Work Text:
Wie Ying is hunched over his table in the light of a single candle, knees up to his chin, staring into nothingness and slowly spooning a cheap chocolate-hazelnut spread into his mouth. It was on sale a month ago, and he had bought three jars of it but is now halfway through the second one. It’s too sweet, too not enough cocoa, too sparse on the nut, almost too thick to swallow. It’s kind of erotic. He thinks about getting his mouth fucked and about drinking down come and about being high on endorphins, he thinks about being dragged around by his hair, made to take it until he cries and chokes, begging all along. He begs prettily, and it’s a shame no one hears him when he’s desperate for it, when he’s whining and drooling.
The pipes tick. Whenever he turns on the heater, they go fucking crazy, like some kind of countdown until the whole building collapses, and it’s loud, so loud that he’s started to sleep with earplugs, even though he used to be able to sleep through the noise back in his childhood home. He doesn’t know what causes it, has already called his landlord multiple times about it, but they obviously don’t want to send anyone up to deal it. He meant to look up how to fix the pipes himself, but he fell down a whole YouTube spiral on the differences in spacetime of black holes, so now he has to think about the rotating abyss whenever he chases away the cold. They say it rips you apart, separates every atom. Would it hurt, or would he not even notice? Maybe he would be swayed into some kind of calm beforehand, a sense of safety before everything ends in chaos.
He curls his tongue around a peak of chocolate-hazelnut cream and melts it against his gum. He’s got rice flour and a little bit of milk left, one or two eggs, if he isn’t mistaken. That’s enough for breakfast, right? Maybe even too much for one person.
lan zhan
It’s 2:22am. Lovely number.
lan zhannnn can i come over
or can u come over maybe idk
I think I’m maybe still in love with you
He deletes that last one.
Two months ago, he moved out of their shared home because it was the sensible thing to do. They had broken up but remained living together for way too long, month on months of stupid reminders because nothing in that apartment was his, only theirs. Which was also true for the bed that they kept sleeping and fucking in. Even if it wasn’t ever intentional, even if it was only at dawn or dusk when they were both too fragile to make smart decisions, and he would breathe in Lan Zhan’s scent, and Lan Zhan would whisper baby and kiss his neck and whisper just a little, baby, just the tip, gonna make you feel so good, gonna make you come.
And then Wei Ying would wash Lan Zhan’s come out of his hole and cry in the shower, and they wouldn’t look at each other all day, only skirt around the kitchen table and avoid the couch and take turns playing with the bunnies. It was perfect timing, really, when Wen Ning finally got that spot in an assisted living complex. Wei Ying was able to move in within a week because the landlord knew he wouldn’t be able to find anyone else who’d sign his shitty contract. The rent is way too high, there’s not a single proper supermarket nearby, only those gentrified organic places that sell spices by the dollar, but there are no reminders here.
His phone remains silent.
He gives his spoon one last lick and screws the lid back onto the jar, then puts it in the cabinet where it belongs, sighs at the plates piling in the sink, and puts on gloves. As he works through the dishes, the warm water on his skin, despite the separation by the plastic, relaxes him. The sponge soaks and releases, slowly and surely while he washes away the dirt. A droplet slides down his forearm, but he pays it no mind. Next, he wipes down all the surfaces, wondering if his neighbors are awake and see him moving behind the curtains. He wonders if Wen Ning likes his new flat mates. He wonders if the traffic lights are on at this time of night.
In bed, he listens to the pipes and tries not to lose it.
Exactly forty-nine ticks later, there is a familiar pattern of muffled footsteps in the distance. He can hear them coming closer, a steady and paced rhythm, and he thinks of all the other footsteps that make his body freeze in panic, of the way he used to feel safe in their shared home. The key turns in the lock, smooth and quick. He gave Lan Zhan a key, which isn't weird because they might be exes, but they’re also best friends and have been for years, it’d just be wrong if Lan Zhan didn’t have a spare key to Wei Ying’s home. That’d be completely wrong.
