Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Winter lays siege to the city after the ice storm. Not like the fiery bloodshed of an occupying army but rather like the impersonal arm of a bureaucratic stranglehold: slow, steady, inescapable. In the mornings, a curtain of fog envelops the streets like a burial shroud. By nighttime, they are clogged with filthy slush that squelches under Lan Wangji’s feet and splatters his boots with mud—it is just what happens to fresh white snow when it mingles with the grime of the city.

To make matters worse, the holiday season descends upon the world like a sickly sweet goo that seeps into every crevice. Streaming services teem with Holiday Hunks and Christmas Castles and countless other inane variations of the same tired story in which horrors magically cease simply because of a meaningless holiday on an arbitrarily selected day on the calendar. Every store, restaurant, and public space blares the same vacuous musical numbers, as they’ve done every year for all eternity, every tree is decorated with tiny blinking lights that do little to dispel the night’s icy gloom, and every street corner is overtaken by at least one desperate man in a red suit begging for cash for a charitable cause. It takes all of Lan Wangji’s strength not to punch one of them out as he walks to work.

It has been two weeks since the incident at the park. Christmas came and went, and Wei Ying has not returned to the speakeasy. At least all the holiday cheer will abate shortly after the new year begins—thank heavens for small mercies.

Though Lan Wangji has typed Wei Ying’s name into the search bar of his browser many times, he has yet to hit enter before changing his mind, closing the lid of his laptop a tad too sharply. He doesn’t want to know. Doesn’t want the option to reach out. He understands all he needs to anyway. Wei Ying had come to the speakeasy with a different woman every week. And walked home with them at the end of the night. Promiscuous. Frivolous. Shameless. 

Lan Wangji had been merely one of many conquests, undoubtedly as insignificant to Wei Ying as any given patron of the speakeasy to Lan Wangji. Perhaps noteworthy only in his being a man, possibly in requiring more than one night of seduction. It is for the best that things ended as they did. Lan Wangji can not trust himself around Wei Ying, that much became clear that afternoon at the park. Pathetic. Wretched. Weak.

Of course, none of this stops him from hanging the red hair ribbon across the lamp on his nightstand or from letting it wind and slip through his fingers every night as he tries to recall the taste of Wei Ying’s mouth, the sharp curve of his lips.

The thing inside Lan Wangji perks up at this act as well. Like a pesky rodent, he has not been able to squash it back down again, so he allows it to claw, to howl, to dream of Wei Ying as the light trails scarlet across the ribbon, burgundy shadows forming in the dips. That is all it will ever be, a dream.

Xichen worries, and it only makes things harder. He doesn’t try to pry information out of Lan Wangji, but he does enlist his friends to help. Shortly after a very close call in the kitchen with Meng Yao’s hand and Xichen’s best butcher knife, Lan Wangji receives a text from Nie Mingjue.

Nie Mingjue is moody and taciturn and hence much more palatable to Lan Wangji at the moment. The plea for help is a lie, but it is not entirely a lie, in a way that Lan Wangji understands too well. Allowing himself to be dragged to the market will hopefully ease some of the guilt he’s been feeling regarding his brother as well.

While the Lans don’t technically celebrate Christmas or the Gregorian New Year, Xichen is, for lack of a better term, a holiday aficionado. He offers iftar menus at the restaurant during the entire month of Ramadan, bedecks their condo in a sea of lights for Diwali, decorates a tree for Christmas. He makes donations to relevant cultural centers for religious holidays and tries his best to find public celebrations to join for others. It is an endearing quirk when Lan Wangji is in a good mood, an annoying idiosyncrasy when he is not.

Needless to say, Lan Wangji has not been a very good brother this holiday season. Going to the market is a hassle, but it is the least he can do.

Unfortunately, it is as bad as Lan Wangji expects. The market is set up outside, with heat lamps scattered between dozens of booths and stalls and tables underneath makeshift canvas canopies to keep out the falling snow. Mulled wine and burnt sausage announce their olfactory presence through the bustling crowd, multicolored lights twinkle in every direction, and tired holiday music flows through the cracks of excited or stressed out conversations.

