Uh.”
“Um.”
“Shit.”
-------
About fifteen minutes later, Bitty doubles back toward the Haus and sneaks up to the kitchen window. He takes a peek past the turquoise curtains, smiles, nods in satisfaction, and continues on his way.
It’s a tough game. Tough loss. Jack had a giveaway that led to a shorthanded goal. He’s shaking in the shower afterward, he’s shaking in the car on the way home. He tries to calm the voices, but they’re constant, hounding him all the way home and as he makes his way up to his apartment you’re a failure. you’re a disappointment, you’re not worth anything, you’re bad, you’re BAD.
Thank goodness for Bitty. Thank goodness for him.
Bitty’s there when he comes in the door, and his arms are wide open. Jack goes straight into them, falling to his knees, and Bitty curls his hands around Jack’s shaking shoulders and kisses the top of his head over and over again. “Jack,” he says, “Jack, Jack, it’s okay. It’s okay, you’re home now, you’re home, you’re safe.”
“Bits,” Jack murmurs, looking up at Bitty with huge, searching eyes. “Tell me… tell me I’m good.”
“You’re good, you’re so good, Jack,” Bitty soothes, his voice like a comforting blanket sliding over Jack’s back. He holds him another minute, but Jack’s trembling doesn’t ease. Bitty sighs and holds Jack’s face in his hands, looking down at him. “Do you want me to take care of you, sweetheart? Is that what you want right now?”
“Yes,” Jack feels like he’s begging. He’s so ready for reality to drop away for a while. “Yes. p… please, take care of me. Bits.”
“Okay. Okay.” Bitty helps him to his feet and slings an arm around his waist. Jack leans heavily on his shoulders as they walk into the bedroom.
“How do you want to start?” Bitty asks.
“Want you to tell me what to do,” Jack says. The tremolo in his voice is so pronounced right now. He’s a wreck. Bitty will take care of him, though. Bitty knows how.
“Okay. Why don’t you go back down onto your knees for me, honey.”
Jack sinks to the floor immediately. He looks up at Bitty with expectation.
Bitt reaches out and touches his face with one hand. “It’s going to be all right, honey,” he promises. “I’ll take good care of you.” Silence falls in the apartment as Bitty caresses his face, runs his fingers through Jack’s hair. Jack can only hear his own gasping breaths, trying to slow them down, to calm his racing heart. Every caress, every scratch of Bitty’s fingernails in his hair, lulls him into the place he wants to be. “You’re beautiful, honey,” Bitty says. “So beautiful and perfect, ready for me like this.”
When it’s like this, Jack doesn’t have to do anything. He doesn’t have to think. He can simply look to Bitty, and Bitty will guide him. The weight begins to fall off his shoulders.
Bitty leans down and presses kisses to Jack’s hair. “Do you want to use your mouth on me?” he asks. “I would love to have your mouth on me.”
Jack swallows. He nods.
“No hands,” Bitty says. “No touching me or yourself. Just your mouth. Okay?” He unzips his pants and hikes them down to his knees, then kicks them off, one leg at a time. His cock is hard, flushed a beautiful pink-red. Jack’s mouth waters. He pulls his hands behind his back and opens his mouth, inviting. Bitty gives a little shudder. “Oh, yes, honey,” he murmurs. “So beautiful like that.” He edges forward until his cock is at Jack’s lips. “Color?”
“Green,” Jack mumbles, and Bitty takes another half-step forward, and Jack’s mouth sinks down onto him.
It’s wonderful, it’s the most delicious tension, with the weight and warmth of Bitty in his mouth and the way his own body tenses to stay up on his knees and his hands twitching and Jack knowing he can’t move them. He relishes this, the back and forth between I want to and I mustn’t, and it’s like a small victory every moment he manages to resist the call of his own instinct. He moves his lips up and down on Bitty’s cock, keeping his mouth open and slack and wet for him, until Bitty is moaning softly and pushing his hips forward slightly to meet each movement.
Jack’s getting hard himself, and his hands ache to pull down his own slacks, to grip himself and find some relief from the heat that’s building there. He doesn’t. He mustn’t. He concentrates on Bitty, giving Bitty everything he needs, and that floaty feeling is coming upon him now, taking his brain away from the physical moment and into a place where he can almost look down at himself and watch.
