Chapter Text
iii.
“I’m bored,” Wei Ying predictably complains sometime in the evening.
They have been waiting barely more than a day. They spent the afternoon talking about the beast at great length, what it might be, and how long they can hope to hide from it. It had been an exhilarating and enlightening conversation. After, Wei Ying prowled around the space, collecting more wood, poking about for another exit. Lan Wangji had used the time to carefully stretch his body as best he could, working out the stiffness of being still for so long. Making sure he is ready should he need to fight.
Having finished, Lan Wangji rearranges himself back against the wall of the cave just in time for Wei Ying to make his declaration.
“Bored,” Wei Ying repeats, settling back into Lan Wangji’s side, leaning heavily into him, limbs akimbo, one elbow catching him in the ribs. “So, so, so bored.” He draws each word out like a childish moan.
Lan Wangji doesn’t dignify it with a response.
“Lan Zhaaaan,” Wei Ying says, tugging on his sleeve. As always, hating to be ignored.
And as usual, Lan Wangji is imprudently curious to see what Wei Ying might do, what new level of shamelessness he might reach for in the face of continued outward indifference. In the beginning, he had ignored Wei Ying in hopes he would grow bored and go away. Wei Ying never had. Now Lan Wangji pretends to ignore him for a different reason entirely.
Wei Ying is undeterred, squirming more before saying, “I would suggest practicing sword forms, but your leg probably can’t take that.” He accompanies this observation with a finger sliding down Lan Wangji’s thigh.
He doesn’t shiver, but it’s a near thing. Only a day ago, such a touch would have sent Lan Wangji reaching for his sword in a surge of anger, so sure he was being mocked, so uncertain of this feeling in his chest. Of course, a day ago, even Wei Ying would not have been quite so brazen.
It’s hard to imagine a Wei Ying who is even more free with physical touch, what that might be like. Lan Wangji is suddenly desperate to know.
Wei Ying props his chin on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. Whatever he’s about to say will no doubt be provoking and shameless. “I suppose there are other skills we can practice.”
Lan Wangji is certain he knows exactly which skills Wei Ying is referring to, even without the completely unsubtle nudge the statement is accompanied with. He keeps his face blank. “If you like,” he says mildly, hoping the pounding of his heart is not audible.
Wei Ying gives a satisfyingly shocked gasp, his fingers pinching at his side. “Lan Wangji. So insatiable.”
With effort, Lan Wangji folds his hands carefully in his lap, leaning away from Wei Ying. “If it is excessive, I will refrain.”
Wei Ying lifts his chin to look at him more directly, eyes narrowing, and Lan Wangji forces his face as still as possible despite the writhing feeling inside of him. Nervous, he thinks. Excited, perhaps. Anticipatory. After all, this is not something he has done before. To actually play into Wei Ying’s teasing, to dare to give back.
He seems to be allowing himself all sorts of things now that he never has before.
“You are bullying me,” Wei Ying says slowly, sounding not completely sure, but very suspicious.
“Do not bully the weak,” Lan Wangji immediately replies.
“Weak!” Wei Ying predictably shrieks in outrage.
Lan Wangji ignores his theatrics. It only increases Wei Ying’s agitation. Lan Wangji feels a smile tug at his lips and fights to keep his face smooth as Wei Ying swings around up onto his knees, leaning into him, all bright light and sharp indignation.
Lan Wangji feels his breath catch in his throat, a hook under his ribs like Wei Ying’s clever little binding talisman tugging tight against his wrist.
He is so beautiful.
Wei Ying seems unaware of the effect he is having on Lan Wangji, simply badgering on. “Lan Zhan. Do I have to remind you that you have yet to best me with a sword?” He pokes at Lan Wangji’s chest, rings of heat radiating outward from each touch like a ripple across a still pond. “No matter how many times you have tried? Hmmm?”
