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Lan Zhan Works for the Historical Society

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Wei Ying wears only plain black boyshorts and a black lacy bra—one of her nicer ones—beneath an unbuttoned flannel, and she fucks herself on Lan Zhan’s thigh. The lace pulls against her nipples, rough and scratchy.

She’s begging for Lan Zhan. Her fingers, her strap, anything. They’ve been at it for twenty minutes or so and Wei Ying’s legs are trembling with the exertion. She’s not unfit—she longboards and she runs—but she does not have anything close to Lan Zhan’s seemingly unending stamina, earned from a lifetime of yoga and mindfulness that may have made her the incredibly hot, competent woman she is today, but that also means she’s so centered that she’s slower to orgasm, she’s hard work to rile up, and she doesn’t mind taking it out on Wei Ying, who spent her final handful of years as a straight girl watching backscratching and massage ASMR on YouTube and coming away soaking wet. Now, she goes off like a shot every time Lan Zhan so much as presses a finger into her.   

Lan Zhan tucks Wei Ying’s wavy, shoulder length hair behind her ear and says, “Come like this and I’ll fuck you later. No lube.”

Wei Ying whines, biting her lip and doubling her efforts. “Lan Zhan,” she begs, “let me take off my underwear, at least. Please.” Lan Zhan hums, fingers tripping along the inside of Wei Ying’s thigh, pressing one gently against the wet spot on her panties and dipping her finger in, only a little. Wei Ying keens, trying to grind against it. Lan Zhan pulls away and Wei Ying cries out in frustration.

“Please,” she begs, chest heaving. “Lan Zhan. Fingers. Please please please please please pl—" Lan Zhan sticks the fingers she just had pressed to Wei Ying’s wet underwear into her mouth. Wei Ying squeaks—not where she was expecting them to go—then closes her eyes, moans, and starts sucking them down in earnest while she keeps grinding. Lan Zhan is a big believer in sharing bodily fluids in the bedroom and Wei Ying has come fully around to the idea after many months at the beginning of their relationship where she refused to taste herself, even when Lan Zhan would constantly tell her how delicious she was, Wei Ying’s face hotter than the surface of the sun.

Lan Zhan pets her head, almost condescendingly. “You so rarely do the work,” she says quietly. Fondly. “It is time for you to contribute.”

Wei Ying refuses to pull off Lan Zhan’s fingers to answer, but she does make an offended noise in an attempt to at least pretend she minds the insult. As if Lan Zhan doesn’t usually prefer to do all the work. As if Lan Zhan doesn’t have “ravish Wei Ying” penciled down on her mental (and maybe physical) to-do list at all times. Wei Ying spent a lot of time when she was a straight girl starfished out on the bed and staring at the ceiling, and even though she still spends a lot of time on her back, it’s usually because she’s being held down or too overwhelmed to do anything else while Lan Zhan fucks her.

“Lazy,” Lan Zhan chastises. “Shameless. Desperate. You spent too long being fucked by men. You never learned how to be fucked properly.” Wei Ying trembles and only sucks her fingers faster. She grinds down harder, whimpering when Lan Zhan tenses her thigh muscle and it rubs directly against Wei Ying’s clit.

“Up,” Lan Zhan demands. Wei Ying almost cries in relief when Lan Zhan rips her boyshorts off. She sinks her hips back down immediately, so slick she slips on Lan Zhan’s thigh.

She groans, garbled and pathetic, Lan Zhan’s fingers finally falling from her mouth and shiny with spit. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “Oh my fucking god, Lan Zhan, holy fuck, I’m going to slide right off you.”

“You won’t,” Lan Zhan says. She palms Wei Ying’s ass, holding tight. “I will keep you here.”

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying mutters again. She’s sweating everywhere, legs trembling. Lan Zhan is still wearing a frilly mint green bra and panty set. It is all a smokescreen, because underneath there is a woman who forces Wei Ying to get off only on her thigh, even when she’s begging for more, for anything. Underneath is a woman who, multiple times, has ordered Wei Ying to ride a pillow instead of her, and only watched and lazily stroked herself to completion about it.

