wuding | Snowed In

“Why break what you can use again?” He asks, smiling about the banter. If he were young and with Lan Zhan in this way, surely he would have enjoyed this sort of banter. He has never feared Lan Zhan, nor has he ever disliked him for being himself. He’d always been interested in being noticed by him, and so why should it be any different just because they’re youths?

“This doesn’t have to be the only time,” he points out, stroking Lan Zhan’s hair behind his ear. “You can have me as many times as you want,” he promises, pressing his butt down to take in Lan Zhan’s fingers. “Just you and me. I’ll keep this secret if you want me to or we can share it with the whole world.”

He lifts himself up, bending down as far as he’s able to kiss the top of his ornery husband’s head before laying back down. “I want you, Lan Zhan. You know how much I want to push your scrolls to the side so I can have your attention while you’re chaperoning my detention? You’re the only reason I come in.”

"Shameless," he hisses, but studiously leans into Wei Ying's searching mouth to welcome his kisses, grateful for the dregs of his husband's attention, however they may come. "Wei Ying dishonors Lotus Pier and our library."

But the thought of that fantasy, so regularly invoked between them — of casting decency and caution aside and forcing his way into his conquered lover on their study desks — governs him. Sweeping his hand, he shoves their scant few discarded clothes off the bed in pale imitation of what they might inflict in the library, pulling himself up on his elbows and forcing Wei Ying's hips down with one arm braced over his belly. The other hand holds the pillar of his length steadied, before Lan Wangji sinks down, mouth greedy and readily occupied.

He swallows around his husband's arousal, light drip of his own drool gathered at the corner of his mouth, while the musk of Wei Ying's ardor thickens around him, the salt of his taste an intoxication. He cannot pull away, stroking the base of Wei Ying's cock idly when his throat feels suddenly constricted, and breath is a short-supplied commodity, a whim. He works Wei Ying fiercely, tirelessly, angrily, barely growling, "Shut up. You're only tolerated to teach me more for whoever I marry."

His laughter is breathy and he kisses Lan Zhan’s head several times before laying back again. “So surly,” he teases with another few syllables of laughter. “You’re so cute like this, Lan Zhan. You don’t want to want me as bad as you do, huh? Me? Well, I could love your face for hours.”

It feels like Lan Zhan’s getting the hang of loving him orally. His whole body shudders and he wants to grab the back of Lan Zhan’s head and bury himself as deep as he can go, but he manages to just grip a fist full of his hair. “We can learn together. Learn all the ways to make the other cum. You’re going to beg to marry me, so it’s only right that we learn each other before.”

He clenches his fist in Lan Zhan’s hair, tugging some of it taut without realizing it. It’s hard to focus on his hands when he’s feeling the urgency for more.

Somehow, he manages not to thrust into Lan Zhan’s hot mouth. He wants his own pleasure, of course, but he doesn’t want to sabotage Lan Zhan’s progress. “You’re so good at this already,” he murmurs between moans, “I’m going to be thinking about this every night we’re not together, you know. Do you like the sound of that?”

Beg to marry him. In another life, would Lan Wangji have done so? Certainly, he has wanted this man for what feels like an eternity stretching since the heartbeat when Wei Ying admitted the depth of his own emotions. But he would not have presumed to impose on Wei Ying's peace or Jiang Fengmian's household without the certainty that his feelings were minimally reciprocated.

They were not adept at communication, only drastically course correcting since their dramatic reunion. Now, he begs each morning by Wei Ying's side for his husband to please wake up timely, please and thank you. At times, his lover even deigns to concede to him. But then?

"Who says I won't have my pleasure, then discard you?" Like the villain of every story beautiful maidens are told in a bid to forego losing their virtue. Wei Ying and he have certainly met such delectably handsome faces, attached to mediocre or outright upstanding names, destined to woo and abandon. Jin Guangshan was but among the oldest and least tragically handsome.

Obediently, Lan Wangji devotes himself to licks and laving, to suckling down and rounding his palm against Wei Ying's balls in a tender, weighing squeeze, before stifling the tip. He releases it, lips tickling the tip, before downing again, so his throat might kiss the length — anything, everything to bring Wei Ying to pleasure.