Lan Wangji does not respond, caught in the memory of dueling with Wei Ying. He has rarely felt as challenged and surprised as the few times they have crossed swords. He very much wishes to do it again. There is a momentary pang as he thinks of Bichen, rage simmering right underneath.
Wei Ying yelps in complaint, bringing Lan Wangji’s attention back to the present. “You can’t even stand right now! Who dragged you back here and saved you from the evil monster? Who survived a night locked in the Wen’s dungeon with an enormous demon wolf?” He shudders as if at the memory, his voice going tight and high, and Lan Wangji’s hand clench with remembered helplessness. “Lan Zhan, I insist you take it back! I am not weak. I demand you admit it right now. Or I’ll—I’ll—”
He doesn’t immediately come up with a consequence, one long, graceful finger tapping at his lips as he struggles. Lan Wangji stares, mesmerized by the movement, simultaneously wanting his mouth on those lips and that finger.
“You will what,” Lan Wangji says, very nearly goading, no longer able to keep himself from pushing back against every angle of Wei Ying’s assault. The thing in his chest is expanding, demanding more. He will need to spend more time meditating to keep his baser impulses under control if he hopes not to bring humiliation upon himself.
Wei Ying’s eyes swivel back to him, something sharper lingering under his usual warmth as he leans in, now impossibly close. “Oh, trust me, Lan Zhan. It will be something truly terrible.”
Lan Wangji’s blood hums in response, energy vibrating through his limbs in the face of this challenge. Considering his response, he gauges the exact level of exertion it will require. Taking care for his injury, he shifts in one smooth motion, grabbing Wei Ying’s poking hand. He twists and lifts until it is pinned back against the wall, high enough above Wei Ying’s head to pull at his shoulder as Lan Wangji leans into him hard.
He had thought about it, in the library those long afternoons, of just shoving Wei Ying up against a wall, holding him there. Forcing him to be still. To stop teasing and mocking. To mean it.
Just as he might have hoped all those long months ago, Wei Ying is startled into silence by the move, body immediately tense and poised for action. Trained for response.
“You will what,” Lan Wangji repeats, pulse thundering away in his ears. Almost like the adrenaline of a fight. Of a test of his skills and limits. His training. Only much less governable, this time. A rising storm.
Wei Ying’s hand clenches almost reflexively, the tendons of his wrist sliding under Lan Wangji’s grip. Testing the hold he has on him, pushing against it. Lan Wangji tightens his grip in response, leaning further into it, his knee sliding up between Wei Ying’s thighs. He watches the shift of Wei Ying’s muscles with something deeper and sharper than hunger in his stomach. Wei Ying could probably break free, if he really wanted. But he would have to work for it. And maybe only because of Lan Wangji’s injury.
He half wants him to try, is filled with the foolish whim to wrestle around on the floor with him like a willful child he was never allowed to be. It’s like something is breaking open in him. It leaves him breathless and feeling the need to apologize. To retreat. To find a way to pretend this is anger and not something much more treacherous.
He doesn’t want to.
Especially not when Wei Ying looks up at him, eyes bright and calculating, as if he’s trying to parse exactly what is happening but is excited to figure it out. His free hand lifts to Lan Wangji’s chest, pressing firmly into the steady bulk of his body. Judging his intent.
Lan Wangji stands firm, refusing to budge, to relinquish the stillness that feels like the only thing holding him together.
“You’ve caught me,” Wei Ying says, fingers curling into the fabric of his robes. No longer pushing away. His head tilts to the side, curious. “What will you do with me?”
For once, this isn’t a flippant tease. Wei Ying’s eyes are dark and intent, chest swelling with his breath as if in anticipation. A challenge met and answered.
Wei Ying’s lips part, the tip of his tongue just visible beyond and Lan Wangji’s brain threatens to go fuzzy and blank.
But this is a contest he refuses to lose.
Tightening his grip on Wei Ying’s wrist, Lan Wangji tugs it higher, the red underrobe pulling open at the neck in response, revealing the long line of his collarbone. Wei Ying sucks in a breath, the hand on Lan Wangji’s chest spasming, pushing and pulling in rapid succession as if scrabbling for purchase.
