Lan Zhan, for his part, can remember life before Wei Ying, but as time stretches out before them, these memories have begun to lose their color, gradually becoming a wash of grey on an otherwise unremarkable portrait. Their meeting brought color to his days, and despite the fact that their initial acquaintance may have been considered fractious as best, some part of him had been fascinated. And later, enamored. What he doesn't remember is exactly when he realized Wei Ying had begun to feel similarly - the evolution of their relationship had been so gradual, the ways in which their lives had interwoven had felt as natural as breathing.

Now, his breaths come in shallow pants, rasping with the edge of a moan and all but drowned out by Wei Ying's cries of his name. The new angle allows him to lean in, to sink further into Wei Ying and it feels so impossibly deep, scorching and tight where his husband clenches around him. Lan Zhan releases Wei Ying's ruined hair to cover his hands with his own, and even though there's a quiet intimacy in how Lan Zhan entwines their fingers, his teeth are sharp where they graze the soft underside of Wei Ying's clavicle. Lan Zhan loves to mark him, with bites or toys or even the strength of his grip alone. He enjoys, perhaps more than he should, the identical sets of fingerprints he leaves along the insides of Wei Ying's pale thighs, the bloom of bruises along his neck that only a high collar can hide.

When he briefly slows their pace, it's only to reach between their bodies to roll the ring off Wei Ying's cock and toss it away. He dimly registers the sound of it hitting the floor, but his concentration is entirely on stroking Wei Ying in time to his thrusts, the slickness easing the quick slide of his callused fingers. With his other hand, he takes hold of both of Wei Ying's slim wrists, further pinning him to the bed in the way they both like.