“You think you’re not going to want this again? I’m going to be here for the whole season,” he points out between sharp inhales of breath. When Lan Zhan isn’t talking to him, he’s doing a fine job of raising his pleasure. His hands are starting to tremble in anticipation of his climax. Almost.

“Just a little more,” he coaxes, pressing down against Lan Zhan’s hand and because it’s the only way he won’t press up towards his mouth. “You’re sure you’ve never made a man cum before? You’re so good, Lan Zhan. Or are you good at everything you try? No wonder everyone respects your authority. I’m getting close, Lan Zhan. I want to taste you, too. Give me a chance and you’ll never get me out of your daydreams.”

He loosens his grasp on Lan Zhan’s hair when he realizes he’s pulling at it. The mattress is a better place to grasp because it can’t feel pain. But maybe Lan Zhan likes a little pain sometimes? He’ll have to remember to ask if it’s just biting that he likes.

"You'll take what I give you and shut up," he rasps, as if ever Wei Ying had satisfied him with silence when they were still disciples, learning each other's whims. No, the more Lan Wangji fought his new fast friend's advances, he more he paid the price of each second of silence.

Too quickly, the game gains difficulty, Lan Wangji's mouth slackening under the strain of sustaining his work, while wet gathers at the corner of his eyes in a shallow sheen. His cheeks have sored, his throat runs hoarse. Each breath comes half heaving. What little he can still do is to stroke down hard, to quicken the end, to summon Wei Ying's climax.

In the end, one hand assists with pillaring the plump, pretty length, while he grants his mouth the mercy of peeling off the better part of Wei Ying's cock, only holding on to the tip. The other hand shifts lower still, returning to the pleasantly wet rim to stuff it fat and full with two fingers, thrust in meanly, as if it is Lan Wangji's own arousal who sears him. "Have the decency to scream the name of the man who beds you."

His back arches sharply and he doesn’t stifle the sounds he’s making. It’s getting harder to concentrate on the speaking part of their game, so his words are meandering compliments about Lan Zhan’s performance and warnings of his inevitable climax. Lan Zhan knows exactly where to press into him to add to the sensations of pleasure.

His whole body tenses as he reaches his peak. If Lan Zhan’s hand wasn’t wrapped around him, he’d be thrusting into his face because he’s not thinking about anything besides chasing the lightning hot waves of euphoria. With Lan Zhan’s name on his lips, he keeps moving until the last trickles of pleasure fades. He licks at his dry lips, pushing himself up on his elbows to look down at his adorably debauched husband.

He grins widely, curling himself around Lan Zhan’s shoulders and head to give him the most awkwardly positioned hug they’ve had in a while. “You’re so good, Lan Zhan. I love you so much,” he coos, moving back to give his husband room to maneuver.

So he said the l-word. Little Lan Zhan will have to ignore it or sputter about it if Lan Zhan wants to continue their game. “You must be aching, Lan Zhan. Want me to use my mouth or do you have other plans for me. I’m sure you want all the practice you can get. You could always fill me up with something other than your fingers.”

It is always a victory, however mildly won, to reap this from his lover's body: to milk and extend and enjoy his pleasure, to be his cause and his vehicle and his witness. To suck diligently, pained and breaking only when the cough claims him, and he must turn his head and wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, clumsily surrendering his prize.

Wei Ying comes down, rounding around him, the embrace at once loose and clumsy. He leans into it, trusting his husband to receive and hold him, catching his breath while Wei Ying spoils and flatters him, reassuring him of affection the Lan Wangji of their youth would not have yet earned. No matter. He feels — raw, if pleasantly used. Of value, because Wei Ying has made him so.

Still numb, he brings himself up to sit, half-knelt, and only answers Wei Ying with a wave, calling his lover close, while Wangji's arms linger halfway open. "Did I please you?"

Perhaps he is breaking character. For a few heartbeats, he is permitted. He feels, perhaps for the first time, that he has helped bring his husband to proper completion with his mouth, and he has earned his praise. "I have learned well?"

The hug isn’t satisfying, so he feels happy when Lan Zhan invites him into his arms. He crawls into his husband’s lap, straddling him with his knees bent at his sides. Lan Zhan’s erection is trapped between them, hard against his stomach.

