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“Wei Ying I swear to whatever god is listening, if you complain about the beer one more time I’m dumping it out on your bed.”
Wei Ying—mouth still hanging open on a half-finished complaint, lukewarm craft beer aloft in one hand—pauses in his tirade. Jiang Cheng continues to glare at him, eyes narrowed.
“You wouldn’t!”
“I would. With pleasure.”
Wei Ying pouts, plopping down on the floor and leaning back against the wall. It’s not his fault Jiang Cheng’s minifridge sucks at its job! Besides, tonight’s meant to be about making the most of a nice Friday evening, not being forced to drink warm beer that tastes like expensive farts. Nie Huaisang, lounging in his usual spot on their hole-riddled recliner, lets out a long sigh. “I’m too tired for this.”
Jiang Cheng swings around to glare down at him. “You too! Go home if you’re so wrung out.”
Huaisang flings an arm over his eyes. “But da-ge has Yao-ge and Xichen-ge over tonight! I don’t want to be in the middle of that,” he wails lowly. Ah, Wei Ying can sympathise with that; god knows he can’t stand being in the same room as Jie and the peacock, especially now that they're past the awkward courtship stage and have committed themselves to being as sickeningly domestic as possible.
He grabs their ratty deck of cards where it’s wedged between two old textbooks and waggles it enticingly at Huaisang. “Up for some fun, then?”
“Wei-xiong, you are my only solace in a cruel world.”
Jiang Cheng grumbles, but brings his beer to sit on the floor opposite Wei Ying, leaning on the recliner. “If we play, you two better stop complaining, or I’m kicking you both out.”
“A-Cheng, I live here!” Wei Ying squawks, as though Jiang Cheng doesn’t threaten this every other day. “And it’s student housing, I could just go stay next door with Wen Ning!”
“Beggars and choosers,” Jiang Cheng says brusquely.
Wei Ying’s brilliant retort is lost in the sound of knocking at the door. “It’s unlocked!” he calls out.
When the door opens, Wei Ying is faintly surprised to see that it’s Lan Zhan. He lives in the building too of course, since it’s practically on campus and most of the post-grad students work too many hours to cope with long commutes, but he doesn’t really come to visit. He eyes the group of them, expression stiffening a little—probably offended by their bad posture, ha.
“I wished to ask for a copy of last week’s tutorial notes. I was absent and Dr. Shen advised that the topic will likely be covered in our finals.”
Jiang Cheng nods, gesturing to his desk and the yellow notebook sitting atop a stack of readings. “On top there. You can return it tomorrow or whenever, I’ve got copies.”
Lan Zhan inclines his head, and Wei Ying watches him cross the room to retrieve the notes. He looks so out of place in their messy room, his artful, effortless elegance so at odds with the empty noodle cups and granola bars Wei Ying has consistently (accidentally!) forgotten to tidy up for the last three weeks.
Jiang Cheng takes advantage of his distraction by swiping the cards from Wei Ying and beginning to shuffle them. Lan Zhan pauses halfway back to the door, watching with what Wei Ying thinks might almost be curiosity. It’s hard to tell with Lan Zhan, of course, but after over a year studying together he’s pretty sure he’s got those blank expressions pinned. He grins, patting the floor next to him.
“You should join us, Lan Zhan!”
Lan Zhan frowns, eyes sharpening. “I do not gamble.”
“It’s not gambling! We don’t play for prizes.”
“It’s barely interesting,” Jiang Cheng adds, cutting the cards into stacks and beginning to distribute them into four piles.
Huaisang clicks his tongue, swatting lightly at Jiang Cheng with one foot. “Way to make it sound boring!” He cuts a cheeky grin up at Lan Zhan, all teeth and dimples. “We play an improved version. If you get caught bluffing, you lose your clothes.”
Wei Ying can’t help but laugh at the way Lan Zhan’s eyebrows zoom all the way up his forehead. “It’s harder to bluff in the buff,” he manages between giggles.
Jiang Cheng grunts and flicks a stray card at his face. “No matter how hard you try to make that line work, it’s never going to. It’s never going to be good. I beg of you.”
Wei Ying pokes his tongue out, retrieving the card from the floor and adding it to his hand.
Huaisang titters a laugh, picking up his own hand and fanning them out with a practised flick of the wrist. “It’s true though, Jiang-xiong!”
Lan Zhan’s frown has continued to deepen incrementally during this exchange, and he looks hilariously disgusted as he purses his lips to ask, “You play this game...naked?”
“Only if you don’t play well,” Huaisang says. Then he lolls his head off the side of the chair, smirking. “Worried you might lose?”
Lan Zhan doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he takes a few steps into the room and sits primly on the sofa opposite Huaisang’s chair, placing the notebook carefully next to him. Jiang Cheng shakes his head with a snort, but begins dutifully looking over his cards as Huaisang hands Lan Zhan his allotment.
