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The house is off the main road, down a track that winds between slender-trunked trees and sandy shrubs, the smell of the ocean a promise on sweet summer air. Wei Ying clings to the door frame as the car bumps over the rough edges of the track, swaying with the movement of it; the breeze that catches in his hair is warm and salty. The gentle thrum of the album Lan Zhan had put on when they left the final gas stop vies with the sound of waves and the revving of the car’s engine. Wei Ying’s skin is jittering with excitement.
Lan Zhan’s palm is warm on the bare skin of Wei Ying’s knee. “Has Lan Huan sent any messages about parking?”
“No.” Wei Ying covers his hand with his own, briefly, before Lan Zhan pulls away to hold the wheel again over a particularly deep pothole. He’s so hot when he drives. “It’s the only house out this far, so I think we should just be able to park wherever.”
“Mn.” Lan Zhan is so hot all of the time, but especially when he’s like this: hair pushed back, dark sunglasses hiding his eyes, one arm resting on the door frame with a casual hand on the steering wheel, face neutral and impassive. He drives like he talks to strangers he doesn’t particularly like: without giving it too much obvious thought, coolly, detached. Wei Ying thinks about Lan Zhan treating him just like their dusty little Kia. Like he’s just a vessel for where he needs to get to.
Fuck. They’re not even at the beach house yet, and he’s already jealous of their car and horny. Thank heavens Lan Huan and Nie Mingjue aren’t arriving until later this evening.
The road curves, a sweep of sea breeze rushing in through the open windows, and opens out onto the beach. The ocean is silver-grey in the overcast humidity, clouds high and hazy; Wei Ying can’t wait to throw himself into it. The tide is out, and the beach is littered with seaweed and pebbly shells, sloping lines drawing patterns across the sand. It’s not the turquoise waters and golden sands of paradise that had been advertised on the booking website, but Wei Ying finds he almost prefers it this way—it feels more real. Grounded. Perfect for them.
“We’re here,” Lan Zhan says, and stops the car. Wei Ying turns with surprise—he hadn’t realised how transfixed he was on the ocean—and sees the house: nestled into the trees along the back of the beach, all clear glass walls and stylistic architecture. It’s much sexier than what Wei Ying had pictured when Lan Zhan had first brought up going to a beach house together for a getaway.
“Shit, it’s nice,” he says, and Lan Zhan turns to him with the tiniest of smiles tucked into the corner of his mouth. Wei Ying can see his own reflection in the chromatic shine of his sunglasses—his own grin. “You’re sure this is it?”
Lan Zhan nods, not looking away from Wei Ying’s face, and drops the smile. His hand comes to rest on Wei Ying’s knee again; slides up, bunching the fabric of his shorts against his skin, fingers intentional on the inside of Wei Ying’s thigh. “And did my brother work out their ETA?”
“Uh.” Wei Ying has to think very hard about that one. Lan Zhan’s little finger is dipping under the edge of his boxer briefs. “Six or seven, I think he said?”
A pause; the heat of Lan Zhan’s hand on his skin and Lan Zhan’s gaze through the cold mirror of his sunglasses. Then he nods, again, makes an affirmative noise, and removes his hand entirely, turning back to the front.
“Wait—”
“Get the things out of the car. I will let you pick the room.”
The command and offer flutter through Wei Ying like a kiss; he gapes a little at Lan Zhan, then centres himself, clearing his throat and straightening out his shorts. Right. The sooner they get inside, the sooner they can continue whatever the fuck that was.
The house is large, bigger than he’d anticipated: the entire living area seems to be semi-open, with wide sliding doors opening to a huge wraparound balcony and its inviting array of loungers, plush sofas, outdoor dining—and a hot tub, Wei Ying notices. Inside, it’s just as luxurious, all sleek lines and careful design, like something out of a magazine. Considering the fact that Lan Zhan and his brother chose the house together, it’s not all that surprising.
There are three bedrooms, each fitted out with its own ensuite and walk-in closet. Wei Ying can’t choose between the one with the largest tub or the best ocean view. Eventually, it’s Lan Zhan that influences his decision for him, commenting on how the furthest one down from the living area will likely be the quietest; that’s good enough reason to take it, if they’re going to be doing… whatever Lan Zhan has planned.
Happily, the quietest room also has an excellent view and a perfectly-sized tub, and Wei Ying drops his bag onto the bed and turns to stand with his hands on his hips, facing the glass doors leading onto the balcony and the ocean beyond. The waves are mesmerising to watch. He could do this all day.
“I am going to lose my boyfriend to the ocean,” he hears Lan Zhan say from across the room. He turns, and sees him standing their suitcase in the closet, sunglasses pushed onto the back of his head. The top three buttons of his white linen shirt are undone, his chest beneath soft in the natural light of the room; Wei Ying wants to put his mouth on it.
“No,” he says, slotting himself into the embrace Lan Zhan offers him. “Not lose me. But you might have some stiff competition.”
“Hm,” Lan Zhan replies, pressing his lips against the hair at Wei Ying’s temple. “I shall do my very best to impress you enough to choose me, then.”
Wei Ying slings his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck, rocking them backwards and forwards, enjoying the feel of him here, in this new moment, the sound of the waves and the smell of salt and fresh linen. “I don’t think you’ll have to try very hard,” he murmurs.
Lan Zhan’s huff of laughter is soft, a gentle puff against his cheek. “No,” he agrees. “I don’t think I will.”
The glass of the window hits cold and hard against Wei Ying’s back; he gasps, laughing, and hops up to wrap his legs around Lan Zhan’s waist. Lan Zhan catches him easily, slipping his tongue behind Wei Ying’s lips and his hands up under his shirt, pressing him back against the view. Lan Zhan’s shirt buttons fumble undone easily beneath Wei Ying’s fingers, and before long he has the fabric pushed open and away, Lan Zhan’s clavicle and chest bone and pectorals all there and soft and sharp and his, and Wei Ying can’t stop touching. Lan Zhan nips at his lip, and Wei Ying huffs a puff of breath, wraps his hands around his shoulders again to hold on tight.
He’s hard already—has been some variety of hard since Lan Zhan put his hand on his knee in the car, probably—and his shorts have never felt more confining. Lan Zhan seems determined to keep kissing him though, deep and revealing and filthy, and Wei Ying loves it but he wants—he needs—
“Lan Zhan,” he gasps, breaking the kiss, and staring dumbly at Lan Zhan’s face, sunglasses perched crookedly atop his hair, “we have to—can we—I want—”
“Hm?” Lan Zhan says, hands sliding down further to Wei Ying’s ass, squeezing the soft flesh there; he pulls Wei Ying closer against himself, and Wei Ying can feel Lan Zhan’s matching want against the stretched seam of his shorts. “You want?”
Wei Ying licks his lips. “Want you.”
“Do you,” Lan Zhan says flatly, and rocks his hips against Wei Ying properly. Wei Ying grunts at the pressure, tipping his head back against the window. “Show me.”
Lan Zhan pushes him further against the window, then lets go with one hand, reaching behind himself to untangle Wei Ying’s grip and push his wrist back against the window. Wei Ying feels instantly unsteady, half-pinned and half-held, and makes a confused noise. In response, Lan Zhan lets a tiny smirk settle into the corner of his mouth, and does the same with his other hand, shifting all Wei Ying’s weight onto the top of his thigh, and where Wei Ying’s legs are wrapped around his waist. Wei Ying is pinned then, both hands against the glass of the window, Lan Zhan’s hips against his own, feet crossed tight behind his back, precariously close to slipping all the way down to the floor if he doesn’t manage to hold himself up.