From this angle, at least, Wei Ying has the satisfaction of seeing the wet spot on Lan Zhan’s panties when she shifts her hips the right way. Wei Ying wants to hide her face between Lan Zhan’s thighs, kitten licking her until Lan Zhan tangles her hand in Wei Ying’s hair and holds it tight while she grinds down into her mouth, or Lan Zhan mercilessly rides her face, long fingers clenching the headboard as she uses Wei Ying’s tongue to get off.

At the same time, Wei Ying would rather die than move from her current position.

She might die, anyway, riding Lan Zhan’s strong, warm thigh, clutching desperately at her shoulders. Though Lan Zhan’s grip on her ass is tight, she allows Wei Ying to thrust back and forth, occasionally yanking her in one direction or another if she moves too slowly. Even when she’s making Wei Ying do the work, Lan Zhan can get impatient if she isn’t doing the work well enough.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying gasps against the glistening crook of Lan Zhan’s neck. She smells so good, spiced florals and musk and jasmine and sweat. “I’m gonna blast off like a rocket. I’m gonna burn up and die.”

Lan Zhan bites Wei Ying’s earlobe, then the bolt of her jaw, then nibbles her way towards Wei Ying’s chin. These are pleased bites, because Lan Zhan likes it when Wei Ying tells her how good she makes her feel.

“Fuck me, please,” Wei Ying gasps, mindless. “Lan Zhan, I’ll do anything. Whatever you want.” With a shaking hand, Wei Ying shoves her sweaty hair out of her face. Her layers are growing out. She knows Lan Zhan is going to snap soon and book and pay for an appointment at the salon she goes to, way out of Wei Ying’s usual price range for such a thing.

“Mm,” Lan Zhan says from deep in her throat, amused. “Fuck yourself just like this. And then I will fuck you.”

Wei Ying drops her head onto Lan Zhan’s shoulder, panting. “Lan Zhan, come on!” she wails. “Stop being so mean!”

Lan Zhan kisses the top of Wei Ying’s head. She digs her fingers into Wei Ying’s ass. Wei Ying has always had a nice ass. Lan Zhan has told her so, both verbally and physically, many times over. Wei Ying has had many bite marks on her ass, and has unthinkingly worn shorts short enough that people could see the lipstick and teeth print Lan Zhan left. Wei Ying gasps at the fingers kneading her. She mouths mindlessly at Lan Zhan’s shoulder, too out of it to bite or kiss properly. “Jiejie,” she mumbles into Lan Zhan’s overheated skin. “Jiejie, need you, jiejie.” Beneath her, Lan Zhan shudders in pleasure. She rubs circles on Wei Ying’s ass, pleased.

While Wei Ying babbles, she brings a hand between her legs. Lan Zhan only just catches her before she gets a finger on her clit, grabbing her by the wrist in an iron grip. “Trying to distract me?” Lan Zhan rasps, low and dangerous.

Wei Ying only whines, “Jiejie. Sweetie. Baby.”

Lan Zhan pulls Wei Ying’s hand away. “Be good,” she orders, and plucks up an icy blue ribbon from her nightstand. She usually uses such things for her elaborate braids, but a slip of silk is quite versatile in all kinds of situations.

Pretty Lan Zhan. Beautiful Lan Zhan. Ice queen Lan Zhan. So intimidating and femme and coldly polite in public, yet meaner than a man in the bedroom. Wei Ying has slept with men before and none of them were mean-nice to her like Lan Zhan. None of them had tits like Lan Zhan, big and warm and soft under Wei Ying’s mouth, nipples hard for Wei Ying, begging to be sucked. She wants to get her lips on them so bad, wants at least something inside her, but Lan Zhan’s bra is still on, and when Wei Ying tries to unclasp it, Lan Zhan swats her away again.

“You are not being good,” she says, grabbing Wei Ying’s hands from around her neck and bringing them between them. She loops her ribbon around Wei Ying’s wrists, tying them firmly together. Wei Ying is transfixed by her own bound hands in between their chests. When Lan Zhan inhales, her breasts almost brush against Wei Ying’s knuckles. Wei Ying flexes her fingers, tugging experimentally at the knots. That earns her a firm slap on the ass from Lan Zhan.

“Lan Zhan!” she cries, face red. Tears spring to her eyes. Lan Zhan has never done that before.