Lan Zhan scans the room, eyes running over Wei Ying’s sweatpants and singlet. “How many items of clothing are we required to begin with?”
Huaisang hums, also taking a cursory look at the rest of them. “Three, I guess? Shirt, pants, underwear.”
Lan Zhan ‘mn’s and goes to remove his sweater, but Wei Ying holds out a hand. He feels a bit bad throwing him into the deep end entirely unprepared. “Leave it.” He flashes Lan Zhan a benevolent smile. “Since you’re not used to lying, you can have an extra buffer layer.”
Lan Zhan pauses, but nods, hands moving from the hem of his sweater to the pile of cards Jiang Cheng has just finished distributing. Wei Ying gives him a moment to look over his cards, then starts explaining as simply as possible.
“So the overall aim is to get rid of all your cards. Jiang Cheng’s going to put some of his cards face-down on top of this first one; see how it’s a six of clubs? The suit doesn’t matter, just the number. The cards you put down need to be either the number below, above or the same as that first card. The trick is, though, that he doesn’t actually have to be that number. You just have to make us believe that they are. So he could say ‘two sevens’, but put down a four and a king or something.”
Lan Zhan nods along, looking between his hand and the rest of the cards with an interested glimmer in his eyes. “The aim is to lie,” he says, and Wei Ying nods.
“But if we think that he is lying, we call bullshit. If I call him out and I’m right, he has to pick up the whole pile of cards, and lose an item of clothing. If I was wrong and he actually did put down two sevens, then I pick up the cards and lose my clothes. Does that make sense?”
Lan Zhan narrows his eyes, but the tilt of his mouth tells Wei Ying he’s already invested. Lan Zhan likes winning things, and he’s always quick to understand rules of any sort. “The game becomes more difficult as more cards are on the line, and you have more to lose by both lying and by calling others out.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay.”
Jiang Cheng clicks his tongue and picks his stack of cards from the floor. “Great, then let’s play. It’s easier to get when you watch someone else do it, anyway.”
He rifles through his hand for a long moment, with that constipated look of concentrating knitting his eyebrows. He plucks two cards from his hand and puts them down. “Two sevens,” he announces, eyes flicking up in challenge. Wei Ying rolls his eyes.
“A-Cheng, no one thinks you’re going to lie right off the bat. Also it wouldn’t even matter if you were lying, because there’s only one card on the line.”
Jiang Cheng glowers back at him. “I didn’t say anything. And I’ve seen you throw fits over picking up one card before!”
“That was one time, and I was fifteen!”
Jiang Cheng shrugs and gestures to Wei Ying’s hand. Wei Ying pokes his tongue out and adjusts his posture, sitting regally in his full height. He’s pretty sure he looks hella nonchalant and confident as he takes two eights and a one from his fanned-out hand. “Well I have three sixes,” he says grandly, placing his cards face-down on the pile. Jiang Cheng scoffs loudly.
“Bullshit, dude. Absolute shit and you know it.”
Wei Ying narrows his eyes. “You want to challenge me? Over three measly cards?”
It’s Jiang Cheng’s turn to roll his eyes now, and he seems to relish the action. “You’re absolutely the type of person to lie over ‘three measly cards’, so yes.”
Wei Ying gasps in faux-disbelief, clutching at his chest like he’s been stabbed. “You wound me, brother.”
From his chair, Nie Huaisang leans forward to look over at Lan Zhan. “Yes, they’re always like this. You’d think it would enhance the drama, but really it just means it takes forever to get anywhere.”
Jiang Cheng reaches up and smacks Nie Huaisang’s leg. “Ow…!” He rubs at his shin and pouts. “Jiang-xiong, just flip the cards!”
Jiang Cheng flips over the top three cards on the stack, exposes Wei Ying’s mishmash of cards with a bark of triumph. “I told you! You can’t lie for shit—shirt off!”
Wei Ying sighs long and loud, but does as he’s told, picking up the pile of cards off the floor and adding them back to his hand. He throws down the two eights, announcing them for what they are, since everyone just saw him pick them up. It’s a bit tragic that he’s already losing clothes, but it is, by far, not the worst he’s lost at this game, and his ratty singlet is hardly a sacrifice. He pulls it over his head in one motion, flinging it somewhere behind him. When he looks over at Lan Zhan, he startles a little to find that their eyes meet immediately. Like Lan Zhan was already watching.
“So you remove an item when you are caught cheating,” he observes flatly. Ah, he’s absorbing the rules. That’s why he was watching Wei Ying so closely—probably also would have called him out if Jiang Cheng hadn’t been so quick on the draw. Wei Ying gives him a wide grin. “Exactly. But it’s pretty hard not to cheat with such limited cards, so the idea is to be the better liar.”
Lan Zhan nods slowly, moving his gaze to the new pile. “And now it is eights.”