No fumbling in the dark. The rasp of shoelaces untied, the gentle groan of Lan Zhan’s spring jacket weighing down the wardrobe. The ceiling light stays off, only the candle flickers and warps Wei Ying’s own shadow on the wall. He hears the fridge swing open, hears containers placed inside and resents Lan Zhan for feeding him. Even at their best, he could never quite forgive him for that, for being so effortlessly kind and righteous. For treating Wei Ying as if he wasn’t a burden. In the next few days, he will reheat whatever Lan Zhan made him and remember what he had and what he could’ve had. He will spoon everything in a bowl and add the doubanjiang they made together when he gifted Lan Zhan that fermentation cookbook for his birthday.
He doesn’t turn around when Lan Zhan glides under the blanket. The mattress dips, too thin to keep its shape, and his balance shifts, he slides right into Lan Zhan’s hold. Even through his woolen jumper, he can feel the warmth, the definition of muscles. “Why are you here,” he whispers. “Did no one ever tell you it’s dumb to cuddle your ex? Don’t be dumb, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Zhan kisses the vulnerable skin under his ear, lip cold but tongue warm when it darts out to lick along his neck. “Thank you for texting me. I appreciate you reaching out.”
“I didn’t,” Wei Ying says. “I’m not reaching out, it was just a question. You didn’t have to act on it. That’s entirely on you. I can’t control what you do.”
Lan Zhan hums, and it hurts how familiar that sound is. “Let me fuck you.”
Wei Ying’s stomach tightens. “You can’t expect to ambush someone in the night and then get your dick wet, that’s rude, those are bad manners. One day, you’ll have to live with the consequences of your actions.”
A big hand curls around his hip, fingertips brushing his waistband. “Spread your legs for me, sweetheart.”
“I—”
Lan Zhan doesn’t repeat himself. “Wei Ying.”
He holds his breath. Maybe if he’s lightheaded, the guilt won’t feel as suffocating. They shouldn’t be doing this. It’ll be too much, then too little, and then Wei Ying will be reminded of the choices he made, they both made, and why they should’ve thought everything through instead of acting impulsively, and why is he the one who had to be rational? Why was he the one who had to draw a line and speak what was unspoken?
He turns onto his stomach and spreads his legs.
“There we go,” Lan Zhan says evenly. He rids them of their clothes like they’re at fault for everything evil in the world. His palms cup Wei Ying’s ass, first gently then harshly, nails biting into his flesh. Pain zaps up his spine, and Wei Ying clenches his teeth, breathing shallowly. He hiccups on an inhale when a different kind of hurt blooms on his skin, Lan Zhan’s hand coming down two, three times, shocking him to his core. It’s much, much louder than the creaking of the pipes, and it wipes his mind empty.
“N-no,” he gasps. “Lan Zhan, don’t make me, please—”
No matter how often he’s in this position, he never expects the harsh slaps, the humiliating twitch of his entire body, his leaking cock.
“Next time, you do as I say without hesitation.” With the next hit, he feels his ass bounce, like a scene in a cheap porn, like Lan Zhan doesn’t just want to make it ache but remind him how easy it is, how easily he presents himself. His hips get pressed into the mattress, he doesn’t remember even raising them, merely that he made sure his hole wouldn’t be ignored, and now he can’t shy away from the next slap, helplessly searching for an anchor in the sheets.
“That’s not, that’s not what I want!”
He gets hit, again and again until he doesn’t know where the sting comes from. “Did you not text me to get put in your place and fucked the way you need it?”
He wishes it weren’t this late, wishes he wasn’t this sad, wishes he could form the words to make Lan Zhan understand, but instead, he’s swallowing his moans, blinking away his tears. It hurts. It hurts so much, and it’s meant to hurt, this is what he gets for not trusting Lan Zhan, he should’ve trusted him. “I-I didn’t. It was just convenient, you’re close, and I’ve tried it for weeks, I don’t even wanna fuck myself anymore, it’s all so boring, I just can’t get there alone—” His own sinking heart stops his words.
There’s a measured silence behind him. He feels their thighs touching, can feel a hand hovering over his skin, and the anticipation of the next slap makes his spine seize up, his muscles lock.