Bitty works a hand into his hair and pulls slightly. “Fuck, yes, Jack,” he hisses. Electricity flows down to Jack’s toes, and he shifts and whines around Bitty’s dick, the heat in his body rising until he’s dizzy with it. His hand comes forward despite himself. Bitty gives a small laugh buried inside a moan, and reminds him, “Just your mouth now, honey.”
Jack can’t help a groan of frustration and heat. His lips slip off Bitty’s dick. “Please.”
“You’re so sweet to say please,” Bitty says. “But no, not quite yet. Soon, baby. Soon.”
It’s awful and wonderful at the same time. Jack refocuses himself on pleasuring Bitty, sliding back onto his cock and sucking. Bitty gives a broken, choked-off noise and grabs Jack’s hair with both hands. He moves Jack’s head now, pulling him further on and then letting him relax, and Jack is nothing but a slave to Bitty’s need, he needs nothing else but for Bitty to keep groaning and keep pulling him close. The rest of his body doesn‘t even exist, just this beautiful singlemindedness. He’s sublimated into something else altogether.
Bitty pulls off of him, panting, his cock slick with Jack’s saliva so it glistens in the low light. He breathes hard for a few seconds, and then says, “Get naked and get on the bed, sweetheart.”
Jack can’t comply fast enough. He shucks off his shirt and slacks, pulls off his boxers and socks, and lies down on the bed. He reaches instinctively for Bitty’s hand to pull him down on top of him.
Bitty slaps it away. “I said no hands yet.” His voice isn’t cold. It’s just firm, and Jack relishes being told he’s done wrong, relishes being corrected. He’s back in his body now, being exposed like this, his cock standing at attention. Every single atom of him begs for relief, but not now, not yet, not until Bitty has decided he’s ready.
Rounding the bed, Bitty pulls something out of a drawer. It’s a vibrating dildo, one of their more often-used toys. “Open yourself up and put this in,” he says. “You can use your hands for that, but no touching your cock.” He turns the switch to on and sits on the end of the bed, watching.
Jack reaches for the bottle of lube on the nightstand. He pours out a bit and coats his fingers, then angles his legs up so he has better access to himself. The first finger goes in easily, and Bitty says softly, “That’s it, sweetheart, you take it so well, keep going.” His words are like fire.
Jack pushes in his second finger and starts scissoring outward. His muscles relax as he knows they will. They’ve done this a million times before. A third finger, then he turns to Bitty. “I’m ready.”
Instead of moving to put in the dildo, Bitty leans forward, and the expression on his face softens. “Color, darling?” he asks.
“Green.” Jack answers almost before Bitty is done. “So green.”
“All right.” Bitty gives him an almost beatific smile. “Put your legs up.”
Jack obeys. Bitty reaches over and takes hold of the dildo. Its buzzing noise fills the room. It’s like white noise, like the hum of noise-canceling headphones, and the sound puts Jack in a trance. When it sinks into him, slowly, inch by inch, the sound transforms into a sensation, sending shocks through his prostate, into the base of his cock. He lets out a strangled noise, concentrates on his breathing so he doesn’t go insane at the feel of it.
Bitty eases off and guides his legs back down. “Feel good, baby?”
“So good—Bitty—my hands—”
Bitty doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes hold of his own cock, still hard, and gives himself a few strokes. His eyes sweep over Jack’s body, holding eye contact with him, then lowering to watch the jerks and shudders of Jack’s helpless hips and the violet flush of his cock. Jack can feel the look like a touch, and tears rise to his eyes as he says—begs— “please, hands, please.”
Bitty strokes himself a few more times, letting out loud, musical groans that ring in Jack’s ears. “All right,” he says, “but don’t come before I do. Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
There’s no room for protest. There’s no saying no. Jack nods.
“Good. Go ahead.” Bitty rises up onto his knees and positions himself between Jack’s legs, continuing to stroke his own cock. Free at last, Jack curls his palm around the base of his dick. It’s almost too much, he feels ready to come already, with the feeling of his own hand and the vibrations sinking into him like ripples and the sight of Bitty above him and the sound of Bitty’s moans. Afraid of losing control too quickly, he squeezes hard and tries a tentative stroke.
It’s very nearly too much. Shudders wrack his body. He cries out, wordlessly, and he holds fast to the tip of his cock to quell the sensation. Breathing as slowly as he can, he waits for the wave to recede before he tries another stroke. His eyes catch Bitty’s, and he knows it’s written on his face, how overwhelmed he is, how stimulated, how much he wants.