Wei Ying hums the affirmative and Lan Zhan nods again, like an old man attempting to parse the complexities of the internet.
Nie Huaisang leafs lazily through his cards and places two face-down. “Two nines.” Wei Ying has never been able to read Huaisang; he seems to be both awful and brilliant at bluffing, to the point where Wei Ying’s pretty much given up on attempting to parse his face. Mostly he has to do complex mathematics to catch him out, and it’s too early for that.
Lan Zhan, on the other hand, has apparently already decided he’s going to be the best at this game, and prods one long finger down at the new contribution. “That is a bluff.”
Huaisang raises one well-manicured eyebrow in mock surprise. “Oh?”
Wei Ying huffs a quiet laugh. This is the most interesting round they’ve played since the night with the peanuts, and it makes Wei Ying want to poke a little fun at their guest player. “Lan Zhan,” he says in a stage-whisper, “you have to use the right terminology or else your call won’t count.”
Lan Zhan frowns at him, but when Huaisang nods sagely he sets his features. “Bullshit.”
It’s strange, hearing the expletive in his deep, even voice. It’s not like Lan Zhan never swears; Wei Ying’s pissed him off enough to know that even the second Lan brother has his limits, but he so rarely swears when he’s not upset. Wei Ying can’t help but grin, a little wobbly with contained mirth.
Huaisang flicks a hand neutrally, though his face is edged with amusement. “Your funeral, Lan-xiong. Prove me wrong.”
Lan Zhan reaches out and turns over the cards to reveal— two nines. Ah, Huaisang. He’s such a bastard.
Lan Zhan scowls at the cards as though they’ve done him a personal disservice, and Wei Ying can’t help but laugh, reaching over to pat his knee sympathetically. “Hurray for the safety sweater, right?”. Lan Zhan then turns his glower on Wei Ying, and seems to be physically holding back from rolling his eyes, which just makes the whole thing funnier.
Still, Lan Zhan is always a good sport, even when slighted. He takes his sweater off with careful precision, like it’s some kind of art show, and Wei Ying feels a small thrill shoot through him. He’s seen Lan Zhan shirtless before at the beach and stuff, but somehow this one layer being taken off feels more scandalous. Lan Wangji took his sweater off! He’s only wearing a shirt, everybody!
The shirt in question drapes artfully over his body, slightly oversized without the sweater giving it shape. It looks expensive.
Lan Zhan picks up the cards in the centre and Wei Ying does not look at the sliver of collarbone that’s now visible as he leans forward. Because that’s rude. Lan Zhan isn’t staring at Wei Ying’s neck, even though Wei Ying’s whole shirt is off, because he’s a respectful friend.
With a quick, pensive look at his hand, Lan Zhan picks out four cards and lays them face-down on the carpet. “Four tens.”
Wei Ying watches Huaisang check his hand, then shrug. Jiang Cheng does the same, so Wei Ying also nods, very focused on the game, and the fact that it’s Jiang Cheng’s turn next, and not Lan Zhan’s, so he has no reason to look at Lan Zhan and his loose shirt and nice collarbones. “Jiang Cheng, your turn.”
“Yeah, yeah. Hold your horses, I’m looking.”
Jiang Cheng puts down two cards, then leans back, taking a swig of his beer. “Two jacks. Was it so hard to be patient for—”
“Bullshit.”
Everyone turns to look at Lan Zhan, who’s examining the back of Jiang Cheng’s cards so intently he’s practically burning a hole them. Wei Ying lets out a nervous giggle. “Ah, you sure you want to challenge now? You’re, um,” don’t look at his neck, idiot shrieks the voice of reason in his head, “already down a layer.”
Lan Zhan shakes his head, raising his head and narrowing his eyes at Jiang Cheng. “Flip.”
Jiang Cheng scoffs a little disbelievingly, but when Lan Zhan doesn’t relent he shrugs and turns over the two cards.
Two jacks.
Lan Zhan makes a slightly surprised, inquisitive sound. “Perhaps your face is simply untrustworthy by default,” he half-mutters to himself. Wei Ying has to smother a laugh at the expression of sheer indignation that wrinkles over Jiang Cheng’s mouth. Even his eyebrows manage to look personally offended.
Lan Zhan either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about that, though, because he tilts his head in a little ‘oh well’ way, and then reaches for his already half-undone collar. And Wei Ying is once again not looking, except that he is. But it’s just to make sure that he actually follows through with the punishment! And it is…a little difficult to look away.
Lan Zhan’s arm muscles flex as he unbuttons the shirt, and each motion is a visceral reminder that he does like a million pushups every morning. His fingers are so long too, so precise as they twist each button free.
When he pulls the shirt free from his chest, Wei Ying nearly chokes.
Nipples.
