Despite his propriety, there is a part of Lan Zhan that is somewhat lacking in shame, and this part is intrinsically tied to Wei Ying. It is not something he would necessarily admit (although he suspects Wei Ying knows, regardless, having learned to read him to a degree that's almost overwhelming), but there's a certain thrill and satisfaction at other people seeing these marks of ownership, this undeniable proof that Wei Ying is his. He would not leave them if it wasn't for the fact that Wei Ying equally enjoys it, asks for it often. Lan Zhan is all too willing to indulge him and bites into his kisses, brusing his lips and throat and sucking at the skin, making it dark and sensitive.
Sometimes, in stolen moments, Lan Zhan will press his thumb into the marks just to watch how Wei Ying's eyes flutter at the brief and fleeting throb of pain, the reminder of being claimed again and again.
Everything is sound and sensation and Lan Zhan is hyperaware of the rapid pounding of his heart in his ears, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat, and every change in pitch and volume of Wei Ying's moans. If he had the presence of mind to think about it, he would name these moments as among his favorites, the point where Wei Ying is lost, so far beyond beyond speech that he can't even moan Lan Zhan's name. And then suddenly Wei Ying is gasping, spilling over his fist and feeling impossibly tighter where Lan Zhan is buried deep inside of him. Lan Zhan can feel the climax rising in him, his core tightening and heat coalescing in his stomach, in his chest. It drives him faster, harder, chasing his own pleasure and then he comes hard and slick and almost painful, his breath punched out of him in shuddering pants against the side of Wei Ying's neck.
He releases Wei Ying's wrists once he catches his breath, trailing his fingers down the soft insides of his arms with the delicate veins beneath. Although Wei Ying is flushed and disheveled and fucked-out underneath him, Lan Zhan doesn't stop moving his hips, keeping pace at a slow, steady rhythm as they both ride through the aftershocks and oversensitivity in the aftermath. The two of them are often insatiable, and Lan Zhan knows himself. He could easily go another round.
Even so, he checks in with Wei Ying, as he always does. "More?" He whispers into his ear, before nipping at the shell of it.
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Sometimes, in stolen moments, Lan Zhan will press his thumb into the marks just to watch how Wei Ying's eyes flutter at the brief and fleeting throb of pain, the reminder of being claimed again and again.
Everything is sound and sensation and Lan Zhan is hyperaware of the rapid pounding of his heart in his ears, his shirt sticking to his back with sweat, and every change in pitch and volume of Wei Ying's moans. If he had the presence of mind to think about it, he would name these moments as among his favorites, the point where Wei Ying is lost, so far beyond beyond speech that he can't even moan Lan Zhan's name. And then suddenly Wei Ying is gasping, spilling over his fist and feeling impossibly tighter where Lan Zhan is buried deep inside of him. Lan Zhan can feel the climax rising in him, his core tightening and heat coalescing in his stomach, in his chest. It drives him faster, harder, chasing his own pleasure and then he comes hard and slick and almost painful, his breath punched out of him in shuddering pants against the side of Wei Ying's neck.
He releases Wei Ying's wrists once he catches his breath, trailing his fingers down the soft insides of his arms with the delicate veins beneath. Although Wei Ying is flushed and disheveled and fucked-out underneath him, Lan Zhan doesn't stop moving his hips, keeping pace at a slow, steady rhythm as they both ride through the aftershocks and oversensitivity in the aftermath. The two of them are often insatiable, and Lan Zhan knows himself. He could easily go another round.
Even so, he checks in with Wei Ying, as he always does. "More?" He whispers into his ear, before nipping at the shell of it.