Bitty sees it. “Good, baby,” he says. “Nice and slow.”
“Slow,” Jack mumbles, a soft echo. He tries a slower stroke, holding on tight. The sensation is more manageable now, heat washing over him in a gentle tide. Only the vibrator is merciless, pulsing inside him at the same fevered clip. Jack thinks he has found the right tempo now. He continues stroking, reveling at the washes of heat, as excited by the sound of his own crescendoing moans as he is by the noises Bitty is making.
“So good, darling,” Bitty says as he palms his cock, sometimes with a hard squeeze, sometimes with thumb and forefinger, sometimes playing around the tip. “You look so good there taking it for me. So beautiful. You’re such a good boy. Wait for me, honey. You just keep waiting for me.”
Those wonderful words buoy Jack in the sea of pleasure that he’s drowning in. He can breathe, but only barely. The sensation is rocketing up in him too fast again. He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He throws his head back and moans aloud, then whispers, “Bitty, please…”
“Soon, baby,” but Bitty’s voice has lost its calm. He’s breathing raggedly, palming his cock furiously, “So close, baby, hold on…”
Jack doesn’t know if he can. “Please…” The tears are spilling from his eyes now. “Please!”
Bitty jerks his cock once, twice, three times more, and then he gives a broken shout and comes, spilling all over Jack’s exposed stomach and legs, grasping himself desperately as his hips jerk forward and back and forward again. “Aaaah,” he cries, “ah… ah… ah…”
“Please,” Jack sobs.
“Yes, darling, yes, now…”
Jack lets go, pleasure exploding through his body as he comes harder than he has in a long time, the world blacking out around him as he spurts uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. He’s touching forever, he’s in heaven, he wants it to go on and on. When his hips jerk forward one more time and the sensation falls away, he feels like a snowflake drifting to earth, soft and melting. His body is a mess of his come and Bitty’s, all mixed up. His breath is coming in slowing gasps, and the tears are hot on his cheeks. He doesn’t know if he’s lying still or flying away.
Bitty’s arms, around his shoulders. Bitty’s lips pressing against his ear, his cheek, his jaw. “Oh, honey,” he breathes. “Oh, you were so good for me. Oh, I’m so proud of you. Just beautiful, wonderful, I love you so much. I love you, baby. You were so good.”
Still trembling minutely, Jack closes his eyes and lets the words wash over him. Bitty keeps talking, keeps telling him he was good, and it’s like an anchor. His mind clears slowly, and he finds his way back down to reality. His breathing slows and he turns to Bitty, cups his face with a gentle hand. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you, Bits. I … needed that.”
Bitty turns his head toward that hand and kisses it softly. “I will always give you what you need,” he promises. “My good, good boy. You are so good.”
i want to write another omgcp ficlet for y'all, but the only thing i'm inspired to do right now is smut, and y'all don't seem to care for that. so if anyone has a prompt to throw my way tonight, please put it in the comments. I can't make any promises but you never know!
ETA: Anon, I got your prompt and am intrigued! We'll see what I can do!
Lan Zhan doesn’t get in touch with him the next day, so Wei Ying does what Wei Ying does, which is stew in his own juices until he’s made a fine pot roast of himself. Is Lan Zhan not enjoying himself? Is he doing this for Wei Ying’s sake? Is Lan Zhan, possibly, in love with him? Wouldn’t that be the worst, if he was? Then Wei Ying would literally be using him for sex, stringing him along without wanting more.
If Wei Ying doesn’t want more, which he is starting to be unsure about.
Anyway, that can’t be it. Lan Zhan would have said something before now if that were the case, right? Or if he didn’t say anything, he would have made it abundantly clear. He would have written a poem, or sent flowers, or dueled someone for Wei Ying’s honor. Something like that.
Either way, they should probably talk about it.
So Wei Ying texts him with, we should probably talk.
Lan Zhan’s response is, About what?
Like he has no idea. This dumbass. Dumbass with a 4.0 GPA, but dumbass nonetheless.
Meet me for dinner, he texts back.
So they meet in the dining hall of Wei Ying’s dorm, and Lan Zhan greets him with that soft smile of his, and asks him how his day has gone. He asks specifically about both of Wei Ying’s classes today, because he knows Wei Ying’s schedule. Wei Ying has no clue about his schedule, but again, this is one of these inequalities that Lan Zhan seems perfectly fine with. Wei Ying is starting to feel self-conscious about these little things. There seems to be so much that isn’t equal between them. Lan Zhan is the giver, and Wei Ying is the taker, and Lan Zhan has never so much as complained about it. Wei Ying doesn’t have a clue why, but he’s starting to feel really bad about letting things stand like that.