“Lan Zhan, you’re amazing,” he praises, draping his arms over Lan Zhan’s shoulders. “You did. You pleased me, Lan Zhan. You were so adorable when you were doing it, too. But it feels like you could use some pleasure, too.” He drags one hand back over Lan Zhan’s shoulder and makes a trail down his chest, down lower. “My poor Lan Zhan must be aching by now,” he says, wrapping his fist around his husband’s length. His strokes start slow, just to keep the fire stoked while they hold each other.

“How do you want me, Lan Zhan? We can keep playing disciple if you want to. Look, I’m still wearing the robe. Don’t I look irresistible?”

There, the pleasant, warm, familiar weight of Wei Ying straddling his lap and thighs, pressing against where Lan Wangji's arousal spears up, bolstered. He hisses at the first signs of friction, at once stirred and delighted when his husband's hand envelops him, and the petty, minor thrust of his hips up signals his relief.

"Aching," he echoes, agreeably, and he is all but thrumming with desire, radiating carnal want. The robe, then. Wei Ying in flushed, barely post-orgasmic splendor. The rush of his breath, the appeal of his heated gaze, the beauty of him —

"Irresistible. You are —" He cannot help it, cannot help but to kiss his husband, to meet his mouth as if he is a feast and a starved man has but a want for claiming. He catches Wei Ying's shoulders, pulling him in, forcing the affection. Laughs, after. "Not yet. Thrice for Wei Ying. We said. Do not shame me."

Not even Lan Wangji, with his bountiful recovery time, can pledge himself to see Wei Ying another two times to completion, if his arousal depletes itself early.

He surrenders to the kiss, catching his husband’s mouth with eager lips. He’s feeling pleasantly lethargic after his climax, but he’s ever the dutiful wife in the bedroom and he refuses to rest while Lan Zhan is in need of attention. So he licks and kisses and nibbles Lan Zhan’s lips and tongue, unbothered by the smell and taste of himself.

When the kiss ends, he smiles at the sweet syllables of mirth his husband expresses. Who knew that hearing the one you love most in the world laughing could be the sweetest music. Because Lan Zhan doesn’t usually show other people this part of himself, it’s even sweeter.

“Thrice for me, but not for you?” He asks, kissing along the sharp line of his husband’s jaw. “I want you to feel good, too.” He knows Lan Zhan sometimes has difficulty becoming aroused shortly after an orgasm. He does too, but his own refractory period is shorter with him being so much younger. Still, if Lan Zhan’s already aching, he doesn’t feel right ignoring that.

His hand between them keeps working at a leisurely pace. If Lan Zhan is dead set on only finishing once tonight, he wants it to be more special than a handjob.

“There’s always the second husband if you get tired,” he suggests, sitting back so he can look at Lan Zhan’s handsome face. And he feels so lucky to be here in this moment sharing it with his love.

You've become too acquainted with that second husband is what he doesn't say, because even Lan Wangji, the son of vaunted morality and misplaced virtues, can tell that casting his jealousy to enshroud an inanimate jade pillar may fall outside of reason. Still, he can't help scrunching his nose when he hears Wei Ying's proposal, some part of him childishly petty and morose at the thought of his substitution.

Yes, Wei Ying should not be denied his pleasure, particularly when they're parted. Yes, the second husband dutifully serves when Lan Wangji has exhausted himself. All the same...

The rumination ends tumultuously with Wei Ying's hand threatening too good of a time, Lan Wangji's laughter spilling, broken, as he leans in to catch his husband's ear lobe between his teeth. In his belly, arousal blossoms, his length thickened and prone, diligently weeping beneath his robes. He finds himself forcing the same touch he'd scorned, driving Wei Ying's palm between his layers to reach his flesh.

"Shall we test Wei Ying's new commitment to discipline?" He whispers, part threat, part invitation. "I would take my concubine, while he recites the first hundred precepts. He may not finish until he speaks them all. Must start afresh if he loses turn."