And Wei Ying has seen some nipples in his short life but these ones are so cute, holy shit. Dark and round and just. Like. Cute. He kind of wants to pat them and tell them they’re doing great. Then he wants to slap himself and yell What the fuck, Wei Ying!? Because that’s so weird. Lan Zhan’s no-shirt aura is very powerful, enough that it’s completely scrambled his brain. For the first time, it occurs to Wei Ying that this whole invite-Lan-Zhan-to-strip idea may have been a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad idea that he should have thought through because Lan Zhan stripping means Lan Zhan naked—
And then his gaze travels downwards unbidden, because now he’s thinking about it, and, well…Wei Ying isn’t looking at Lan Zhan’s abs. He’s not. He’s looking at the—the couch. Except.
Except Lan Zhan’s hair is coming loose from its braid, knocked askew by the removal of his sweater and shirt. Strands have fallen across his forehead, shadowing his cheeks. He looks softer, less stony than usual. It’s… there’s something about it that’s completely magnetic.
“Wei Wuxian,” Jiang Cheng snaps, and Wei Ying pulls his gaze back to the mismatched collection of cards in his hand. He thinks Jiang Cheng put down sevens or something so he throws down two sixes and takes a long drink of his beer. It’s getting lukewarm, but it’s better than nothing. It’s also something to do that isn’t ogling his friend. Get it together, Wei Ying! Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes, but doesn’t call him. He sneaks a peek over at Lan Zhan, who’s looking inquisitively at Wei Ying’s hand. It takes Wei Ying a long moment to realise that, wait, he actually had tens in his hand, which means— “Lan Zhan you were lying?”
Lan Zhan raises one eyebrow in a manner that feels like a terrifying combination of Huaisang and Lan Qiren. Wei Ying gapes at him. “You—!”
“What? Oh, fuck off, you’re good at bluffing too?” Jiang Cheng’s interjection startles Wei Ying out of his indignation. His disgust would be funny if Wei Ying weren’t still reeling at the idea that Lan Zhan lied to him, just like that. Has Lan Zhan lied before? Is he secretly a strip bullshit master? Does he run an underground poker ring? “Ugh, whatever,” Jiang Cheng gripes, interrupting again. “It’s too late to call you. Huaisang, play.”
“Mmh, three queens,” Huaisang murmurs, rubbing his eyes. He throws the cards down onto the floor and yawns so wide Wei Ying can hear his jaw crack.
“Don’t fall asleep,” Jiang Cheng grumbles, smacking Huaisang’s thigh with his fan of cards. Nie Huaisang makes a garbled noise of protest. “Won’t. Shut up.”
Jiang Cheng snorts derisively, but waves his hands at Lan Zhan. “Go.”
Lan Zhan eyes his hand, and slides out three cards.
“Three queens.”
Wei Ying narrows his eyes at him. “Huaisang just put down three queens.”
Lan Zhan’s expression doesn’t change. “He was lying.”
“Ooh, is that a challenge?”
“No. three queens, Wei Ying.”
“Ugh, you’re no fun. Bullshit. You’re bluffing.”
“It is three queens, Wei Ying.”
“And yet! I can sense the dishonesty. The duplicity, the deceit—”
“Oh my god,” comes Jiang Cheng’s voice. “Just flip the fucking cards.”
Wei Ying flips them. Five of clubs, two of spades, nine of hearts.
“Lan Zhan, you dirty liar!” He crows, slapping the floor. “What would your uncle say?”
Lan Zhan levels him with a long-suffering expression. “He would likely remind you that being a sore winner is frowned upon in polite company.”
Wei Ying grins at him. “This isn’t polite company, Lan-er-gege. Now, lose the pants!”
Lan Zhan actually scowls then, but he places his cards delicately down and reaches for his belt. The clink of the belt buckle loosening absolutely does not provoke a pavlovian response in Wei Ying, and he staunchly ignores the sudden tug of heat in his gut.
Wei Ying watches with mock-intensity at first, but he feels his mouth go genuinely dry as Lan Zhan pulls the zipper down, excruciatingly slow. Is he actually drawing it out? Or is Wei Ying just losing his mind? Actually might be losing his mind, because he can’t look away, even as Lan Zhan’s long, pale fingers tug the slacks down to his thighs. He’s wearing pale blue boxer-briefs, and they’re. Oh. Fuck. They don’t hide anything. Wei Ying watches the shape of him as he shimmies his trousers over his feet. The outline of his cock is, like. Right there.
Wei Ying curls his fingers into the soft fibres of the carpet. The sensation feels like the only thing tethering him to the earth. And Lan Zhan, calm and collected as anything, folds the slacks into a perfect square and places them on top of his other discarded clothes.
Wei Ying's face feels hot. Flushed. Is he flushed? He's wearing a singlet, surely he can't be that warm?
He runs his bottom lip between his teeth. The soft muscles of Lan Zhan's belly move slowly as he breathes. How does he breathe so regularly? It's really hard to look away from. Wei Ying can feel his own breathing getting uneven, and he sucks in a quick breath. He has to look away. He shouldn't be watching.