Lan Zhan’s nose brushes his own. His breath is hot across Wei Ying’s mouth. “Show me how much you want me.”
Wei Ying can’t help the whimper that escapes him; he can hardly move, let alone do anything remotely sexy—but he’s still so hard, harder than he was even before, and he wants Lan Zhan more than anything—wants his hands on him, his mouth, his cock. He tightens his legs around Lan Zhan’s waist, and starts to move.
It’s tricky going, having to keep his legs tight enough to stay up, but loose enough that he can still move. His thighs shake with the effort of rolling his hips against Lan Zhan’s. It’s not even that satisfying—the angle is wrong to get any kind of friction on his dick other than the rubbing against the inseam of his shorts—but he can feel the press of Lan Zhan’s cock, heavy against the curve of his ass every time he brushes it. He wants it to feel good for him. He’ll make it feel good for him.
The window is a steady surface to push his head back against as he tries to speed up, mouth open, panting, and La Zhan runs his lips over his neck and jaw and earlobe, breath hot. He keeps Wei Ying’s wrists pressed tight against the glass, grip hard, not enough to cut off the blood flow, but enough that Wei Ying can really feel it.
His thighs are burning and his cock is leaking by the time Lan Zhan finally kisses him again, all teeth and tongue and absolutely no tenderness at all. It’s enough to have him whimpering, desperate for more, and when Lan Zhan pulls back his eyes are heavy, pupils blown. “Good,” he says, and his voice is low, ragged. “You showed me.”
Wei Ying flourishes under the praise, feeling it erupt through him like a burst of fireworks. But it doesn’t last long: Lan Zhan releases his hands and unhooks Wei Ying from around his waist, and it’s all Wei Ying can do to not collapse to the floor in a puddle, legs trembling. Lan Zhan twists a hand into his hair, bites his bottom lip one more time, then pushes him downwards. “Then have me.”
Lan Zhan’s hands are not gentle when Wei Ying gets to his knees; he holds him with one hand still twisted in his hair, the other one sliding down to grip his jaw, and pulls him in, presses Wei Ying’s face against the firm shape of his cock in his linen slacks. Wei Ying gasps against him, open-mouthed, the heady presence of arousal and cock and desire overwhelming. Lan Zhan moves both hands to the back of his head, and he grinds against his face, not particularly fast, but hard enough that for a moment it is difficult to breathe. Wei Ying doesn’t bother to hold back his whimper. It is a clear pronouncement of what he is to Lan Zhan, today and every day: a thing to be used.
“Do you want me?” Lan Zhan could be asking him whether he would like takeout or a snack. Wei Ying mouths over the head of his cock, fabric dampening beneath his lips, and his breath hitches.
“Please. Want your cock.” Wei Ying thinks he is probably not allowed to touch, but he will try his luck anyway—he tucks his fingers into Lan Zhan’s waistband, manages to get his pants halfway down his hips before Lan Zhan grabs his hands and yanks him back, tiltering on his knees. The top half of his cock is exposed, nestled hard and flushed in the wiry hair at its base, and Wei Ying licks his lips.
“Lan Zhan,” he asks.
“Greedy,” Lan Zhan tuts, and shoves his hands back, releasing them. Wei Ying almost topples over, back bumping against the window. “Put them on your thighs. Learn patience.”
Even though he had clearly been the one to shove Wei Ying’s face against his dick in the first place. Oh, Wei Ying likes this game. He likes it a lot. “Lan Zhan, please. I want—”
“You have already told me,” Lan Zhan interrupts him, “what you want. Shut up.”
It goes straight to his cock. Wei Ying is achingly hard, probably ruining his shorts with it—he always gets so wet, so messy, so sloppy in his need for Lan Zhan—but this isn’t about him, isn’t about his need. He clenches and unclenches his hands and spreads them on his thighs, as close as he dares to where he’s leaking. Lan Zhan sighs and smacks him gently on the cheek, then pushes his thighs apart with a bare foot until he’s spread, aching, the inseam hard and cruel against his need. Wei Ying frowns up at him and Lan Zhan smacks him harder. “Behave.”
“But gege—”
Lan Zhan shuts him up with his cock. He barely has time to adjust; the sudden heat and thickness of it between his lips—in his throat—instantly activates his gag reflex. He chokes, and Lan Zhan tugs his head forwards, pressing deeper into him until he is almost fully sheathed inside his mouth, the rustle of hair at the base brushing his nose. Wei Ying’s eyes water, stinging, and he can’t stop himself from flailing, hands coming up to twist into the fabric of Lan Zhan’s pants, raggedly inhaling through his nose. Lan Zhan holds him there for several long, painful seconds, and then releases him, pulling his head back with a fist tight in his hair.
Wei Ying gasps for breath, spluttering, and Lan Zhan slaps his face with his wet cock. “Greedy slut,” he mutters. He glances down at where Wei Ying is still hanging onto his pants for dear life, cocks an eyebrow. “Hands. Do you want my cock or not?”
Wei Ying returns his hands to his thighs. “Yes—yes, Lan Zhan, please—”
This time he is almost ready, working through the urge to gag when Lan Zhan’s cock hits the back of his throat, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing through it. Lan Zhan moves him up and down a few times, the hand that is not pulling his hair tight against his scalp coming down to caress his cheek, his jaw, his throat. He holds Wei Ying firmly as deep as he can go again, lips stretched tight around the shaft, and tilts his head so that Wei Ying is forced to look up at him, to see the quiet pleasure in his eyes, the open pant of his lips, the heated possessiveness in his gaze—yes, Wei Ying thinks, own me, own me, and sucks harder around him, make me your greedy little slut—
Lan Zhan pulls off another time, and now they’re both breathing harder, saliva slick on Wei Ying’s lips and chin, his throat aching. His own arousal is irrelevant in the face of Lan Zhan’s, but if he twitches his hips just enough he can get his shorts to rub against his dick just right, and he could come just from this, he thinks, just from being Lan Zhan’s to use.
Tension hangs between them. Lan Zhan’s thumb passes over his lip, feeling the wetness there, and then he replaces it with his cockhead, dragging the smear of spit and precome over his mouth, his chin, his cheeks. Wei Ying lets his mouth drop open, lets him see just how hungry he is for it, begs without words, and Lan Zhan slides his cock in, shallow now, heavy on his tongue. Wei Ying suckles on it, whimpering, he needs, he needs—needs—
Lan Zhan thrusts himself into his throat again without warning, starts fucking his mouth in earnest. Wei Ying can barely keep up, sucking in breath when he can, hands tight on the warm skin of his thighs, tiny little rocks against the seam of his shorts, and it’s perfect, it’s everything—he’s so close, holy fuck—
Lan Zhan beats him to it, releasing down his throat with a groan and his hand so tight in his hair Wei Ying’s eyes would be watering were there not already tears wet on his cheeks. He swallows and swallows around him, gagging again a little, and Lan Zhan’s cock slips from his mouth as more come splatters across his lips, his tongue, his neck. He’s gasping and messy and raw and so close, and then Lan Zhan shoves his fingers into his mouth and presses down hard on the back of his tongue, forcing his mouth fully open, and that's all it takes.