Vendors peddle food and drinks and knickknacks and belated presents and discounted toys and useless handcrafted trinkets as Lan Wangji trails behind Xichen, Meng Yao, and Nie Mingjue miserably, eyes fixed on his own feet, obediently looking up only when Xichen attempts to engage his interest.

They are stopped at a table selling wind chimes made of cutlery (”Isn’t this neat, Wangji? Maybe we can get one for the restaurant.”) when a boisterous laugh cuts through all the noise and the smell and the lights and straight through Lan Wangji. Wei Ying is at the booth next to theirs, flanked by his small harem of women, Wen Qing and MianMian, each with a hand wrapped under one of his elbows. They are examining a selection of holiday-themed sex toys.

Wei Ying looks up, and Lan Wangji’s heart seems to think he has jumped out of an airplane, pounds a million beats a minute.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying croaks, his eyes wide, expression inscrutable.

Is he happy to see Lan Wangji? Distressed? Indifferent? Lan Wangji doesn’t know.

He can hear the blood rushing to his head, feel his stomach drop to his feet. His limbs are too long and his mouth absolutely parched. He doesn't know what to do with his arms, so he shifts all his energy toward making sure his face isn't doing anything weird.

Strands of ink-black hair frame Wei Ying’s lean face in stark contrast to the soft white hat that covers his ears. Lan Wangji’s hat.

Breathe.

As though in a rehearsed dance move from an 80’s pop music video, Lan Wangji’s trio of companions all turn their heads at the exact same time to stare at Wei Ying. He laughs nervously, extricates himself from the women, and extends a hand towards Xichen with that curious, inquisitive look that always seems to heat up Lan Wangji’s ears. A set of peppermint-swirl patterned anal beads hangs forgotten from his other hand.

Breathe.

“Hi,” he says. “I’m Wei Wuxian. You must be Lan Zhan’s brother?”

Wen Qing and MianMian both glare at Lan Wangji, but he only hears the conversation as though through a wind tunnel, as though someone has turned the volume down, pushed his head under water.

He has forgotten how to breathe.

His heartbeat throbs in his temples and an icy chill creeps from his neck down his spine. He stares straight ahead, unseeing, balls his hands up into fists, tries to focus on the solid ground beneath him.

Breathe, he thinks again, but his throat has clamped shut, refusing to allow any air in or out.

He is only vaguely aware that time has passed, that Wei Ying is gone, that Xichen has herded him away from the tables, from the crowd, and directed him to sit on a bench just past the food trucks. He is shaking a little but can’t tell if it’s from the cold or the heat or something else entirely.

Breathe.

Awareness trickles back in bit by bit, and Lan Wangji feels cold sweat collecting on the back of his neck, the soft wool of his sweater scratchy and uncomfortable against his skin. He tears off his scarf to free his throat and finally takes large gulps of icy air, a sharp spasm shooting through his lungs at the motion. His fingers and toes are tingling.

Xichen is sitting next to him, running his hand gently down Lan Wangji’s back, speaking in a soft voice. It takes a while before Lan Wangji can hear him.

“Wangji, you haven’t had a panic attack like that since we were teenagers,” Xichen says after Lan Wangji calms down enough to acknowledge his presence. “Are you alright?”

“I just like him so much,” Lan Wangji mumbles without meaning to, truth spilling out of him bare, unfiltered, ridiculous, stupid. He is too tired. His guardrails are crumbling.

It takes Xichen a moment to react.

“Ate all your olives guy?” he asks, brows furrowed, eyes darting left and right as though attempting to solve a complex equation.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says, and the name is hot ashes in his mouth. If he inhales, he will choke on it.

“Wangji, breathe,” Xichen reminds him again. “It is alright. I am here.”

Meng Yao and Nie Mingjue approach slowly from the crowd, and Meng Yao silently places a cup of hot apple cider in Lan Wangji’s hands, warm and comforting, a tether. Steam swirls and billows from the top of the liquid in the cup and disperses as it mingles with the cold air.

