Archive of Our Own

Lan Zhan has had to field a lot of questions about his choice of work from curious members of his family. It’s not exactly a standard choice, especially considering Lan Zhan’s degree in history.

Truthfully, Lan Zhan didn’t intend to make a career out of lingerie modeling, either. It was a gradual thing. He started modeling in college on the suggestion of a friend and the subject matter drifted further and further from clothes.

Now, Lan Zhan stars in pictorials that would send his uncle to an early grave.

He plucks at one of the threads of his cardigan, staring ahead at the steel doors of the elevator in front of him. There’s a little buzz of nerves under the skin; he always feels like this when meeting with a new client. Lan Zhan has a contract and an agent to handle all the courtesies of finding his work. He hasn’t met Nie Huaisang yet.

The offices he enters when he leaves the elevator is pleasant and stylish. The room is low lit and there are several plush chairs set up in front of a tidy desk.

To the back, there’s an open door that must lead to the rest of the office; the studio and sewing room. The lingerie is part of a vanity side project. Nie Huaisang makes his money doing something else and designs fetishwear for entertainment.

There’s no one to greet him in the office so Lan Zhan takes a seat in one of the chairs.

A quiet moment or two passes before Lan Zhan can hear two voices bickering back and forth from one of the other rooms. The words are indistinct but the sounds of movement make him sit up straighter in his seat.

Two men come through the door, one after the other.

The first is shorter, dressed in dark, fashionable colors with a hat covering most of his chin-length hair. The presentation of his clothes is neat and careful, every button fastened and aligned in place. He notices Lan Zhan as soon as he comes through and he pauses, blinking twice before smiling.

“Oh! You’re quiet,” he says, a friendly smile on his face. He turns back to the other man, pulling at his sleeve. “There’s your model! I told you I took care of it.”

“You told me we were going to have a casting,” the other man says, whining a little. He looks at Lan Zhan, putting one hand on his hip. “You picked someone without me.”

Both of them are attractive, but the second man has a sharp, handsome face illuminated by his haphazard grin. In contrast to his partner, he’s got on loose, old sportswear that hangs off his skinny shoulders. His hair is pulled up into a bun at the top of his head, the long ends of it escaping to curl against the nape of his long neck. He pauses to take in Lan Zhan sitting behind the desk, leaning his head to the side.

“Ah, Wei Ying,” the first man smacks the second— Wei Ying— in the ribs. “Quit complaining! Say thank you because I got you the best and you didn’t have to work hard.”

Wei Ying groans as if he’s injured, clutching at his side and stumbling back through the open doorway. “I knew success would turn you against me, Nie Huaisang.”

Nie Huaisang tips his head back when he laughs, watching Wei Ying cling to the doorframe with a single feeble hand. He smiles at Wei Ying, taking the wooden chair behind the desk. “I’m getting rid of you as soon as I find a replacement.”

Wei Ying laughs, leaning his arm against the doorway more casually. His attention settles on Lan Zhan again, the same curiosity creeping over his face.

“I’ve seen you before, right?” He asks, the first question that’s directed at Lan Zhan.

“He’s a model,” Nie Huaisang says, shaking his head. “He’s in half the magazines you’ve got stuffed under your bed.”

“What makes you think I hide stuff there?” Wei Ying asks, lifting both his eyebrows.

“Because I’m dating your brother. That’s why it’s fallen to me to give you a job.”

Lan Zhan isn’t very good at reading these kinds of things, but the words must not be as offensive as they sound. Wei Ying only laughs again, his shoulders bouncing up and down.

“Okay, you win today,” he says, shaking his head. Then, he turns to Lan Zhan once again. “You can come with me. He’s no help to you.”

Wei Ying flaps his hand and Lan Zhan rises, nodding his head at Nie Huaisang and following Wei Ying through the door.

“I do the styling and photography for Huaisang’s stuff,” Wei Ying says by way of introduction, glancing over his shoulder.

“Lan Wangji,” he says, hands folded behind his back as he follows Wei Ying. The studio that he’s led into is much brighter than the office, with large backdrops rolled up and shoved away in one corner and tall lights set up around a white dropcloth. There’s a rack of clothes pulled off to one side, stationed next to a standing mirror.

“I fit stuff to the measurements Huaisang gave me,” Wei Ying says, sorting through the array of dark, elaborate outfits that will no doubt cover less of Lan Zhan than they appear. Wei Ying hums to himself, his eyes flitting up and down like he’s trying to judge exactly what he should select.

“You have an aura, kinda,” Wei Ying says. He doesn’t offer any explanation of what that means. Finally, he selects something from the rack, cradling it over one arm and turning around to face Lan Zhan. He frowns, biting the corner of his lip. “Um, Huaisang told you all the stuff we had in mind for this, right?” He asks, his confidence undercut for the first time. “I mean like, the rope stuff.”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, his tone giving nothing away. “I was informed.”

“So… that’s still okay?” Wei Ying asks. When Lan Zhan nods he breathes out a sigh of relief.

“I have done shoots like this before,” he says, clearing his throat. Wei Ying nods, remembering what he was doing after a moment. He hands the clothes over to Lan Zhan, laughing.

“You can change behind the screen. I’ll do any alterations and then your hair,” he says, waving Lan Zhan over behind the corner.

The first thing Wei Ying gave him to dress in is a bodysuit made of soft, stretchy velvet that clings close to his body. The fabric is a deep, luxurious shade of blue, decorated with elaborate embroidery in golden thread and edged in delicate touches of lace. His chest is exposed, the top curving like a bustier and laying flush against his flat chest. It rejoins to form a high collar around his throat that laces at the back with the help of a length of thread. This too is lined with lace that rubs against the bottom of his jaw, encouraging him to hold his head up straight.

When he’s finished dressing, Lan Zhan leaves his hair undone, falling in silky waves to the middle of his back. He steps out from behind the screen without shyness, holding still while Wei Ying tugs at the edges to make sure everything is laying exactly the way he wants. He smiles, almost to himself, holding two pins between his front teeth. It seems he’s happy enough with the fit as is— the garment clings to Lan Zhan’s body with no further encouragement needed.

He stands again, removing the pins from his mouth and sticking them into a puffy cushion around his wrist. He takes that off as well, dropping it to the side and waving Lan Zhan over in front of the mirror.

“Alright! Hair next,” he says, grabbing at several other items which he gathers up precariously in his arms. “Today is test shots and stuff— I’ll worry about the whole look later.”

In the mirror, Lan Zhan can see the way Wei Ying never stops moving the whole time he works Lan Zhan’s long hair into a braid, decorated by several golden ribbons that stand out against the black. He ties it off at the end with a thick length of gold that hangs down to Lan Zhan’s hip. He tucks the braid over one of Lan Zhan’s shoulders, tugging the ribbon so it falls down in line with his arm.

“That looks good,” Wei Ying says, taking a few steps back to survey Lan Zhan. He laces the back of the neck, drawing the collar tight around Lan Zhan’s throat.

“So, um, I’d like to test one or two of the ties to make sure the rig is comfortable enough,” he says, licking his lips. Nervous energy sparks off his every movement. “And to ah, make sure it all looks good.”

Lan Zhan nods his head, following Wei Ying’s lead over to the dropcloth he has set up. There’s a low stool that he pulls over for Lan Zhan, setting it in the center and clearing his throat twice.

“I have, ah, a few in mind. Some of them are kind of elaborate,” Wei Ying says. He grabs a thick coil of white rope from next to the backdrops, circling it over his hands and frowning at it. “We can do a simple one… for now. Just to get used to it.”

When Wei Ying remains frozen in place, Lan Zhan hums in agreement. “You may begin.”

He starts by kneeling on the floor in front of Lan Zhan, binding his ankles together with two loops of rope, a thick knot between them. He repeats the same tie at the tops and bottoms of Lan Zhan’s knees, binding them together in both places make it impossible for Lan Zhan to open his legs.

Lan Zhan wasn’t lying when he said he had done things like this before, of course. His work involves bondage on occasion; or at least the illusion of it. It’s usually another part of the job. Lan Zhan hasn’t spent a lot of time dwelling on the specific ways his body has been restrained in the past.

This isn’t true with Wei Ying, it seems. The whole time he works knots around Lan Zhan’s bare legs, his fingers brush featherlight over his skin. That, in contrast with the bite of the rope on his legs makes Lan Zhan’s breathing come short, rasping in his chest.

Wei Ying puts both palms on Lan Zhan’s knees. The touch is thoughtless and casual; these two things catch Lan Zhan’s notice. People don’t usually touch him in a casual manner and he doesn’t like to invite it. Wei Ying’s hands are warm and he gives Lan Zhan’s knee a slight reassuring squeeze.

“Does that feel alright?” He asks, his voice earnest. “Not too tight?”

“It’s fine,” Lan Zhan says, glad the turmoil doesn’t reveal itself in his voice. Wei Ying’s throat bobs in a swallow but he nods and continues, lacing the rope around the smallest point of Lan Zhan’s waist and anchoring it with a tie at his back. He draws the rope between Lan Zhan’s thighs then draws it up the back, splitting the rope so a strand follows the creases of his thighs on each side, framing his pelvis.

Wei Ying stands, putting his hands above Lan Zhan’s elbows and guiding his hands behind his back. He binds Lan Zhan’s wrists together the same as his ankles, the warm puffs of his breath hitting the bared nape of Lan Zhan’s neck.

There’s an unfamiliar simmer of heat under his skin. Like every time Wei Ying touches him, he stirs more sparks in Lan Zhan’s bloodstream. His elbows are bound together as well, forcing his bare chest out and forward.

Wei Ying steps away, the heat of his hands leaving Lan Zhan cold when it vanishes. He circles around Lan Zhan, correcting his pose so his legs are tucked against the stool and his bound hands are resting against his hip. Lan Zhan’s back arches, his head held up by the stiff collar.

In the quiet room, his breathing sounds loud. The modest positioning of his legs means that Wei Ying is unlikely to note the fact that Lan Zhan is half hard.

“Does anything hurt? Can you move?” Wei Ying asks, his brow furrowed.

As requested, Lan Zhan flexes his muscles against the ropes holding his limbs. They hold firm and when he feels the bite of the rope restricting him, Lan Zhan’s eyes flutter shut for a moment. The rope chafes against his skin in a way that makes him more aware of it. The scrape on the sensitive inside of thighs encourages the continued interest of his cock.

This isn’t a problem that Lan Zhan has run into before. Work doesn’t arouse his interest like this— almost nothing does. The subject of his arousal seems to be more dependant on the weather or the phases of the moon than the interference of anyone else. It’s never been something he needed another person to take care of, either.

He forces his eyes open again, inclining his head at Wei Ying. “Fine.”

Wei Ying smiles in return, broad and honest, nodding his head. “I’m gonna take some test shots.”

He grabs a camera from a bag tucked off to the side, looping the bright red strap around his neck and turning it on. He toys with the settings for a moment, glancing up at Lan Zhan with the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile still.

“It’s nice that your hair is so long,” he says, his voice lax. The exposed skin of Lan Zhan’s chest has started to flush pink. “My sister has really pretty hair, too. I can play around more with styling it.”

He finishes adjusting the settings to his liking and he makes a slow circle around Lan Zhan, pausing to snap pictures at different angles. He hums to himself under his breath the whole time, a tune that Lan Zhan can’t guess the origin of.

“Ah, that looks nice,” he mumbles, pausing to stare at the digital imprint of one of the pictures. “Do you ever smile, Lan Zhan?”

“On occasion,” Lan Zhan says, his voice still serious. “When I’m amused.”

“Not for the camera, huh?” He asks, laughing. The sound is light and melodic, filling the studio with echoes of his delight. Lan Zhan likes the sound of it. He could almost forget the way his skin feels stretched too tight across his bones, prickling every time his breath stresses the bonds of the rope around his waist.

“That expression is good, though,” Wei Ying says, letting the camera hang around his neck, tapping two fingers against his chin. He seems to never be still. “Really noble. Huaisang told me I had to make it look elegant, that’s probably why he picked you.”

Lan Zhan turns his face away and hopes the burning of his ears isn’t obvious from a distance. The murmur of his voice is like a finger drawn down his spine and the slight shiver of his shoulders makes the ropes binding his arm squeeze tighter around him, biting into his skin. His lips part enough for him to sigh, trying to relax into the pose. The tension forced by the arch of his back isn’t too uncomfortable, though his shoulders would ache if he held it for a long time. Much more pressing is the unwelcome throb of arousal between his thighs.

Wei Ying picks up the camera once more, his tongue daring out to wet his lower lip. Lan Zhan’s hands tighten into fists. Wei Ying didn’t bind him tightly and because Lan Zhan is sitting still, not struggling against the ropes, they’re unlikely to leave lasting impressions in his pale skin. Lan Zhan notes this with a hint of something like regret in the pit of his stomach.

The camera shutter clicks and Lan Zhan swallows, keeping his chin tilted at the same angle, his eyes following Wei Ying as he moves. He takes another handful of shots before he stops again, clicking through them with a hum.

“That’s all good,” he says, nodding. He removes the camera from his neck and sets it next to the leg of one of the lights. When he’s done with that, he returns his attention to Lan Zhan. He circles behind him, releasing the knots that hold his elbows and wrists in place, letting his shoulders relax. The release of tension makes his muscles burn pleasantly and Lan Zhan flexes his wrists and fingers, encouraging blood back into the tips of his fingers. There’s a livid red line crisscrossing his wrists that will fade with some time.

Wei Ying’s gaze lingers on the marks, the grain of the rope etched into Lan Zhan’s skin, but he doesn’t say anything. He continues releasing the knots, making a messy pile out of the ropes as he pulls them away.

It doesn’t occur to Lan Zhan to spread his legs to allow the rope to yank away from his waist, even though Wei Ying released his ankles and knees first. The drag of it between his thighs makes him hiss out a short, sharp breath. He cuts it off nearly as quickly as it escapes.

“Ah, sorry,” Wei Ying says, putting his hand on Lan Zhan’s knee. “Did that hurt?”

“It didn’t hurt,” Lan Zhan says, the nape of his neck red. He releases the ribbon from his hair, using his fingers to comb out the thick braid that Wei Ying’s clever fingers wove. Freed, his hair falls around his face and shoulders in a black silk curtain, obscuring his view of Wei Ying.

“That wasn’t so bad, right?” Wei Ying says, stepping out of the way to allow Lan Zhan to change back into his own clothes. “I can do one or two shoots a week, I think. If that works for you. Huaisang wants to do at least 10 but he’ll ask me to shoot more.”

Lan Zhan steps behind the screen and tugs the knot holding the collar closed open, unlacing it with careful fingers. He sheds the bodysuit, careful not to twist or wrinkle it, before dressing in his own clothes again.

Mercifully, the separation and return to his tidy slacks and cardigan grants him a reprieve from the thrumming desires of his body. When he emerges, his heart rate is closer to normal.