“So,” he says, when they are seated at an otherwise empty table in the back of the dining room, “yeah, I thought maybe we should talk.”
“About what?” Lan Zhan asks again.
“You know!” Wei Ying can feel the blush rising. Already. Before he’s even said a word. “About what we’ve been doing. About Netflix and chill.”
“Oh.” Lan Zhan’s hand stills in mid-forkful. “What about that should we talk about?”
“Well, it’s kind of a big deal, don’t you think?” Wei Ying feels a bit like he’s talking to a brick wall. Why is Lan Zhan not having a reaction?
“You told me it was not a big deal,” Lan Zhan observes. “You told me it was just for fun.”
“And—and you’re okay with that?”
Lan Zhan still looks completely unruffled. “I am okay with whatever Wei Ying wants to do.”
Wei Ying lets out a little wail. “Give me more than that, Lan Zhan! Give me some information, at least, some input.”
“I don’t think I understand,” Lan Zhan says. “Input about what?”
That is a very good question. Wei Ying is not very sure himself. “Are… are you enjoying yourself, at least?”
And finally, finally, Lan Zhan gives him a reaction.
He leans in and says, his lips quirking upward:
“Immensely.”
All the blood in Wei Ying’s body plunges south.
“Oh,” he says. ‘Oh. Um, do you want to come up after dinner? There’s not a new episode, but we could. Um. Study.”
“That would be nice.” And Lan Zhan refocuses his attention on his dinner, leaving Wei Ying not just stewed but boiling.
--
They take the elevator to the tenth floor, where Wei Ying’s room is. Wei Ying stares at Lan Zhan’s back while they’re in the elevator and wonders. What would happen if I just slipped my hand in his right now? What would happen if I grabbed him and started kissing him in the elevator? What if we made out all the way to the top?
When they get into Wei Ying’s room, Lan Zhan sets down his backpack and pulls out some books and notebooks. Wei Ying watches him helplessly, once again amazed at what he is seeing. Does Lan Zhan just not feel like fooling around right now? What is he thinking?
Lan Zhan glances at him and frowns. “What?”
“Uh—” Wei Ying is still flailing internally. “What are you doing?”
“I thought you wanted to study,” Lan Zhan says.
“Okay. Okay.” Wei Ying waves his hands in the air as he tries to find words. “So. Some ground rules, then. From now on, when I invite you up here, it probably isn’t to study. Or to watch TV. And even if it was—” how am I supposed to concentrate on that for long, when I spent the whole elevator ride looking at your ass? he doesn’t say.
Lan Zhan sets the books down and straightens up. “Oh,” he says slowly. “Oh. I see.”
“I mean, do you want to study?” Wei Ying asks helpfully. “What do you want?”
A pause. “Do you really want to know?”
What? ”Yes, of course, why wouldn’t I…?”
“I want to see Wei Ying naked,” Lan Zhan says.
Oh.
If Wei Ying was flushing before, he must be tomato-red now. Something about the way Lan Zhan said that, like an order, like he was commanding him, has his heart beating double-time and his breath coming faster. “Okay,” he says. “Oh-okay.”
He waits. Lan Zhan does nothing. Or, rather, he doesn’t move. But the way he is looking at Wei Ying all of a sudden feels like he is devouring him.
Pulling his shirt off is easy. Unbuttoning and letting down his pants is not as easy, but it’s not awful. When he’s in his boxers, he spreads his arms as if to say, like this?
Lan Zhan still does not move. Lan Zhan still stares.
Wei Ying suddenly realizes he means naked naked. He kicks off his socks. Then, slowly, he hooks his thumbs under his boxers and looks to Lan Zhan for confirmation.
Lan Zhan nods. Very slowly.
Wei Ying lets out a puff of breath and slowly lowers his boxers to the floor and steps out of them.
He is …. he is naked, totally naked for Lan Zhan, and Lan Zhan is just appraising him. The phrase like a piece of meat flashes in Wei Ying’s mind, but that’s not even close to true, because Wei Ying doesn’t feel objectified, he feels desired, he feels wanted, and he can also see the jut in Lan Zhan’s pants very distinctly and boy that feels awesome. “What now?” he asks, his voice trembling a bit more than he’d like it to.