Lan Zhan catches Wei Ying’s chin firmly in her grasp and tilts it up until they’re staring at each other. Wei Ying wriggles, gasping when her clit makes brief but direct contact with Lan Zhan’s thigh. Lan Zhan holds Wei Ying tight and only watches her. If she ever tries something new in the bedroom, she’ll do it once, and then gauge Wei Ying’s reaction. Wei Ying, unable to ever talk about these things unless drunk or high, either tells her to stop, or says nothing and gives her tacit permission to keep going, keep pushing. Lan Zhan says, almost thoughtfully, “I have wanted to do that for a very long time.” She pinches Wei Ying where she just hit.

Embarrassment pulses through her, all the way to her core, all the way to her clit, her throbbing wrists and center. She squeezes her eyes shut. It did sting. It also felt mortifyingly good.

Lan Zhan, still holding her chin, leans closer. Wei Ying can taste her on the air. “After you come on my thigh,” Lan Zhan reminds her quietly, “I will fuck you.” Her mouth is so close to Wei Ying’s she can feel the movements of her words between them.

Wei Ying swallows. “You’re coming tonight, right? I want to make you feel good, too.” She wants to bury her face in Lan Zhan’s neck again, but because she’s still held in place, she can only continue to grind on Lan Zhan’s thigh. There is no finesse to it, despite the amount of practice she’s gotten from the pillows. Every time she’s failed to come from the pillow alone, Lan Zhan has punished her for ages, painstakingly fingering her but refusing to touch her clit until she’s so tense she can’t speak. When Lan Zhan finally lets her come, the orgasms are so intense she almost flies apart at the seams, and Lan Zhan always blocks off the rest of the afternoon for petting her and putting her back together again.

“I will,” Lan Zhan says. She reaches up, sliding Wei Ying’s unbuttoned plaid off, at least until it hits her wrists.

With an angry mutter, Lan Zhan unties her ribbon. Wei Ying tries not to giggle. If she were less delirious with lust herself, she would accuse Lan Zhan of being so horny she forgot how clothes work. 

When Lan Zhan goes for the clasp on Wei Ying’s bra next, Wei Ying gasps out, “Don’t. Please.”

Lan Zhan’s eyes darken. She watches Wei Ying’s flushed face, gaze skirting over the reddest parts of her, up and down the line of her neck, and then landing, again, on Wei Ying’s heaving chest, where every time she inhales the lace of her bra scratches against her in a way that lights up her whole body.

Lan Zhan re-ties Wei Ying’s wrists. Then, she catches one of Wei Ying’s nipples between her fingers, ensuring that the lace still rubs against her when she twists. Wei Ying cries out, digging her fingers into Lan Zhan’s shoulders.

“You’ve been cheating,” Lan Zhan observes, frighteningly neutral, as she continues to mercilessly pluck at Wei Ying’s nipple, so hard under her ministrations it hurts.

“N—" Wei Ying can only shake her head furiously. “No, Lan Zhan, I swear, I—you didn’t tell me to take it off.” She’s usually brattier than this, she usually pushes back harder than this, but any true resistance flooded out of her ages ago. Some nights, she can only let Lan Zhan play around with her and torture her as much as she wants, and she takes it, loves it, remembers it for the next time she’s being a bratty pillow princess trying to cajole Lan Zhan into doing what she wants.

Lan Zhan keeps rubbing Wei Ying’s nipple, the lace of her bra sparking against her with every minuscule movement, and Wei Ying speeds up her thrusts. “Lan Zhan,” she begs, searching for words. “Your leg, it’s—" She buries her burning face against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “It’s too wet,” she moans, curling her fingers against Lan Zhan’s chest and the soft skin of her breasts. The silk rubs against her. “There’s no more friction, Lan Zhan."

With the hand that isn’t currently attending to Wei Ying’s nipple, Lan Zhan glides her touch across Wei Ying’s torso. When she brushes Wei Ying’s abdomen, every muscle clenches and forces out a whimper. “Whose fault is that?” Lan Zhan asks, a trap so obvious even Wei Ying can see it in her current state.

“Mine,” she babbles, kissing Lan Zhan’s neck. “Mine, mine, mine. I want you too badly.”