But Lan Zhan has a tiny freckle right next to his belly button. He has a freckle and Wei Ying might be the only person in the entire world who's ever seen it. And there's a thin line of dark hair, wispy and barely visible in the low light. Somehow it’s…really, really hard for Wei Ying to look away, because it runs down and down and down.
It trails down Lan Zhan’s stomach and disappears into the waistband of his underwear, and Wei Ying's mind can connect the line with where there must be more hair. Not much more, but he can picture the sparse thatch that curves around the base of his dick. Thin and dark and probably not soft, but Wei Ying wouldn't mind—
Wouldn't mind what?
His fingers sting as he clenches them so deep into carpet that he scrapes his knuckles across the rough underweave. He wants—
Fuck. He wants to see.
A deafening litany of take it off, take it off, take it off is running through his head, and he can't even begin to unpack that. He just needs to see. He needs to know.
Saliva pools at the tip of his tongue, and Wei Ying swallows hard. He's so thirsty, and the last dregs of his beer don’t quench shit. He also wishes he had gum or something, his mouth feels so empty all of a sudden.
The music crackling from Jiang Cheng's crappy Bluetooth speaker isn’t nearly as distracting as Wei Ying wishes it was, the drumline kicking in time with his heartbeat. Some girl is singing, raspy and guttural, though he can't make out the words.
Jiang Cheng clicks his tongue with a groan. “Ugh, Huaisang!”
Wei Ying looks over. Huaisang is still draped over his chair, but he’s fast asleep, mouth open as he snores lightly. His hand of cards is scattered across his lap, hands lax—he really must have been tired. Jiang Cheng raises his hand as though to slap him, but then lowers it with a noise of disgust. “Whatever. Fuckin’ insisting on a game and then falling asleep. Let’s just—” He gestures to the pile of cards in the centre. “We can finish up and then I’ll wake him.”
Ah, Jiang Cheng. Competitive to a fault. Wei Ying sort of admires that he refuses to give up on even this, the most casual of games. Particularly when the potential for Wei Ying to lay eyes on Lan Zhan’s whole entire actual dick is on the line.
“Three kings,” Jiang Cheng says, though he’s promptly interrupted by a faint buzzing that fills the air as the music cuts out. Jiang Cheng finishes laying down his hand and grumbles, peering down at his flashing phone screen. “I have to take this, don’t lose while I’m gone.” Then he stands, walking in the direction of his bedroom.
Wei Ying nods absently, still trying to focus on not staring at Lan Zhan’s nipples. He flips through his cards without really looking at them, feeling distinctly twitchy. Why does Lan Zhan have to be so fucking—
“Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying nearly jumps out of his skin, jerking his head up to look at Lan Zhan. “Huh?”
“It is your turn,” Lan Zhan says, pointing towards the pile. Wei Ying feels his face heat. Fuck. “Oh! Um, right. Also a king, I guess.” He does actually have the last king in the deck, so he throws it down and clears his throat.
Before he can even rasp out that he’s done, Lan Zhan lays a stack of cards on the pile. “Five aces.” He says briskly.
Wei Ying blinks. That’s— “Bullshit!” He slams his hand down on the carpet, the other cards jumping under the force of his emphasis. “Bullshit!” he crows again, then looks back up at Lan Zhan. “Bullshit.”
Lan Zhan tilts his head. “You are challenging me?”
Wei Ying feels a bit feral, the words all tumbling out of him. “Yeah. Yep. yes, yeah. Bullshit, Lan Zhan.”
He flips the cards. It’s a mess of numbers and suits, none of which are aces. Feeling half-possessed, Wei Ying stumbles onto his knees, like he’s about to leap into action or something.
“You’re a liar, you gotta— you have to,” he gestures at Lan Zhan’s crotch.
There’s a pause as Lan Zhan regards himself. For a split second Wei Ying is sure he’s going to protest. To say it’s too much, that he’s not getting naked on their shitty couch, in their shitty room, in front of Wei Ying. But then, like the good sport he is, he scoots forwards on the couch and begins to pull his boxers down. Wei Ying knows he’s watching too closely, he’s not even trying to hide how intently he’s looking, but Lan Zhan just. Keeps going. The moment feels infinite as more and more skin is revealed, until he’s one long, unbroken line.
He’s so... Fuck. Wei Ying has seen a lot of bodies in his time. Mostly online, but still. His own is pretty nice, he knows that for a fact. But Lan Zhan is… He’s beautiful. The gentle lines of his thighs where they come in to meet, the way that sparse hair does keep going. His cock is thick, a shade or two darker than the skin of his belly, maybe not completely soft, and. Wei Ying wants to put it in his mouth.