“Get on the bed,” Lan Zhan says.
Holy crap. Wei Ying goes hard as a rock in an instant. He swallows and nods.
He sits on the edge of the bed, then swings his legs up so he’s lying on his back.
“On your hands and knees,” Lan Zhan says.
Oh. Oh god. “Lan Zhan, what are you planning to—I don’t have any—” does Lan Zhan intend to fuck him? Like, for real? In the ass for real? Wei Ying starts to hyperventilate. it’s not the act that’s freaking him out, he doesn’t think. It’s the way Lan Zhan is still just standing there, watching him, as he climbs onto all fours and puts his ass in the air. The way Lan Zhan kept speaking to him, his voice almost cold, like he intended to retaliate if Wei Ying wouldn't agree.
Freaking out, but also kind of thrilling.
“Are—are we about to scene?” he asks nervously. “I’m not—if we are, we need to talk about it first…”
Lan Zhan falters. “No,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—” He looks at the floor. “I just wanted to see you.”
Wei Ying’s heart melts. “It’s okay,” he says. “Whatever you want is fine with me, Lan Zhan, it’s just—if we were going to-—you ordering me around was kind of hot—”
“No,” Lan Zhan says again, firmer this time. “I want to do what Wei Ying wants.”
“Just with me naked.” Wei Ying can’t help the grin. “And on the bed instead of the couch this time.”
Lan Zhan approaches. “I will always,” he says, “listen if you say ‘no.’”
A flood of affection wells up in Wei Ying. That’s his Lan Zhan. Always the most courteous guy he knows.
But Lan Zhan isn’t his. And from the way he speaks, authoritative and unwavering, Wei Ying has to wonder if he has a multitude of other lovers he’s done this with before.
He doesn’t know much about Lan Zhan’s romantic inclinations, come to think of it. Lan Zhan has never talked about a partner. Wei Ying is usually the one babbling about whatever attractive human being has caught his eye that day. It’s only now that he’s realized he’s attracted to Lan Zhan that he’s even thought about it. Come to think of it, how did he go this long without realizing how attractive Lan Zhan is? Aesthetically, he knew, but it never used to leave him tongue-tied and breathless before. How did that happen?
While he’s sorting through this in his mind, Lan Zhan has seated himself behind Wei Ying on the bed. He touches Wei Ying’s thigh, draws his hand up the inside of it in a movement that makes Wei Ying tremble. When Lan Zhan cups one of his ass cheeks, squeezing slightly, Wei Ying swallows a hard lump in his throat. What is Lan Zhan hoping to do? Whatever it is, Wei Ying wants him to just do it already and stop taking his time. A little whine escapes him, and his hips roll back into Lan Zhan’s touch.
Lan Zhan runs a hand up his back next, seemingly deaf to Wei Ying’s impatience. “Wei Ying,” he murmurs, And then, more words than Lan Zhan usually says at once: “Did you know you’re beautiful?”
Wei Ying’s heart is pounding in his throat and his cock is hard and throbbing. “Lan Zhan,” he answers in that same whining tone.
Behind him, Lan Zhan rises up to his knees on the bed. He pushes his groin up against Wei Ying’s ass, and good God he’s hard and Wei Ying wants with everything in him. “‘m sorry,” he mumbles, “don’t have stuff. Next time.”
“Next time?” Lan Zhan says, and there’s a hoarse note to his voice that rings in Wei Ying’s ears like the clamor of a symphony. His hips surge against Wei Ying’s ass.
Fuck fuck he wants to fuck me goes Wei Ying’s incredibly helpful brain. “Next time.” He whispers it, because his own throat is too dry at the thought to make sound.
“For now,” Wei Ying goes on, because the silence that follows is too much to bear, “for now, what do you want to do to me?”
Lan Zhan sucks in a breath, as though he’s thinking. “Touch yourself for me,” he says at last.
Wei Ying doesn’t quite understand why Lan Zhan does not want Wei Ying to touch him instead, but also the idea of doing this in front of Lan Zhan is so exciting he has to bite his lip to keep from moaning. He pushes his face down into the pillow to release his arms and circles his own cock with a fist. He can’t see a thing, but he can hear Lan Zhan raggedly breathing behind him. He starts to stroke, his ass waving in the air, beyond turned on by the provocative pose he’s making and the knowledge that Lan Zhan is watching him.