He turns his head to expose his neck and ear when Lan Zhan leans in. He’d assumed he would get a kiss or two, maybe some love bites, but he gets a little pinch on his ear instead! “I should have known you weren’t done biting,” he whines, but he doesn’t try to push his husband away.

His hand slips easily between the folded fabric and he drags his fingers up the length of his lover. When he gets to the top, he massages it and rubs the fluid beading there. “You were so good, Lan Zhan,” he says again, pinching at the crown before wrapping his hand around him skin-to-skin. “I bet you taste nice. You smell so good. It makes me want you again and again.”

He pulls back when Lan Zhan speaks again, eyes open wide in alarm. “You can’t be serious, Lan Zhan! Isn’t copying the rules onto a scroll enough torture? I don’t want to think about rules when I could be thinking about you instead.” Could he even remember which rules are in the first one-hundred versus the last one-hundred? There’s no way he can remember them in any meaningful order!

The difference between them truly is a matter of skill, if not appetite, Wei Ying's touch deft and swift and clever, reaping his moans, sending shivers down his spine. He laughs with the pleasure that envelops him, humbled by his husband's knowing enthusiasm, hiding a moan in the side of Wei Ying's neck, as he laves the column with short, abrupt, kittenish licks.

He peels away nearly too late, when his cock's all attentive, swollen ache, and he burns with a need that nearly wets his eyes, incandescent. In a moment's tardive brilliance, he captures Wei Ying's hand at the wrist, pressing into the jutting bone to forcibly remove it, and bringing it trapped and bound alongside the other. Caught. Held.

"You're refusing me?" This, with the old edge, the juvenile hubris — but paying mind to spot if Wei Ying's discomfort has materialized from false to true.

Every moment they spend touching and kissing brings him closer to arousal. He’s pleased to be interrupted because he knows it means he’d almost brought his husband to pleasure too early. Better to wait for a place better than his palm.

He tests Lan Zhan’s commitment of confining him by trying to move and separate his hands. Satisfied that he can struggle a little if he wants to, he sulks playfully. “I should have known you could find a way to make sex boring. I could tell you all sorts of sexy things. I could beg you or praise you, but you want me to list rules.” He glances down at Lan Zhan’s mouth, “I can think of ten things I can do with my mouth that will make both of us happier.” And if he has his way, his mouth will be too busy kissing Lan Zhan’s body for him to talk.

“So how are you going to punish me for refusing you? You’ve got my wrists. Are you going to hold them the whole time? You have a perfectly good ribbon to tie them up with. I could show you some of my binding talismans.”

He could, he suspects, hold Wei Ying's wrists entirely captive throughout the act and subjugate him through the sheer strength of his upper body, pinned to a flat surface. Could reduce him to an animal, belly to floor, seeking to flee. Could shame him utterly — and, in doing so, give him the satisfaction of later alluding the act was stolen from him, that Lan Wangji is a fierce brute who cannot seduce a lover, but must instead terrorize him.

No, no. Tonight, he decides as he releases Wei Ying's wrists, is for seduction, for humbling Wei Ying with the evidence of his own impatience before their shared desire. It's hardly fair for Lan Wangji to burn every time his husband glimpses him — and to suffer his passions alone.

In the end, he starts to unbind his robe's belt, thin, flexible silk yielding when he wraps it around Wei Ying's wrists, then takes the freed end to tug on as if a leash. There are some advantages, he supposes, to a longer bind. Throughout, he stay careful to allow his husband some freedom, the space to exit his fetters if he applies some force.

"If you don't want this, speak your words now." Patiently, nearly paternal. He will not drag his husband through revulsion or boredom, but there are times — here, now — when he struggles to tell whether the absence of Wei Ying's violent denial signals his enthusiasm.

He watches Lan Zhan wrap and tie his wrists, only a little disappointed he’s still wearing his headband. The little Lan Zhan would never have wanted him to see him without it, so he’ll just have to earn his way into his heart. The binds are firmly tied, but he knows the knot and how to free himself if he needs to for some reason.

His whole body jerks forward when Lan Zhan tests his lead, “Hey, hey, hey,” he calls out, sitting back down and tugging his hands closer to himself. “You’ve got me, Lan Zhan. You’ll be able to do anything you want with me,” he says with a mock pout. “I was going to show you how a man can take his wife, but now you’ll have to be the one doing the taking.”