He comes to with Lan Zhan’s fingers petting over his jaw and through his hair. He feels ragged, wrung out, used. The bedroom swims in his field of view. They have only just got here.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan murmurs, and Wei Ying looks up at him. He feels a little hazy—he’s not under, he thinks, but it would not take much to drift there—and Lan Zhan’s thumb brushes over the mess of his face, pressing some of his come back into Wei Ying’s mouth. Wei Ying suckles on it helplessly. “Look at you,” Lan Zhan breathes.
“Ngh,” Wei Ying manages, and Lan Zhan’s face softens into something that’s akin to a fond chuckle. Lan Zhan gently tugs him across the floor, sits himself down against the plush foot of the bed, and pulls Wei Ying into his lap. Wei Ying goes willingly, loose-limbed and sloppy. He will absolutely need to shower and sort himself out before Lan Huan arrives later. But for now—
“Happy holiday,” Lan Zhan whispers into his hair, and Wei Ying nuzzles closer, letting his eyes slip shut, and thinks—yes, a very good start to their holiday indeed.
🌊
The ocean is the perfect temperature for swimming, and when Lan Zhan pushes him up against the wall of the shower afterwards he still tastes like salt. Lan Zhan insists on starting dinner before his brother arrives, and so Wei Ying follows him into the kitchen, still wobbly from his most recent orgasm, and lets Lan Zhan sit him on the counter and feed him honey roasted peanuts while he watches him cook. The house settles around him with the sound of the sea and the smell of food and the feeling of finally being away, together, in a beautiful place. He lets it wash over him, lets the sway of the evening carry him into a place of easy contentment.
Lan Huan and Nie Mingjue arrive at 7.30 in Mingjue’s well-travelled Jeep, the dust settling around their tires as Lan Zhan turns off the stove and rinses his hands and hops Wei Ying down so they can go out to greet them. It’s been several months, and Nie Mingjue’s hugs are something that Wei Ying will probably never get used to, embraced by so much man. He knows Lan Zhan sees his face when Mingjue lets him go. He can see it in the teasing glint in his eye.
They eat dinner out on the porch, the evening sun casting long shadows up the beach and over the decking. It is good to catch up, and Wei Ying demands photos of their cats, coos over them as Lan Zhan’s hand sits warm on his lower back and his ankle nudges Wei Ying’s under the table. The food is delicious—of course it is, because Lan Zhan is just as good at cooking as he is at everything else—and by the time Wei Ying is finished he is feeling perfectly full and content, warmed by the evening and good company and Lan Zhan’s settling presence by his side. Nie Mingjue insists that they move to the hot tub for the rest of the evening, and Lan Huan laughs and agrees, so they pour themselves glasses of wine and sparkling plum presse and turn on the bubbles. It’s lovely. It’s relaxing. Wei Ying presses his shoulder into Lan Zhan’s bare side and enjoys it.
He can sense when Lan Zhan is starting to flag—even though they are on holiday, he’s still physically unable to stay up much beyond 10pm—and turns to him, setting his empty wine glass on the shelf behind Lan Zhan’s head. “Lan Zhan,” he says.
Lan Zhan looks at him, fondness in the sleepy corners of his eyes, and it makes Wei Ying feel warmer than the hot tub ever could. “I want to go to bed,” he tells him, adding in a yawn for emphasis. He knows Lan Zhan will see right through it, but doesn’t care—their relationship is about them both looking after each other, and Lan Zhan knows that. “‘S getting late.”
“Mn,” agrees Lan Zhan, sliding his hand up Wei Ying’s back and petting the back of his neck. “We can go.”
Wei Ying turns to Lan Huan and Mingjue, watching them easily from the other side of the hot tub. “You don’t mind if we hit the hay, do you? I’m turning into a prune.”
Lan Huan laughs and downs the rest of his presse. “No, not at all. I think I’m about ready for bed myself, too.”
“And I’m shrivelling up,” Mingjue adds in his deep timbre. “I’ll make breakfast in the morning?”
Wei Ying nods enthusiastically, which earns him another round of chuckles, and they all get themselves out of the hot tub, dripping onto the decking. It’s a little bit of a strange feeling, that end-of-evening sensation, but he takes Lan Zhan’s hand and directs him down the porch towards their room and the windows he had him pressed up against earlier. Lan Zhan goes like he’s only half-awake. Maybe he is.
With the doors slid shut behind them, Wei Ying loops his arms up around Lan Zhan’s neck, gazing up at him. Lan Zhan’s eyes are dopey in the dim light of the room, bedtime-soft. Wei Ying can’t stop the smile that threatens to take over his face, and buries it in Lan Zhan’s neck instead. Lan Zhan’s hands drift over his back, up to his shoulders, his collarbone. His fingers brush over the thin collar resting there.
“I love you,” Wei Ying whispers. “Thank you for this.”
Lan Zhan’s lips press with quiet care against his temple. “You’re welcome. I love you too.”
Wei Ying hums, lets the moment wash over him, lets Lan Zhan sway them a little, a boat on a quiet moonlit sea. Wei Ying could stay here forever, he thinks, drifting in his embrace, just the two of them with the endless ocean around them.
The moment is broken by the yawn that wracks through Lan Zhan, and Wei Ying giggles, leaning back. “Oh, you poor boy,” he says, teasing. “You’ve done so much driving today. Let’s get you to bed.”
Lan Zhan hums, and Wei Ying busies himself with doing all the things he so loves to do for him: turning down the sheets, setting the lights to low, kissing the back of his neck as Lan Zhan applies toothpaste to both their toothbrushes. They brush their teeth side by side in the bathroom mirror, silent conversation in the meeting of each other’s gazes, wordless I love yous and I’m glad we did this and I am very tired and I would like to go to bed now, which makes Wei Ying chuckle and have to spit.
The bed is huge, comfortable, warm; Lan Zhan pulls Wei Ying onto his chest and is breathing heavy and deep barely after the lights are out. Wei Ying hums a little noise of contentment, even though he probably won’t hear it, and shuffles in closer. This, he thinks, this, this, this.
🌊
They pack a picnic after Mingjue’s heaping breakfast of waffles and bacon and fruit, and pile into his Jeep, sun lotion still greasy on Wei Ying’s skin. There’s a cove a few miles down the coast with rocks for exploring and good snorkelling and a small sandy shore for sitting on, and it sounds so much like the perfect beach holiday that he feels like he might vibrate out of his skin. Lan Zhan keeps his hand on Wei Ying’s thigh for most of the journey there, thumb caressing up and down over his skin, and for once the way it turns him on is almost secondary to Wei Ying’s excitement—they are at the beach, Lan Zhan, and there is snorkelling and rock pools and sunshine and so much to do—
They arrive and it is perfect. Wei Ying leaps out of the Jeep, doesn’t wait for Lan Zhan’s permission, just throws himself down the rocky slope towards the cove and straight into the water, sandals be damned. It’s only cold on the very first splashes, and then the water is just right, warm on the surface and cooler down below. He throws his shirt back onto the sand, hops his way out of his shoes, and plunges into the sea.
The cove is sheltered on both sides by jutting rocky formations, their skirts covered in barnacles and green slime, and the water is quiet and perfect for swimming. Wei Ying grew up swimming in lakes and rivers, knows water like he knows himself, and although he goes to the pool on a fairly regular basis he has missed this—missed the changeability of wild water, the swell of waves, the taste of it on his tongue. He swims out further into the cove, wide breaststrokes bobbing up and down in the water, the horizon a faint blur where sky meets sea. He could stay here for hours.