“Hm,” Lan Zhan says. “It is not bad. But it is desperate.” After a moment of deliberation, she suddenly yanks her leg out from under Wei Ying, catching her when she overbalances and a confused whine escapes her.

“Oh, god, Lan Zhan, don’t take it away. I’ll make it work! I swear!”

Lan Zhan watches her, affection burning through her cool exterior. “Use my other thigh,” she commands. “Keep in mind I only have two legs. This is your last chance.”

“You have fingers,” Wei Ying can’t help but say petulantly. “And straps.”

“Do you want to come tonight or not, Wei Ying?”

Wei Ying shuts up and straddles Lan Zhan’s other thigh. She thrusts forward once, twice, into the new, delicious friction on her clit. Lan Zhan’s fingers return to her nipple, sore and already bruising.

With just that unbelievable pull, Wei Ying comes so hard she almost passes out in Lan Zhan’s arms. Her entire body throbs with it. Lan Zhan must be able to feel it, even just on her leg. Or even in the trembling of Wei Ying’s arms and how her pulse pounds against the binds of Lan Zhan’s ribbon.

Wei Ying’s hazy suspicion is confirmed when Lan Zhan holds her down hard against her thigh with one hand and skirts a finger under her panties with the other. Wei Ying watches dreamily as Lan Zhan strokes her own clit under the slip of fabric, so out of it she can do little more than stare and feel far away pulses of arousal, waves lapping at a distant shore. It won’t take her long to return, but the harder the orgasm, the longer it takes her body to remember how to do it again.

“Lan Zhan,” she mumbles, mouthing at the side of Lan Zhan’s jaw. “You make me feel so good. So, so good. Every time.”

Lan Zhan thrusts up into her own touch. Saliva collects under Wei Ying’s tongue as she stares at the growing dark spot on Lan Zhan’s panties. “Will you let me taste you?” Wei Ying whines. “If you won’t do me the courtesy of fucking my face.”

Orgasms make her boneless and speak even more gibberish than usual. The only reason she’s upright now is because Lan Zhan is still forcing her down on her thigh. She knows Lan Zhan has sensitive thighs. She knows how good this feels for Lan Zhan, too.

Wei Ying licks along Lan Zhan’s jawline, working her earlobe lazily between her teeth.

“The... noises you make,” Lan Zhan murmurs. Wei Ying can see the movement under the frills, Lan Zhan circling herself where she’s most sensitive. Her words flutter.

“Mmm, Lan Zhan, those are all yours. All for you. That’s what you do to me. Can I tell you a secret, Lan Zhan? I know I’m so easy for you. I know I’m a little harlot who can’t get enough. I know I’m a hussy for your pussy, or whatever it is you usually say. But do you wanna know something?” Lan Zhan stares at her, ears burning. Wei Ying’s flooded with arousal again, aching with it all the way to her fingertips. “I can’t believe I’ve never told you this. I guess I was saving it for a rainy day.”

Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying and Lan Zhan met at a mutual friend’s wine and cheese shindig while a bunch of twenty-somethings five-plus years out of university pretended they enjoyed being adults. Wei Ying did and does drink wine, but it used to be of the pink and sparkling variety. Most of what she drank back then came in a plastic 2L bottle or were coolers in colors you’d only ever otherwise see in a nuclear reactor. Since, Lan Zhan has expanded her palate (and her budget) a bit, if only in response to Wei Ying introducing her to Pizza Pockets and Pop-Tarts (Lan Zhan hates both of these things and will proceed to inhale entire boxes of them when she’s high).

Wei Ying was standing next to her boyfriend at the time, whose arm was wrapped around her waist. They stood in a circle of people, only half of whom Wei Ying knew and even fewer she liked. They were talking about something. Wei Ying wasn’t the one talking, so she didn’t care, her attention wandering as she drained her glass of wine that was much too bitter for her.

And then it landed on a pair of boots, almost fully covered by a floor-length skirt. Wei Ying’s eyes trailed up. Tall, lithe, harrowing, Lan Zhan. Her inkblot hair shone, somehow, even under the vapid Ikea light fixtures, worn in a loose braid with, yes, the icy blue ribbon of the hour. She wore a scallop-edged turtleneck (bodysuit, she would correct Wei Ying many months later, with a tiny smile, to avoid unseemly bunching), and delicate gold jewelry that caught the light her beautiful hair was already reflecting.