A long exhale. “You haven’t come since the last time I fucked you, a-Ying?”
Instead of a hit, his cheeks get spread, his muscles constricting under a heavy gaze. He’s laid bare like this. “No one has touched this, not even you?” A finger circles his hole, dry and rough. Then it fucks inside, probing, checking if the goods were damaged.
“A-ah, fuck! Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, please, I’m practically a virgin again, won’t you be gentle?”
Maybe it’s his own wishful thinking, the embarrassing need for Lan Zhan’s happiness, but he hears something like a quiet laugh, maybe an amused hum. His cheeks heat up, he’s so obvious in his desire, so desperate.
The finger curls, and something like pain tears at his skin. “A virgin who needs it rough, who needs to be told he’s a little bitch wanting to get used?”
His breath gets stuck somewhere in his throat, sharp pressure surging up his neck. This is too much, he usually has some time to submit and float before Lan Zhan gets on this level of meanness, he’s usually allowed to be all heat and pleasure before the truth breaks him down. “I, I–I’m not, I’m not– that.”
“So you did not try to pleasure yourself but found yourself incapable of coming without thinking of me forcing you to take it?” Lan Zhan asks lightly, curiously, and why is he so talkative all of a sudden, why does he say these things out loud? This sudden shift is startling, unsettling, almost making his skin itch. He doesn’t know what this is anymore.
Wei Ying wipes his eyes in the pillow, rubbing them into the cotton case. “Why would I think about you? I didn’t, I don’t. We’re over, we both said so, we agreed on that, and I think maybe today should be the last time, really, don’t you agree? I’ve just… that text earlier, that was just, you know. Because I—.” Because he was bored, and listening to the pipes is much worse than listening to Lan Zhan’s sleep-laden breathing, because he has been alone in his shitty apartment for almost a week now and answering texts has become more and more difficult, because he found an underlined paragraph in a poetry book today, because he forgot the name of the clouds that swept over the sky this afternoon.
“Mn,” is the only noise Lan Zhan makes, followed by a slow trickle of spit that slips onto Wei Ying’s hole. Wei Ying gasps with it, with the second finger pushing into him and massaging inside. It’s a little faster now, stretching out his rim in precise motions as Lan Zhan’s other hand torments his ass, squeezing and pinching, more slaps in quick succession. It has been way too long since he has suffered from this sweet pain, since he got to endure Lan Zhan’s roughness, and his nerves alight in excitement.
“Are you gonna make this good, Lan Zhan?” he asks, trying to keep his tone steady. “Are you gonna make me remember this last time, this—this first time, you taking my virginity and then leaving me behind, that’s so, so cruel, how could you!”
There’s more and more wetness where he is stretched and sensitive, he can feel it cooling, can feel it trickling down, can feel Lan Zhan’s breath getting closer, and then he cries out as there’s a strong lick, teeth biting down. “I-is this what people really do? Isn’t this, isn’t this horribly—are you not embarrassed, Lan Zhan, a-ah!” His thighs give a tremble every time Lan Zhan’s tongue drags over his skin, it’s ruthless the way he’s prodding it along his fingers, so hot and strong. Maybe if he weren’t so pathetic, he’d worry about his unshaven pubes or the sweat gathering on his curves, but all he can think about is the immense relief at having Lan Zhan back, at being under him again. “Let me see you, let me see, I want to look at your face, please, won’t you be kind?”
“No,” and there’s a third finger, a warm mouth gifting him with sharp sensations up his sides, in the vulnerable dip of his waist, at the back of his neck. Lan Zhan’s last bite is to his cheek, high on his face, lips pressing onto his bone. “I’ll take you from behind, slut.”
Wei Ying is empty, gasping, searching for a kiss, then grabbing for something, anything, until his wrists are pinned again, and there’s the blunt of Lan Zhan’s cock on his hole, demanding to get in. It’s too big, it’s always too big to take, and he begs, pleads: “I can’t, I can’t, that’s too fast, please, please, don’t harm this poor virgin!”
“Fine,” Lan Zhan says sharply, and suddenly his weight is gone. He reaches for the bedside table, uncapping what he finds there. “This useless slut can’t get wet by himself, so I’ll help.”