Which is fine by him! He loves taking Lan Zhan into himself. There’s no better way to feel as close to the other half of his soul.

“You could use some more kissing practice,” he suggests, ulterior motive of wanting to kiss his husband heavily implied. “Think you can do it this time without resorting to biting me like a dog?”

Teasing, taunting, sullen pouts, Wei Ying's judging gaze — but no words to stay Lan Wangji in his advance. Very well, then. They carry on. He has armed his husband prodigiously with options to pursue when the fiction of their love play exceeds his capacity for bearing. That he chooses to ignore these alternatives now should only indicate his enthusiasm.

"Kissing practice," Lan Wangji echoes with growing slivers of interest, gaze already affixed to his lover's mouth — before pulling on the wrist binds to drag Wei Ying near and crushing their lips together. He is attentive now, not biting like a dog, ever the biddable apprentice. Liking the rim of Wei Ying's mouth and draping a hand on his lower back to position him, allowing his husband no escape.

Then, glance molten and breathless when he briefly releases Wei Ying, "Have I performed to laoshi's satisfaction?"

Certainly, the younger Lan Wangji, for all his arrogance, would not have injured his teacher's pride by not addressing him appropriately.

He falls against Lan Zhan with his hands bound between them, scrambling to sit on his lap again. The kiss starts out passionate and he surrenders to it, licking and sucking at Lan Zhan’s tongue and lips. He could kiss Lan Zhan for hours and never feel bored of it. By the time they’re finished, he’s flushed and breathless.

“Better,” he says, licking his own lips to catch some of the moisture there. He pulls his hands up and over Lan Zhan’s head so he can drape his arms over his shoulders. “But now I want you again. You’re not going to leave me craving your touch, right?”

He loves the way Lan Zhan is looking at him in this moment. Dazed with ache and passion. He only worries that Lan Zhan won’t want to take care of his own needs until round three. His poor Lan Zhan will go on hurting if he lets him. “Why don’t I show you how to receive pleasure, too? Your wife will want to make sure you’re satisfied, too.”

Strange, how the bind of Wei Ying's arms around and pulling him in should feel as a noose, but he instead makes of it his fortress, coming willing. He is drawn, inevitably attracted to Wei Ying's mouth, retaliating with one kiss, then another, then a third, and —

They must stop. Surely. Lan Wangji is but a man, however ascetic, the ache between his legs rounding to swell. He had thought to postpone his own climax until the last round, distrustful of his stamina, but there are natural limitations. Perhaps they can progress him to satisfaction now and enjoy a third turn together, after they've both revived their interest.

"...show me." Fettered, deprived the complete use of both his hands and his balance, Wei Ying will surely struggle before his task. But there is something far too sweetly obedient about his promise, a degree of enthusiasm that Lan Wangji cannot resist — pulling back until he leans against the wall, yet sat on their bed, legs only faintly parted to accommodate either his lover crawling in his lap, or doing as he wishes from a distance. "How will my wife please me?"

“Gladly,” he tells him, crawling his way onto Lan Zhan’s lap. It’s not the first time he’s been tied up for this and it won’t be his last. He trusts his husband so completely that he wouldn’t mind if he couldn’t move at all, but in this moment he’s glad he has the ability to.

He looks around until he spots their discarded jar of salve and takes it in hand. “I’ll take you inside of me,” he coos as he opens the jar and takes a generous amount on his fingers. Wordless, he seals the jar again and holds it out for Lan Zhan’s to take and set back down. “How does that sound, Lan Zhan? You’ll have the chance to please us both this way. Make sure you study well so your wife will be pleased, too.”

He takes Lan Zhan’s hand in his, sharing some of the excess salve. “Watch me first,” he guides, lifting himself up on his knees. He doesn’t have the best angle for it, but he lowers his hands between them, spreading his legs to make room for both of his hands. “You want to make sure I’m nice and ready to take you,” he explains like this is the first time he’s ever been with his husband. He manages to angle himself in a way that allows him to press two fingers against his hole. He moves his hips forward, slipping those fingers inside where they can move in and out of himself, spreading himself open to make room for Lan Zhan. “Just like this. You should try next.”