He’s good at this, he knows how to make the waves of arousal crest and recede in himself, but he’s super sensitive right now and it feels too good too soon. He pants, slows, squeezes to keep himself from losing control. Lan Zhan’s name falls from his lips, a plea to help him keep control, and heavy breathing follows. Lan Zhan is touching himself too, Wei Ying realizes - the slide of skin on skin, the heavy breathing-- and Wei Ying has to squeeze his eyes shut tight to keep from going over the edge at the knowledge.
A wicked idea seizes Wei Ying. “Do you like it?” he breathes, trying to sound seductive. “Your Wei Ying, here on this bed, jerking off for you?”
“Fuck.”
He is not sure he has heard Lan Zhan utter a swear in his whole entire life.
Wei Ying pauses, holding onto the base of his cock to keep the feeling from surging too quickly. His breaths are coming loud and ragged. There’s warmth at his thigh—Lan Zhan’s hand, sliding up, and the touch is like an electric shock, sending sparks straight to his cock, making him twitch in his own hand. Lan Zhan cups an ass cheek, and wow, Wei Ying didn’t know how good that would feel. He imagines the two of them pressed together, Lan Zhan kneading his ass, puling him in closer with those strong hands.
Lan Zhan‘s fingers sneak to the center and then oh—
the brush of his fingers against—
Wei Ying jolts, letting out a cry. That—that should not feel like that, that should not feel that good, holy shit. “Lan Zhan, again—”
He does it again. Just the barest whisper of fingers against Wei Ying’s hole, and Wei Ying is trembling. He strokes himself once, unable not to, feeling in a haze of perfect lust, and then Lan Zhan’s finger touches him there and stays there, playing around his rim, pressing as though he’s about to go in but never quite doing it, and Wei Ying jerks himself desperately, slave to the sensation that courses through his body like lightning.
Lan Zhan’s other hand comes up to hold his hips in place. He teases him again and again like that. Wei Ying doesn’t even recognize his own voice in noises he’s making. Lan Zhan hums in approval. The teases and touches get more intense. Wei Ying’s mind is a constant stream of holy fuck, holy fuck holy fuck, “Lan Zhan, I’m gonna, I’m gonna—”
“Mn.” And just then, just the tip of his finger darts inside—
“Fuck,” declares Wei Ying passionately, and he comes, body jerking and stuttering uncontrollably, making a mess all over himself and the bed, wave after wave of pleasure shooting through him like bullets. Fuck he’ll have to change the sheets, but more importantly fuck that was intense. Minutes later and he’s gasping still and trying to calm his unruly heartbeat, warm aftershocks rocking him every few seconds, and Lan Zhan keeps his finger inside, just barely, until it’s clear Wei Ying has found his breath again.
When Lan Zhan pulls his finger out, and resumes stroking himself, groaning, Wei Ying whirls on the bed. “No, you don’t,” he says. “On the couch. Come on. I owe you.”
“Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan can’t possibly miss his meaning, right? But when he obeys Wei Ying’s order and sits down on the couch, and Wei Ying kneels between his knees, his eyes go wide like he wasn’t expecting it at all.
Wei Ying’s dick is still vaguely aching, and his head is still swimming, but he knows exactly what he wants to do. He grips Lan Zhan’s hard cock at the base and greedily pulls him into his mouth, all at once. Lan Zhan cries out in what starts as surprise, but midway through it narrows into an ah of pleasure. Wei Ying couldn’t be more pleased.
Oh. Okay, this is good. A dick in his mouth is good. It’s hot and thick and fills his mouth right up. Does every guy have this much girth, or is it just Lan Zhan? Wei Ying pulls off, fastens his lips around the head of Lan Zhan’s cock, and sucks. Lan Zhan makes a helpless nngh noise that goes right to Wei Ying’s head. He’s the one making Lan Zhan feel good, Lan Zhan is trusting him, and when Wei Ying bathes his tongue around the head and sucks again, Lan Zhan says his name and makes another sound. That’s all the inspiration Wei Ying needs to start bobbing up and down on him, taking in his shaft and sucking and then pulling off and running his tongue up the underside oh God this is fun.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan half-whispers, “stop teasing.”
Wei Ying pulls off him. “Oh? Was I teasing?”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and his head tips back. Wei Ying watches those shoulders go up and down, up and down again as Lan Zhan’s breathing accelerates.