He has an oral fixation, okay. He knows that, Lan Zhan knows it, literally everyone knows it. He just. Sometimes he’ll just see something and it has to go in his mouth. It's gotten him in trouble more than once, and he's been buying apology replacement pens for Jiang Cheng since they were six. Anyway, the point is that Wei Ying is certain that he might actually die if he can’t get Lan Zhan in his mouth. Right now. The size of it, the shape, the way he can see a tiny mole right by the base. He wants to taste it, to know the weight of it on his tongue, how it fits between his lips.
He’s so fucking big. Not even hard and he’s gotta be half again the size of Wei Ying, and he’s thicker too. They match his big hands… Wei Ying's dick would probably look so small in his hands.
An involuntary sound comes from Wei Ying’s throat, and he tries to disguise it as a cough. It doesn’t work very well, especially as Lan Zhan’s sharp eyes flicker towards him, dark and liquid in the low light.
“What now?”
Wei Ying blinks. “W-what?”
“I am out of clothing, and you are the only player left. What is your prize?”
His voice is low, edged with a grittiness that Wei Ying’s never heard before. A shiver runs through him, hot and expectant. His prize. He’s the only one left in the game—he deserves something. He sneaks another look at Lan Zhan’s hips again, at the perfect angle of his cock.
“I…” He sucks on his bottom lip, trying to form words. “The rules. There are rules.”
Lan Zhan hums, and the sound almost has Wei Ying coming undone. He’s so fucked. “I get to— to. Do what I want.”
The rise and fall of Lan Zhan’s chest quickens minutely, and there’s only a split second before he asks, “What does Wei Ying want?”
Before he knows what he’s doing, before he can even process that he’s moving, Wei Ying is across the floor, discarded hand of cards slithering across the carpet. He comes to a stop at Lan Zhan’s feet, on his knees, trying frantically not to give in to this overwhelming urge to bury his face in the crease of Lan Zhan’s thighs. “I—”
And then Lan Zhan shifts, spreads his knees, just far enough that Wei Ying could fit between them. Wei Ying thinks he makes some sort of noise, low and desperate and horribly horny. “Letmeblowyou,” he says in a blur. Breathe, Wei Ying. He inhales shakily and tries again. “I want to— blow you.”
He tears his eyes away from Lan Zhan’s dick, just in time to see Lan Zhan lick his own lips. “If that’s what you desire.”
Oh, thank fuck.
Wei Ying presses his body between Lan Zhan’s knees and shoves his face against the curve of his cock. He probably seems weird and desperate but Lan Zhan smells so fucking good. Sweat and musk and a hint of his expensive sandalwood soap. He smells like body, like the bedsheets do after Wei Ying fingers himself in his cramped room, but better. Hotter. Alive.
Wei Ying licks a stripe up the underside, starting low, right near the balls. His nose brushes gently across the thin skin as he moves, and the sensation is intoxicating, feather light. Lan Zhan tenses under him, and Wei Ying feels a rush of pride as he reaches the top. He wants more of this. Wei Ying could take him. He's never taken anything this big but Lan Zhan could make him. He could push him down—
Wei Ying opens his mouth wider, taking the tip between his lips. Musky precome dampens his tongue, and it’s so fucking easy to just keep going, pushing his head lower and lower. A hand reaches to curl at the back of his neck, and Wei Ying tries to vocalise his approval. It comes out as more of a garbled groan, but the gentle weight increases, fingers tangling in his ponytail.
Wei Ying feels his throat constrict instinctively as Lan Zhan’s cock presses against the back of it, but there’s no way he’s quitting that easily.
He curls his hands into fists in his lap, trying to mimic the pressure point thing Huaisang had shown him a few months back. It doesn’t feel like it makes a difference, but it distracts him enough that he’s able to push just a little further without completely choking. He gives a little victory wiggle on the spot and widens his jaw further, feeling the skin at the edge of his lips stretch enough to sting.
There's a rumble above him as Lan Zhan groans, and then the fingers in his hair tighten. Wei Ying lets out a whine at the sharp sting. It's so good. Fuck. His jaw tightens reflexively, and he adjusts at the last second so his teeth don't get too close.
He feels a thread of drool slide down his chin and fuck. Fuck. He’s hard. He’s so, so fucking turned on, just from this. And Lan Zhan can probably see. He should be embarrassed, but he feels his legs shift further apart without his permission, putting himself on display. He wants Lan Zhan to see. He's definitely staining the front of his sweats. He can feel how wet he’s getting, totally untouched, and it’s only been like a minute.
He can’t help but snake a hand down to— not to get himself off, just to— and the pressure is so fucking good. He moans around the cock in his mouth, trying to keep breathing. He’s never— like, he’s thought about it, he’s looked at dildos online and imagined, but none of them were this big. None of them would have prepared him for this.
And now none of them will compare. There will never be anything like this, ever. He has to savour it.