As if a puppet on Wei Ying's strings, he accepts the jar of salve with a hesitant hand, watching him with breathless exhilaration. His husband presents himself in a manner ungainly, vantage to his pretty hole denied, but perhaps the scene all the more erotic for what it withholds. Distantly, he hears the squelch of flesh yielding to oils, the friction of skin against skin, Wei Ying accepting his own intrusion. Watches the faint flush of his husband's cheeks, senses his pleasure.

Still hypnotized, he nods along with the rises and falls of Wei Ying's lilts, at times not even grasping his words, but fishing to reach the sweet curve of his buttocks with his wetted hands, when he is instructed. A simple guidance — he heeds it, pushing two fingers in with masked hesitation, as if this is the first time he presumes to please his lover and does not know his way. A gentle thrust — too gentle for Wei Ying's appetite, he knows all too well.

He does not stop throughout as he proceeds, clever with his cruelties, utterly barbaric. "Just so, Wei Wuxian? Will my wife be happy?"

His wife, who back then he yet presumed might be a woman, and who would therefore require a different kind of warming before the deed. But no matter that.

He moves his hands away, back up and around his husband’s neck. He pushes himself against Lan Zhan’s hand, desperate for something more than is being given. What a cheeky man, his Lan Zhan. He lifts himself up again, leaning back so he can look into his husband’s eyes.

“Too gentle,” he instructs, “I’m not made of glass. If you treat your wife so softly, she will only be hurt when you can’t hold back later. Don’t you want to hear my-her moans of pleasure?”

He reaches down to grab Lan Zhan’s wrist and holds it steady while he takes a couple of greedy moments to enjoy Lan Zhan’s fingers with more force behind the touch. “I could let you take me like this with your hand, but the lesson isn’t over yet. Just remember not to treat me like I’m going to break, okay? I can take anything you throw at me, Lan Zhan.”

He lets go of Lan Zhan’s wrists and wraps one hand around his lover’s cock again, “You’re ready for the next step,” he says with a grin as he starts to pump his hand up and down. “You want more than just my hand, don’t you, Lan Zhan? Show me what you’ve been holding back. Show me what your wife will see.”

Let all merits be recognized: for a man bound, Wei Ying performs admirably, at once making use of Lan Wangji and satisfying himself, leaving little to anyone's prolific imagination. He allows it: first, facilitating Wei Ying's thrust and retaining his fingers rigid, when his husband rides his hand. Then deftly withdrawing his fingers with ease and only a broken moan, when Wei Ying sets himself fresh purpose and accosts him, Wangji's own length desperately swollen, rising inevitably to the occasion.

He moans, fractured and uneasy, and only stops the petty convulsion of his hips when it runs the risk of unsaddling Wei Ying. After, the work is simple: unpackaging his robes to leave only an inner, parted layer, for surely the sight of Lan Wangji's bare, scar-marred back would match expectations of his younger self. Then, one hand over Wei Ying's hips, he lifts him forcibly, while the other pillars his arousal to catch on the rim of his lover's entrance and tease it open. Slow, gentle increments as he forcibly drags Wei Ying down, denying him the freedom of his own movements until the last moment, when Lan Wangji himself is too overcome by the unbearable tightness of the warm confines.

Between gritting teeth, "You should have told me you were a virgin."

He throws his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck again, forehead resting between the crook of his elbow and his husband’s throat. His breath catches at the familiar intrusion. “You’re surly, but you’re gentle too, aren’t you?” He teases, nosing at Lan Zhan’s jaw.

“You didn’t ask,” he answers, grinding his hips down against Lan Zhan’s lap once he has control of his movement again. He breathes heavy against his lover’s skin, dragging his lips up to the edge of Lan Zhan’s ear. “Would you have taken me if you knew you’d be my first? You Lans are too sentimental for that.” He grins again, lifting himself back up so he can look at Lan Zhan’s face. “Does that mean you’ll have to marry me now? We can duel later to see who gets to be the husband.”

He matches Lan Zhan’s rhythm, chasing after the promise of pleasure and moaning when he gets hints of it.

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