The three men surrounding him exchange a few glances without speaking. They think him pathetic. And they are right. The humiliation is just the cherry on top.

“Would you like to go home?” Xichen asks finally.

It doesn’t really matter to Lan Wangji. Home is no better than here. Everywhere is equally miserable. He shakes his head.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to go ice skating?” Nie Mingjue asks Xichen, his tone deliberately casual. “Why don’t you two check out the rink, and I’ll sit here with Wangji for a bit.”

“Are you sure that’s alright, Wangji?” Xichen asks after a brief pause.

“Mn, I am fine,” Lan Wangji lies, and the tremble in his voice betrays him.

He is exhausted, suddenly, his limbs made of lead, but this way at least he doesn’t have to also feel guilty. He watches his brother walk off with Meng Yao hand in hand after casting a few worried glances back his way, and envy fills his heart.

The thing inside of him may want what it wants, but Lan Wangji also wants this. To hold hands. To laugh. To exchange meaningful glances.

“Meng Yao tells me that this is about a man,” Nie Mingjue says gruffly after clearing his throat, and the sheer unlikelihood of Nie Mingjue wanting to talk about feelings seems to pull Lan Wangji out of his head and back down to earth a little.

He looks over at him, slightly horrified, and Nie Mingjue chuckles. He does look good with the buzz cut, Lan Wangji thinks. It makes his mustache really pop.

“I know, I know,” Nie Mingjue says. “Trust me when I say that I don’t want to talk about it any more than you do. But sometimes that’s exactly the problem, you know?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t know, but it’s enough to keep his attention. A long silence passes between them before Nie Mingjue finds the words or possibly the courage to say them.

“Believe it or not, I know a thing or two about repressed desire,” he speaks at a measured pace, as though each word has to be weighed and inspected before being released into the world. “Even if you think it’s unwanted or wrong. Especially then.” 

He sighs deeply, with a weariness that surprises Lan Wangji coming from the indomitable Nie Mingjue, then chuckles again to himself before continuing.

“Unless you want to find yourself sitting on a bench at a holiday market babysitting his brother while he twirls and pirouettes or whatever the fuck people do on the ice with his little boyfriend, you should probably try talking to the guy about how you feel. The worst he can do is say no, and you still won’t be any worse off than you are right now.”

It’s not the same, Lan Wangji thinks. “What I want from him is... untenable,” he explains.

“That’s not for you to decide, bud,” Nie Mingjue says, and Lan Wangji chooses to ignore the condescension. “Besides, if this is the same man A-Sang mentioned, he seems to be pretty into you.”

“Weird guy though,” he adds as an afterthought, more to himself than Lan Wangji, and Lan Wangji is offended on Wei Ying’s behalf but also agrees. He agrees in a good way. In the best way. He is so fucking weird. And Lan Wangji likes him so much.

The thing inside him is growing restless. Hope is a drug, and it is too late to resist it, it has already entered his bloodstream, extended its tentacles into the rational parts of his brain, sprayed reason with fanciful ink. He considers following Nie Mingjue’s advice for a moment and then suddenly knows that he must. He ignores Nie Mingjue’s smug smile as he rushes off into the crowd.

But it is too late.

Happy couples glide in a large circle around the patch of ice in the center of the holiday market, and Lan Wangji watches his brother lean into Meng Yao’s touch from afar. He has covered every inch of the space twice, his steps growing ever more frantic. He has peered at every face, listened for every sound, and Wei Ying is nowhere to be found.

Maybe it is for the best. Maybe it simply wasn’t meant to be. He texts Nie Mingjue to tell him he is heading home, to let his brother know not to worry, and makes his way back quietly through the empty streets.

The snow is falling harder now, and the air is so cold he can taste it, like a sharp blade in his mouth. The thing inside him is less a feral beast and more a toddler throwing a temper tantrum in a grocery store aisle, screaming at the top of its lungs the only word it knows: “Mine!” And all Lan Wangji can do is let it cry, hope it tires itself out.