It’s better, much better, and Wei Ying smears his gratefulness into the pillow, drooling onto it: “Thank you, thank you ah-hhnngg, fuck!”
There’s no finesse, no angling for his spot, just one long brutal thrust, big hands pushing him down, raising his hips, fingers drilling into his flesh, parting his cheeks, and his rim is aching, stretching, throbbing around the pressure. If it weren’t for the sudden quiet flooding his senses and letting his own pitiful noises die in his chest, he wouldn’t have heard it, but there it is: one low groan, muted like a secret in the dark. Lan Zhan’s cock, deep inside him, gets fatter, makes space for itself.
“You like this virgin’s hole, don’t you, gege?” Wei Ying whispers. He’s giddy with it, the raw and absolute knowledge that his body needs Lan Zhan, but Lan Zhan needs his body just as much.
His hair is swept to the other side of his neck and teeth drag over his racing pulse, a sweet threat. “I like this virgin, yes.”
“Is it tight enough for you, can you feel how much it needs you, no one has ever fucked it, no one else has ever been in your place, gege—”
“And no one else will ever be,” Lan Zhan murmurs.
Wei Ying shakes his head, gives his moans a protesting undertone. “No, no, you can’t—know that, you don’t know that.”
“I do,” a kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Lan Zhan is fucking him in gentle movements, only pulling halfway out before he tenderly moves in again, it’s torturous, wrong. He seems to be holding himself up, depriving Wei Ying of his heat, merely letting him feel his warmth in increments. His hands, one still on Wei Ying's waist, the other in his hair, are laying softly, unmoving. Only his mouth is restless, nibbling on Wei Ying’s jaw, his cheek, sucking under his ear. This is not an angry midnight fuck, this is love making. Wei Ying starts crying. A little. The last few hairs in his rows of lashes feel sticky, anyway.
“Is this slut wet enough for you now?” he asks, making his voice breathy. “You seem to be enjoying yourself, gege, what would people think, knowing you broke this virgin in and—”
“Ruined him for everyone else.”
“N-no, that’s not what I meant.”
An earnest laugh. “Yes, baby, that’s exactly what you meant. Alright then, I understand what you want me to do. On your elbows.”
Wei Ying, who had been comfortably resting on his front, presenting himself and hoping to get ravished, reluctantly rises. His vision spins for a second, but he doesn’t have time to worry about it. Lan Zhan’s thighs spread his own, muscles seizing up before he drives his full weight down, and Wei Ying breaks, crumbles, but before he can hit the bed again, his scalp screams out as he’s lifted by his hair. He yelps, tries to free himself to no avail, arms flailing. “Mercy, fuck, please!”
The world realigns itself, his knees protesting as he’s pulled back against Lan Zhan’s chest, then they’re upright, and he’s confronted with their flickering shadows on the tapestry, their edges blurred. The hand in his hair rushes to his neck, right over his Adam’s apple, squeezing down in a warning, and then he’s fucked with violence. A scream escapes him as he’s handled like a toy, hauled up and down by his throat, by his waist, by Lan Zhan’s incredible strength. His spine is alight with pain, with the curve to his back and the cock reaching deep inside, rendering his limbs useless, his ass smarting. He can’t get air. Whenever he hopes to inhale, Lan Zhan’s fingers clamp up, and this is bad, this is bad practice, not over his windpipe, they both know this, they need to be careful— “Pl-ease, please, L-an Zhan—” He’s cut off, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t do anything, he’s caught and he’s helpless.
His eyes can’t see anything, there’s just light and dancing spots, none of his senses seem to function except for the important one: touch, touch everywhere, cold breeze on his chest, vicious cock inside him, rough fingers on his throat, heat all around, drowning him. He will never know anything else again, there is only this, only the addictive rush of nothingness.