Wei Ying, in her nicest ripped jeans from Forever 21, had never felt so immediately outclassed. Her usual flippant reaction to pomp and circumstance and self-seriousness, which Lan Zhan carried in spades, dried up on her tongue when she met Lan Zhan’s gaze for the first time across that circle of people who didn’t matter, held in the arms of a man whose eye color she can’t even recall. To this day, Wei Ying doesn’t think Lan Zhan ever looked at her boyfriend once. They could pass each other on the street and the only thing that would alert Lan Zhan to his presence would be her own animal-instinct possessiveness.

Wei Ying was straight, at the time, is the thing. She had made out with girls in college at parties because she was a wild sexy thing, or whatever, and it always got her attention, and she loved being the center of attention, but she had never been paid attention to like Lan Zhan paid attention to her. There was no other way to describe the look in Lan Zhan’s eyes when they dropped to the man’s hand at Wei Ying’s waist that night. The instinctive, decisive moment when Lan Zhan decided to become a homewrecker and turn a straight girl.  

Lan Zhan came to stand next to Wei Ying. She did not introduce herself to Wei Ying’s boyfriend. She spoke little, but her ear was always turned towards Wei Ying, intently listening to whatever she yammered on about. Wei Ying could make conversation with pretty much anybody about pretty much anything, and it didn’t take her long to learn the inner workings of how her conversational dynamic with Lan Zhan worked. She was nervous in a way she wasn’t usually, too intimidated to be truly outrageous, but getting her back up at her own timidness and trying to overcompensate by plucking at the neckline of Lan Zhan’s turtleneck to coo at the pattern. Lan Zhan’s eyes flashed as she rubbed the fabric between her fingers and her jaw went tight. Wei Ying flushed, too many glasses of wine and not enough cheese in her, and pulled her hand away. “Sorry.” She laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear. Lan Zhan’s eyes tracked the movement like a homing missile. “It’s just a neat pattern. I like it.”

Lan Zhan had her hands clasped behind her back. “Keep looking. If you want.”

Wei Ying did. Her knuckles softly brushed Lan Zhan’s throat. Meanwhile, around them, the conversation was getting rowdier, thanks to another glass or three of wine. The conversation was about superheroes. Wei Ying even liked superheroes. She liked their little colors and how they flew around on the screen and how she never once had a thought while watching their little colors fly around on the screen. As far as she was concerned, there was no better art than the art of making her not think at all.

All night, Lan Zhan had her drawing blanks.

She didn’t understand what was happening. The way Lan Zhan existed near her, like they were standing next to each other in a pond, untouching but ripples overlapping. She felt feverish, almost, and kept drinking. Lan Zhan, unlike the rest of the attendees, did what she was supposed to and politely spit out every new mouthful of wine into a little paper cup. Wei Ying watched this, multiple times, with fascination. 

Wei Ying was wearing her very best lace bra that night, too, and that was the first time she became aware of how her vision went sparkly when she moved in such a way that the fabric pulled taut against her. The lace hid nothing, and neither did the plaid shirt she wore mostly buttoned over it, but at least they were both black and the lighting sucked and everyone was too drunk to notice. 

By the time she was well and truly drunk, Wei Ying was practically panting. Her boyfriend had gone somewhere. She forgot where. Lan Zhan was looking after her. She stroked Wei Ying’s back with feather-light touches and Wei Ying shivered under her touch. Slowly, the touches became sloppier. Wei Ying giggled when Lan Zhan missed her back completely and pawed at her elbow. “I thought you weren’t drinking, Lan Zhan?”

Lan Zhan said, “I may have had some. By accident.”

Wei Ying said, with a straight face, “Then we must drunk cuddle. It’s the rules.”

Lan Zhan said, “Explain.”

Wei Ying said, “I used to do it with my friends in university. We all went out to party, got trashed, made out with each other in front of the guys, and then anyone who didn’t find a hook up went back to one of our dorm rooms and caressed each other but like, in a friend way and above the waist only.”

Lan Zhan blinked at her. “I am twenty-eight years old. I work for the historical society.”