Flurries of snowflakes dance in the yellow pool of light under a street lamp ahead of him, and hope blooms in his chest once more. He recognizes two figures building a snowman in the clearing under the light. Wen Qing and MianMian. As he approaches, he can see another shape half-buried in the snow on the ground. 

Wen Qing grabs a handful of colorful candies from a bag in MianMian’s hand and arranges them in a smile across the snowman’s face as MianMian grabs a handful more and throws them one by one at the figure in the snow. They are talking and laughing loudly all at the same time, but like a rendition of the Abominable Snow Rabbit, Lan Wangji can’t seem to stop his feet from trudging toward them through the snow, intruding unbidden on their idyllic snow day fun.

The beast has taken hold of the reins of his heart and is dragging him forward relentlessly, all propriety, all reason, all dignity thrown to the wind by the mere possibility of Wei Ying. 

Wen Qing spots him first. The laughter freezes on her face, transforms into a grimace of rage. She stumbles a little as she walks clumsily toward him.

“You!” she screeches and jabs her index finger at Lan Wangji’s chest. “You are a bad man! A very bad man!” 

The last time Lan Wangji had seen her, she had been the picture of quiet composure. Now, she is divine fury incarnate. She slurs her words a little as she continues to berate Lan Wangji, each syllable punctuated with another jab of her finger, which Lan Wangji can't really feel through the layers of his sweater and coat.

“Why are you here? You haven’t fucked with his head enough yet? You, you—” she staggers a little, apparently unable to come up with a word bad enough to describe Lan Wangji, but MianMian, ever so helpful, jumps in: “Fuckboy!”

“Yes,” Wen Qing screams in delight. “You fuckboy!”

Lan Wangji dares a glance over at the ground, where Wei Ying still lies frozen, encased in the shape of an angel he has carved out in the snow with his body. His mouth is slightly open, his eyes bright, but he makes no indication of wanting to move or speak. MianMian, on the other hand, joins the fray.

“What do you want?” she asks roughly. She isn’t as drunk as Wen Qing—or, more likely, she can hold her liquor better—but she is just as enraged at the sight of Lan Wangji.

It is all very, very strange.

Lan Wangji tries to reason out why they are upset. Has Wei Ying told them about the kiss? If they are romantically entwined, perhaps it was Lan Wangji who has crossed the line by making a move on their boyfriend? It doesn’t quite add up. Wei Ying definitely kissed him, not the other way around. And if they are happy to share him between them, what would be wrong with a kiss?

But more importantly, why is Wei Ying still lying in the snow, ignoring all this?

“I—” he tries to defend himself, but Wen Qing cuts him off before he can come up with what to say.

“I, I, I,” she mocks. “You what? Wanted to mix up those signals some more? Sprinkle extra heartbreak on top? You made it pretty fucking clear you’re not interested, so just get the fuck out of his life, alright? Fuckboy!”

“No, wait, seriously, dude,” MianMian joins back in. “I wanna know though. I wanna know! What is so terribly offensive about XianXian that you couldn’t even be polite just now? You had to fucking humiliate him in front of your family and friends?”

“Fuckboy!” Wen Qing yells out again. She grabs a handful of snow and throws it at Lan Wangji, who continues to stand there as immobile as the snowman next to him.

Wei Ying stands up slowly behind them, finally, pats the snow off his back, and wraps his arms around their shoulders from behind.

“Ladies, I appreciate what you’re doing here, I really do, but your Uber is here,” he says quietly. The girls both frown at him.

“We’re not leaving you alone with him,” Wen Qing says firmly. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, crosses her arms, and does her best impression of a sober person.

“Hmmm, but you are,” Wei Ying responds with a small smile. “I’m sorry, but I have no desire to sit in your living room while you two make out again tonight. So I’m going to talk to Lan Zhan, and then I’m going to go home. And if you don’t leave now, you will have to wait another hour for the next available ride.”

A car pulls up just then, and Wei Ying ushers his women towards it, exchanging fervent hushed whispers, the girls throwing several dirty looks Lan Wangji’s way. He stands rooted to the spot still, blinking stupidly at them, at a complete loss as to what is going on.

