Wei Ying kisses him and it’s—ah—he can’t think past the frenzied burn of it: fingers in his hair and desperate sucking at his neck and ah, ah, it’s, it’s—all-consuming, and Lan Wangji’s mind was always, ah, the thread that keeps it all together—
Helpless, entirely and rabidly so, helpless, crashing against Wei Ying’s chest and grabbing whatever his shaky hands can find, it’s—it’s all he’s—not even allowed himself to dream, and he, he can’t, can’t possibly, can’t. Breathing… can’t. He’ll never stop, never, not if he has any—he has no choice, nothing to do but keep pushing forward, forward, forward-forward-forward. The tense line of Wei Ying’s abs is overwhelming. The scent at the place where his shoulder meets neck. It’s like he’s drunk, is he drunk, did he drink anything? He can’t imagine ever putting his mouth on anything that isn’t Wei Ying’s skin. The taste is… spicy?
He never… ah, the wall, at his back. Forward or backwards? The whole room is spinning. His head is, is, alight, everything too bright and blistering to the touch. He can’t stop touching. The soft skin beneath Wei Ying’s under-robes, the breathtaking squishiness of the lobe of his ear. Is Lan Wangji just squeezing it? Everything feels three sizes too large and a hundred times too loud. He wants it all, so badly he burns. Burns. Everything burns. If Wei Ying stops touching him something terrible would happen, something catastrophic.
He doesn’t, stop. Good. Lan Wangji doesn’t think he knows how to anymore. A distant part of his brain is saying something incomprehensible about ‘self-control’, and the entire concept is ridiculous. Boring. Anything that isn’t Wei Ying gets shoved out of the way, and in the immediate vicinity is all this Wei Ying, from his fingertips to his hands to his arms to his shoulders, to his neck to his cheeks to his nose to his forehead, to his hair to the nape of his neck to the small of his back, to the un-im-not possible curve of his arse, to his thighs and his knees and his shins and his feet. His feet. Under the socks are Wei Ying’s naked feet. Lan Wangji feels shaky with the knowledge.
He wants down. He wants to be released from the vice grip on his waist (never, never let him go), wants to slide gracefully (ha) to his knees and take those socks off and marvel at every single toe. He wants to kiss his way from the devastating angle of his ankle, up the sheer muscle of his leg, hide his face in the crook of his knee. He wants the whole tour, the entire thing, wants, wants, wants, so much that he forgets to breathe. Forgets to ask. Forgets to remember, because Wei Ying is on him and the wall behind so he doesn’t fall even when he staggers. It’s… too much. Lan Wangji is vaguely aware he’s begging.
It's only half-words. “Plea,” and “hnff,” and “ah-ah-ah,” and. He’d be ashamed, but there’s no room for much besides the aching, scorching thrill of it. The desperation is rising and rising and rising like water, like a flood, rising-rising and he cannot, won’t stop it. It’d be terrifying if he wasn’t exactly this vulnerable every time Wei Ying so much as looks at him. It would be terrifying if he had even an ounce left to care.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, solid and blazing-hot at the edge of his consciousness, “Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” like those words alone hold power, are magic. They must be, because the fever in his blood just goes ricocheting all the way up, he’s burning alive and he doesn’t care because Wei Ying is still saying, “Lan Zhan,” and he wants him, he wants him too, and that on its own is already too far. Lan Wangji can’t… can’t.
He tries to speak but all that comes out are aborted little mewls. He’s… drowning in all of this, somehow divested of most of his clothes, and the wall is cold on his shoulder blades and Wei Ying is impossible, hip to hip, grinding in some mindless rhythm that has Lan Wangji’s heart trying to rip out of his chest, clean through. No, it’s not his heart, it’s—ah! Wei Ying’s arms around him, crushing. Mouth right back to what has to be his favourite spot, somewhere under Lan Wangji’s ear, he’d love to say exactly where but he’s melting, his whole mind is melting, and—Wei Ying helps loop Lan Wangji’s leg around his waist. Oh, he’s in the air. On the wall. Oh, he’s… lost, entirely, and the little shivers he can’t stop are only making it more, more, touch, more friction, and he wishes and wishes he could grasp even a tiny bit of what’s happening and he can’t.
“Wei Ying,” he says, miraculously, out loud. Then again, “Wei Ying—bed—”
Wei Ying laughs, and it’s the sweetest and most outrageous sound. How is everything spinning? How is any of it possible. That Wei Ying. Pulling one arm, “Yes, yes,” as if Lan Wangji said the most important thing, as if Wei Ying is also—is also—
They move, they don’t, it’s frightening, and then he hits something soft (a mat? Please be a mat) and then he hits something softer (Wei Ying, Wei Ying, Wei—) and then he hits something hard and his mind snaps.
Open—he’s so entirely open. Wei Ying can ask for anything and he would give it. Wei Ying wouldn’t even need to ask. Lan Wangji is aching to give him: to give, to give, to give, himself and everything he possesses, that he can reach. Attempting to get his limbs back under control, to give—
But Wei Ying doesn’t want him in control right now. His eyes are alight with something fiercer than joy, something unbreakable and unfathomable and just bursting-piping-hot. How can anyone stand it, is beyond him; it doesn’t matter. Wei Ying is looking at him like he’s ravenous. His hand trails gentle lines down Lan Wangji’s bare torso (bare? He’s so bare), and his eyes, his eyes.
“Mine,” he says, and it comes out choked, like a plea. A prayer. Lan Wangji musters all of his strength (currently close to none):
“Yours,” he nods. “All yours.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying gasps, and then he’s on him again, and everything else shuts down.
It’s fast and scalding and desperate—
It’s slow and lingering and sweet—
It’s thudding in his chest like a warhorse through a battlefield, rampaging higher-higher-higher-higher—
Wei Ying kisses him and Lan Wangji thinks: yes. This, exactly this.