He turns back to the shore, where the others are laying out a picnic blanket, and Lan Zhan—bless him and his sensitive skin—is setting up a parasol. Wei Ying watches him finish, tweak the angle to make the most shade, and look up to find Wei Ying—he waves at him, grinning, and yells, “Lan Zhan! You have to come in, the water’s amazing!”
He can almost see Lan Zhan sigh fondly. He walks down the beach to collect Wei Ying’s discarded shirt and shoes—casts a glance back at him, which even at distance Wei Ying knows is reprimanding, and the thrill of it tingles down his back—and returns to put them neatly under the parasol. He’s always so caring, about everything. Wei Ying loves him so much.
The others do join him, eventually, wading in a much more sedate pace than Wei Ying had rushed into the water, and Wei Ying swims back to join them, and to hang himself off Lan Zhan like a limpet. The water here is shallow enough to stand in comfortably, and Lan Zhan wraps an arm around his waist and holds him there.
“Hi,” Wei Ying whispers into his ear. He feels energised, full of life, like he wants to swim out into the middle of the sea or run all the way along the coast or find a rock to hide behind and get the daylights fucked out of him. Perhaps Lan Zhan would be amenable to the latter. “Whatcha doing?”
Lan Zhan casts him a side-long glance, and Wei Ying grins, hiding it in his shoulder. Oh, he’s feeling good today. Feeling like he could get away with things.
“You know,” Wei Ying says, floating around to Lan Zhan’s back so he can wrap his legs around his waist and speak directly into his ear. “There’s no one else here. Pretty good spot for skinny dipping, I reckon.” He punctuates it by pressing his crotch up against Lan Zhan’s lower back. He’s not hard, but it never takes him long to get there.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, in a low, warning tone. “My brother is here.”
“Yeah, I know.” Lan Huan is floating on his back a few metres away, Mingjue holding his ankles and dragging him gently through the water. “I bet we could find somewhere where they wouldn’t notice, though. I bet there’s a rock we could hide behind.”
Lan Zhan is silent. Excellent. That means he’s not not considering it.
Wei Ying giggles, and gives the back of his ear a quick lick and nibble. “Think about it,” he whispers, and detaches himself before Lan Zhan can respond, swimming away with a splash.
They drag themselves out onto the shore again before long, and Lan Zhan keeps casting him glances that send bolts of heat across Wei Ying’s skin, whether he intends them to or not. But Wei Ying hasn’t finished teasing him yet. Oh, not by a long shot.
He finds the sun lotion and holds it out to Lan Zhan, who is settling on the towel beneath the parasol with his book. “The water will have washed a load off,” he says. “Can you do my back?”
Lan Zhan’s expression says I know exactly what you’re doing, Wei Ying, but he sighs under his breath, and takes the bottle from him anyway. “Sit down,” he says, and Wei Ying does so immediately, the picture of obedience. He hears the click of the lid, then the coolness of lotion across his still-damp and sun-warmed back. Lan Zhan’s hands are broad, firm as he rubs it in, and Wei Ying leans back into it, letting his eyes slip closed. Lan Zhan is silent. He works his way downwards, over Wei Ying’s shoulderblades, down his spine, down to his lower back—
Wei Ying arches his back as his hands get down to the waistband of his shorts, hands coming up to grab Lan Zhan knees where they bracket him. “Ah, um, Lan Zhan, that’s—”
Lan Zhan’s hands stop. “What.”
“It’s—ah, cold. No, don’t stop.”
Reluctantly, Lan Zhan starts moving again, spreading lotion around his waist, into the small of his back. Wei Ying just can’t help the little gasp that comes out of his mouth. Lan Zhan’s hands stop again.
“Lan Zhan,” he whines. “I don’t want to get sunburnt.”
“I do not think,” Lan Zhan says, and the tips of his fingers brush the top of Wei Ying’s waistband again, “that it is the sun you need to concern yourself about.”
“Oh yeah?” Wei Ying retorts, breathily, shifting as Lan Zhan continues to massage his skin. There is probably very little lotion left by now. He lets out another moan, a little louder, more daring, and is rewarded by a sharp pinch to his hip. “Ah! Lan Zhan, treat your boyfriend with some dignity—”
Lan Zhan suddenly grabs his hips, yanking him back against his lap, and Wei Ying can instantly feel his interest pressed against his ass. Lan Zhan’s breath is hot and threatening next to his ear. “Behave yourself,” he tells him, and punctuates it with another pinch, this time to Wei Ying’s waist. “We are not alone.”
“No, I know,” Wei Ying says, teasing. “Exactly.”
Lan Zhan goes still, and Wei Ying takes the opportunity to wriggle away from him, grabbing the bottle as he goes, dancing out from under the parasol and away before Lan Zhan can do anything. “Thanks for the help, Lan Zhan!”
Lan Zhan glares at him. Wei Ying blows him a kiss in return.
The rocks along the southern side of the cove are littered with pools, green and purple with seaweed, hiding treasures beneath; Wei Ying takes his phone with him in case there’s anything worth photographing. He finds plenty of molluscs stuck to the sides of the pools, and some interesting rock colours and patterns, and one pool that seems to be full of shells for no apparent reason; he daringly reaches in to find the prettiest one to take home for jiejie and Jin Ling. It’s pink and purple and white, like spring clouds.
When he gets back to the beach it’s to discover that Lan Zhan and Lan Huan are already unpacking things for lunch, setting them out in a neat arrangement on the picnic blanket. The fondness in Wei Ying’s chest as Lan Zhan carefully unfolds a parcel containing real silverware threatens to overwhelm him. Not now, he tells himself. Now is the time to continue with his plan.
He saunters back down from the rocks, tucking his pretty shell away into Lan Zhan’s backpack—it will be much safer there than with his own shirt.
“Ready to eat?” Lan Huan asks him, and Wei Ying nods eagerly, settling himself down next to Lan Zhan on the blanket. Mingjue has already started, so Wei Ying grabs himself a plate and starts loading it up with carrot sticks and tomatoes and dumplings. He catches Lan Zhan looking at him with a stern expression. He’s meant to wait, normally, for permission, or for Lan Zhan to serve him. Well, perhaps today he doesn’t feel like that. Perhaps today he feels like pushing his luck.
Eventually, Lan Zhan unfreezes, and starts serving himself too, and they eat. Nie Mingjue is loud and easy in his conversation, and Lan Huan is certainly the more sociable of the two brothers, and Wei Ying finds no difficulty in keeping up with them, laughing along and teasing Lan Zhan with every third sentence. Lan Zhan sits in almost perfect silence, nodding at the appropriate moments and making his way through his hummus, but otherwise saying very little; Wei Ying hopes he hasn’t taken things too far. He hasn’t, he thinks. He hopes.
“And he has very squishable cheeks,” Wei Ying says, squeezing a grape. “Very cute.”
“Has he shown you pictures from our childhood?” Lan Huan asks. “His cheeks were even rounder then. He looked like a little bao bun.”
“Ge,” Lan Zhan says quietly, the tips of his ears red.
Wei Ying giggles and leans over to kiss his cheek. “I have seen them,” he says. “He was adorable. He still is. You should see him in the evenings sometimes when it’s time for bed—there was one time he started dozing off while we were—”
“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s hand is quick to land on Wei Ying’s knee. “I do not think my brother needs to hear about that.”