Wei Ying smiles at him once again, arms crossed over his chest, rocking back and forth between his heels and the balls of his feet. “We could get together for a drink and talk about the other shoots.”

“I don’t drink,” Lan Zhan says, shaking his head. He ties his hair in a low ponytail at the back of his head to keep it from falling in his face.

“Oh,” Wei Ying says, laughing. “How about coffee?”

“I do not drink coffee either,” Lan Zhan says, his mouth tugging into a frown.

“I see,” Wei Ying says, blinking his eyes owlishly. Lan Zhan glances between him and the hall back out to the office.

“Is there anything else you need?” He asks, tucking his hands behind his back once again.

Wei Ying’s expression crumples inward, his brow furrowing, and his lips drawing together. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “We’re done for today.”

Lan Zhan nods, humming to himself and walking back towards the office without Wei Ying to guide him. Wei Ying makes an undignified sound, stumbling after Lan Zhan with nervous laughter bubbling out of his mouth.

“Hey! Sorry, was that too much? I’m not gonna do anything, um, creepy. I want you to feel more comfortable.” He stops short a few feet behind Lan Zhan, rubbing the nape of his neck with one hand. “You get stuff like that a lot, huh? I’m not interested! I promise.”

Shame drops in Lan Zhan’s stomach like a hot stone. He says nothing and hopes the evidence of it doesn’t show on his face. It shouldn’t sting him to hear this— he’s generally apathetic toward the photographers he works with.

“I understand,” Lan Zhan says, nodding his head politely at Nie Huaisang as he makes his way out. He doesn’t turn back toward Wei Ying again, even though he can hear him trying to stammer out some further excuse or explanation.

He doesn’t need to hear it; Wei Ying doesn’t owe him anything further, of course. Whatever strange ember smoldered in Lan Zhan’s stomach can be buried once again.

His shoulders are stiff when he leaves, the sleeves of his cardigan pulled down low over his wrists to hide the lingering crimson marks on his skin.

Over the next week, Lan Zhan has to work harder than usual to keep unwelcome thoughts out of his mind.

This is another way that Wei Ying has managed to infuriate him. In spite of the small rejection, Lan Zhan cannot keep the lingering memories of his deft, clever fingers brushing his skin at bay.

Three times he wakes up unacceptably hard with a terrible ache in the pit of his stomach.

Meng Yao suggested that Nie Huaisang might want him to shoot as many as 20 outfits. Lan Zhan considers having Wei Ying tie him up twice a week for ten weeks and buries his face in the pillow with a groan.

He pulls himself out of bed mechanically, going through the foundation of his day as he always does. He’s awake well before he needs to be; keeping with the 5 AM alarm that he grew accustomed to as a child.

When he reaches the bathroom to shower, he undresses and looks at his half-hard cock with a measure of dismay. It would be unacceptable to touch himself and think of Wei Ying, especially when Lan Zhan has his first official shoot in a few hours.

He twists the cold water on in the shower and steps in, turning his back to the icy spray, letting it run between his shoulders and down his hips. The shock is an unwelcome start to the day but Lan Zhan maintains the low temperature for several minutes until he begins to feel the chill down to his blood.

He changes the knobs and the heat flooding the shower stings his skin. He tilts his head back into the spray, letting it wet his long hair.

When he’s finished with the shower, he takes a longer time than usual to pause and meditate for breakfast. He’s going to need a greater reserve of inner peace than usual to make it through the day.

When he arrives, the office is much the same as it was the first time. Nie Huaisang seems to have added a delicate orchid to the desk, flowering a vibrant purple.

He’s seated behind the desk when Lan Zhan arrives, one foot tucked on the chair, his arm draped over his raised knee. He looks up at Lan Zhan and smiles, wiggling his fingers in a small wave.

“You can go back,” he says, tipping his head toward the door. “He’s late. You’ll get used to it.”

Lan Zhan nods stiffly, stepping around the desk and making his way back to Wei Ying’s studio space.

There’s more chaos in the room than on Lan Zhan’s last visit. The rack of clothing is now full to bursting, with a large stack of silk rope in various colors sitting next to one of the wheels. A small table has been dragged next to the mirror, covered in makeup products and other small things.

Wei Ying is nowhere, though his laptop is sitting open a few feet away from the shooting area he’s set up, still open.

This leaves Lan Zhan lingering in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do with himself. He takes a few uncertain steps towards the clothing that Wei Ying has selected, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Wei Ying bustles through the doorway behind him before Lan Zhan is left for too long, balancing a pair of paper cups in his hands, out of breath. He beams at Lan Zhan, the fringe of his hair falling into his eyes in a messy, uneven fashion that Lan Zhan immediately wants to correct for him.

“Ah, Huaisang said you were right on time,” Wei Ying says, laughing. “I went to get tea for you.”

Lan Zhan blinks at him before focusing on the pair of to-go cups that he has. He sets one of them on the floor, off to the side, and digs in the pocket of his loose hooded sweater for a moment.

“I didn’t know what you liked,” he says, shaking his head. “I asked them to give me a bunch.” He produces a handful of individual tea bags, holding them out to Lan Zhan. “Have whatever you want.”

Lan Zhan takes the green tea from him along with the cup, peeling the top off. “Thank you,” he says, blowing the steam away from his face.

“You like tea?” Wei Ying asks, his smile growing wider. Lan Zhan nods, dangling the tea bag inside the cup before placing the lid back on. “I’ll make sure I have some for you! I can um, go a little earlier next time.”

“That is not necessary,” Lan Zhan says, shaking his head. Wei Ying chuckles, shaking his head and flapping his hand. He follows the line of Lan Zhan’s gaze over to the rack of clothes and shoots him a crooked smile.

“Some of these are kind of elaborate… we’ll shoot it one or two at a time,” he says, excitement picking up in his voice. “I did some sketches of the ropework I have in mind, too. You can tell me if there’s anything in there you um, wouldn’t like.”

It’s obvious he’s taking pains to make Lan Zhan feel at ease. He nods, taking a sip of the tea once it has brewed to an acceptable strength. He places it to the side as well. Wei Ying shuffles through the clothes for a moment, picking out several pieces and draping them over his arm. He passes all but one hanger to Lan Zhan, clicking his tongue against his back teeth.

“Try that,” he says, nodding at the screen. The last piece, a set of wide black leather epaulets with several feet of dangling fringe, studded and accented with tiny sparkling beads. “This I’ll help you get on.”

Lan Zhan nods, stepping behind the screen to undress once again. He takes the time to fold his clothes before turning his attention to what Wei Ying handed him.

This time it’s a set of several leather pieces, all studded with the same round, flat studs that Lan Zhan saw on the epaulets. The bra molds to his flat chest, leather laying against his pale skin. The bottoms are underwear, cut high on his hips, and lined with a softer fabric on the inside. Everything is snug and comfortable against his body.

In addition to those, there’s a slender choker attached to a long piece of leather by a silver ring. At the end, there’s another, wider loop that wraps around Lan Zhan’s hips, drawing a straight line from his chest to his crotch.

He steps out from around the screen, pausing at the end when he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, considering. It’s a flattering cut on his body, more explicit in suggestion than the outfit Wei Ying selected for him last time.

Wei Ying smiles, circling twice around Lan Zhan before nodding his head in satisfaction. “That looks good,” he says, his fingers skating over Lan Zhan’s hips to adjust the slender harness. “Okay… now you can sit for the rest.”

He drops the same stool he gave Lan Zhan last time in front of the mirror, gesturing to it with a flourish. Lan Zhan sits facing the mirror, his legs tucked together under the stool, a slight frown imprinted on his face.

Like he did before, Wei Ying weaves his hair into a thick braid. This time, instead of the long ribbon, he adds slender filaments of silver that clip to Lan Zhan’s hair. It adds further dimension to the braid, making it look longer than it is.

Wei Ying leans in close the whole time he applies Lan Zhan’s makeup; a mercifully light layer that draws attention to the sharp corners of his eyes and his lips. Wei Ying holds his chin between two fingers even though Lan Zhan sits still without help. He pauses when he’s finished, his eyes dropping to Lan Zhan’s neck for a brief moment.

“I have one other thing,” he says, chewing the corner of his lip. “If you don’t mind trying it.”

He stands as soon as Lan Zhan nods, digging around in a bag hanging from the end of the rack. After a moment he produces a thick leather collar. It’s set with a fat silver ring at the front but otherwise unadorned. The thing that catches Lan Zhan’s attention is the width and the notched shape; meant to cover the whole of his neck and force his head up straight.

Lan Zhan’s mouth goes dry. In the mirror, his expression doesn’t shift.

“I don’t mind,” he says, his fingers curling in his lap.

Wei Ying grins, disappearing behind Lan Zhan to fit the collar around his neck, fastening it at the back. Like the ropes last time, this isn’t as tight as it could be. Wei Ying has left it loose enough that Lan Zhan could droop his chin against the leather if he wanted to.

This is done out of courtesy, of course. It would be strange of Lan Zhan to ask him to fasten it tighter.

“It looks good,” Wei Ying says, praising himself. He adjusts the ring of the collar, making sure it lays flat. He steps away and Lan Zhan stands, following him and taking a seat in the middle of the dropcloth where Wei Ying indicates.

“Do you want a pillow to sit on?” Wei Ying asks, cocking his head to the side. “I’m sure Huaisang’s got something.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head and Wei Ying hums in return, low and melodic. “Is a lotus pose comfortable for you?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, adjusting the position of his legs so they’re tucked one over the other. Wei Ying approaches with coils of red rope wrapped around his arm. He kneels next to Lan Zhan, drawing a long strand out. He starts a fog tie along Lan Zhan’s right leg, binding his calf to his thigh. Once that’s finished he moves on to the other one, caging Lan Zhan’s thighs in red silk rope.

Wei Ying wraps his fingers around Lan Zhan’s wrists, drawing them behind them so they cross at the small of his back. He binds them there, not so tight that it strains Lan Zhan’s shoulders back like before. Enough that he wouldn’t be able to wiggle free without some effort. He weaves the ropes between Lan Zhan’s fingers like rings, adding another intricate later to the binding.

He finishes it with simple ties around his arms and elbows, holding him exactly as he’s positioned. When he stands, Lan Zhan starts to tip his head to follow the movement but he’s stopped by the restrictive grasp of the collar. His breath stops short, fluttering in his lungs for a second.

The rigging leaves his front exposed, showing off the details of the design and allowing the long sweeping leather fringe to hang down almost to the ground. His arms are pinioned behind him with an excess of rope, binding his fingers apart, stopping his ability to do anything more than move the very tips.

“Feel okay?” Wei Ying asks, running his fingers under the ropes to check the tension.

Lan Zhan hums, nodding his head as much as he’s able. Wei Ying pulls his hand away with a quick flash of a smile before wheeling around to grab his camera, looping it around his neck and stepping back several feet.

He stops there, adjusting one of the lights before looking over Lan Zhan once again. He whistles to himself, pushing his bangs out of his face with a laugh.

“Wow,” he says, his gaze focused and intense on Lan Zhan. “You look incredible, Wangji.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, hoping the color hasn’t risen into his cheeks. The outfit isn’t far out of bounds from things he’s worn before; he’s been more revealed on camera than he is now.

It’s the piercing stare from Wei Ying that’s different this time than before. Lan Zhan doesn’t know how to deal with it, or how to shed the feeling that Wei Ying is seeing more of him than he wants to share with the camera.

The ropes and collar oblige him to hold the same position; seated in lotus-pose with his wrists crossed behind his back and his chin tilted upward. The thick braid of his hair is laying over his shoulder and along his chest, the thin silver threads standing out in the vast expanse of black. His breathing makes the long fringe draped from his shoulders sway, betraying the uneven pace of it.

Idly, he wonders if Wei Ying turned up the heat in his studio space to account for how little clothing Lan Zhan would have on. It seems like he must have. The air in the room is hot and oppressive, making beads of sweat slide down the nape of Lan Zhan’s neck, tickling their way down his spine.

Wei Ying stops after a few dozen frames, grasping Lan Zhan’s chin in his fingers to turn his head a different direction, lifting his gaze as much as the collar will allow. His eyes meet with Wei Ying’s instead of the glass eye of the camera and the blood shivers in his veins. He doesn’t gasp or make a sound, too focused on the dark pits of Wei Ying’s eyes.

“Can you stay like that?” He says, the corner of his mouth turned up at a crooked angle. Lan Zhan hums, holding the position even when Wei Ying pulls his hand back and steps away. He tries to snuff the devouring heat in his stomach, the uncommon craving to have another pair of hands on his skin.

The shutter of the camera and the rasp of his own breathing are the only things that Lan Zhan can hear over the thudding of blood in his ears. Purposeful and efficient as he is, the fleeting touches of Wei Ying’s fingers on his skin feel like a purposeful denial of what he’s aching for.

He shuts his eyes, trying to recenter his thoughts to something calming but the click of the camera intrudes once again.

“Ah, that looks pretty,” Wei Ying says. “I think I wanna move your arms.”

Lan Zhan opens his eyes and nods. Wei Ying lets the camera hang around his neck, kneeling behind Lan Zhan once again. The ropes around his fingers fall away first, followed by the ones holding his wrists and arms in place. He extends his arms over his head, stretching his elbows and shoulders with a soft sigh, curling his fingers to encourage the circulation.

One of Wei Ying’s hands rests on his shoulder, separated from his skin by layers of leather. “Want some tea?” He asks. He jumps up before Lan Zhan answers, fetching his cup from across the room and bringing it over.

He holds it out to Lan Zhan then frowns. “Oh. The collar.”

“It isn’t tight,” Lan Zhan says, taking the cup with a slight shake of his head. The tea is cooled somewhat now but still warm. He takes a few small sips of it before passing it back to Wei Ying, rolling his wrists in tight circles. “Thank you.”

Wei Ying nods, setting the cup off to the side again. He gathers the rope up, gathering Lan Zhan’s hands together in front of him, crossing them one over the other to create two V shapes across his chest. It hides the studded detail work on his chest but portrays a sense of modesty. Wei Ying binds his arms like that, wrists to the opposite upper arm, bringing the ropes down between his elbows to attach to the frog tie on his legs. The tension pulls Lan Zhan forward, curling protectively over himself.

In the middle of it, Wei Ying giggles, his face criminally close to Lan Zhan’s. His hands are close to Lan Zhan’s hips, not quite touching. As molded as the underwear is, he would have no hope of hiding the neglected swell of his cock between his crossed legs. The longer he spends on the intricate knot, the redder his face turns, looking between his hands and the floor under his knees.

He stands up again, fingers lingering on Lan Zhan’s chin to correct the angle of his face. Before Lan Zhan can do something foolish like lean into the contact, he steps away and lifts the camera again. Lan Zhan keeps his face turned demurely at the angle Wei Ying selected, his eyes only catching the camera from the very corner.