“Lan Zhan—” he starts to say.
Lan Wangji ducks his head, pressing his open mouth to the jumping pulse at the base of Wei Ying’s throat.
“Ah,” Wei Ying exclaims, followed by a stuttered series of syllables without discernable pattern of sense within them.
The noises become only more nonsensical as Lang Wangji sucks gently, pulling the skin into his mouth, following the pressure with the flat press of his tongue against the flutter of Wei Ying’s pulse.
“Oh, ah—Lan Zhan, I—” Wei Ying says, flustered and stumbling, and Lan Wangji feels the fierce satisfaction of setting a worthy opponent on their back foot.
“Are you still bored?” he asks, face still turned into the warm skin of Wei Ying’s neck.
Wei Ying lets out a breathless, shaking laugh, one Lan Wangji feels reverberate down into his own flesh. “You have never, by any stretch of the imagination, been boring, Lan Zhan. And are only less so by the moment.”
Lan Wangji makes a soft hum in response, and then allows himself to start nosing his way up Wei Ying’s throat, tasting as he goes.
Wei Ying tilts his head back, eagerly providing greater access. “Fuck,” he breathes, sounding shaken. “I’m the boring one, remember?”
“Ridiculous.”
Wei Ying grins. Lan Wangji can’t see it. But he can feel it in the tightening of the tendons of his neck, the movement of his jaw against the side of Lan Wangji’s face. He could never have imagined it, getting to feel Wei Ying’s smiles and not just watch them from afar.
He does not know what he is doing, is very much aware of his ignorance, only able to chase his impulses and Wei Ying’s reactions. He is still doing nothing more than using his mouth and tongue on Wei Ying’s neck, discovering the soft space beneath the angle of his jaw. And yet Wei Ying begins to shift restlessly under him, his free hand finding the end of Lan Wangji’s hair, twisting insistently into it. Tugging. Demanding. Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, a constant noisy refrain, breathless and whiny .
It is so much, the movement and the shift of Wei Ying’s wrist under his grip, the pull of fingers so close to his trailing ribbon, and the scent of Wei Ying’s skin, the taste of it. Invading every one of his senses. The sheer breathless freedom of having this.
So much touch and closeness when he is very much used to distance. Solitude.
It is completely overwhelming, so much that excitement and panic become too close to untwine.
In desperation, Lan Wangji’s free hand finds Wei Ying’s hip, feeling the hard jut of bone before pushing forcefully down in hopes of finding some small reprieve. That this might give him a moment to breathe and regroup. Wei Ying gasps, growing only louder in response. Closer. Tugging and pushing and demanding.
The impulse barely flits across Lan Wangji’s brain—wanting Wei Ying to still long enough for his mind to clear, to be able to think, wanting to hear him, wanting this to stop and never stop—before he is setting his teeth to the juncture of Wei Ying’s shoulder and neck. Frantically biting down. Hard.
Wei Ying lets out a yelp of surprise, his whole body jerking. “Lan Zhan,” he cries, voice sharp.
Lan Wangji feels it like a slap, the realization of what he’s just done. What he allowed to happen. He feels shame flood his body at once.
There is a reason, Lan Wangji is painfully reminded, that he has always retreated—into silence, into violence, or running away—whenever Wei Ying pushed him too close to the edge. Because there is something vast and writhing inside of him that Wei Ying only makes more ungovernable.
A vice, surely. Like pride and fear and sadness and anger. The very things he has spent his entire life gaining control over, never letting break into his surfaces or rule his actions. And yet those are also the things he has had to look at straight on in order to understand, to learn the contours of in order to contain. But this other writhing thing inside him, the one Wei Ying relentlessly swirls into a raging inferno, he cannot even dare look at it. Cannot risk giving a name. Knowing it to be so vast, so uncontainable that it will surely consume him. Or show him something unredeemably shameful about himself.