Wei Ying smiles at him. “No? But you were so cute, Lan Zhan, you could barely keep your eyes open—”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan repeats, more warning in his voice now, and Wei Ying closes his mouth. It’s fine, they had only been kissing before going to sleep, which is almost certainly something Lan Huan and Nie Mingjue know about, it’s not like he was about to start describing a scene to them—it’s not like Lan Zhan would ever fall asleep during a scene, he’s much more responsible than that—
Lan Zhan withdraws his hand, and goes back to his lunch. A slightly uncomfortable silence is carried only by the swish of the waves for a moment, then Nie Mingjue interrupts with a loud, “Dessert? We brought cake!”, and things go back to mostly normal again.
After lunch Wei Ying helps Lan Huan tidy up. If it happens to involve a lot of bending over and leaning forwards on his hands and knees when Lan Zhan is sitting on his towel not many feet behind him, then so what? He’s got a nice ass, it’s not his problem. They get everything packed away, and Wei Ying feels a nap coming over him; he inserts himself into Lan Zhan’s space under the parasol and immediately lies down with his head pressed against Lan Zhan’s hip and his arms wrapped around his thigh. Lan Zhan can’t deny him anything while he naps. Wei Ying is fully aware of this.
He does actually get some sleep, perfectly warm in the early afternoon breeze, drifting in and out of consciousness. His dreams feel too real: Lan Zhan rolling him over onto his stomach while he sleeps, pulling down his swimming trunks, licking the saltwater off his ass cheeks; Lan Zhan pulling him further out to sea and kissing him in the dreamlike blue beneath the surface, chests pressed together underwater; Lan Zhan leaning down and stroking the hair away from his face and trailing his fingers over his jaw and neck and collarbones—
He drifts back to a somewhat more awake state, and realises that he is not dreaming. Lan Zhan is tracing the shape of his collar nestled into the base of his neck, dragging the tip of his finger up and down the thin leather cord, thumb tucked up under his chin. It feels nice. Wei Ying makes a little noise and shuffles closer, pressing into the touch. He loves it when Lan Zhan puts his hands on his neck, loves the sense of helplessness that comes from knowing that he could, at any time, start to tighten his grip, shorten his breath. His eyes flutter open; his vision is all skin and the dark blue of Lan Zhan’s swimming trunks. His mouth is open too, before he can have any say in the matter, moving over the waistband, tasting the slightly sun-screened tang of his skin. He’s still got Lan Zhan’s leg wrapped in his arms, so it’s not very hard to find the bottom of his swimming trunks, slide a hand up underneath, find the deep warm heat of him—
“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s voice is sharp, warning; he has grabbed Wei Ying’s hand to stop it in his path. Wei Ying reluctantly detaches from his hip, and rolls over on his back to look up at him. He brushes his fingers over the soft skin of Lan Zhan’s thigh, and sees his pupils dilate.
“Hm?” Wei Ying asks, lazy and slow. “Is something wrong?”
Lan Zhan’s lips thin, and he pulls Wei Ying’s hand out of his shorts, gaze cutting away over Wei Ying’s head, no doubt to Lan Huan and Nie Mingjue. “Stop.”
Wei Ying rolls closer again, propping himself up on one elbow. “You don’t seem to be complaining,” he murmurs, casting a glance down to Lan Zhan’s crotch. Swimming shorts do not hide a lot.
Lan Zhan’s grip on his wrist tightens. “Now is neither the time nor place.”
Wei Ying huffs, detaching himself from Lan Zhan and sitting up. “Then I’m going to go snorkelling.”
He’s up and out from under the parasol before Lan Zhan can reply. He’s not upset, not really, but he just wants—he just wants. He knows how little it takes to get Lan Zhan to crack. He’s surprised he hasn’t yet.
The snorkels and flippers are tucked away behind the lunch things, and he grabs a set and goes to a rock jutting out just a few feet into the sea to put them on. The sun is still hot, but he must have napped through the worst of it. Besides, it’ll be lovely and cool underwater.
“Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan is standing at the edge of the waves, looking a little frustrated and hot as fuck, and Wei Ying forces himself to turn back to adjusting his flippers.
“Yes?” he replies, dismissively, trying his hardest not to return his gaze to Lan Zhan’s bare chest and long legs and stern expression.
Silence; he knows that Lan Zhan is standing there with his hands on his hips, glaring at him. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. He finishes sorting out his flippers and pulls his mask on, settling it over his eyes.
The quietest, slightly petulant huff. “I’m coming with you.”
He risks one glance back at Lan Zhan, who is indeed standing with his hands on his hips, glaring at him. He throws him a smug little smile, and hops off the rock with a splash. “Alright,” he says, and swims out into the open water.
He can barely focus on how lovely and cool it is, lapping over his shoulders, too busy thinking about the expression on Lan Zhan’s face—and perhaps he was being too much of a brat, perhaps he has pushed too far, but—but Lan Zhan understands, right, and he knows why Wei Ying is doing this—knows what he’s hoping to get out of it—
He sets up his snorkel, blowing out the top, and ducks his head under. The water is a soothing blue-green, sunlight dappling on the rocks and sand below him, a completely different world. This close to the beach, there is little in the way of fish, but further out he can see a patch of seaweed with movement glinting through it, and a cluster of rocks with dark nooks and crannies perfect for hiding in. He swims out towards it.
The waves grow bigger further out, but he’s still within the shelter of the cove, and the current isn’t strong. The ocean floor is a good couple of metres below his flippers now, already deepening in colour, and he takes a deep breath and dives down below the water, towards the seaweed. He was right; it’s alive with silver glints of fish, shoals darting through the fronds. Further down he can see sea urchins, shells, stuff he doesn’t even recognise—but beautiful in the watery light.
His lungs start to protest, and he floats back up to the surface, blowing out his snorkel and taking a deep gulp of air. They should absolutely do this more often.
He turns back to the shore, and is surprised to see Lan Zhan just behind him, treading water in his flippers, still adjusting his mask on his face. He’s steaming up, and keeps taking it off to wipe clean; Wei Ying takes pity on him and swims over.
“You have to spit on it,” he says, taking the mask off Lan Zhan’s head and doing so. He rubs it around the inside of the goggles and hands them back to Lan Zhan. “That should work.”
Lan Zhan takes them from him wordlessly, and settles them back onto his eyes, no longer steaming up this time. Wei Ying gives him a little smile, hoping that everything is okay between them, and reaches down to tug at his hand. “C’mon,” he says. “I found a cool spot.”
They dive down together this time, and Wei Ying shows Lan Zhan the seaweed patch and the cool rocks, and they swim around pointing things out to each other and following fish, only coming back up for a gulp of air before diving down again. It’s mesmerising down there, and Wei Ying thinks if he was a merman life wouldn’t be so bad, spending all his days in the shifting glitter of sunlight on the ocean bed and the secretive sway of seaweed in its waters. Lan Zhan keeps close to him, and Wei Ying thinks about how really, he could live anywhere, as long as Lan Zhan was there with him.
Eventually, they emerge for long enough for Wei Ying to pull his mask off and grin at Lan Zhan. “That was so fun! I’m gonna head back now. You coming?”