The position he selected isn’t uncomfortable, even with the slight curve of his back, but Lan Zhan aches all over to be touched. Wei Ying’s fingers are deft and clever with each task, certain of every knot he weaves. Lan Zhan can’t help the burning curiosity that rises in him; if Wei Ying were to touch him for real, would he be the same way?

An unwelcome shiver passes down his spine at the thought.

Wei Ying still looks flustered, he scrapes his bangs back from his face and laughs at nothing.

“I made sure Huaisang got good silk ropes,” he says, his fingers dancing on the edge of the camera. “So it wouldn’t, um, be too itchy or anything. Since you have to stay like that for a while.”

Lan Zhan hums, flexing his arms to tighten the ropes around them. It’s true that the woven red silk doesn’t bite or scratch his skin like a cheaper material would. The restriction is tight and steady and the marks from the last time Wei Ying bound him faded without bruising.

Wei Ying steps in front of him once again, chewing on the corner of his lip. His pupils are wide and black, consuming the dark brown of his iris almost entirely.

“It’s comfortable, right?” Wei Ying says, a weight in his voice that wasn’t present before.

Lan Zhan inclines his head, his eyes flicking between Wei Ying’s eyes and his mouth. “Yes.” His voice has a rasp to it that he hopes can be blamed on the long period of quiet. Wei Ying laughs again, an octave higher than before.

He gets all the shots he’s looking for, clicking through them rapidly before letting the camera drape around his neck. He glances at the watch, twisted the wrong way around so the face is on the inside of his wrist.

“Damn, out of time,” he says, shaking his head. “I’ll let you out now, okay?”

He sets the camera down, kneeling in front of Lan Zhan and unraveling the knots that hold his arms and legs in place. He catches one of Lan Zhan’s hands in his fingers working comforting circles into the red skin of his wrists.

Lan Zhan knots his jaw and tries to ignore the tingling in his skin. Wei Ying doesn’t seem to notice, flipping Lan Zhan’s wrist over to trace the imprint of the ropes on his skin.

“You must bruise too easy, huh Wangji?” He says, the pad of his thumb pressing into Lan Zhan’s rabbit-quick pulse. The thin fabric of his shirt has slouched off his neck and down his shoulder, revealing a pale half-moon of skin. Before he can formulate a response, Wei Ying is on his feet again, rustling through the makeup bag that he tossed to the side.

He returns with a travel-sized tube of lotion. When he squeezes it into his hands, it smells of roses. He takes hold of Lan Zhan’s hand again unfurling his fingers and rubbing lotion into them before moving down to his wrist. The cold soothes the sting of his flesh though the constant rubbing of Wei Ying’s fingers is no relief at all.

Lan Zhan holds his other hand up to allow Wei Ying to apply lotion there as well, studying the way the studio lights illuminate his skin. He’s trying to distract himself from the wandering way one of Wei Ying’s fingers traces the blue veins under his skin.

Gently, he pulls his hand away, curling his fingers and shaking his head. Wei Ying spends a moment looking at his now empty hands before he sits up, flicking his hair out of his face.

“Oh, you have to change,” Wei Ying says, lifting Lan Zhan up to his feet with careful hands.

Lan Zhan nods his head, stepping behind the screen to change back into his own clothing, careful with each piece that he removes. He notes, with some dismay, that he’s still hard between his legs. At least separated by the dressing screen, he has a chance to take a breath and start to calm down.

He can hear Wei Ying shuffling around on the other side but Lan Zhan takes his time in getting dressed. When he emerges, his face is smooth and calm once again.

Wei Ying greets him with a smile that makes something errant flash in the pit of his stomach again.

“You know your normal stuff is cute,” Wei Ying says, looking at the embroidered clouds dotting Lan Zhan’s sweater with a little laugh. “I kinda thought you’d be one of those models who dress in nothing but black all the time.”

“I don’t like black,” Lan Zhan says, tugging at the soft blue hem of his sweater. Wei Ying laughs, though Lan Zhan isn’t sure exactly what about that was funny.

“I’ll see you in a few days, right?” Wei Ying asks, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I mean… I didn’t scare you off of anything, did I?”

“You haven’t scared me,” Lan Zhan says, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I will be here for the next shoot as well.”

“That’s good,” Wei Ying says, an invisible thread of tension releasing from his shoulders. “I’ll be excited to see you.”

Blood flushes the tips of Lan Zhan’s ears. He turns his head away to make sure Wei Ying doesn’t notice. He lifts his bag onto his shoulder once more, nodding his head on his way out.

He doesn’t admit that he’ll be looking forward to it as well— the words stick to the tip of his tongue.

"I thought about doing a gag with this but it seems kind of silly to put you in one," Wei Ying says. He's standing behind Lan Zhan and working a knot in the rope banded across his shoulders, pinning his arms to the sides.

The outfit is more elaborate this time. An exaggerated sheer black robe with a long train on black lace and fluffy pink trim and cuffs that would make it impossible to do much of anything. At the moment, Lan Zhan only has on the pair of silky black underwear that Wei Ying handed him.

"Huaisang calls this the widow's robe," Wei Ying says, running his hands down Lan Zhan's arms to correct their positions. He puts one of Lan Zhan's hands at the small of his back, palm turned in. He places the other one parallel, tucked over his stomach, fingers brushing his hip.

"Why?" Lan Zhan asks, keeping his hands where Wei Ying places them.

"It's for throwing on right after you've killed your rich husband," Wei Ying says, giggling to himself. "I thought the rope peeking out under it would look pretty."

In the last 4 weeks, Wei Ying has grown far more comfortable with touching him. His hands are no longer quite as brisk and professional. When he drags rope around Lan Zhan's chest one of his hands lingers on Lan Zhan's hip.

The rigging holding his arms in place comes together. Wei Ying steps in front of him, frowns, and pauses to add a v of rope that crosses over the top of his shoulders, connecting the front to the back and framing Lan Zhan's bare throat.

There's far more rope at his back than his front. The hand tied tucked across his navel is bound to his chest with a single loop around the wrist. But the hand behind his back is tied to a thick column of rope snug against his spine, fingers pinioned by separate loops. Wei Ying weaves in another length of red rope, this one splitting and traveling between his legs. It frames his pelvis and connecting to the ropes holding his back hand in place.

"Tell me if your fingers get numb, okay?" Wei Ying says, his words warm against Lan Zhan's shoulder. He steps away, grabbing the robe that he has hung up to the side and throwing it over Lan Zhan's shoulders. He binds it loosely at the waist to keep it on since the arms are hanging loose. The open slash of the front reveals part of his chest and the ropes covering it.

Wei Ying arranges it more, dragging the smooth sheer fabric over Lan Zhan's chest and offering only a whisper of contact each time. It’s a struggle to keep his breathing even, standing as still as possible to allow Wei Ying to drape the robe how he pleases.

“Oh, you look so nice,” Wei Ying says, stepping around in front of Lan Zhan with a grin. He does this each time as if he isn’t the one making all the important choices about how Lan Zhan looks.

He catches Lan Zhan’s chin between his fingers, tilting his head down at a softer angle, letting his hair tumble in a dark wave over his shoulder, braided with a single pink rose entwined with it, the bloom banded at the bottom.

Lan Zhan wonders if Wei Ying can feel the tightening of his jaw that comes with resisting the ache to kiss him on his smiling mouth. Maybe he does, or maybe he’s content with the positioning of Lan Zhan’s head because he drops his hand and steps away with another peal of laughter, looping the camera around his neck.

It’s good for the moment that Lan Zhan doesn’t have the use of his hands because nothing else would be able to stop him from grabbing hold of Wei Ying’s shirt and ruining his career. He maintains the somewhat demure angle of his chin, his fingers curle around his hip, looking through his lashes to meet the lens of the camera.

Before Wei Ying covers his face with the camera, he shuffles his fingers across the outside of it, his eyes darting over Lan Zhan’s body. At least Lan Zhan isn’t hard at the moment. It's very small mercy considering the way Wei Ying’s stare arouses a simmer of heat in his blood. He seems to realize that he’s staring at once because he jolts in place, shaking his head and lifting the camera.

Wei Ying shoots a dozen frames before he adjusts Lan Zhan again, drawing one leg out in an alluring line and pulling the shoulder of the robe down to further reveal Lan Zhan’s bare skin and the red ropes criss-crossing his chest.

For a moment, Wei Ying’s palm rests on his ribs, the heat of it dampened by the robe and thick bands of rope wrapped around his body. Lan Zhan’s breathing stutters out of time and posed as he is he doesn’t have a quick way to escape. Wei Ying isn’t in a hurry to stop touching him, either, his hand drifting down Lan Zhan’s waist towards his hip.

Lan Zhan tamps a perilous sound back down his throat, trying to find some sense of calm. He’ll have to struggle later on to rid himself of the same thoughts. Wei Ying pulling the fine, luxurious outfits off of him, or binding him until the ropes do leave bruises in his skin after.

But Wei Ying doesn’t stop touching him. He drops his hand with a hum, adjusting the flower tied in his hair, tilting his head to the side, and studying Lan Zhan’s make up. He puts the pad of his thumb against Lan Zhan’s lower lip, ignorant of the way Lan Zhan would like to capture it in his mouth.

“Maybe we should try lip gloss next time,” he says, thoughtful, lingering.

Lan Zhan’s gaze shutters halfway, staring at the curve of Wei Ying’s smile in return. His head leans forward in an unthinking nod, almost abandoning the angle that Wei Ying is trying to put his chin at. He catches himself when Wei Ying steps away, his fingers straining at the ropes holding them in place.

Wei Ying shoots him again and Lan Zhan focuses all his attention on the air coming in and out of his lungs, trying to ignore everything else. It doesn’t help that much; it only sharpens his focus on the drag of rope around his chest every time he breathes in deep.

“Can you wiggle it off your other shoulder too?” Wei Ying asks, blinking at him over the top of the camera. “It’ll fall more naturally.”

Lan Zhan shivers, flexing his other arm and rolling his shoulder to send the other side of the robe cascading down. It's held up only by the sash and Lan Zhan’s curled fingers, revealing his chest and pooling at his waist.

The studio is quiet. Wei Ying’s breath rasps on the way out and Lan Zhan can’t help but agonize over the sound of it. His throat is desert dry and while true to his word Wei Ying still offers him a to-go cup of green tea at the beginning of the shoots, Lan Zhan wouldn’t be able to drink it himself tied like this.

He thinks that Wei Ying would help him drink, if he asked. The thought is more curse than comfort. His dignity wouldn’t stand for it, anyway.

“How do your fingers feel?” Wei Ying asks after he completes another circle around Lan Zhan. He guides one of his shoulders back so his chest catches the light better, the red silk rope shining against his skin.

Lan Zhan twitches them behind him with a slight frown. He twitches them behind them, realizing the static buzzing in the tips.

“Asleep,” he says, twisting like he might be able to look over his shoulder and check. Wei Ying hums, pulling the sash of the robe open and letting it fall in a silken pool at Lan Zhan’s feet. The air freezes in his lungs but Wei Ying doesn’t seem to notice, stepping behind Lan Zhan and poking two of his fingers.

“Okay, time to get you out,” he says, his fingers finding the first of the knots he needs to release Lan Zhan.

The bittersweet mix of relief and denial makes him a little dizzy. Lan Zhan stays still while Wei Ying releases him, praying that every touch of his fingers doesn’t elicit a shudder. Lan Zhan’s body refuses to register the fact that as much as he longs for it, Wei Ying isn't there to bring him any kind of release. This, if anything, makes the longing sharper, more pronounced in his chest.

“You look really sexy like this,” Wei Ying says, chattering as idly as ever in Lan Zhan’s ear while he works. The ropes are hanging slack off of his body, bare except for the black underwear he had on beneath the robe.

Two of Wei Ying’s fingers run down his back, over his spine, no doubt tracing the harsh red imprint of the ropes on his skin. “You’re so pale,” he adds, his tone appreciative in a way that makes Lan Zhan flush. “Everything stands out more.”

His hand wanders across Lan Zhan’s back, following another mark around his ribs. Lan Zhan looks down and burns the sight of Wei Ying’s hand encircling his waist into his memory. Wei Ying’s breath fans out across his shoulder and Lan Zhan forces himself to stand more rigidly before, pulling away rather than melting into Wei Ying’s body.

“That’s all for today,” he says, stepping away with a flutter of a laugh. “I don’t want you losing any limbs. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Lan Zhan nods his head, swallowing the reminder with a measure of reluctance. He won’t be able to escape Wei Ying for a while yet.

Wei Ying gathers up the robe and leaves Lan Zhan to get dressed. He shuffles around the studio with unfocused energy the way he usually does when they’ve finished shooting.

“Say, Lan Zhan, you’re not busy tomorrow night are you?” He chirps from somewhere on the other side of the screen. Lan Zhan pauses in fixing his pants and frowns at the wall, his back turned to the rest of the room to pretend at some sense of modesty.

“No,” he says, his tone apathetic. He isn’t busy most evenings.

“You should come to dinner with me,” he says, smiling as soon as Lan Zhan finishes dressing and emerges from behind the screen.

“Why?” He says, a small furrow in his brow.

“So we can eat,” Wei Ying says, laughing. He has his shoulder-length hair down for a moment, falling in fluffy waves and curling in towards his face, wild once it’s released from its customary knot on top of his head.

He gathers it in his hands, tying it up once more with the red band wrapped around his wrist. He tips his head back while he does it, exposing the tendons of his throat to the bright lights of the studio.

Lan Zhan stares at the vulnerable skin and thinks that if he bit Wei Ying there, the bruise would stand out like the bloom of a flower. He doesn’t formulate an answer, distracted as he is by the sight.

“I could cook for you but I don’t know if you like spicy food that much…” He taps his chin, leaning his head to the side. Lan Zhan blinks twice, shutting the indecent thoughts away in the back of his mind.

“There’s no need,” he says, shaking his head.

“Let me anyway,” Wei Ying says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lan Zhan clears his throat, considering his options. He would like to be closer to Wei Ying as well, though hardly for any of the same reasons that it interests Wei Ying.

“We could meet for a meal,” he says finally, tucking his hands together in front of him. “I don’t eat meat.”

“No problem,” Wei Ying says, grinning. “I know the best place, okay? Trust me.”

Lan Zhan inclines his head with a hum, watching excitement bloom across Wei Ying’s face. It may prove to be a problem for him if Wei Ying keeps inviting him out; it’ll be too tempting to say yes to make him happy.

“Tomorrow night… I’ll text you where to meet me. I want it to be a surprise,” he grins, dropping his hands from his hair and removing the camera from around his neck, setting it back in its proper bag.

He hums again in agreement and sees himself out of the studio the same way he usually does, nodding at Nie Huaisang, usually sketching at the desk, as he goes by.