“That’s so cool, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying said. “Tell me about it when I’m sober.” She pouted. “Don’t you want to caress me, babe?”

“That’s what I’ve been doing,” Lan Zhan said. Her touch lingered over Wei Ying’s shoulder blades. They were still sitting on a couch in a room full of people.

Wei Ying crawled into Lan Zhan’s lap and made herself comfortable. From somewhere behind them, a wolf whistle. She bumped her forehead against Lan Zhan’s shoulder. “Do you have a boyfriend, Lan Zhan?”

“No.”

“Good,” Wei Ying said. “Because I think we’re going to be good friends and I don’t want to have any competition for your time.”

“You have a boyfriend,” Lan Zhan pointed out, rather rudely, Wei Ying thought.

“I’m an independent woman,” Wei Ying said as she draped her arms around Lan Zhan’s shoulders.

“I see,” Lan Zhan said dryly.

Wei Ying’s boyfriend returned from wherever he was, eventually. He sat beside them on the couch. Lan Zhan moved her thigh away from his.

“This is my new gal pal!” Wei Ying beamed at him. To Lan Zhan: “This is my boyfriend.” Lan Zhan nodded at him coolly and said nothing. Wei Ying curled up against Lan Zhan’s chest, sticking her feet in her boyfriend’s lap. “Aren’t we cute!” she said, and then put a hand to her forehead. “Fuck, I’m drunk.”

Lan Zhan brushed Wei Ying’s errant hair off her forehead, their fingers catching and tangling, only for a second. “Mm.”

Wei Ying tried to sit up, but her head was swimming. “Lan Zhan,” she said, urgently.

Silence. Lan Zhan watched her, waiting.

“I forgot. About the drunk cuddling.”

Another flash across Lan Zhan’s face. “What about it?”

“The most important part is the making out in front of the guys beforehand.”

“Oh,” Lan Zhan said.

Wei Ying kicked her boyfriend in the arm with her heel. “Babe,” she said. “I’m gonna make out with my new friend Lan Zhan. It’ll be like the girls in your porn.”

Other people got in on the action as well. A crowd gathered around them. Wei Ying’s brain was on fire. Every time she remembered her bra, she felt it move against her, and that’s all she ever wanted to feel again. She considered only ever wearing lace bras from here on out.

Wei Ying expected cute little licks and kisses. She expected them to be making eye contact with the men in the crowd and giggling (okay, maybe not Lan Zhan) and winking. That was how it had gone in university, except for when she got carried away and straight up licked into a few of her friends’ mouths. They were cool with it. Mistakes happen.

What she didn’t expect was for Lan Zhan to fit a hand to the back of her neck and yank her upwards into a kiss that turned Wei Ying’s world upside down, mouth soft but jaw firm and insistent. Lan Zhan only had eyes for her, gaze molten. Her braid brushed Wei Ying’s neck and she almost went up in flames.

It was a testament to the drunkenness of the crowd that they whooped and cheered for them as Lan Zhan held Wei Ying’s chin and slipped her tongue into her mouth and completely ignored the plea that fell from Wei Ying’s throat in response. When Lan Zhan pulled her back into her lap to get a better angle, the crowd roared.

Finally, like she was being pulled from the deepest, most pleasant of dreams, there was a hand that was most certainly not Lan Zhan’s tripping at her waist.

Her boyfriend asked if he could cut in. Lan Zhan’s hold on Wei Ying flexed once, twice, before she handed her back to him.

“Bye, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying pouted as her boyfriend heaved her into a standing position. Her lips felt sensitive and bitten and flushed. “Call me! Remember, we’re friends now!”

“Goodbye, Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan said, watching them go with laserlike precision from her spot on the couch.

Wei Ying’s boyfriend took her home and fucked her. When he first shoved in, he froze. After a moment, he stopped, stuttered, and asked if Wei Ying was okay.

She took her elbow off her glassy eyes and said “What?”

He observed, uncertainly, that she was wet. Wetter than usual. Much wetter than usual. So uncertainly, that before her boyfriend of three months could ask if she was wet because she had drunkenly pissed herself, she threw her arm back over her eyes and said, “It’s because you’re so fucking HOT, Greg.”

Wei Ying and Greg are no longer on speaking terms.      