Lan Zhan nods, and they snorkel their way back to shore, hand in hand. Lan Zhan still hasn’t said anything since they got in, and his grip on Wei Ying’s hand is firm. A little thrill of something shoots down Wei Ying’s spine.
On the beach, Lan Huan and Nie Mingjue are putting their shirts and shoes on, packing water and sun lotion into a bag. “We’re going for a little walk down the coast,” Nie Mingjue says, putting on his sunglasses. “You want to come?”
Wei Ying glances at Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan glances back at him, and he knows exactly what the answer is going to be. Anticipation shivers across his scalp.
“No,” Lan Zhan says, decisive. “Thank you. I think we will stay here.”
The sunglasses block the movement of his eyes, but Wei Ying can feel Mingjue glancing between the two of them. He gives a little laugh, his smile knowing, and hefts the bag onto his shoulders. “Alright,” he says. “Have fun.”
Lan Huan tugs at his bicep, pulling him away. “Come on, love,” he says. “Leave them alone.” But he’s smiling too.
Wei Ying watches them depart up the beach and along the ridge at the top, gives them a little wave as they disappear out of view. Then he’s just standing there, dripping in his flippers and trunks and snorkel mask, Lan Zhan next to him, and they are very, wonderfully, alone.
He turns to Lan Zhan, eager, anticipating—he doesn’t know what, but something. But Lan Zhan steps back, out of his reach, and glances down at him. “Take your flippers off,” he says. “And your mask.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whines, but does as instructed, even if it’s with not an insignificant amount of huffing. He leaves them in a pile in the sand, and Lan Zhan looks from him to the pile and back again, so Wei Ying continues his pouting and gathers them up and puts them away. Lan Zhan has shed his as soon as he got out of the sea, and now he stands in the froth of the waves, arms folded across his chest, and looks at him.
Wei Ying mirrors his stance. “So.”
“So,” Lan Zhan says, and it’s amazing how he manages to keep his face so still, eyes so stern. “Want to explain what all that was about?”
Wei Ying tilts his head, sticks out his bottom lip in confusion. “All what? I don’t possibly know what you’re talking about.”
There’s one flicker in Lan Zhan’s consternation, a little glint in his eye, but he remains firm. “Would you like me to remind you?” he asks, voice cool.
The sun is so, so warm on his back. Wei Ying can feel himself getting hard. “I might need reminding, yeah.” It comes out breathy and wanting.
Lan Zhan steps closer to him, and Wei Ying’s throat goes dry. The anticipation of not knowing what he’s going to do is the best part. Push him to his knees and make him beg? Pin him against the sand and straddle his chest and not let him move? Turn him around, hands tight behind his back, and not let him look at Lan Zhan anymore?
Lan Zhan does none of those things. Instead, he takes Wei Ying’s hand, and starts pulling him across the beach. “Come with me.”
“Lan Zhan—wait—”
He gets a firm glare for that. “Come with me,” Lan Zhan repeats, and doesn’t look back again.
He pulls him into the rocks that line the northern edge of the cove, bigger than the scatter of rockpool-filled nooks and crannies to the south, in between two huge rocks that tower over their heads, into a little sandy mini-beach where the water laps echoey and loud against the boulders that jut out into the sea. They are completely concealed here, tucked in between the rocks, not visible from the beach or the sea or the cliffs above. Wei Ying shivers with the thought.
“What about our stuff?” he asks, because it’s something to say; Lan Zhan tugs his hand harder and pushes him against one of the big rocks. Wei Ying’s heart is hammering in his throat.
“Our stuff will be fine,” Lan Zhan says. “There is no one around.”
Wei Ying swallows. “Okay,” he says. Lan Zhan is standing very close to him, the hand that he dragged him along by now pinned against the rock by his side. Lan Zhan takes the other one and pins it too.
“Do you still need me to remind you?” he asks, voice quiet. Wei Ying nods, then shakes his head. Lan Zhan raises an eyebrow at him. “Perhaps you ought to remind me yourself.”
“Uh,” Wei Ying says, because he’s useless to say much else when Lan Zhan has got him like this, but Lan Zhan just stands there, waiting expectant, so he swallows again, and tries. “I, uh. I pestered you when your brother was around?”
Lan Zhan nods. “Mn. What else?”
Wei Ying closes his eyes, rolling his head back, because being made to spell out everything he’s done like this is just the worst, but Lan Zhan always makes him do it anyway, and it’s so much better for it. Lan Zhan’s grip on his wrists tightens, and he opens his eyes again. “I didn’t wait for your permission at lunch,” he says, and Lan Zhan nods again, but says nothing else. “There’s more? Okay, uh, I kinda groped you a bit when I was waking up, but in my defence, you’re super hot—”
“Do not get distracted,” Lan Zhan reminds him, and Wei Ying nods, averting his gaze downwards, laughing sheepishly.
“Yeah, yep, of course. I—I guess I was, um, being intentionally disrespectful,” he says, and drags his gaze back up Lan Zhan’s chest to meet his eyes. “Because, well. Because I wanted you to do this to me.”
Lan Zhan steps closer until his face is barely inches away from Wei Ying’s. “You were being a brat,” he says.
“Yeah,” Wei Ying breathes.
“Because you wanted to be punished.”
The way he just spells it out for him like this, all of his desires, all of his hungry little plans: he makes Wei Ying feel rubbed raw. “Yes.”
“Hm,” Lan Zhan says, leaning in further, and Wei Ying is sure he’s going to kiss him, can almost taste the saltiness of his lips—
Then Lan Zhan steps away, dropping his wrists, and levels Wei Ying with a look that he can’t fully decipher. “Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying feels a little hollow—are they not—was he not what Lan Zhan wanted, did he not want to have fun with him at the beach—
“Lan Zhan,” he mumbles, hands dropping to his sides. “What—I’m sorry, I didn’t—I should have—”
Lan Zhan shakes his head, once, and it’s enough to silence him. Wei Ying folds his arms over his chest, holding himself in, and Lan Zhan’s expression softens.
He beckons, and Wei Ying stumbles forwards towards him. “Here,” Lan Zhan says, pushing him to his knees before Wei Ying can get there, hands warm in his hair. “Here.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whimpers, pressing his face against Lan Zhan’s thigh. He wants to touch him so badly, to twist his hands in his trunks and beg for forgiveness, but he knows better than to touch without permission; he’s already been disobedient enough today, and look where that landed him.
“Shh, Wei Ying, it’s alright,” Lan Zhan says, and the kindness in his voice makes Wei Ying feel weak. He nods dumbly, eyes closed, breathing in the smell of him. Lan Zhan’s fingers are threading through his hair, soothing, and it feels so good—he could just stay here, he thinks, stay here and wait until Lan Zhan tells him he’s good.
Lan Zhan moves, and Wei Ying is confused until he realises that Lan Zhan is crouching to be at his level. His hand slides out of Wei Ying’s hair, settling in the crook of his neck, over his collar. “Wei Ying,” he says, and Wei Ying nods. He wants to be good. “I appreciate that you wanted to have some fun today. I do too.” Wei Ying opens his mouth, because that’s good news, if he’s not the only one, if Lan Zhan does too, then surely—
“Shh, good boy. Soon. I want to have fun too. And I like it when we play, and when we tease each other. I like it when you’re a brat sometimes. But today we’re not at home, and we’re not at the club where we don’t know people, right?”
Wei Ying thinks he knows where he is going with this. He nods.