In the middle of the afternoon the next day, Wei Ying texts him the address to a place downtown and insists he not look up the restaurant.

Solemnly, Lan Zhan obeys.

He arrives at the address before 8 and spends ten minutes outside adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, again and again, trying to keep them straight. He didn’t anticipate that Wei Ying would be punctual; he works out of the studio and still Lan Zhan arrives for shoots before he does.

But the extra time only allows him to grow more anxious about the meeting. People are confounding and hard to read but Wei Ying is especially so. He evades every attempt that Lan Zhan makes to parse his motivations. Or he’s hung up on hoping that Wei Yings friendliness means something that it does not.

Either way, it’s a relief to see him bustling his way down the sidewalk, his hair trying to spring free from its tie. He has a collared shirt on, the first time that Lan Zhan has seen him in anything other than sportswear. He’s a little out of breath when he arrives in front of Lan Zhan, a flush across his cheeks. There’s a lively spark in his dark eyes like always and as soon as he’s close enough, Lan Zhan wants to sweep him into a kiss.

He doesn’t do it and when Wei Ying laughs, Lan Zhan doesn’t get to taste it.

“I’m late,” he says, more amused than apologetic.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, his hands tucked in his pockets. Wei Ying tips his head back and laughs again, patting Lan Zhan’s shoulder.

“Sorry. We can go in, they’ll have a table open for us.” He hooks his fingers around Lan Zhan’s elbow and pulls him inside without waiting. The gentle summons of his hand is more than enough to get Lan Zhan to follow along.

Inside, the restaurant is warm and friendly, with pale cloth walls painted with vivid murals in black and purple ink. At the center of each table, there’s a shallow dish of water with a floating lotus blossom.

Wei Ying waves at the young woman behind the counter with a smile, still tugging Lan Zhan along with his other hand.

“Did you call ahead this time?” The young woman asks, her polite expression fading away into a scowl. Wei Ying hesitates, then shakes his head with a laugh.

“I forgot,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “But it’s not Friday! And I only brought one of my friends!” He holds Lan Zhan’s arm up as evidence. “C’mon, A-Qing. Tell jiejie I’m here and I bet she’ll say there’s a table.”

“She’s cooking,” Wen Qing says, rolling her eyes with a dismissive sigh. “She doesn’t need you wheedling her. Come with me.”

Wei Ying smiles, leading Lan Zhan along after Wen Qing.

They’re seated in the back at a secluded table. Wen Qing sets down a candle next to the floating lotus and lights it. Wei Ying grins, smoothing the violet tablecloth with his hands and looking around.

“It’s always nice being in here,” he says, his voice wistful.

“Your sister cooks here?” Lan Zhan asks, focused on the profile of Wei Ying’s face.

“Uh huh. The family owns the place— always have, even before I was adopted. My mom was the first head chef old man Jiang hired.” As he speaks, his attention drifts back to Lan Zhan, relaxing further into the seat. “Yanli took it over after he died. There was a fire around the same time and it was hard to get it up and running again.”

“It’s lovely,” Lan Zhan says, surprised by Wei Ying openness.

“Took forever to put it all back together the same,” Wei Ying says, leaning his arm back over the chair. “I actually had to leave my magazine job for it. That’s why I’m doing this project with Huaisang.”

Lan Zhan nods, scanning over the menu with a faint smile turning up the corners of his lips.

“Get anything you want,” Wei Ying says, proud. “Everything is great! It’ll be the best meal you’ve had in months.”

Wei Ying hums when Lan Zhan orders, nodding his head.

Lan Zhan is quiet while he eats, but Wei Ying chatters his way through his soup, gleefully informing Lan Zhan that it’s on the menu because it's been his favorite dish since childhood.

Halfway through the meal, a tall, slender young woman with her hair tied back under a white bandana emerges from the kitchen. As soon as Wei Ying spots her, he leaps out of his seat and hugs her close to him, spinning her around once with a grin.

“Jiejie!” He laughs, setting her down and steering her towards the table. “Did you change something? Everything is even better than usual, even the water. It’s really amazing.”

Jiang Yanli laughs, hiding her mouth behind her hand, landing gracefully on her own feet once again.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming tonight,” she says, patting one of Wei Ying’s cheeks fondly. “Wen Qing came into the kitchen and told me you came with a friend.”

“It’s a business meeting, jiejie,” Wei Wxuain says, his tone serious even as he leans into her hand like a child. “We’re talking about Huaisang’s fashion line.”

Wei Ying had been telling him a winding story about how one of his cameras was stolen while shooting an underground music festival.

“Oh, this is the model you’re working with?” She asks, leaning around Wei Ying to look at Lan Zhan for the first time.

He leans his head forward in acknowledgment. Yanli shoves Wei Ying’s shoulder, shaking her head. “A-Xian, be polite.”

“That’s Lan Wangji,” he says, turning and grinning at Lan Zhan. “Huaisang hired him for the whole lookbook.”

“Oh it’s nice to meet you,” Yanli says, turning her smiling face toward Lan Zhan. He nods in response, his hands in his lap pulling at the inside of his sweater.

“The food is very good,” Lan Zhan says, wondering if he should rise to greet her or not. “Thank you.”

Wei Ying drops into his seat once again with a lazy grin, leaning his chin on his hand. Yanli gives him a fond smile and another small pat on the head.

“Enjoy your meal,” she says, ducking her head at both of them. “Don’t give A-Qing more trouble.”

“Sure sure,” Wei Ying says, sitting up straight once again when she goes back to the kitchen.

“When I tell her I’m coming she makes a big deal,” Wei Ying says, whispering like he’s sharing a secret with Lan Zhan. “Do you think it’s good?” He asks, snatching Lan Zhan’s hand as soon as he draws it out from under the table.

Lan Zhan hums in agreement, his eyes resting on Wei Ying’s hand. He’s squeezing Lan Zhan’s fingers tight in his own, lower lip caught between his teeth.

“I’m glad I brought you here,” Wei Ying says, a spark in his eyes. “You’ll come again, right?”

“If you would like me to,” Lan Zhan says, trying to work up the will to pull his hand away.

Wei Ying only squeezes tighter and cuts off any hope of escape. “If I ask?”

His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and stops him from responding. He nods his head instead, curling his fingers around Wei Ying. It’s best that he not open his mouth; he’s as likely to confess that he’d do almost anything if Wei Ying asked.

When Lan Zhan gets home, it’s later than he’s used to. The shafts of light coming through the arched windows create long pools of shadow between them.

There’s a cloud of thoughts occupying Lan Zhan’s mind, too tangled for him to pick out a single one and focus. This is a side effect of time spent with Wei Ying, even while fully clothed. All his actions raise more questions than they answer.

He finds his way to bed, lingering on the memory of Wei Ying’s long fingers entwined with his. He’s become uncommonly comfortable with touching Lan Zhan; a product of tying him into fantastic positions on a regular basis. The problem is that no one else has ever felt so comfortable with touching him and the phantom memory of it settles in Lan Zhan’s gut like hunger pangs.

He folds his clothes, fingers ghosting his ribs when he pulls his sweater off. He repeats this when he removes his trousers, following the line of his hips with light, tentative fingers. Touching himself doesn’t feel the same as when Wei Ying does it. The heat that sparks under his skin is only a pale imitation but it’s still enough to compel Lan Zhan to continue.

Thus far, he’s resisted anything that might come to resemble this. Adding even more to his already extensive set of Wei Ying-related problems is hardly in Lan Zhan’s best interest.

But he lays himself flat in bed and he can’t stop thinking about the brightness in his eyes when he’s finished tying Lan Zhan up. He passes a hand down his chest, fingers lingering on one nipple, a shiver trembling down his spine.

It’s a shame that Wei Ying never ties him so tightly that his skin shows bruises the next day. He’s forced to picture the way the ropes look, flattening his other arm under his back to mimic the restriction.

In his mind, he can see Wei Ying’s body bending over his, blocking out the scant light that drifts in from the windows. With his eyes closed, Lan Zhan pictures one of Wei Ying’s hands wrapping around his half-hard cock. The fingers trapped under him curl to grip the sheets, his hips lifting into the touch.

He squeezes his cock, jaw knotting to ensure nothing more than a harsh breath escapes. There’s a torrent of indecent thoughts that escapes as soon as Lan Zhan allows it. For the last month, he’s restrained them as much as possible. But now, he lets his mind spin with images of Wei Ying. Pushing his fingers into Lan Zhan’s mouth, pulling the ropes around his chest so tight they start to ache, stroking his thumb over the damp slit of Lan Zhan’s cock.

The trouble is he doesn’t want one single thing from Wei Ying. He wants everything; longing driven even more wild with greed. His fingers around himself are almost tight enough to ache, futile in their weak attempt to stave off his orgasm.

He’ll have to show up in front of him again in the morning and dress in whatever revealing outfit that Wei Ying has put together and let the want of him sits like venom in his blood.

The last lucid image his mind produces is the way Wei Ying smiles, staring down from above him when he has Lan Zhan tied on his knees. Lan Zhan bites his lower lip until blood flowers on his tongue, hot and metallic. Stains of pearly come mark his stomach and when he releases his lip, he’s still gasping through the aftershocks.

Lan Zhan stands, cleaning himself, dabbing a ball of cotton against the cut on his lower lip. He moves through the dark as quickly as he can, trying to slip back under his blankets before the shame of what he’s done catches up to him.

Wei Ying was clear, of course, that he’s not interested. Lan Zhan should be capable of accepting that. His friendship is enjoyable on its own. It would be easier to appreciate this if Wei Ying didn’t mumble meaningless affirmations behind Lan Zhan while binding his wrists.

Sleep swallows him before he can dwell on it any further than that.

The next time Lan Zhan enters Nie Huaisang’s office, his desk has a new orchid sitting on it, blooming bright purple. He must pause for a moment to study it because, for the first time in weeks, Huaisang lifts his head from his sketchbook and recognizes Lan Zhan in his office.

“I heard you met Jiang Yanli,” he says, steepling his fingers on the table in front of him.

“Last week,” Lan Zhan says, inclining his head. “She is very kind. The food was good, as well.”

“She keeps the two idiots in line,” Huaisang says, running one finger over the pot of his orchid. “You two are almost done, right? Wei Ying said he only had three days left to shoot.”

Again, Lan Zhan nods. “This is what he told me, yes.”

“That’s good,” Huaisang says, drumming his fingers on top of the desk. “He’s not always on schedule. He’ll almost be done on time, I think. Is it going well?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, his fingers curling into an unwitting fist..”

One of Huaisang’s eyebrows hooks upward but he nods. “The proofs look nice,” he says, the curious folds of his expression smoothing out immediately. “I’m looking forward to seeing the rest.”

Lan Zhan hums and Huaisang returns his attention to his sketches. Lan Zhan steers himself back into Wei Ying’s studio.

When he enters, Wei Ying has his back to the door, sorting through long strands of red rope with a concentrated look on his face. Lan Zhan enters, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack next to Wei Wuxain’s.

He gets lost in thought like this, sometimes. Even when he’s in the middle of shooting Lan Zhan his attention will occasionally wander off, or he’ll linger for a long time on setting a particular pose or tying a knot properly.

Now, Lan Zhan picks up the cup of green tea that Wei Ying has left him and joins him at the low folding table, standing at his side.

All these things have become customary to him. In a few weeks when he’s no longer shooting with Wei Ying, he’ll miss the familiarity of it a little. There aren’t a lot of long term jobs in his work and outside of Meng Yao he doesn’t spend a lot of time working with anyone in particular.

“Hey, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying reaches an arm out, pulling Lan Zhan a step closer with a nervous laugh. “I wanna, um, try a different thing today. If you’re okay. It’s a little more um, out there.”

“I trust you, Wei Ying,” he says before he thinks of anything else. The plain words are true enough on their own. Wei Ying giggles again, still higher in pitch than usual.

“I wanted to do one or two suspension rigs,” Wei Ying says, his hand lingering on Lan Zhan’s arm still. “We can do a semi-suspension today and make sure it feels comfortable for you.” His fingers travel down the back of Lan Zhan’s arm until his hand drops, finding a more comfortable perch along his ribs.

Lan Zhan hums, his voice dipping lower than intended. Wei Ying looks over his shoulder with a grin, nudging Lan Zhan toward the dressing screen.

“Kinda light on the outfit today,” Wei Ying says, chuckling as Lan Zhan vanishes from his sight. “Hopefully, Huaisang won’t mind too much— he said he wanted it to be artistic.”

Behind the screen, there’s a single garment hanging. It’s a bodysuit but different than the one Wei Ying already shot him in. This one is made of a single panel of sheer black fabric, cut to expose his ribs and back. The cups of the bra and the crotch are both paneled with revealing lace florets. There’s a thin string of pearls that connects the crotch to the panel at the small of his back, leaving the whole of his ass exposed and lightly decorated.

There is no mirror but even without his reflection, the outfit makes Lan Zhan’s face heat. He’ll be able to see how it looks when he steps out from behind the dressing screen, but then so will Wei Ying.

It takes a moment– much longer than usual– for Lan Zhan to emerge. His chin tilts down, arm bent behind his back to hold onto his opposite elbow. Wei Ying has finished with the rope and is shuffling his camera in his hands, lingering next to the styling table.

He looks over at Lan Zhan and releases the camera. It’s saved from impact with the ground by the strap he has around his neck. He immediately grabs for it, laughing when he finds it hanging safely.

“Wow,” he says.

Lan Zhan squeezes tighter on his arm and hopes that his chest doesn’t turn as red as his ears are.

“I have a blindfold too,” Wei Ying says, twisting around to pick up a little scrap of lace from the table. “Well. Not a real one. You’ll be able to see fine.”

Lan Zhan licks his lips, ducking his head forward to allow Wei Ying to tie it around his head. He does, lifting Lan Zhan’s hair over it with careful fingers. When they slide over his temples and catch in the thick locks of his hair, Lan Zhan’s breath catches hard in the back of his throat.

But Wei Ying doesn’t twist his fingers in Lan Zhan’s hair and pull, he adjusts the knot of the blindfold before stepping back. As promised, Lan Zhan’s sight is only a little impeded by the blindfold; the lace is thin and it only places a soft shade over the room. He can still see Wei Ying grinning at him.

“Okay, your lips,” he says, taking a step away.

He returns with red pigment smeared over the tip of his finger, dabbing it on Lan Zhan’s lips before distributing the color. Lan Zhan shuts his eyes when he leans in; the blindfold won’t save him from the sight of Wei Ying leaning in like he wants a kiss.

His fingers are soft, resting on Lan Zhan’s cheek. His other hand comes up to touch the bottom of his chin, not grabbing it, just resting there for guidance. Lan Zhan clenches his hands into hard fists and breathes in and out slowly through his nose. It must only take a few seconds for Wei Ying to finish, but it feels like the time stretches far longer.

When he releases the tight grasp of his fist, there are curved indents from his short nails on both palms.