Pretty much the moment Wei Ying closes the car door, Wen Qing and MianMian seem to forget all about him and pounce on each other, making out furiously as the car pulls away.

“Yeah, I hope they tip the driver extra for that,” Wei Ying jokes as he walks back to where Lan Wangji is still standing. His tone is lighthearted and casual, but there is an unmistakable tightness in his voice, frailty in his smile.

“You are not dating them?” Lan Wangji blurts out. He has been blurting things out a lot lately. It is unlike him.

After a moment of stunned silence, Wei Ying barks out a laugh. 

“What the fuck,” he breathes out, glances at Lan Wangji incredulously before rubbing his eyes and looking away again. “What, you thought we were one big happy polycule? I’m just out here dating every woman I brought to your bar? Trying to add you into the mix?”

Lan Wangji shrugs. It didn’t seem that far fetched until Wei Ying said it out loud.  Another silent moment passes between them, with nothing but the soft buzz of snowflakes as they hit the icy layer below.

“I am not dating them. Or anyone,” Wei Ying says. “I am not dating. Period. Ever again. Looking into that celibate monk thing, actually. I hear it’s very fulfilling. Just gotta find a religion that doesn’t suck, is all.”

Lan Wangji thinks he is joking. He is pretty sure he is joking. But the evening has been so stressful, and this interaction in particular so confusing, that he simply doesn’t know anymore. He tries to remember what he was going to say, why he is here. Other than that he wants Wei Ying. Wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. That doesn’t seem like the right thing to say just now.

Wei Ying fidgets under his gaze. He never does well with prolonged silence. He seems to remember something, takes off his hat and hands it to Lan Wangji.

“I guess you want this back?” he asks.

He is not meeting Lan Wangji’s eyes, just looks somewhere around his chest level and off to the side. It hurts. Lan Wangji takes the hat instinctively, unsure what else to do.

Wei Ying’s Adam’s apple bobs before he nods curtly. “Aright, I guess uhh... Unless there was something else, I’ll just—”

“I have your hair ribbon,” Lan Wangji says. He is blurting again. The first thing that came to mind. He wants a reason to keep Wei Ying here. To keep him talking. He is not very good at making up excuses.

The inanity of it seems to startle Wei Ying, and he meets Lan Wangji’s gaze for the first time. Frayed flecks of white twirl above him and land softly on his hair before dissipating. His cheeks are rosy from the cold, his eyelashes dark and wet with snow. 

“It is a short walk to my apartment if you’d like it back,” Lan Wangji says, and it is possibly the most ridiculous, cavalier, forward sentence he has ever uttered. He has no idea what he will do if Wei Ying accepts. Much less if he doesn’t.

“It’s a hair ribbon, I don’t—” Wei Ying scoffs, then stops himself mid-sentence, seems to think better of it. “Yeah, okay.”

The barest tendril of hope breaks through the frozen ground inside Lan Wangji. He nods and begins to walk, Wei Ying following alongside him. They don’t speak the whole way there, conversation replaced by the hushed swish of their boots through fresh powdery snow, the occasional creak as it compresses under their feet. 

When Lan Wangji unlocks the front door and enters the apartment, Wei Ying does not follow. He looks like an ink blot, dressed all in black, framed by the doorway against the stark whiteness of the snow, his face the only point of light. 

“I’ll just wait here,” he says, and there is no joy in his brittle smile.

Lan Wangji nods, takes off his boots and coat, and goes to his room for the ribbon.  His shaky fingers fumble with his phone, and it is a small relief when Xichen replies right away.

He sets his phone to Do Not Disturb and leaves it on the nightstand. He cannot think about Xichen’s reaction just now. The red ribbon unfurls from the lamp, and Lan Wangji takes a deep breath, holds it gingerly in his hand. When he returns to the front door, Wei Ying is muttering quietly to himself. He stops abruptly when he catches sight of Lan Wangji. 

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji starts. It is now or never. And he has no idea what to say. 

Wei Ying reaches out for the ribbon, and Lan Wangji jerks it away. He doesn’t want to part with it. He doesn’t want to part with Wei Ying.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, and he sounds angry, exasperated, but the sound of his name from Wei Ying’s lips is enough to compel Lan Wangji to speak.