“So next time,” Lan Zhan says, “when you want to play, or when you want me.” He leans in, kisses Wei Ying’s forehead, his temple, the tip of his ear. “You can just ask.”
Wei Ying feels like a fool; of course, of course he could have just asked him—could have told him what he wanted, and Lan Zhan would have listened and his eyes would have widened and he would have dragged him off into this little secret nook hours ago—but he didn’t, he did his own silly plan, because he’s never going to be perfect for Lan Zhan—
“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, firmly, cupping his head with both hands. “Wei Ying, shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, it’s forgiven.”
“But Lan Zhan, I—”
“Hey.” Lan Zhan leans back, looks him in the eye. “What did I just say?”
Wei Ying pulls his lips into his mouth. Lan Zhan looks at him, waiting. Finally, Wei Ying drops his gaze, looks somewhere in the vicinity of his armpit, and mumbles, “It’s forgiven.”
“That’s right,” Lan Zhan says, soft. “And what did I say you could do?”
Wei Ying twists his fingers together in his lap. How does Lan Zhan always know him like this?
“Ask.”
“Mn. So what are you going to do?”
Wei Ying looks up at him, lips dry. Lan Zhan is shaded by the rocks on either side, his damp braid tucked over his shoulder, face open and gentle in the watery reflections around them. Wei Ying can ask him anything. He can tell him anything.
“Can we…” he trails off, suddenly self-conscious. Lan Zhan tilts his head a little, still waiting. Wei Ying takes a deep breath. “Can we do something. Fun. Play. While your brother is gone. Please.”
Lan Zhan’s face erupts into a quiet smile, and he pulls Wei Ying into him, rewards him with a slow kiss.
“Good boy,” he says, when they break apart, hands still stroking over Wei Ying’s cheeks. “Of course we can. Go and get a dry towel, my little blue bag out of the rucksack, and a bottle of water, and come back here. Quickly.”
Wei Ying nods eagerly, stumbling to his feet with haste. “Don’t trip,” Lan Zhan tells him, voice fond, but Wei Ying is already out from behind the rocks, scrambling across the beach to the parasol, spraying sand as he drops to his knees to find everything Lan Zhan requested—towel, water, little blue bag—
It feels heavier than it is in his hands on the way back, weighted down with the thrill of anticipation. He just about manages to walk into the little rocky nook where Lan Zhan is hidden, rather than run, and Lan Zhan nods at him in thanks. Wei Ying beams. They’re going to do it. They’re going to fuck on the beach.
“Wait there,” Lan Zhan tells him, taking the towel and laying it out on the sand, spreading it carefully. He takes the bag, too, opens it and sets it on a corner, puts the water bottle within reach. He is always so diligent when preparing for—well, anything, but sex with Wei Ying in particular.
Wei Ying does his best to stop bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. It’s cooler here, out of the sun, and his skin prickles with goosebumps. Lan Zhan turns to him and holds out a hand. Wei Ying takes it.
The rock is rough against his back when Lan Zhan pushes him up against it again, solid and cold. He sighs into the kiss, lets Lan Zhan pry his lips open with his tongue, slip his hands into his hair and hold him there; Wei Ying gives in willingly. Lan Zhan is not holding back, not now. He pushes against him with his entire body, and Wei Ying can feel the responding hardness in his shorts pressing up against his hip, mouth-watering. He wants him more than anything.
Lan Zhan pulls back only enough to breathe hot and fast against his mouth. “Shorts off,” he says. Wei Ying scrambles out of them as fast as he can, giving them only the most cursory of folds as he tosses them to the side, eager to have Lan Zhan’s hands back on him. And on him they are: sliding across his back, down his arms, over his nipples, dipping into the curve of his waist and spreading again across his hips, round to his asscheeks. Wei Ying moans as Lan Zhan squeezes, firm grip on soft flesh, and can’t help the way his hips snap forwards at it. Lan Zhan makes a little noise into his mouth and steps back, pulling Wei Ying with him.
“Down,” he says, pushing him towards the towel. Wei Ying drops to his knees, doing his best to keep Lan Zhan’s mouth on him as he goes; he just about manages, tipping his head back as Lan Zhan reorganises them, lying him down properly. His fingers caress the crease of Wei Ying’s thighs, teasing, and Wei Ying whimpers, trying to get them closer to where his cock is hard and wanting. Of course, Lan Zhan doesn’t let him, but he does drag his neck down Wei Ying’s throat instead, biting over the collar, down his chest, sinking his teeth in over a nipple. It hurts. Wei Ying loves it.
“So hungry for it,” Lan Zhan says against his chest, getting his hand under Wei Ying’s knee and pushing it up towards his hips, exposing him. “Desperate.”
“Yeah,” Wei Ying agrees, arching under his mouth. “So hungry for you, Lan Zhan, please—”
Lan Zhan reaches over for the little blue bag, pulls out one of their travel bottles of lube, uncaps it. Wei Ying is reminded of the sound the sun lotion bottle had made, wonders if Lan Zhan has been thinking about doing this since then. He certainly has.
“Can you—please, I need—”
Lan Zhan’s mouth has drifted down his stomach, and he looks up at him from the region of his bellybutton. “What do you need?”
“Need something. Empty.”
“Hm,” Lan Zhan replies, and his fingers drag further down Wei Ying’s inner thigh, avoiding his cock altogether. “You’re right. This little hole does seem very empty.”
“Hnhgh,” Wei Ying says. Lan Zhan’s fingers brush over his hole, slick and cool with lube, and Wei Ying’s hips buck in effort to get them inside. Lan Zhan pulls away, sitting up to kiss his knee.
“Relax,” he says, and presses the tip of his middle finger against Wei Ying’s entrance. Wei Ying is well-fucked enough that he offers little resistance, but the moan that is wrenched from his chest when Lan Zhan slides his finger all the way in and right to his prostate is probably loud enough to disturb quite a good amount of sealife hiding in the rocks nearby.
“Lan Zhan,” he gasps, as Lan Zhan starts moving his finger in and out, fucking him slowly, “Lan Zhan, ah, please.”
“Please what?”
“Please, I need—more.”
“Hm,” Lan Zhan responds, considering as he keeps finger-fucking him, then he pulls his finger all the way out and presses two in together, eliciting another groan from Wei Ying. “Like that?”
“Yeah—yeah, that’s—”
Lan Zhan tilts his fingers, and finds his prostate again, and Wei Ying moans and tilts his hips upwards, keeping him there. “That’s so good,” he gasps. Lan Zhan smirks, and presses harder.
He keeps fucking him like that, slow and intense and right on his prostate, until every nerve in Wei Ying’s body feels awake, until some slow heady feeling of arousal is rolling over him in waves; Wei Ying is coming before he even realises it, thick ropes across his stomach from his untouched cock. Lan Zhan watches with dark pupils, haloed by the watery reflections on the rock behind his head, and doesn’t stop.
Wei Ying twitches with the intensity of it, but Lan Zhan tightens the hold his free hand has around his knee, pulling him closer, and keeps rubbing his fingers over the same spot, firm and deliberate. Wei Ying feels the next wave coming like a swell in the ocean, building and building and then releasing all over his stomach, making a mess of himself.