Wei Ying guides him over to the center of the drop cloth, a yoga mat tucked underneath it to make Lan Zhan a little more comfortable. He begins with Lan Zhan sitting cross-legged, binding his thigh to his calf with fast, confident motions.

“They call this one the pork roll,” he remarks when he’s halfway through, laughing to himself. His fingers worm under the knots, checking the tension. “Kinda gross, right?”

Lan Zhan inclines his head. He’s gotten used to Wei Ying mumbling while tying him up, making bad jokes, or sharing scraps of his day. It’s relaxing in a way. Lan Zhan’s skin buzzes all over and his mind drifts somewhere between lax and alert the whole time.

The second leg extends out and caged in rope with the same design, tight to Lan Zhan’s legs like a pair of silk stockings. When he’s finished with that, Wei Ying kneels behind him and binds his arms back with a box tie.

He lingers there, one hand on Lan Zhan’s shoulder. His breath blows out, a little unsteady.

“Um,” he says, lifting Lan Zhan’s hair and touching the nape of his neck. “I have an idea… I wanna anchor your knee to your neck.” His hand runs down Lan Zhan’s bared back until it meets with the ropes holding his arms. “I’ll connect it back here at your shoulders so there won’t be any pressure near your throat.”

Lan Zhan’s eyes flutter, eyelashes tangling with the lace covering his eyes. “As you wish.” He wishes his voice didn’t sound thin as paper. It makes his confidence in Wei Ying seem more faltering than it is in reality.

He guides Lan Zhan’s leg up in the air, drawing a long length of rope back around his shoulders, wrapping loosely around his neck like a collar. He makes a long hitch connecting Lan Zhan’s knee to the collar, the tension distributed between his leg and his shoulders.

The position is hardly comfortable; it will make his hips and his shoulders protest before long. But the tension in his muscles doesn’t feel bad, and it's no harder to breathe than it was before.

Wei Ying hops up to his feet, grabbing another rose from a vase by the window, biting the corner of his lips. “Don’t tell Huaisang,” he says. “Or Jiang Cheng… he probably bought them.”

He works the stem of the rose into the hitch so the crimson bloom is only a few centimeters away from Lan Zhan’s lips.

Wei Ying whistles to himself when he stands up, backing away and bobbing his head rapidly in a series of nods.

“Seriously, Lan Zhan, you look unreal,” he says. Lan Zhan has to hope the way he shivers isn’t obvious. “Ah, can you tilt your head back? Yeah, right there.”

Lan Zhan’s unbound hair falls behind him in a dark curtain. The pose causes a natural arch in his foot, curving like a ballet dancer. The combination of the outfit and the pose is more exposed, more vulnerable than Lan Zhan usually wants to be. It doesn’t feel that way when Wei Ying shoots him. Lan Zhan tracks his movement around without moving his head, eyes following him in a lazy, hungry way.

Wei Ying doesn’t draw any closer— maybe he doesn’t recognize the way Lan Zhan is truly looking at him, maybe he’s doing his best to ignore it. Either way, Lan Zhan leans his head all the way back between his shoulders so the full length of his neck is exposed, straining against the collar formed out of the rope.

He can feel the shuddering breaths coming in and out of his throat, making his chest rise and fall unevenly.

“Okay, let me suspend your leg,” Wei Ying says. Lan Zhan has difficulties measuring time when they’re shooting; he’s not sure if he’s been in this position for ten minutes or the better part of an hour. His muscles are loose, letting the cradle of the rope support his weight. His body has gone soft and pliant with desire and when Wei Ying’s fingers ring his ankle, he has to stamp down a whimper.

It would feel so good to be touched by him— to really be touched. It’s only the strict bite of the ropes that keeps Lan Zhan’s legs in position. Wei Ying attaches a long strand of rope to Lan Zhan’s ankle, this one secured to a hitch overhead.

Wei Ying slides a hand down his leg, rolling Lan Zhan to the side so his chest is pressed half into the floor, his leg rising up at a sharp angle, the other curled under him. His hands linger for a moment; one on Lan Zhan’s thigh, the other on the back of his shoulder, thumb notching the bones of his spine.

“Does that feel good?” He asks, his voice low. He’s kneeling over Lan Zhan but with the blindfold covering his eyes, it’s hard to make out the details of his face.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan manages, breathless. The strain is enough to make his muscles sing in this position and even though he isn’t applying pressure, Wei Ying has his hands positioned like he intends to pin Lan Zhan in place and—

He stands up again, cold air filling the spaces he was touching Lan Zhan. He shudders, biting down on the inside of his cheek and maintaining the position that Wei Ying put him in.

“That’s so nice,” Wei Ying says. Only in Lan Zhan’s mind does his voice take on a tinge of darkness. He keeps talking, indistinct, appreciative murmurs. Lan Zhan shuts his eyes and lets himself get lost in the warm waves of Wei Ying’s voice, shifting positions or expressions whenever he’s told.

He only cracks them open again when he hears Wei Ying’s footsteps drawing close, then feels a hand pass over his hair.

“You did so good… that’s gonna look really sexy in print. Do you want me to let you go now, Lan Zhan?”

An unknown force makes Lan Zhan shake his head in disagreement.

Wei Ying’s fingers slide aimlessly through his hair when he moves and as soon as he realizes exactly what he’s done, Lan Zhan is too mortified to lift his head and try to make out Wei Ying’s face.

He only has to spend a few moments in perilous anxiety. Wei Ying pats the top of his head and laughs.

“Want some shots for your reel, huh?” He asks, kneeling behind Lan Zhan and loosening the knots that bind the rope around his neck. Lan Zhan doesn’t argue further with being released.

When the ropes are slack around his neck and shoulders, Wei Ying pauses, his face close to Lan Zhan’s.

“Wow, look at that,” Wei Ying says, putting his hand on the side of Lan Zhan’s neck, fingers tracing the red ring left by the rope. “Hold still.”

There’s still rope around Lan Zhan’s legs, one of them curled under him but the other laying lax in spite of the binding. Wei Ying shuffles around for a moment before returning with lotion.

He’s well in the habit of applying it to Lan Zhan himself, and this time it seems is no different. What is different is how hard Lan Zhan has to focus while he’s doing it on breathing in and out.

“I know you always say it doesn’t bruise,” Wei Ying says, untying Lan Zhan’s leg next. “But it looks nasty, huh? I can’t send you home looking all beat up.” He chuckles as he talks, looking at Lan Zhan with a twinkle in his eyes.

“That’s very kind, Wei Ying,” he says, picking his words with care.

“Are you busy this weekend, Lan Zhan?” He asks, sitting back on his heels and leaning his head to the side, his long bangs falling in his face. “You said you’d go out with me again if I asked.”

His choice of words is unintentional, Lan Zhan reminds himself.

“Yes I did,” he says, inclining his head. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well we’re almost done shooting, so I figured we’d get a drink to celebrate,” Wei Ying says, tugging at the end of his ponytail.

“I don’t drink,” Lan Zhan says.

“Not even one?” Wei Ying asks, his forehead wrinkling. “Is that a no? I’ll buy!”

It would be devastating to disappoint him. “I will go with you to celebrate.”

“Really?” Wei Ying asks, leaning forward and grabbing Lan Zhan’s hand. “Yes!”

For a dangerous moment, Wei Ying is close enough for Lan Zhan to kiss. The realization is dizzying and it leaves Lan Zhan feeling like all the air has been sucked out of his lungs at once.

Any chance that was there dissipates when Wei Ying hops up to his feet again, thrusting out a hand to help Lan Zhan up as hell. He takes it, glad for the support for his cramped, uncertain legs. It takes a few steps for his muscles to wake up and once he’s steady, Wei Ying lets go.

He leaves Lan Zhan to change back into his own clothes, babbling about going to this bar or that one. Lan Zhan doesn’t have any input but he still listens, humming at the end of each description to encourage Wei Ying to continue.

When he steps out, Wei Ying is breathless from his own chattering, sitting on his makeup table and kicking his legs back and forth with a wide smile. “I’ll pick something you’ll like, I swear.”

Lan Zhan isn’t usually likely to enjoy himself at any bar, but it’s much more probable with Wei Ying there as well.

“Is that all for today?” He’s always more reluctant to leave than he sounds. It would be an indulgence to listen to Wei Ying talk all day. He never seems to run out of topics and Lan Zhan hasn’t begun to tire of listening.

“Uh huh,” Wei Ying says, still planted on top of the table. “Unless you wanna stick around to play dress up.”

The offer makes him laugh, pitching his head back. Lan Zhan leaves before he has the chance to notice the crimson flush on the nape of his neck.

This time, instead of meeting Lan Zhan at the bar that he’s selected, Wei Ying insists on coming to his apartment to pick him up instead. This way, in Wei Ying’s logic, Lan Zhan at least won’t be stuck waiting for him outside the bar where it might be cold or someone could bother him.

In this way, Lan Zhan supposes things make sense. Only a few minutes after 9 in the evening, far later than Lan Zhan goes out for any reason, Wei Ying knocks excitedly on the door to his apartment and makes Lan Zhan’s stomach twist into a knot.

He opens it, almost too slow to step out of the way of Wei Ying coming through the doorway. Lan Zhan can’t imagine the kind of place that Wei Ying’s outfit would be appropriate for. The crimson tank top he has on clings to his body, slashes in the fabric revealing peeks of skin underneath. He has a loose hoodie thrown overtop, zipped but still allowed to creep down and expose one shoulder.

“Hey, this place is nice,” Wei Ying says, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his oversized sweater, a smile on his face. “I didn’t think you’d live somewhere cozy.”

Lan Zhan has never looked at his living space and thought of it as cozy. The apartment only has as much space as he needs; a tidy kitchen with clean chrome appliances and a fridge full of vegetables, a living space with his books and a comfortable enough chair for reading, and his bedroom which Wei Ying cannot see from the entry.

He steps away from the door, running one hand over the soft blanket Lan Zhan has draped over the back of his chair with a light, comfortable peal of laughter.

“Can I take this home?” He asks, grabbing the blanket and twisting around with it clutched in both fists. “I don’t own anything this soft, Lan Zhan. Oh… are there rabbits on it? That’s so cute.”

“It should stay here,” Lan Zhan says, folding his hands behind him to resist the urge to— he’s not sure. He wants to reach out and grab hold of Wei Ying, by the hand or the elbow, but he has nothing to say. No real desire except the drive to be closer to him than he is right now.

“Ah, you’re right,” Wei Ying says, running his hands over it once again before dropping it in a heap back into the chair. “It’d get dirty in the bar and then you’d have to wash it, huh?”

“I suppose,” Lan Zhan says. He wonders if his outfit; a collared shirt buttoned to his throat and a light blue jacket to wear over it, are too much to wear. But Wei Ying doesn’t say anything about his attire. He loops his arm through Lan Zhan’s, pulling him toward the door with a nod.

Before they get to the mysterious bar he’s picked out, Lan Zhan learns that Wei Ying drives on the fast edge of comfort and plays his music too loud. It manages to be endearing in a troubling way; after the first three turns, Lan Zhan stops trying to prod him to drive properly.

The name Sword Hall is on a swinging sign overhead and Wei Ying leads him through the thick wooden door eagerly. There’s a set of stairs leading down into a basement that’s cool and lit from overhead.

The long bar that cuts through the room is made of rich, dark wood, lacquered until it shines under the lights. Wei Ying pulls him to one end, taking a seat on a leather-upholstered stool, giving Lan Zhan space at the very end.

“Huaisang’s family owns this place,” Wei Ying says, spreading his hands out across the bar and tilting his head back to stare at the glass cabinet of bottles behind the bar. Each one is lit from beneath, illuminating the liquor inside and making the whole affair sparkle. “They have music here a lot but not tonight— it’s never that busy if there’s no act.”

Looking around the room, this seems true though Lan Zhan’s lack of experience makes it hard to judge. There are only a handful of other patrons; most of them grouped at one table trading stories and occasionally roaring with laughter. The other few are seated in the middle of the bar, nursing their drinks and absorbing the bartender in familiar conversation.

“I see,” he says, the soft tone of his voice easy enough for Wei Ying to hear. It’s definitely more comfortable like this than what he was imagining; a writhing crush of bodies under manic lights and pounding music. The kind of situation he is incapable of.

In a peaceful place, his only worry is Wei Ying. Over the past few months, Lan Zhan has gotten somewhat accustomed to this concern already.

“Want me to order?” Wei Ying asks, leaning his elbows on the bar to prop himself up past his usual height.

“I don’t drink,” Lan Zhan says, shaking his head.

Wei Ying turns toward him, lower lip thrust out. “Not even one? We’re here to celebrate! We’ve done some good work together.”

“Please enjoy yourself,” Lan Zhan says, shaking his head. “I can have water.”

Wei Ying puffs his cheeks up but gives up after a moment, ordering wine for himself and water for Lan Zhan, settling back into the seat when he’s finished.

“So, you’ve never had a drink?” Wei Ying asks, leaning his cheek on his palm, surveying Lan Zhan. “Were you raised by monks?”

“My family has many central traditions,” Lan Zhan says, shaking his head. He’s given this answer plenty of times before. “One of those is not drinking alcohol. I’ve never had it.”

“Would you get in trouble for being here?” Wei Ying asks concern and curiosity battling on his face.

“No,” Lan Zhan says, tucking his hands between his thighs. “I’m only here to visit with you.”

His uncle might not understand Lan Zhan’s motivations for it, but that’s been true for years now.

“What if you had a drink?” Wei Ying asks, pressing two fingers into his lower lip.

“My uncle would be disappointed if I did,” Lan Zhan says. “So would my brother.”

“Have you ever wanted to try?” Wei Ying asks, leaning in closer and dropping his voice this time like he’s trying to get Lan Zhan to tell him a secret that no one else could overhear.

The truth is, Lan Zhan felt no temptation before he met Wei Ying. The same isn’t true now. Watching him swirl the dark red wine in his glass before he lifts it to his full lips sparks a strange sense of envy in Lan Zan.

“Sometimes,” he says, his eyes sticking too long on Wei Ying’s mouth.

“Should I try to convince you?” Wei Ying asks, letting the glass linger against his lips like he can sense the track of Lan Zhan’s thoughts. “Are you willing to be a little bad tonight, Lan Zhan?”

He isn’t immediately sure how to respond to that. It’s another one of the things that Wei Ying says to amuse only himself, not because he’s looking for Lan Zhan to give him an answer at all. But he doesn’t immediately start laughing at his own words. He studies Lan Zhan with steady, dark eyes.

“Perhaps,” Lan Zhan says finally, turning his eyes ahead again to escape Wei Ying’s stare. “If you’d like.” He can hardly prevent Wei Ying from trying, after all. He’s not easy to discourage once he gets an idea into his head.

He’s already here at Wei Ying’s urging. It isn’t a stretch to think that he’s capable of drawing Lan Zhan even further into his wild ideas.