“I would like to discuss what happened,” he says, and it’s not his best opening line, but it is all so complicated, and he doesn’t know where else to begin.

Wei Ying scoffs.

“Look, I know that my friends were aggressive out there,” he says, “and, like, yeah more than a little drunk, but they had a point. I get that you don’t want me, but that doesn’t mean...”

“I do want you,” Lan Wangji says, and it is all suddenly very simple, actually.

“...that you can ju—” Wei Ying freezes, then frowns. His mouth closes and opens again a few times, before he eloquently continues: “Wha— um... huh?”

Lan Wangji doesn’t dare look at his face, so he stares at his feet instead.

“Lan Zhan, what did you just say?” Wei Ying’s voice is aggressive. Angry. But the only way out is through.

“I do want you,” Lan Wangji repeats. That is all there is to it.

A strangled noise comes from Wei Ying. The snow keeps falling around his boots, widening its hold past the threshold of the door, and if Lan Wangji just steps forward, they will be buried in it together. That doesn’t sound so bad.

Wei Ying sputters a little, laughs, then says, “Well you can have me.”

Against his better judgment, Lan Wangji looks up. Wei Ying’s face is hard to read, confused and hopeful and sad and angry all at the same time. His arms are spread out at his sides, like they were the first night they met, when he had first invited Lan Wangji’s gaze. His hair is equally wet, but everything else is different.

“You don’t understand,” Lan Wangji says.

“No, you’re right, I don’t!” Wei Ying exclaims. “So why don’t you explain it to me? Because, Lan Zhan, I’m... fucking—” he trails off and sighs. “I’ve never even been into men before, you know? But holy fuck, Lan Zhan, I am so into you. So just. Just tell me what the problem is, because...” he finishes with a shrug, a head shake, and a squeak. 

“I want you too much,” Lan Wangji tries to explain. This whole talking thing is needlessly hard. He is better at acting, at showing.

Wei Ying laughs. “What does that even mean? Lan Zhan, I- I want that too, I want too much. If it’s you.”

He takes a deep breath, steps closer, inside the doorway, his cold fingers graze Lan Wangji’s chin, and something shifts. Lan Wangji is no longer in control. His body does the beast’s bidding now, and all he can do is watch.

His left hand shoots up and wraps itself around Wei Ying’s wrist, pulls him all the way inside, then twists the arm pinning it roughly behind his back. Wei Ying yelps, but Lan Wangji’s right hand proceeds without pause, curls around his throat and pushes as he steps forward, presses Wei Ying’s back against the door, slamming it shut. 

“Do you want this?” he asks in a desperate low whisper, his lips so close to Wei Ying’s that he can almost taste them.

A dreamy, greedy look comes over Wei Ying, his gaze fixed on Lan Wangji’s lips, hungry, wanting. He lets out something between a gasp and a whimper.

“Yes,” he breathes. “I really, really do.”

He struggles against Lan Wangji’s grip on his throat, pushes forward into it, seeking Lan Wangji’s mouth with his own, and the beast is no longer screaming or growling but hiccuping gently in the shopping cart of Lan Wangji’s soul. It looks wide-eyed and hopeful out at Wei Ying, like a kid from one of those terrible holiday movies upon unwrapping the impossible gift of its dreams. 

And Lan Wangji wants to unwrap his gift too, tear the clothes from Wei Ying’s body, drag his fingers across bare skin. He struggles to regain control. If he trusts the beast to obey him, will it trust him to lead?

His fingers release their hold on Wei Ying’s throat, and he is instantly thrown backward with the force of the kiss—it’s teeth and lips and tongue, and Wei Ying’s greedy fingers digging into the back of his neck, pulling him closer still. It’s frustrated noises as he fumbles with the zipper of Wei Ying’s jacket, trembling laughter as Wei Ying manages to take off his boots.