Lan Zhan milks his prostate for what feels like hours; Wei Ying starts to sink under, to let himself float in the steady rhythm of it, the weight of Lan Zhan’s hands on him, so much that he can barely tell when he’s leaking everywhere and when he’s not. He is just a thing to be used, a hole to be fingered, something to respond to whatever Lan Zhan does to him. He thinks he is probably whimpering non-stop, but he’s not sure if the sounds are coming from him or somewhere else; he’s not consciously making them. He’s just a hole and a cock and seemingly endless mess all over himself.
Eventually, after he’s shuddered through enough stimulation to feel like he never needs anything to touch him again, Lan Zhan withdraws his fingers and lowers his knee down to the ground. Wei Ying looks up at him hazily. He feels wrecked. Lan Zhan still looks the perfect picture of composure. It’s not fair.
Wei Ying tries to tell him as much, but he seems unable to form any words other than “ngh”, and that makes Lan Zhan smile fondly and lean down to kiss him. Wei Ying responds as best he can.
“Well done,” Lan Zhan breathes against his mouth. He sits back, and looks down at Wei Ying, and Wei Ying looks down at himself too, the sticky mess of his stomach. Lan Zhan drags his fingers through it, leaving trails behind. “Filthy,” he whispers.
“Yeah,” Wei Ying agrees. Filthy. Used. Spent.
“You can be filthier,” Lan Zhan says, and stands up and pulls his shorts off in one quick movement, his thick cock finally there, in Wei Ying’s sights, dark and heavy and leaking—he wants to taste it so badly—
“Lie back down,” Lan Zhan tells him, and Wei Ying hadn’t even realised he’d sat up. He does as he’s told, and Lan Zhan kneels over him, bracketing his thighs. He squirts lube into his hand and nods at Wei Ying’s arms. “Over your head,” he says.
Wei Ying’s arms feel like they’re made of lead as he crosses them over his head. He tilts his head forward to watch Lan Zhan begin to stroke himself, hand clever over the shaft of his cock, circling on the head, spreading lube and precome down the length of it. Wei Ying can physically feel his mouth watering. He knows he’s not going to get to taste it now. He wants to anyway.
Lan Zhan tilts his head back, long throat glistening with sweat in the soft light, and Wei Ying watches in mesmiration as his lips part, eyes fluttering shut. He so rarely gets to watch Lan Zhan like this: lost in the feel of himself, his own hands on his body, knowing exactly what he likes. It’s a perfect reward all of its own.
He tips his head forward again, catches Wei Ying’s gaze and holds it; despite how much Wei Ying has just come he can feel his dick weakly attempt to get hard again, just from the gorgeous sight of this: Lan Zhan, cock in hand, sweat on his chest, being turned on by him.
It’s not long until Lan Zhan leans forward, body tensing as he grunts softly, and then his come joins Wei Ying’s, all over his stomach, mingling with the mess already there. Lan Zhan strokes himself through his orgasm, holding onto Wei Ying’s hip with his spare hand, eyes squeezed closed. Wei Ying wants to pet his knee, stroke him through it too, but he’s not allowed to move his hands. Lan Zhan has him well-trained enough to know by now.
They stay there, the heat and tension still strung between them for a long moment after Lan Zhan has finished coming, his breath panting in the quiet space. The water echoes around them, the swishing of waves against rocks and sand, and Wei Ying feels a deep sense of peace come over him. Like he could just stay here, forever, become part of the ocean too, him and Lan Zhan and everything they share between them. The steady rhythm of their understanding for each other, like waves on the shore.
Eventually, Lan Zhan shifts, climbing off him and sitting heavily onto the towel. Wei Ying rolls over to look at him, and Lan Zhan smiles, a little dopey himself, and runs a hand through the come on Wei Ying’s stomach.
“Beautiful,” he says. Wei Ying feels the praise flutter all the way to his heart. “Come here.”
He sits up, allows himself to be shepherded into Lan Zhan’s lap, gulps down the bottle of water Lan Zhan presses against his lips and buries his face in his shoulder. They catch their breath together.
He’s back up, mostly, by the time Lan Zhan starts shifting them, gently depositing Wei Ying on the towel and reaching for his shorts. He puts them on, and gives him a kiss on the top of his head. “Wait here.”
Wei Ying waits as Lan Zhan disappears from behind the rocks for a moment, then reemerges with a still-content look on his face. “They’re not back yet. Come on.”
He bends, and picks Wei Ying up with ease from his sitting position, which is—so hot. Wei Ying can’t believe they’re going to have to fuck again about it later. He still hasn’t sucked Lan Zhan’s dick today, and that’s a travesty.
Lan Zhan carries him out from behind the rocks, and Wei Ying giggles about being naked on the beach, but Lan Zhan was right, there’s still no one else here. He wades into the sea, and Wei Ying gasps at the cool water on his skin, but then he’s submerged and it’s just right and lovely. Lan Zhan swipes a hand across his stomach. “You can clean off here.”
Wei Ying grins. “Not sure what the fishies will say about this, Lan Zhan,” he says. “Defiling their lovely home.”
Lan Zhan pulls him closer and bites at his ear. “Never defiling,” he says, “when it is Wei Ying.”
Wei Ying splutters and smacks his chest, which earns him a splash in return, which he splashes back, and suddenly they are in a full-on splash war, and Wei Ying is shrieking and Lan Zhan is grinning—grinning!—and he just loves, loves, loves him. Loves everything that he does for him. Loves everything that he is to him. Loves everything about him.
He ducks out of the way of Lan Zhan’s final splash and swims up to him, wrapping his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist. Lan Zhan’s hands come to rest on his ass. Made for each other.
“Hey,” Wei Ying murmurs.
“Hey,” Lan Zhan parrots back to him, and kisses the tip of his nose.
“Love you,” Wei Ying tells him. The words don’t feel like enough.
“I love you too,” Lan Zhan replies, and pulls him in to kiss him properly. “So much.”
Wei Ying nuzzles his nose into the crook of Lan Zhan’s neck and buries his face there. “Thank you for today,” he says. “And sorry.”
Lan Zhan presses a kiss to the tip of his ear. “It is all already forgiven,” he whispers. “And thank you, Wei Ying, for everything you are.”
Wei Ying can’t respond when Lan Zhan says stuff like that, so he just whines and squeezes onto him harder. His dick is pressed against Lan Zhan’s stomach, and he thinks it’s probably been long enough now, he could almost certainly—
The loud guffaw of Nie Mingjue’s laughter echoes across the beach. Wei Ying sits up suddenly, scanning the shore for them, but there’s no sign yet. Lan Zhan’s hands have ceased in their caressing of his ass.
“Good timing,” Lan Zhan murmurs, and Wei Ying agrees with him—at least they weren’t still fucking behind a rock, hole out for all the ocean and world to see—wait—
“Lan Zhan!” he yelps, detaching himself from Lan Zhan and shoving at his shoulders. “My swimming shorts! Quick, before they get back!”
Lan Zhan’s smile is slow and easy. “I thought Wei Ying wanted to tease?” he says.
“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying smacks him again, playfully. “Come on.”
Lan Zhan leans in and kisses him once more, but Wei Ying detaches him before it can go too far, laughing. “You horny freak. Go get me my shorts, hurry!”
He can’t hold back the giggles as Lan Zhan winks at him and wades back up the shore, back to their little secret sex nook. It doesn’t matter where they are, he thinks, because it’s them. Apartment floor or bedroom window or hidden behind the rocks on a secret beach—he’ll still be Lan Zhan’s, just as much as Lan Zhan’s is his. Like waves returning to the ocean.