The answer makes Wei Ying laugh finally, tipping his head back between his shoulders, hair trailing down to the small of his back. So much more of his skin is exposed than Lan Zhan's accustomed to. Generally when he’s shooting he’s dressed in dark, comfortable clothes that let him move around the way he’s accustomed to.

“How about a sip, then?” Wei Ying asks, tilting his glass towards Lan Zhan in offering. The wine he ordered is a deep, opaque red, obscuring the bottom of the glass. When Lan Zhan leans in, it smells sharp and fruity. “Won’t hurt if you try it– it’s nice. Mellow.”

Lan Zhan takes the wine glass from him with careful fingers. He sniffs at it delicately once more before taking a small sip.

The wine is cool and slightly acidic, not too sweet for Lan Zhan’s general taste. But the slight bitterness, combined with the sting of alcohol in his mouth must make his expression do something strange because Wei Ying rocks back and forth in his seat, laughing.

“Have you really never had anything to drink before, Lan Zhan?” He asks, almost breathless with laughter.

“No,” Lan Zhan assures him once again.

“You looked so surprised,” Wei Ying says, taking the glass back with a shake of his head. “We should get you your own!”

“I do not need it,” Lan Zhan says, gesturing at the sweating glass of water in front of him. Wei Ying looks at it and rolls his eyes, waving his hands as if to swat it away.

“That’s not why you come to a bar,” he says. “And I invited you out to celebrate… we should be drinking champagne, huh?”

Mischief sparkles in his eyes, finishing the rest of his glass of wine in three quick swallows, setting it on the bar and leaning up on his hands again.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, curling his fingers in the back of Wei Ying’s sweater to settle him back in his seat. Wei Ying giggles, one hand falling from the top of the bar to the inside of Lan Zhan’s knee.

“One glass,” he says, lower lip thrust out in a pout. “Just with me. I won’t tell your brother or your uncle that you broke any of their stodgy rules, I swear.”

Lan Zhan shakes his head, less resolutely this time. Wei Ying’s hand on his leg is a distraction; everything he does is a distraction.

“I don’t tell lies, either.”

“It’s not a lie if it’s a secret,” Wei Ying says, giving his leg an encouraging squeeze. “Please?”

“One,” Lan Zhan says, because his strength is only good for so much.

“Yes!” Wei Ying waves his hand over the bar, smiling widely as soon as he has the bartender’s attention on him. “Hello! Two glasses of expensive champagne– put it on Huaisang’s personal tab for me, okay?”

He makes the request in an easy, smooth voice that makes the bartender chuckle and roll her eyes.

“Do you have permission this time?” She asks, setting two flutes down in front of the two of them.

“Sure sure,” Wei Ying says, flapping his hand in the air.

“He’s coming after you if you don’t,” she says, lifting a shoulder in a shrug before sauntering casually back down the bar. “Not my problem.”

“He won’t mind,” Wei Ying says, looking back at Lan Zhan and shaking his head. “He’ll get it. It’s for business, right?”

“Is this a business meeting, Wei Ying?” He asks, lifting his glass when Wei Ying does the same.

The question makes him pause, flatting his lips into a line like he’s trying his best not to laugh. “No,” he says. “It’s– I told you, it’s a celebration. Huaisang will get it.”

He lifts his glass with that and clinks the rim against Lan Zhan’s, producing a single clear note as the crystal rings against itself. Carefully, Lan Zhan lifts the glass of fizzing gold liquid to his lips and takes a much smaller drink of it than Wei Ying does.

This is different than the wine; light and carbonated, crisp and much less obvious in its alcoholic punch. Lan Zhan sets it down with the curl of a smile beginning to threaten at the corners of his lips.

Wei Ying, he realizes, never removed his hand from Lan Zhan’s leg. When Lan Zhan turns toward him more, shifts his legs apart from oen another, Wei Ying’s hand curves around his leg, inching toward his thigh. His palm is warm enough to make the skin beneath it glow, even through Lan Zhan’s trousers.

As comfortable as the last few weeks have made him, Wei Ying’s chances to touch him in such a casual fashion have been few. Ones that Lan Zhan avoids when he has the chance to.

He takes another careful sip of the champagne as a diversion from Wei Ying’s lingering hand. He’ll find some need for it soon; gesturing while he tells a story or grabbing more of the small snacks that the bar has set out for patrons.

Each sip he takes makes it feel more like his head is about to float off his shoulders and be lost forever. The world outside of his immediate attention has gone fuzzy and indistinct and he catches himself leaning closer to Wei Ying every moment, drawn toward the warmth of his body.

“Ah, Lan Zhan are you alright?” Wei Ying asks, lifting his hand from Lan Zhan’s thigh to cup the side of his face. “Your cheeks are red. Are you drunk already, Lan Zhan?”

He shakes his head although he has no frame of reference to be able to determine if he's impaired. Mostly he wants to nuzzle his face into the warmth of Wei Ying’s hand.

“No,” he says, the word slow on its own. He sits up to finish the bubbling champagne in his glass. Wei Ying giggles, looking at it then at Lan Zhan’s face once again.

“I guess you must be a lightweight since you’ve never had any,” he says, though Lan Zhan can see a tinge of red across his face as well. “I should take you home so you can sleep it off.”

“You can’t drive if you’ve been drinking,” Lan Zhan says, putting his hands on Wei Ying’s shoulders to keep him in place. In the process, he loses his balance on the seat and pitches forward, falling almost off of it before he catches himself against Wei Ying.

Wei Ying grins, putting his hands on top of Lan Zhan’s to hold them in place, shaking his head. “I’m calling a cab.” He pats Lan Zhan’s hand before digging his phone from his pocket. “I’ll go back to your place and make sure you get inside alright, then I’ll have it take me home.”

Lan Zhan scowls but nods his head after a moment. Wei Ying’s thumb wanders back and forth across his knuckles and Lan Zhan loses track of time other than the slow pass of his hand, one way then the other.

Eventually, Wei Ying gives his hand a tug. “C’mon.”

He leads Lan Zhan up the stairs and outside, guiding him with a hand at the small of his back. Lan Zhan manages to remain smooth on his feet, taking the steps one at a time with great focus.

The two of them settle in the back seat and Lan Zhan is aware immediately that Wei Ying is no longer touching him. This seems wrong– he was doing it for so long before they got into the cab. He grabs Wei Ying’s wrist and drags his hand across the seat into his lap, letting it rest on one of his legs.

He places Wei Ying’s hand much higher up on his thigh than Wei Ying had done himself. This time his fingers are curled around the inner muscle of his thigh, close to his crotch, tucked between his legs. Wei Ying twists away from the window to stare, first at his hand then at Lan Zhan.

“Lan Zhan?” He asks, voice lowered to a whisper.

His body feels too light, like it's become detached from gravity somehow. Usually Wei Ying laughs as he talks but he’s not laughing at the moment. His eyes keep darting between Lan Zhan’s face and his hand on Lan Zhan’s thigh like he’s searching for some kind of answer.

It’s hard to pinpoint his mouth in the dark but Lan Zhan leans across the seat and plants his mouth against Wei Wuixan’s. The angle is off and the force is more like mashing their lips together than a real kiss but it manages to carry the message still. Wei Ying gasps, squeezing Lan Zhan’s thigh in his grasp and tilting his head to kiss him properly.

A single breath passes between them. The heat of Wei Ying’s mouth burns down to Lan Zhan’s blood, igniting him from head to toe. Wei Ying kisses him again, curling his other hand around the back of Lan Zhan’s neck to hold him close. The last thing Lan Zhan wants is to separate them; he responds by sinking his teeth into Wei Ying’s lower lip until he makes a small, captive sound—

The car lurches to a stop outside of Lan Zhan’s building and Wei Ying pulls back with a nervous laugh, his hand nearly in Lan Zhan’s lap.

“Upstairs,” Lan Zhan says in a quiet, firm tone. Wei Ying nods, pushing him out onto the sidewalk.

Lan Zhan has a surprisingly smooth time fitting the key to his apartment into its lock, especially with Wei Ying’s body molded to his back, his mouth shaping senseless promises against the back of Lan Zhan’s neck.

When he steps inside, Lan Zhan turns and pulls Wei Ying against him, scraping his thick bangs away from his face and kissing him again. Wei Ying grabs onto his shoulders, the surprised sound he makes melting into the kiss.

In all his daydreaming, in all his fantasizing, Lan Zhan never truly grasped how good it feels to hold Wei Ying in his arms, to taste his lips, and feel the way excitement makes him tremble. He chases Wei Ying’s mouth until they’re both breathless and Wei Ying is pushing on his shoulders, sighing when Lan Zhan allows some small gap between them.

He stares up at Lan Zhan with bright, round eyes, his swollen lips still parted and damp. Lan Zhan’s hand goes from Wei Ying’s face to press his lower lip with one thumb, tracing the plush, silky surface. His breath comes out with a shiver, tickling the inside of Lan Zhan’s wrist.

“Ah, what are you doing to me, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying says, catching Lan Zhan’s hand in his own and pressing a kiss to his palm, then the inside of his wrist. Lan Zhan backs him into the wall of the entryway, fitting his body as close as possible, aware that this way Wei Ying will be able to feel where he’s aching and hard. He puts his mouth on Wei Ying’s exposed neck now, kissing the thin, tender skin of it. The ghost of his breath makes Wei Ying shudder, pulling at Lan Zhan’s shoulders in a vain effort to drag him closer.

“Wei Ying.” Even to his own ears, his voice is deeper than usual. “Bed.”

“That’s awfully forward of you,” Wei Ying says, laughing. He leans his head back, leaving more skin for Lan Zhan to explore. “Trying to get me in bed already.”

Lan Zhan’s teeth drag down one of the tendons of his neck, making Wei Ying whine. The desire to sink his teeth in all the way, to leave a proper mark on Wei Ying’s inviting skin burns all the way to his core. Wei Ying is only spared because he rolls his hips against Lan Zhans, dragging friction between them and making Lan Zhan’s muscles tense. Heat floods up to his face and for a moment, he’s worried he might faint from the feeling.

He takes a handful of stuttering breaths to steady himself, pulling Wei Ying away from the wall to drag him away to the bedroom. When Wei Ying stumbles and blinks at him, still looking shell shocked.

“Bed,” he repeats, pulling one of Wei Ying’s arms around his neck and sweeping him off his feet. Wei Ying makes a surprised sound, gripping around Lan Zhan’s neck on instinct.

Lan Zhan deposits him on the bed. Wei Ying lands sprawled out, bouncing once and laughing, grabbing immediately after Lan Zhan to pull him in. His clothing ends up in immediate disarray, the hoodie slouched off both shoulders and riding up to reveal his stomach as well. Lan Zhan lets himself be pulled in, surprised to find he ends up wrestled to the bed under Wei Ying as soon as he’s in reach.

“Hey,” Wei Ying says, his head bent low, hair falling around both of them, lips short of Lan Zhan’s. He kisses the hollow of Lan Zhan’s throat, teeth pressing into the delicate skin like a threat. “Stay still, okay?”

Lan Zhan nods, remaining in place when Wei Ying starts to unbutton his shirt, breath making it ride and fall. Wei Ying kisses his skin as it’s exposed, fingers tracing the faint lines the last boxtie he put Lan Zhan in have left. He sits up only enough to look down at them, take in the winding shapes with clarity, before dipping his head in again to drag his tongue over the remnants.

His hands fall to Lan Zhan’s belt, pulling it open with fast, confident jerks. He smooths his hands down Lan Zhan’s thighs, fingers curling over the hard line of his cock before dragging away.

“I knew you’d be good like this too,” he says, kissing the rounded bone of Lan Zhan’s hip. He unbuttons Lan Zhan’s trousers, mouthing at his stomach, his pelvis, pulling more and more clothing out of his way. “You’ll be good if I suck your dick, huh Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do to please Wei Ying in this situation but he still nods his head, his fingers curling uselessly in the sheets as Wei Ying pulls his pants down, exposing the flushed red tip of his cock.

He flicks his tongue over it as soon as Lan Zhan’s skin is exposed, making him gasp and lean his head back against the wall with a soft thud. Wei Ying sits up to finish undressing him, shrugging the loose hoodie off himself, leaving only the scant tank top he has on underneath. He lifts his head and meets Lan Zhan’s eyes, tilting his head at a curious angle.

“Wei Ying,” he says, desire building with no possible escape. It sounds like he’s begging for something and he can’t mind the sound of it in his own voice. Not when it comes to Wei Ying.

A quick grin flashes across his face before he settles between Lan Zhan’s legs, his stomach on the blankets, pushing Lan Zhan’s thighs apart and taking loose hold of his cock. His lips ghost over the head, the touch of his breath is almost more tangible. He continues, mapping out the length of it at a pace that only serves to deepen the ache. Finally, Wei Ying seems to tire of that, dragging his tongue up the length of Lan Zhan’s cock from the base to the tip, kneading Lan Zhan’s thigh in one hand.

Even though he hasn’t yet made a sound, Lan Zhan still claps a hand over his mouth before Wei Ying swallows down his dick, his eyes fluttering. His lips close around half of Lan Zhan’s cock, surrounding it with a what so intense that for a moment an animal part of Lan Zhan’s brain fears he’s been burnt. Wei Ying makes a small, satisfied sound, his tongue searching the most sensitive spots to lave with attention.

Lan Zhan’s hips raise up on instinct, chasing the overwhelming heat of Wei Ying’s mouth. He doesn’t seem shocked or put off balance, though he does move his hand from Lan Zhan’s thigh to his hip, pushing it down against the bed.

He pulls his mouth off of Lan Zhan with a sound that makes his face flush with a fresh wave of heat. Wei Ying levels a look up at him, nuzzling his cheek against Lan Zhan’s thigh. He’s anticipating being scolded but Wei Ying seems content to catch his breath for a moment, kissing the sensitive crease of Lan Zhan’s pelvis.

“Does that feel nice?” He asks, his fingers curling around Lan Zhan’s cock to give it a slow stroke again, kissing along his hip. His voice is a soft buzz sinking under Lan Zhan’s skin. “Do you wanna come in my mouth, Lan Zhan?” He presses his thumb beneath the crown of his cock, massaging a slow circle there.

“Wei Ying.” He means to scold when he says it, but his voice sounds cracked and desperate instead. He does want that— he wants that and a great deal more. Wei Ying smiles, slinking his body up to press his chest to Lan Zhan’s, kissing his collarbone, still squeezing his cock.

“Can you tell me?” Wei Ying asks, his eyes round and pitch black. He presses his lips to the hollow of Lan Zhan’s throat, exactly where he bit before. “I wanna give it to you, Lan Zhan.”

“Wei Ying,” he says, more firmly this time. He puts his arm around Wei Ying’s waist and slides his lips over the side of his neck. Wei Ying laughs, his thumb flicking over the tip of Lan Zhan’s cock. In return, Lan Zhan bites down on the side of his neck, sucking the skin between his teeth.