“Do you still think there will ever be anyone else?” Lan Zhan speaks into his ear, far, far away, the only sound in the universe. Wei Ying simultaneously doesn’t feel anything and too much, he’s shaking, gurgling, coming and coming, played like an easy instrument, ripped to pieces. He is floating, and he is bound, wiped out and aware of every single connection, Lan Zhan’s chest, Lan Zhan’s knuckles, Lan Zhan’s lips, Lan Zhan’s cock, unrelenting. It hasn’t stopped, his hole gets used despite his weak protests, and it hurts, but he’s so, so grateful.
“I don’t think this one is a virgin. Not with the way it moans for it.”
He can’t reply, can’t protest, his consciousness is caught in a spiral of chaos, his tongue is too numb to form words.
“Oh, I know what it wants.” Said so gently, so tenderly. And then Wei Ying’s cock ignites in pain. It feels worse than a broad slap to his ass, sharper even, as if Lan Zhan had snapped his nail at something bothersome, idly flicking away lint or crumbs. It’s worse than the spanking. He’s not even deserving of a real slap, of effort put behind the hurt. Wei Ying’s eyes squeeze shut. Another snap, wetness spread around, a finger rubbing over his slit, trying to bury in. “One day I’ll fuck you here, too.”
Worst of all, he’s still a little hard, his blood still boiling, his abdomen burning. Lights rise and fall in the dark, he can smell his own spit, the salt on his face, then his strawberry-scented lube as Lan Zhan shoves two fingers into his slick mouth. They go deep inside his throat, flattening his tongue, gagging him. It feels like he hasn’t taken a breath in days.
“You see what I do to you, Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan asks, fucking him harshly, all thighs and hips. “You see what you are with me? You think you don’t need me?”
The two fingers tug on his bottom lip, forcing him to drool, then it’s dribbling along his chin, mixing with his tears. He’s a mess, rendered down to nothing but need and response, only able to react to what Lan Zhan does to him. He’s willing when he’s let go and falls, he’s willing when he’s turned around, he’s willing when his aching legs are hooked over Lan Zhan’s shoulders, he’s willing when what he needs most is back, huge cock pushing in. The noises are lewd, his sounds are lewd, he has longed for this, waited so long.
“Pathetic,” Lan Zhan mutters, and he’s so beautiful, so stunning, dark eyes glinting in the golden light of the candle, jaw set and expression furious, a vein on his forehead pulsing. Wei Ying only has a moment to gaze up at him, at his red lips before they’re on him, teeth clanking against his, a kiss so aggressive and familiar that it makes him cry harder. He wonders if Lan Zhan can taste the chocolate on him. He wonders if this is what it’s like to be ripped apart by spacetime.
And then Lan Zhan does something he rarely, if ever does. “Fuck,” he swears, almost inaudible, swallowed by their mouths. He repeats himself. “Fuck, I want to keep you, I want to fuck you every day, I want to make you so weak for my cock that you can’t go without it, need it in you all the time, need my come to think. A bitch for me.”
They are both trembling, so sweaty it’s soaking the sheet under Wei Ying’s back, and the bed creaks so loud that the neighbors know, know that he gets weak for it in the middle of the night, that he texts his ex-boyfriend to slap him around, command him, break him down. They know he’s a desperate bitch, everyone knows, can see it on him. They must know he’s only fulfilled when he’s beneath Lan Zhan like this, when he’s split apart by his cock. He might as well start wearing his collar again, that and nothing else, a reminder to himself and the world.
Maybe one day he’ll be able to function without Lan Zhan again. Maybe one day he’ll wake up and not throb with the emptiness; maybe one day he'll ignite a candle and not think about how their first time was at night, a single light hiding them; maybe one day he'll endure the silence he created himself. But today is not that day.
He arches into Lan Zhan’s grip, twitches so he’ll get held down, moves his arms so they’ll be crossed above his head, and draws Lan Zhan closer with his legs bent in half, moans and whines to let him know he loves it. His hole is loose, so wet, squelching, strawberry-sweet with soreness. When he manages to tighten himself for more than a few seconds to get his spot to spark, to become alive again, Lan Zhan’s face contorts as if in misery, eyes glazing over. “Open your mouth.”