He loses himself in the sensation a bit, images and thoughts coming in fragments. A breath he doesn’t fully catch. The carpet under his feet. His toes curling as his own dick throbs hotly. Lan Zhan's hand around his wrist. Guiding his hand up to where Wei Ying's lips are stretched around his cock. Yes. His thumb hooks around Wei Ying’s lip, stretching him just slightly further open. Wei Ying whines at the sharp feeling of his skin protesting, but then he feels Lan Zhan pull back, pull out— He makes another desperate sound, pushing his head forwards, hands fighting to scrabble at Lan Zhan’s. No, no, keep it here. He can feel the trail of spit leaking down his jaw as his mouth is overfilled again. Wet is good, right? Wei Ying can be wetter. He can be good.
Lan Zhan slowly releases his hands, and Wei Ying gives a little appreciative pulse of his tongue. Lets his hands move over the base of Lan Zhan’s cock, massaging and squeezing. Cups his balls and lets the warm weight of them rest in his palm.
Lan Zhan lets out a low sound. “Good,” he breathes, and Wei Ying feels heat run down his spine all the way to his dick. Fuck. He moves his tongue faster, trying to suck and move and make it good and force more of those noises out of Lan Zhan. He feels like he’s on fire, feverish and glazed. He hiccups a little as Lan Zhan’s cock hits the back of his throat, but then Lan Zhan gives a little punched-out groan and that’s it, that’s all Wei Ying needs. He moans, reedy and nasal, and Lan Zhan pushes forwards again, hips stuttering nearly off the couch. Wei Ying’s hands clench reflexively, causing another ripple of movement in Lan Zhan. Again, again, again, Wei Ying chants in his head, and Lan Zhan does.
It’s an awkward rhythm, but Wei Ying can feel the way Lan Zhan’s body is flexing underneath him, for him. Perfect, put-together Lan Zhan is sweating and panting and it’s Wei Ying’s mouth on his cock, doing this to him. The thought is a hot, heavy fog in his mind, urging him to take Lan Zhan deeper, rile him up more. He always complains about Wei Ying’s mouth, but not tonight.
Wei Ying curls his tongue, and Lan Zhan’s fingers tighten. He does it again, and feels the faint prick of nails in his skin. A whine bubbles up from deep in his throat, and Wei Ying lets himself drift a bit, his hands and jaw and tongue moving with more coordination now. It feels like he’s drowning in the sensation of Lan Zhan grinding into his throat, losing himself. The sounds are coming more frequently, a little louder.
“Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying hums, and Lan Zhan’s grip on his neck tightens. “Wei Ying.”
“Lan Zhan,” he tries to respond, but it just sends muffled vibrations rumbling up his throat. Lan Zhan makes a little aborted sound, his hips snapping up in a motion that has Wei Ying choking in earnest for a second. It sends a throb through his own dick, and he whines. He wants to move a hand down to paw at himself, but another of Lan Zhan’s quiet sounds stops him fast. “Close,” he grinds out, and that’s enough incentive. Lan Zhan first. And then— then whatever.
He presses his head down, trying to match Lan Zhan’s thrusts. Use me, he tries to convey. Fuck my mouth, please, please, please come in my mouth so I can— Lan Zhan comes with a sharp tug of Wei Ying’s hair and a breathy ah-ah-ah that Wei Ying is never going to forget as long as he lives. Salty, slightly sour liquid spills across the back of his throat in hot, wet spurts, and Wei Ying chokes as he tries to swallow. Lan Zhan’s hands are still tight in his hair, but he makes a motion like he’s trying to pull Wei Ying off. Wei Ying whines and swallows again, pushing his nose hard against Lan Zhan’s pubic bone. Lan Zhan makes a tiny, plaintive sound at that, but the fresh jolt of come in Wei Ying’s mouth tells him it was worth the effort.
He stays like that for a second, even after Lan Zhan’s grip loosens and his cock starts to properly soften. It’s…the sensation of having his mouth held open is unlike anything Wei Ying’s experienced before. It’s like the good feeling he gets when he chews on stuff, except magnified a thousand times and injected directly into his brain. It’s like the weighted blanket thing, except the blanket is a dick and the weight is also a dick but in his mouth and— look, he’s losing track of the metaphor, whatever; the point is that Lan Zhan’s cock is lying warm and thick and heavy on his tongue and he feels drunk on it, it’s so fucking good.
The feeling of long fingers grazing along his chin has Wei Ying cracking his eyes open and looking blearily up. Lan Zhan slowly, carefully pulls Wei Ying’s head back. The emptiness is awful, and Wei Ying can’t help the low whine that drags itself up from somewhere in his chest. Lan Zhan helps Wei Ying back onto his knees properly. He’s wobbly, and he feels a bit floaty, but that might actually be oxygen deprivation because holy shit. He takes a few long, deep breaths, trying to steady his thoughts.