When he pulls away, the spot is turning red, certain to bruise. Something like thunder rolls through him.

“Should I guess?” He says, his voice a dark whisper next to Lan Zhan’s ear. Lan Zhan gasps an uneven sound against the side of his neck and bites down again a few inches away, his nails sinking into Wei Ying’s shoulders.

Wei Ying sits up suddenly, breaking Lan Zhan’s hold and causing his nails to carve thin lines along his skin. He gathers both of Lan Zhan’s wrists in his hands; it’s easy enough and Lan Zhan doesn't think to resist him. Having Wei Ying pose and manipulate his hands and his wrists has become routine.

Both end up pressed to the wall over his head, one of Wei Ying’s hands pinning them in place. Wei Ying grins, his lips a centimeter off of Lan Zhan’s.

“Is this it?” He asks, flicking his tongue against Lan Zhan’s lip. He’s pressed much closer now, with Lan Zhan’s legs hitched on either side of his hips. Like this, Wei Ying’s cock is rubbing against the inside of his thigh with every motion, hard and desperate like Lan Zhan is. Lan Zhan arches his back, drawing tension up his shoulders and the line of his arms without actually trying to wrench free of Wei Ying’s grip, his heart hammering against Wei Ying’s chest.

Wei Ying presses his hands together, palm-to-palm, as if in prayer and pulls back to take Lan Zhan in with a smile.

“Keep them there?” He asks, lifting his eyebrows. Lan Zhan lifts his head, laying it against the wall and breathing out hard when he nods. The position is more comfortable than many of the ones Wei Ying has tried suspending him in, even if his shoulders are likely to get tired of holding his arms up.

Wei Ying sinks between his thighs again, puffing hot air over Lan Zhan’s cock once before wrapping his lips around it again. Lan Zhan remains still this time, fighting back the urge to jerk into that inviting space. Wei Ying sinks down on him more slowly this time, hollowing his cheeks and drawing tight suction along his cock.

Lan Zhan grits his teeth together, his eyes slamming shut. It’s easier this way, less overwhelming. He can focus on holding the position that Wei Ying has him in, fingers laced together over his head. The tension that sings in his shoulders and arms is grounding as well. While he keeps his mouth concentrated on Lan Zhan’s cock, Wei Ying’s hands wander up his chest, tickling at his ribs before stroking over one of Lan Zhan’s nipples.

He gasps, the threat of something like a shout rising in his throat before he manages to contain it. At the same time, Wei Ying opens his mouth further and lets the head of Lan Zhan’s cock sink into his throat, swallowing around it. He makes a strangled noise, leaning his head back, sweat dripping down the side of his throat.

Light sparkles in Lan Zhan’s vision when he opens his eyes. With his hands over his head, pinned by the invisible force of Wei Ying’s will but still pinned, he can’t wrench his head back before he finishes.

“Wei Ying,” he says, trying to pull his hips back even though there’s nowhere for him to go. His dark eyes lift though his focus on Lan Zhan’s face is hazy. Lan Zhan grits his teeth against another groan, Wei Ying’s muscles flexing and straining around him. “I’m—” He can’t make anything eyles come out and he only manages to shake his head rapidly, his wrists sliding down the wall.

The corners of Wei Ying’s eyes wrinkle in what might be a smile. He doesn’t pull back like Lan Zhan is expecting, only refocuses on bobbing his head at an uneven pace, tongue following messy trails on his skin. Blood rushes in Lan Zhan’s ears, drowning out the way he groans Wei Ying’s name like he’s giving up his last breath.

He comes and Wei Ying’s throat flutters eagerly in return, swallowing it and only drawing out the feedback loop of Lan Zhan’s orgasm. Wei Ying draws his mouth up, lapping at Lan Zhan’s half hard cock like he’s reluctant to let go of it. He lays his head against Lan Zhan’s thigh and traces loose patterns with his fingers, smiling.

“You are just too good,” he says, shaking his head. “Even when you’re getting your dick sucked. Are you perfect, Lan Zhan?” He props himself up on an elbow as he continues talking and Lan Zhan puts a hand on the back of his head, drawing him into another kiss.

There’s a lingering bitter taste on his tongue from Lan Zhan’s release. This too makes Lan Zhan feel something fierce and overpowering, the same as the bruises left scattered over his neck.Wei Ying hums against his mouth, his fingers sliding into Lan Zhan’s loose hair.

“Can I tell you what I want now, Lan Zhan?” He says, his mouth moving against Lan Zhan’s jaw. Lan Zhan nods his head eagerly, his hands light at Wei Ying’s waist. Wei Ying pushes his pants down with his thumbs. He glances down then pauses to glide his fingers over Lan Zhan’s still half-hard cock, making his jaw knit together.

“Still?” He asks, his voice almost a purr.

He takes Lan Zhan’s cock in hand along with his own, fingers wrapping around both of them. Lan Zhan is still slick with saliva and come and in return, there’s clear beads of precome running down Wei Ying’s cock. He strokes the both of them, whimpering as he does. His other hand runs along Lan Zhan’s ribcage again, taking his time to find the spots that make Lan Zhan shiver.

Wei Ying groans when Lan Zhan’s teeth sink into the juncture of his shoulder, rolling his head back to expose even more skin. His fingers knot in Lan Zhan’s hair, his grip tight enough to pull at his scalp. But he doesn't try to wrench Lan Zhan’s mouth away with his grip. He only holds on tight and strokes the two of them faster. Their combined ragged breathing is loud enough to cover the slick sound of his hand moving back and forth, saving Lan Zhan from the embarrassment of hearing it too clearly.

“That’s it,” he gasps, his mouth hanging half-open. “That’s my good boy, Lan Zhan.”

He buries his face against Wei Ying’s neck and comes again, shudders crawling up and down his spine as the friction of Wei Ying’s cock draws it out further. The addition of his come makes the slide of Wei Ying’s hand faster and easier and after what seems like a long moment to Lan Zhan, Wei Ying comes as well, mumbling a chant of Lan Zhan’s name.

He sinks into Lan Zhan slowly, wrestling his hand free from between the two of them. He surveys his messy hand and Lan Zhan lifts himself, depositing Wei Ying’s sweaty body on the sheets and grabbing the tissues he has on top of the dresser.

Wei Ying cleans his fingers then dabs Lan Zhan’s lap off with a little laugh, kissing the curve of his hip.

“I’m not giving your bed back,” Wei Ying says, stretching out naked on the pale sheets. With only the low lights from outside to illuminate him, his skin seems to have its own glow. The only interruption is the dark rings of Lan Zhan’s teeth along his throat.

Lan Zhan would be happy to never give the bed back. He’d give Wei Ying anything out of the apartment that he asked for in a heartbeat. He lays himself down near Wei Ying, not sure if it’s still appropriate to touch him or not. Wei Ying huffs, dragging his body on top of Lan Zhan’s and planting himself there. He’s warm and heavy in a nice way.

He winds a careful arm around Wei Ying’s waist, kissing along the line of his shoulder. It still feels good to have him so close; a low thrum of heat refuses to leave as long as Wei Ying is around, it seems. Even with his body pushed past sated, Lan Zhan is still greedy for another taste of him.

Wei Ying flutters his eyes, mumbles something unintelligible, and promptly drifts off to sleep. Lan Zhan is too tired now to do anything but join him.

When Lan Zhan opens his eyes, there’s light filtering through the window. Nothing seems amiss until he shifts and finds Wei Ying plastered to his chest, skin-to-skin, peacefully sleeping with his hair wild around his face.

There are dark rings dotting the side of his neck. Neither of them seems to be wearing anything at all. All of these things don’t immediately add together in a way that makes sense to him. Before Lan Zhan starts moving, Wei Ying stirs first. Maybe the change in breathing woke him, maybe it was something else. He sits up and scrapes hair away from his face, looking down at Lan Zhan with his eyes still glassy with sleep.

“Lan Zhan?” He rubs one of his eyes with the heel of his hand, looking around the room with a hum. “This your room? It’s kinda cute…”

Other than his furniture; a bed, nightstand, and dresser that all match, most of the decoration in Lan Zhan’s room is in the form of plants that he’s been cultivating for years.

“Yes,” he says, uncertain. “You slept here as well.” He doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, scratching the back of his neck with a laugh. He looks over Lan Zhan, the corner of his lips tucked in a smile. “Um, sorry? I didn’t expect us to get up to that last night!” He swings his legs out of the bed, stretching out long and lean, the morning light that streams through Lan Zhan’s windows illuminates his skin and makes it look like he’s glowing.

There are a few hazy memories in the dark corners of Lan Zhan’s mind. Not answers, but suggestions that make the back of his neck flood with heat.

He doesn’t say anything, caught trying to grasp thoughts that still slip through his fingers like water. He’s not ignorant to the signs; it’s obvious what they must’ve been doing but Lan Zhan can’t recall it with clarity. Some sign of that frustration must show on his face because Wei Ying clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, hastily tugging his discarded clothes back on. In the morning light, he seems even more scarcely dressed than he did the night before.

“Wei Ying,” he says, frowning at the sheets curled in his lap. It’s odd, undignified, to wake up with no clothes and have to process so much at once. Wei Ying seems determined to be gone from the room before Lan Zhan has his bearings. Is this how these kinds of encounters are supposed to end? With an abrupt, hollow good-bye in the morning?

“This was a good time,” Wei Ying says, shimmying his torn tank top on with his back facing Lan Zhan. “You didn’t tell me you were such a lightweight, Lan Zhan! It was really cute. Was that your first time being drunk?”

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says, his hands curling into fists. “It was.”

Wei Ying turns around to face him, his thumb lingering thoughtfully at the swollen juncture of his neck and shoulder. Staring at it makes Lan Zhan’s stomach swirl with an unhelpful heat.

“I’ll get out of your hair, okay? I bet you have a whole plan for your weekend, huh Lan Zhan?” He glances over his shoulder, gathering his hair between his hands to tie it up once again. “We’ll do the last shoot next week sometime. Huaisang will make sure it’s set up.” Silence settles around Lan Zhan once again. Wei Ying tosses his sweater on, zipping it up so at least most of his chest is covered.

He casts another lingering look around the room, his eyes skittering around the shape of Lan Zhan sitting still on the bed. He seems prepared to say something else; opening his mouth twice before giving up and closing it again both times. Finally, he tosses his head with a little huff of laughter. “Yeah. I’ll see you in a few days.”

He brushes out with that, leaving Lan Zhan still as a statue behind him.

The next day passes in a slow haze. Lan Zhan’s head throbs faintly through the whole day but even when that fades, he doesn’t feel much better for it.

He wouldn’t regret the things he’s done when it comes to Wei Ying if it didn’t seem like a hopeless matter. Wei Ying isn’t more interested in Lan Zhan than he was at the beginning of the shoot; at least not in a way that reflects Lan Zhan’s interest.

The few dates that he’s been on in the past have always been arranged for him by some other party; his uncle or his brother. There’s been no one he selected on his own. When he was out with Wei Ying, that wasn’t a date, either.

On Sundays, Lan Zhan has breakfast with Xichen.

He arrives overtired, wearing a turtleneck to try and hide the bruises that Wei Ying sucked into his skin. Xichen always meets him on time, sitting across from Lan Zhan with a small smile turning up the corners of his lips.

“You don’t look rested,” he says, a slight furrow in his brow. “Is everything okay?”

Lan Zhan inclines his head as he sits, curling his fingers around the collar of the sweater and making sure it’s tugged up to his chin. He hums, scanning his eyes over the menu.

“I didn’t sleep well,” he says, trying to give some kind of answer. Xichen nods, leaning in to study Lan Zhan’s tired expression more
.

“You’re finishing your current contract soon, right?” Xichen asks. Out of anyone in the family, Lan Zhan’s brother has always understood him the best. Or at the very least, he’s always tried. “Maybe you should take a break when you’re finished.”

“I have one shoot left,” Lan Zhan says, the reminder settling in his gut like a stone. He still has to see Wei Ying again one more time. His eyes droop to the menu again, leaving the suggestion that he take time off to the side.

Things will be fine when he’s not around Wei Ying so much. He’ll be able to cool some of the flames licking at his heart. He’s already drifted close enough to be burned, but the lesson still hasn’t sunk in all the way.

Xichen permits Lan Zhan to stew in his silence until they’ve finished ordering their food. He stirs two restrained spoonfuls of sugar into his own tea, looking at Lan Zhan with a small smile fixed on his face once again.

“Did something else happen?” He asks, blowing steam away from the dark surface of his tea.

Silence stretches out further like taffy. Lan Zhan tries to figure out exactly what he can say about the situation at hand.

He clears his throat and begins speaking carefully. “The photographer.”

“Yes?” Xichen says, his eyebrows lifting briefly.

Lan Zhan’s neck flushes red. “The other night we had… I would have called it a date.” He can’t bring himself to share the indecent details of it; the precious few that he can recall. Still, considering it for too long floods him with desire and uneasiness. “I don’t believe he thought the same.”

Xichen’s face registers surprise for a moment; his eyes blinking wider and his lips parting though his smile doesn’t lose its shape.

“A date?” He repeats, Lan Zhan nods. “Did you enjoy yourself?” Xichen continues. Lan Zhan nods again.

“He isn’t interested,” Lan Zhan says. Hearing it in his own voice still stings.

Again, Xichen looks surprised. If anything, he seems more taken aback by this than by the idea of Lan Zhan going out with Wei Ying to begin with.

“The photographer working with Nie Huaisang?” Xichen says, his eyebrow knitting together. “When I spoke to A-Yao I had a different impression of things.”

He isn’t sure if he should try to clarify and lay out the whole story; the champagne and the sex, the way Wei Ying took off as soon as he awoke without a second thought. It would illustrate things clearly, of course. Xichen would be able to see things as they are. But Lan Zhan isn’t ready to weather his reaction; the disappointment and pity that Xichen would show him after hearing the truth.

“A-Yao explained that you two had been out a few times together already,” Xichen says, setting his cup of tea down with a frown. “Did the two of you have an argument?”

“Those weren’t dates either.” The redness of Lan Zhan’s neck intensifies. “It was…” He recalls the inside of the Jiang’s restaurant and how Wei Ying spoke of it with such obvious pride in his voice.

When Lan Zhan fails to pick the thought up once again, Xichen’s smile inches wider.

“It’s good to see you with someone special to you,” he says. The world tries to tilt out from under Lan Zhan. “Have you told him this?”

“No,” Lan Zhan says, lowering his eyes.

“Ah, you didn’t talk before you slept together?” Xichen asks, his tone unchanged. Lan Zhan lifts his head abruptly, frowning at his brother. Xichen chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re old enough to make these choices for yourself now.”

Face warm, Lan Zhan lowers his head in a slow nod.