And so it has.
He tries to pull away, to retreat, to find some way to hide from this. To apologize. He can do none of these things, finding himself frozen in place.
“Lan Zhan. You bit me! I can’t believe you did that. How merciless you are. Are you so hungry that you’ve decided to eat me bite by bite?”
Yes, Lan Wangji thinks wildly. Maybe that is exactly what he wants to do. Wants to consume him.
Surely not a righteous impulse. And definitely something Wei Ying can never know.
Wei Ying is laughing. At him, as always. But isn’t Lan Wangji something worthy of being mocked? Hasn’t he proven that yet again?
Lan Wangji turns his face away, feeling the painful burn of his ears and chest. He reaches up with a shaking hand to pull Wei Ying’s hand free of his hair.
“Hey. No. Where are you going? No, no. You can’t do that and then just—” Wei Ying breaks off, a long, considering silence stretching between them. His hand touches Lan Wangji’s face, gently turning him towards him.
Lan Wangji allows it, but cannot bring himself to meet his gaze.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, horribly soft.
Lan Zhan’s gaze settles on the deep red mark on Wei Ying’s neck, the ridges of teeth clear even as the skin hasn’t broken. Even worse than horror, the thing in his chest just feels satisfied. He closes his eyes.
“Hey,” Wei Ying says, fingers tugging at his hair. “What if I admit it? Hm? Then will you look at me again?”
Lan Wangji is trembling now, his hand still tight around Wei Ying’s wrist even as his arm shakes. He cannot see a way forward. Any way to retreat.
Wei Ying leans into him, mouth near his ear. “I love it when you bully me, Lan Zhan. There. I admit it. I liked it. I like anything you would do to me. I didn’t know I would. But I do.”
Lan Zhan loses control of his throat, a pained whine escaping.
Wei Ying only hums in response, his nose brushing against Lan Wangji’s cheek. “If you don’t do it again, I’ll decide you really do think I’m weak.”
“Wei Ying is not weak,” Lan Wangij says, knowing the truth of it. He’s strong. So strong. So bright and powerful that it frightens him.
“So you admit it at last,” Wei Ying says, sounding pleased. He wraps his free hand against the back of Lan Wangji’s neck, pulling him closer. “Kiss me.” He jiggles his arm a bit when Lan Wangji doesn’t immediately comply. “Come on, Lan Zhan. Kiss me already. I’ve been waiting so patiently.”
Lan Wangji doesn’t allow Wei Ying to pull him closer, still not trusting himself with this. Instead, he reaches out and carefully fixes Wei Ying’s robe to cover him properly.
“What? Nooo,” Wei Ying complains, trying to roll his shoulder as if to shove the cloth back free.
Lan Wangji only tugs more firmly, nonsensically trying to hide the mark from sight as if that might erase it. The mark is too high to be properly hidden. It would be seen by anyone, were there anyone here to witness. He refuses to be thrilled by the idea.
“You are the worst, Lan Zhan. An absolute monster. I am not going to stop talking until you come up here and shut me up. I mean it, I’m going to—”
Lan Wangji has no idea what possesses him to do it, still half wild and barely holding on, but he presses his thumb down into the bruise left by his mouth.
Wei Ying breaks off, gasping. “Okay, yes, do that again.”
“Demanding,” Lan Wangji retorts.
Wei Ying nods in agreement. “I’m very needy, Lan Zhan, you know this about me. I’m a vast, bottomless cavern.”
Good, Lan Wangji thinks fiercely. Hoping that can somehow be true. Please.
“You’ll need to work very hard, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, hand once again pulling, palm of his hand hot and burning even through the thick drape of his hair. “Be incredibly dedicated.”
Lan Wangji allows himself to be tugged closer at last, to let Wei Ying guide his mouth to his, to kiss him deeply and recklessly, to risk pouring himself into something he can only hope never overflows.