A vase falls over and shatters on the ground as they push clumsily, carelessly forward, but Lan Wangji doesn’t pause. They leave a trail of clothing and wreckage behind, and it’s too late when Lan Wangji realizes they went the wrong way down the hall and ended up in the kitchen instead.

No matter. The beast is an obedient guard dog, sitting still as a statue as it awaits its next command. If it had a tail, it would wag.

Lan Wangji lifts Wei Ying up on the kitchen island, nips and bites and sucks and licks and kisses his way down his bare chest. Praise spills from Wei Ying’s lips like coins from a winning slot machine when he reaches his destination. If Lan Wangji’s mouth wasn’t full and otherwise occupied, he’s pretty sure his tongue would slip out to loll and pant like an eager puppy in training.

As it is, he continues his mission with increased vigor until Wei Ying fills the air with unbridled screams and Lan Wangji’s mouth with thick, warm come. Nothing this flavorful has ever been prepared on the Lans' kitchen island before.

They make it to the bedroom eventually, and the scarlet hair ribbon finds a new use around Wei Ying’s wrists. 

“How will I know if you want me to stop?” Lan Wangji asks breathlessly, running his hands down Wei Ying’s heated body.

“I won’t,” Wei Ying pants. “I won’t want you to stop.”

Lan Wangji draws back, and Wei Ying whimpers at the loss of touch. The key to training a wild beast, if not taming it, is to teach it specific commands. To enforce said commands with no exception. To reward and punish accordingly.

Wei Ying squirms and struggles against his restraints, but Lan Wangji holds back, keeping the distance between them. This part is fun as well. The beast is a playful puppy in the park.

Finally, Wei Ying gives in.

“Argh, I don’t know, loquats,” he whines. “I’ll say loquats. Please!”

When Lan Wangji releases the hound, Wei Ying’s pleasure takes the form of staccato. Screams and pleas and denials abound, but his hips never stop twisting for more, and the word loquats never passes his lips, until finally the beast is an opera singer practicing her aria in C♯6.  By the time the red ribbon comes off, Wei Ying is a puddle on top of Lan Wangji’s 500 thread count sheets.   

Lan Wangji runs him a bath and changes the bedding before joining. Afterward, he rubs ointment on Wei Ying's wrists, drops gentle kisses on the blooming bruises along his skin. Wei Ying remains quiet, uncharacteristically so.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji asks. “Are you alright?”

A low chuckle rises from Wei Ying’s chest.

“I am so fucking good, Lan Zhan. It should be illegal to be this good.” His voice is hoarse from all the screaming, but his eyes are soft and warm on Lan Wangji. “You have ruined me for all other men. And women. And people in general. I hope you know you’ll never be rid of me now.”

“I do not want to be rid of you,” Lan Wangji says a bit sheepishly, and Wei Ying laughs.

“Good,” he says. “Because you won’t. But just so you know, I can’t afford to keep coming to the speakeasy every week. Your drinks are ridiculously overpriced. I’ve blown through, like, half my savings since I started going there.”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji says. The drinks are not overpriced. Wei Ying is underpaid. “We do serve complimentary cocktails for the owner's boyfriend, if that position is of interest.”

A grin spreads across Wei Ying’s face, and he cuddles up closer to Lan Wangji, nuzzles into his neck. The beast is a house cat curled atop a soft rug in front of a roaring fire.

“The girls are gonna give me a hard time about this, you know. I guess they’ll just need some time to warm up to you,” Wei Ying says softly, fingers tracing along Lan Wangji’s collar bones. There is amusement in his voice. Thinking back, it must have been quite a show. “They’re pretty upset that you were messing with my head for so long.”

“I did not realize I was doing that,” Lan Wangji says. “Do you think free drinks for the owner’s boyfriend’s friends would help?”

“That is such a fuckboy move, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying guffaws. “Trying to pay your way out of trouble. It’ll probably work though.”

“I will call it the Fuckboy Special,” Lan Wangji says solemnly, and he can feel the rumble of Wei Ying’s laugh reverberate through his chest. 

Tomorrow morning he will have to scrub the kitchen island before Xichen gets home. Tonight belongs to Wei Ying.