“If you have one more shoot left, you two still have time to work things out,” Xichen says, his tone bright. Lan Zhan doesn’t nod in agreement this time, trying to quell the nervous fluttering of his stomach, threatening to upset the few bites of food that he’s managed.

It’s a daunting task, even if there’s some truth to Xichen’s words. An attempt to confess to Wei Ying is only likely to end in failure, but at least Lan Zhan will have certainty in the matter.

Still, he doesn’t promise this to Xichen. Kindly, he let the conversation drift off to other things. Lan Zhan tries, as much as he’s able, to keep his mind from the sense memory of Wei Ying’s overheated mouth.

By the time Lan Zhan arrives at Huaisang’s office, he’s nearly ready to turn and walk in the other direction again. He’s never left a job unfinished— usually, it wouldn’t ever occur to him to shirk his responsibilities.

Even now, the fleeting, dramatic impulse isn’t enough to stop him from walking through the intimate office, inclining his head at Huaisang in greeting.

Nie Huaisang looks up from the screen of his computer, blinking behind his thick-rimmed glasses to clear the halo of blue light from his eyes. When he recognizes Lan Zhan, the corner of his lips pulls up on one side.

“Almost done,” he says, the brief smirk settling into a more natural smile. “He’s got himself all worked up.” Huaisang’s eyes dart toward the closed door of the studio, shaking his head with a little laugh. “He’s been like that since last weekend, anyway. Try not to take it seriously.”

Lan Zhan hums, though he’s not certain he really grasps what Huaisang is trying to hint at. He opens the door, surprised by the loud thump of music that issues forth as soon as it cakes. Huaisang’s shoulders flinch in a way that suggests he’s been blocking the sound out for more than just the morning.

Wei Ying is darting around with more energy than Lan Zhan is used to seeing. Even when he pauses for a moment he twitches, fidgeting his fingers and pulling at the loose ends of his sweater. He whips around when Lan Zhan closes the door once again, a too-wide smile on his face.

“You’re too on time!” He says, shaking his head with a bright spat of laughter. “I haven’t even decided on the rigging yet.”

“I have time,” Lan Zhan says, trying to affect an extra level of calm in his voice. It’s difficult to do that and speak over Wei Ying’s music and his words get lost. Wei Ying blinks at him then dashes off, turning the volume down until it’s only a soft background in the room.

“Sorry,” he says, laughing once again and scratching the back of his head.

“I can wait, if needed,” Lan Zhan says, still hovering on the other side of the room. He doesn’t know how to approach him now, how close he should be.

“It’s okay,” Wei Ying says, shaking his head. “It’ll just be… freeform. I have an outfit, anyway.”

Lan Zhan inclines his head, stepping behind the dressing screen like usual. He tries not to measure if Wei Ying’s attention lingers on him; he can maintain a routine for this last shoot and leave the rest of it for later. He can’t begin to guess what he should say about the situation they find themselves in.

He removes his clothes carefully, his back turned to the long mirror set up behind the screen. There are still fading bruises on the side of his neck. Wei Ying has a few of his own, as well.

The outfit that Wei Ying has left is more elaborate than the others that Lan Zhan has worn. First, a matching bra and panty set of sheer white lace that manages to look both demure and revealing once it’s on Lan Zhan’s body. The lace is extremely delicate but so thin that nothing is truly hidden behind it.

In addition, there's an elaborate bodysuit made of light blue fabric, adorned with white embroidered flowers that gather around Lan Zhan’s chest and hips to draw more attention to them. The straps pull the lace snug against his skin, causing a slight burst of friction when he moves. The straps cross over each other in large X shapes at his stomach and his back, much like the ropes Wei Ying has used to bind him in the past.

He takes only a fleeting glance at himself in the mirror when he’s finished dressing, his eyes sliding off the glass. Still, he hesitates to emerge.

When he does, Wei Ying is buzzing around, adjusting the lights and tapping his toes on the ground without rhythm. He turns to look at Lan Zhan and grabs at the long pole of the light, nearly knocking it over with his weight. Once it’s safe from crashing to the floor and shattering, Wei Ying lets the light go and shakes his head.

“You make everything look great,” he says, the tip of his tongue wetting his lower lip. “Huaisang’s never gonna hire anyone else to shoot his clothes. Seriously— he hates things that aren’t perfect.” The speed of his words ticks up as he keeps talking, rooted in place with his eyes on Lan Zhan. Heat curls in the pit of Lan Zhan’s stomach, now too familiar to him.

It’s worse now, knowing what it feels like to have Wei Ying’s hands, his mouth, to kiss him and be kissed back. Lan Zhan squeezes his hands at his sides and says nothing. His restraint is concentrated on remaining in place, not smashing his body into Wei Ying’s.

“Um, so.” He shakes his head hard, clearing his throat and turning back to the table. “I don’t want to take away from it. That cage is Huaisang’s prized possession… if I use too much rope and hide it he’ll get annoyed.”

The rope in his hands is white, shining under the studio lights. Lan Zhan’s mouth is very dry looking at it.

“Sit in the middle?” Wei Ying says, cocking his head to the side. “We’ll try something with lotus pose first since you can stay that way for a while.”

Lan Zhan nods in acknowledgment, taking his seat and crossing his legs one over the other. It’s a small mercy that for all his hunger for Wei Ying, his cock isn’t yet stirring with interest. That won’t last once Wei Ying starts tying him up, of course.

He starts by binding Lan Zhan’s ankles in place, creating a thick braid of rope that travels up towards his navel, settling snugly in his crotch. He attaches this once at Lan Zhan’s waist, then crosses his arms over his chest, careful to place his hands so they aren’t covering the patches of painstakingly embroidered white flowers. Lan Zhan exhales with a shake, tilting his head back when Wei Ying bends in to bind his arms in place, creating a double v shape with his arms, crossed in a false effort to hide his body.

The rope along his crotch is anchored at his elbows. He is only bound at key points; the ankles, the waist, elbows together, and hands to the opposing upper arm.

When he finishes weaving the last knot, Wei Ying isn’t quick to pull away. He stays squatting in front of Lan Zhan, working his hair into a loose braid. Lan Zhan remembers the feeling of those long fingers sinking into his hair and pulling on it and he has to swallow a strangled sound in response. Half hard, his cock is already starting to press against the thick braid of rope that anchors his ankles to his elbows, keeping him from slouching out of position. It also rubs against him with every breath, causing the lace against his cock to stir. Wei Ying’s breath slides over the side of his neck and Lan Zhan is keenly aware of how cleverly immobilized he is like this.

A hazy, hopeful part of his mind thinks that Wei Ying must know what kind of torment this is; the way Lan Zhan at once wants to tear his way free like a wild beast and remain as carefully placed as a statue. He wants Wei Ying to touch him and when he doesn’t it makes a sweeter agony sing in his blood.

“That’s good,” Wei Ying says, dragging his hands down Lan Zhan’s arms. “Feel okay? You comfortable?”

Lan Zhan’s head feels heavy when he nods, the motion large and slow. Wei Ying smiles in return, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, twisting to grab his camera from where he has it sitting on the floor. The angle reveals part of his lower back and in spite of himself, Lan Zhan stares at the exposed skin.

Wei Ying backs up to shoot him and Lan Zhan focuses on breathing, trying to keep a lid on everything else that he wants to do.

“You look so good like that, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying says, his voice sweet and sticky like honey. “Blue really is your color, huh? You wear it all the time.” He says this with a slight smile. The walls of Lan Zhan’s bedroom are a soft eggshell blue.

He doesn’t have the leverage to rock his body against the ropes, but even a slight shift of his ankle is enough to drag friction over his cock with the rope tied the way it is. Lan Zhan finds this out by accident, twitching upright as soon as the spark hits him, causing another drag. That, coupled with the flow of Wei Ying’s voice, makes Lan Zhan lightheaded.

“Keep your face like that,” Wei Ying says. Lan Zhan doesn’t know what expression he’s making now; he’s only sure that he must be looking at Wei Ying like he’s starving for something. “You look so…” He trails off but Lan Zhan can hear the tremor of his breathing. “Tilt your chin up? Straight at me.”

For a moment, Lan Zhan looks into Wei Ying’s eyes directly rather than into the lens of the camera. A shudder climbs down his spine and his lips part to allow a heavy gasp of air to escape his lungs.

He hasn’t pulled at the bindings Wei Ying has put on him during any other shoot. It’s easy enough for Lan Zhan to maintain his stillness, especially in a comfortable seated position like this one. But his body feels over-sensitive, demanding the harsh bite of rope into his skin, the drag of it between his legs.

His harsh breathing punctuates the air. Wei Ying steps around him, reaching out to adjust the position of his hair. His fingers slip along Lan Zhan’s jaw and Lan Zhan turns into the touch, seeking Wei Ying from under his lashes.

“Yeah,” Wei Ying says, his thumb stroking Lan Zhan’s jaw. “I want you to look at me like that, okay Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan makes a strained sound that he hopes sounds like an agreement. He wants to capture Wei Ying’s fingers in his mouth and suck them in as far as he can. He wants to open himself up to Wei Ying even further, to give him even more.

He steps out of reach again and Lan Zhan forces himself to stay in place. His nails dig into his arms, his breath heaving in and out of his lungs now. The brief touch of Wei Ying’s fingers only stirred his need further. Between his legs, the sheer white lace is stuck to the slick tip of his cock. The thin lines of precome that leak down his skin stain the fabric translucent.

“You feel good, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, his face obscured by the camera.

Lan Zhan nods without thinking, straightening his spine so the ropes pull tighter, so his cock pushes against the braid between his legs hard enough to hurt. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, the sensation overpowering his efforts to remain focused.

When his eyes open again, Wei Ying has dropped the camera and is openly staring at Lan Zhan with something like wonder, like admiration on his face. His warm eyes are dark as well, boring into Lan Zhan’s when they meet.

“Wei Ying,” he manages, strangled. He rocks his hips forward as much as he’s able, his next breath catching in his throat.

“Fuck,” Wei Ying takes a step closer to him, one hand starting to reach out. “Lan Zhan.”

Before Wei Ying touches him, Lan Zhan arches against the ropes one final time and comes, ruining the delicate underwear and whimpering softly. He shuts his eyes and lets his body pitch naturally to one side, aftershocks making him twitch and shudder against the ropes.

The first touch of Wei Ying’s hand against his shoulder makes him jump. Lan Zhan opens his eyes to find Wei Ying’s face centimeters from his. Wei Ying cups his face, lips parted and eyes wide.

“Hey,” he says, his voice dark like smoke. “Are you— did you just—” He seems unsure of the question he’s trying to ask.

“Yes,” Lan Zhan says. “Wei Ying.” The name sounds desperate, nearly like a sob, and Wei Ying takes the hint. He closes the remaining distance and kisses Lan Zhan, fingers sliding into his hair and knocking it out of the braid. His mouth is hot and demanding and as soon as Wei Ying tilts his head to deepen the kiss, Lan Zhan bites at his lower lip.

One of Wei Ying’s hands slides down, fingers wrapping around the rope and pulling, drawing it tight at Lan Zhan’s barely softened cock. He gasps against Wei Ying’s lips, head rolling back between his shoulders. Wei Ying’s hand cradles the back of his head, mouth pressing to the corner of his jaw.

“I like you so much, Lan Zhan,” he says, sliding his fingers over the mess that Lan Zhan has made in the panties. “I can’t even believe it, you know? I wake up every day and I wanna kiss you.”

Lan Zhan’s mouth falls open, nails sinking deeper into his arms. He can’t grab at Wei Ying the way he wants to, to kiss him, and make him stop talking or grip onto his shoulders for security. He can only struggle to tamp the sounds he wants to make while Wei Ying’s fingers tease his sensitive cock.

Wei Ying kisses his neck, stopping to lavish attention on each faded mark. Lan Zhan turns his head to bury his face in Wei Ying’s hair, shaking under him. Wei Ying mumbles soft nonsense against Lan Zhan’s shoulder, kissing his skin and rubbing his dick in slow circles with his palm.

“I wanna make you come again Lan Zhan,” he says, lifting his head enough to be heard. “Can I do that?”

Lan Zhan nods his head, tilting his chin to try and seek out another kiss from Wei Ying. This time, Wei Ying catches the hint because he kisses Lan Zhan, clever fingers unwinding the knots that hold his arms in place. When they’re freed, Lan Zhan grabs at his shoulders, pulling Wei Ying tight against him.

He keeps the rope tied around his waist where it is, using it to add a rough edge to the friction against Lan Zhan’s cock. His eyes flutter, forehead knocking against Wei Ying’s.

“Wei Ying,” he says, his mind wiped clean of any other thought. Nothing else is as important. Wei Ying nods, nuzzling Lan Zhan’s hair out of the way to kiss beneath his ear.

“Yeah, right here,” he says, soft against Lan Zhan’s ear. Lan Zhan makes a small, lost sound, coming apart once again with Wei Ying’s warm hand engulfing his cock. Wei Ying sighs in a satisfied way, stroking his fingers through Lan Zhan’s hair and looking down at him with a wide smile.

Lan Zhan’s breathing continues to shudder even as the heat leaks out of him, even as Wei Ying sits up and begins untying his legs as well.

“Like you too,” Lan Zhan says, his head lying back against the floor. Wei Ying stops, his hand like a brand on the inside of Lan Zhan’s thigh.

“Really?” He says, his eyes round. When Lan Zhan’s expression twitches into a frown, he holds up his hands and shakes his head with a laugh. “Don’t be mad! You’re so sexy, Lan Zhan! You can do this stuff with any starving artist you want.”

“I haven’t,” Lan Zhan says, hoping the anxiety he feels doesn’t sink into his words. “With anyone but Wei Ying— I haven’t.”

Wei Ying blinks a dozen times, letting the information sink in. Then he lunges forward, trapping Lan Zhan’s body under his.

“You’re not lying to me, right?” Wei Ying says, fingers curling around Lan Zhan’s cheek.

“I do not lie,” he says, displeased with the implication. Wei Ying laughs once, high and off-key.

“And you let me…” He trails off, fingers grazing one of the bites on Lan Zhan’s neck.

“No one else,” Lan Zhan says, grabbing Wei Ying’s wrist and brushing a kiss over his knuckles. Wei Ying rests his forehead against Lan Zhan’s, his eyes shutting as well.

“Ah, Lan Zhan,” he says, laughter cutting through his words. He sounds pleased, bumping the bridge of his nose against Lan Zhan’s. “If you say stuff like that to me I’m really going to ruin Huaisang’s best work.” His tongue darts over his lips, sitting up and dragging a hand over Lan Zhan’s hip. “You gotta go get dressed, anyway. So I can take you on a date.”

Lan Zhan’s face slowly flushes with heat when Wei Ying rolls off of him, a casual smile on his face. When the feeling starts to return to his legs, Lan Zhan rises to follow him.