“Can you stand?” Lan Zhan’s voice from in front of him seems over-loud in the quiet of the room, and Wei Ying blinks blearily at him. He thinks he has tears drying on his cheeks. They itch a bit.
“Come here,” Lan Zhan says, pulling Wei Ying unsteadily to his feet. Wei Ying opens his mouth, trying to summon up a word of confusion, because what—?
And then Lan Zhan’s pulling him in close. Wei Ying teeters a bit, throwing his hands down to Lan Zhan’s shoulders for balance. “Wha—” he manages, but Lan Zhan’s hands come to rest around his waist, and the sensation of a hot mouth on his belly kills whatever he was about to ask. It’s all Wei Ying can do to hold on and not topple over as Lan Zhan bites and kisses his way down Wei Ying’s stomach, sending hot sparks shuddering across his spine. It’s so much, and it’s so fucking good, and Wei Ying’s head feels like a big jumble of question marks and exclamation points.
“Lan— ah, ah, Lan Zhan, you—”
Lan Zhan reaches the waistband of his pants way too fast, and Wei Ying nearly reaches out to drag his mouth back to that sweet spot at his navel, but then Lan Zhan’s hands are tightening around his waist, releasing, reaching down to pull the elastic down. Wei Ying has to shut his eyes against the sudden rush of pleasure. He might throw up or something, his body has no idea what to do with all this stimulation.
The first touch of Lan Zhan’s lips to the dripping tip of his dick is like getting electrified. Wei Ying jolts so badly that he thinks he might fall over, and then Lan Zhan has both hands digging into the meat of Wei Ying’s hips, hard enough that Wei Ying squeaks for a moment before slapping a hand over his own mouth. Lan Zhan’s mouth— is this what it feels like? Hot and tight and the pressure— Wei Ying tries to breathe but he was already so turned on, and Lan Zhan’s mouth is. Fuck. Fuckfuckingshit— He rasps in a desperate breath through his nose, high sounds being jolted from him every time Lan Zhan’s tongue shifts.
There’s a sudden creak from the direction of Jiang Cheng’s bedroom and Wei Ying flinches, body going reflexively taut. It’s enough to send him flying over the edge.
He comes with a whiny, wet moan that spills through his fingers and out into the warm air of the room. He grips at Lan Zhan’s shoulder with his free hand, knees going wobbly as Lan Zhan sucks him through the brightest, sharpest shocks. His next inhale is stuttered and he can’t help making another tiny sound. Fuck, he hopes Jiang Cheng didn’t hear that— but then there’s a tongue curling around the head of his dick. Wei Ying pants out a half-protest, but Lan Zhan just makes a rumbling noise and Wei Ying feels him swallow.
“Lan Zhan, fuck,” he whispers, voice thick and croaky. His throat is wrecked, and his head feels like it's filled with bubbles. At his waist, Lan Zhan gives a last, lingering nip at his navel. Wei Ying shudders on an inhale. Fuck.
Another sound from the hall—the telltale squeak of the loose floorboard outside Jiang Cheng’s room, finally kicks Wei Ying’s brain back into gear. Holy shit, he cannot be standing here with his dick out when Jiang Cheng comes back in the next ten seconds.
Wei Ying stumbles backwards, kept from falling over by Lan Zhan’s grip on his waist. He tries to give a laugh—haha Lan Zhan wasn’t that so weird, aren’t I silly—but it still sort of sounds like a moan. Flushing hot, he extracates himself from Lan Zhan’s hands and stuffs his dick, still wet and shiny with spit, back into his pants. The rough stimulation of the fabric doesn’t feel great, but the heat still thrumming through his body is distracting enough that he can’t really care. He plops back down on the carpet, trying not to jostle himself too much, and sneaks a look over at Lan Zhan, who’s putting his underwear back on with his usual measured decorum. Except… his mouth is stained pink and there’s a hot flush high on his cheekbones that sets Wei Ying’s own cheeks aflame. He probably looks like a wreck too. His throat is raw from being used, and his fingers keep twitching around nothing, like he needs Lan Zhan back under him right now.
He reaches down for his abandoned hand of cards, trying to figure out how to pretend that they were. Well. That they were doing literally anything else while Jiang Cheng was gone. Lan Zhan’s terrible bluff is still scattered at the top of the pile, and Wei Ying looks at them. Five cards.
“Lan Zhan, there aren’t five aces in a deck.”
Lan Zhan raises a single eyebrow, expression not changing. He manages to look both haughty and entirely innocent at the same time, which is fucking ridiculous considering he just sucked Wei Ying’s soul out through his dick. Wei Ying narrows his eyes.
“You have to know that. Everyone knows that.”
“I have never played cards before, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, easy as anything. And then he smirks, the corners of his mouth quirking up all smug and proud of himself. “And the rules are easily forgettable when one is physically compromised.”
“Bullshit.”