“Okay,” he says at last, “okay, Lan Zhan. I won’t tease you anymore.” He fits his mouth over the head of Lan Zhan’s cock again and slowly slides down onto the shaft. Lan Zhan reaches down and grabs his shoulders with hands like clamps, and now Wei Ying can’t move except to keep his mouth sliding back and forth on Lan Zhan’s cock. Why is this so hot? His own cock twitches despite being physically unable to do much more than twitch right now.
Those hands on him might bruise, and Wei Ying is one thousand percent okay with that—the dull pain is like a prod urging him onward. He squeezes with his hand and sucks, moving faster and faster, so much so that his neck is starting to ache (also one thousand percent worth it). Lan Zhan is groaning aloud now, oh and nngh mixed with the occasional “Wei—Wei Ying,” and Wei Ying feels so powerful, like he could lift worlds. Come on, he thinks, come on, Lan Zhan, come for me, I want to feel it, I want to taste it. I want you to lose control.
A bitten-off “Ahh—” and Lan Zhan’s thighs tense around Wei Ying’s head—and all of a sudden he’s almost choking him, like he just got bigger—and Wei Ying sucks for all he’s worth.
“Wei Ying, Wei—Wei Ying—”
Lan Zhan’s voice, the most calm, down-to-earth voice in this universe, breaks violently.
Wei Ying’s mouth is suddenly full of liquid, salty and hot. He swallows around Lan Zhan’s cock, feeling like a general who’s just conquered a nation, waits for his mouth to fill again and then swallows again. Oh God this feeling is heady, the knowledge that he did this, that he drove Lan Zhan over the edge. Wei Ying pumps with his hand, not wanting to pull off until he’s sure he’s gotten every drop. Lan Zhan’s come isn’t the greatest thing he’s ever tasted in his life, but on the other hand, maybe yes it is. He’s never had a meal quite this satisfying.
He pulls off when it’s clear Lan Zhan is finished. On impulse, he kisses the inside of Lan Zhan’s knee. Then he leans against Lan Zhan’s legs and just breathes as Lan Zhan calms above him.
He wants to do that again, and soon.
But he also wants to climb up and cuddle against Lan Zhan’s shoulder, have Lan Zhan’s arms around him, to lean into his neck and just smell him, and none of that was in the memo, none of that is classified under Netflix and chill, and Wei Ying doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to stuff like that.
Because even if he wanted something more-- a relationship, even, does he want a relationship?-- even if Lan Zhan felt the same way, which Wei Ying is pretty sure he doesn’t, Wei Ying would really be the worst boyfriend known to man, and he can’t inflict that on Lan Zhan.
Look at what he’s done to him already, how he’s taken advantage. Lan Zhan listens when he talks. He does things like buy him dinner and come over to take care of him when he’s sick. He’s even letting this happen, even though Lan Zhan said he was enjoying it, but what is Wei Ying doing but using him for a little tension relief every so often? What has Wei Ying ever given him in return?
Wei Ying embraces the label of “shameless” that Lan Zhan gives him every so often. He always has. But this is something not unlike shame that he’s feeling now, curled up at Lan Zhan’s feet, staring down at the floor because he cannot face his best friend knowing acutely all the things he hasn’t done for him.
“Wei Ying. Come up here.”
He doesn’t really have a choice. Lan Zhan leans down and picks him up by his shoulders. He’s being hauled onto the couch and into Lan Zhan’s arms. Lan Zhan pulls Wei Ying in to rest on his shoulder, and both his hands are on Wei Ying’s back and Wei Ying weirdly feels like crying. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve Lan Zhan’s kindness after how terrible a friend he’s been. And he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want kindness. He wants something else, and he’s almost sure he can’t have it.
Why does he feel this weird and emotional? Is it some kind of sub drop, after Lan Zhan gave him orders or was holding him down? Wei Ying doesn’t think so. He thinks-- he thinks-- it’s something else.
Oh shit… I’ve caught feelings.
He hides his face in Lan Zhan’s chest and shoulder and tries really, really hard not to cry.
Rating: T
Words: 40,009
Fandom: The Untamed/CQL/Mo Dao Zu shi/MDZS
Pairings: Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian, side Jiang Cheng/Wen Qing
Novelist Lan Zhan moves to a small beach town where he once spent the best summer of his life.
I've been working on this fic for five years. Your eyeballs, kudos, and reblogs are really, really appreciated.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/63144655/chapters/161711824