Wei Ying does, watches as Lan Zhan gathers spit and lets it droop from his pursed lips. It sinks slowly, a few white bubbles popping as the air hits them, then it touches the tip of his tongue, cool and thick, taste stinging the back of his throat. He savors it, sucks at the underside of his gums. “Thank you,” he slurs, weirdly echoed. His voice is dry, scratching his abused lungs.
Lan Zhan’s lips tremble. “Tell me you need this, baby.”
He withdraws his cock slowly and fucks back in fast, his torso curling with the act, biceps bulging as he’s holding himself up; he is pure strength and desire like this. He is all presence and reality, and yet, with the weak fluttering of the flame, he seems like a fever vision, glowing skin, hair framing him like a painting. He’s untouchable, and yet he’s fucking Wei Ying. He keeps fucking him, keeps coming back despite everything.
Wei Ying begins to speak and coughs, swallowing to ease the ache. “I-I do. I need this, want this,” he coughs again. “Want you so bad.” The last syllable dies out, replaced by the ticking of the pipes. But Lan Zhan looks back at him, looks, devours, eats him up whole, and his lips still shake.
“You love me,” Lan Zhan says. “You will love me always, Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying’s body constricts, his chest around his heart, his hole around Lan Zhan’s cock, and he cries, pathetic tears that slide down his temples and soak into the pillow. He’s filled up, come spurting into him, fingers parting his lips, a tongue pushing against his, an impossible force inside him. He doesn’t know how he bears it. He doesn’t know how he goes days without it. Lan Zhan is right. He will always love him. They need each other, and he was foolish to think they’d function alone. Not when they can have this, not when they are this.
Maybe he comes again, he’s not sure. His legs are back on the mattress, but their stomachs are touching, and his cock is warm and wet, just like his hole is bruised and open and owned. He isn’t sure what this means for them, but what he is sure of is pleasure, is joy. He’s adrift with it, bathing in gold. Oh, how he missed this. His arms are wrapped around Lan Zhan’s neck, and then they’re flipping, he’s above him now, resting his head on a sturdy shoulder. The sides of his face feel wet, wetter, he’s probably still crying, crying into Lan Zhan’s skin. He tries to give a weak kiss to the collarbone beneath his temple. His scalp is getting a nice massage, his ass, too. Next, someone is giggling, someone is happy, there’s a warm hum in his ear, kisses to his cheekbones, to his eyelids, the bridge of his nose. “Come back to me. Come back. Come back, Wei Ying, please.”
He does so without reluctance. Where he is, it is soft and safe, but where he becomes aware to is comfortable and caring, too. It’s only cold for a second before Lan Zhan wraps the duvet around them, makes sure it covers their feet. He smells so good. Sweaty and intense. Maybe his scent will last in the sheets. Wei Ying wants it to last. He has that thought right when he realizes that Lan Zhan hasn’t pulled out yet, is still deep in him, not as hard but not yet soft.
Wei Ying gathers his strength to raise his head and keep his eyes open as he tightens his hole. “What are they called again, the clouds that look like brush strokes, kinda like hair?”
Lan Zhan smiles, the lines of his lips are hazy, washed out. “Cirrus.”
“Fuck me again,” he croaks, cups Lan Zhan’s cheek, and kisses him. “Don’t stop when I fall asleep, okay? And then keep going. And fuck me awake in the morning. You will stay, yeah? You shouldn’t leave. That’s bad manners.”
Like this, he can feel Lan Zhan’s breathing, can feel him swallowing. They are as close as can be. He’s so sticky, itchy behind his ears, he must smell, but one and only ever one person has had him like this, has seen him like this in his entirety, and that’s what it is. It’s so simple, when it comes down to it. It’s about the sex, it’s about being bent and broken, it’s about looking forward to breakfast tomorrow, it’s about going to sleep inhaling another’s breath, it’s about knowing that comfort is an arm’s length away. It’s about Lan Zhan having learned, instinctively, with him, through him, what he needs. It’s about having those needs fulfilled, even when it’s hard, when it takes effort.
He thinks about cirrus clouds and contemporary diaspora poets and how people used to be sure black holes would rip you apart, but also how there have been new theories, how there are those who say it’s not all chaos, not all destruction. Becoming hurts, too.