In the now of their shared bedroom, Wei Ying grins. “Ha, Lan Zhan,” she says. She tweaks her own nipple, hissing at the sensation as she continues to grind lazily against Lan Zhan’s thigh. “You know a man never gave me an orgasm, right? You’re the only one who’s ever made me come.”

Wei Ying can’t explain what happens next, beyond that Lan Zhan bites at the juncture of her neck and shoulder so hard and in exactly the right place so that another orgasm swoops up and over her like a car driving through a deep puddle beside her on the sidewalk. She clutches at Lan Zhan—hard to do with her wrists still bound, but she manages—who clutches her back so hard Wei Ying can feel the bruise forming. She keeps mouthing hot at Wei Ying’s neck, scraping her teeth against the skin, and Wei Ying is not technically still coming, she doesn’t think, but everything is pulsing around her, world gone hazy.

When Wei Ying comes back down, a little, Lan Zhan is panting into her throat and leaving bruises on her hips and fingering herself up to the first knuckle. Wei Ying doesn’t have to see it to know, to feel Lan Zhan tremble under her exactly how she always does when something is in her shallow and sensitive and fast.

“Let me in, Lan Zhan, let me do it,” Wei Ying begs, crazed, but sometimes Lan Zhan decides she would rather do it herself and torture Wei Ying. Or, sometimes, she has other ideas. Like right now, when Lan Zhan says—and Wei Ying has no idea how she’s still so coherent despite the rasp in her voice—“Clean up after yourself,” and shoves Wei Ying’s head towards her thighs, and Wei Ying whimpers, shudders, and wonders when she accidentally slipped into another dimension where there is nothing hotter than licking her own wetness off Lan Zhan’s smooth, pale thighs.

“Oh my god,” Wei Ying mutters as she laps it up. “Oh my fucking god, Lan Zhan, you’re insane, you’re gonna make me come again from licking up my own jizz, Jesus fucking Christ.”

Lan Zhan grasps a handful of Wei Ying’s hair and pulls. Wei Ying bites down on her thigh, sucking a pink mark there. She’s usually more of a licker, because it makes Lan Zhan reprimand her, but if Lan Zhan really gets her going she’s not above leaving a hickey or two. Lan Zhan is so scary in public she can’t imagine anyone ever saying anything about it or even looking at it for longer than it takes to realize what it is and glance away, flushed and clearing their throat.

Not that Lan Zhan shows a lot—or any—thigh in her everyday wardrobe. Or even neck. A flash of wrist or ankle is usually the most action Wei Ying gets in public. That makes it even sexier when she sees any skin at all, and makes her incredibly feral when the clothes finally do come all the way off. Wei Ying, on the other hand, is no stranger to shorts that only cover half her ass or spaghetti straps with no bra. It makes Lan Zhan equal parts jealous, possessive, and horny, and Wei Ying has never said no to a little publicly acceptable groping. When they’re out, Lan Zhan often will put a hand dangerously low on her back, sometimes slipping into her pocket if she has one, in an attempt to assure anyone looking they are most definitely not friends. One time they got mistaken for roommates at the grocery store and Lan Zhan got so incensed she took Wei Ying home, marked up her neck, and made her come four times in a row while their ice cream melted on the counter.

Wei Ying is really in no position to get friction on her from anything other than the blankets, but god, even Lan Zhan’s perfectly manicured feet would do. Wei Ying never thought she had a thing for feet, but they are Lan Zhan’s, and she is desperate, and how different is a toe than a finger anyway—

Lan Zhan’s nails—exactly as long as they can be for scratching Wei Ying only exactly the right amount—dig into Wei Ying’s scalp as she comes. Wei Ying trails her tongue up Lan Zhan’s thigh, nipping at the pale skin she loves to taste so much as Lan Zhan trembles around her. Wei Ying feels wild with Lan Zhan’s orgasm. She noses at Lan Zhan’s panties, licking the seam of them, lapping at the wetness that’s soaked through.

Lan Zhan breathes out hard, oversensitized. She’s slower to orgasm than Wei Ying, but maybe that’s why she’s always so mean and horny. It’s always simmering under the surface.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying whines. “Let me clean you up. Let me help you out. I thought I was supposed to be doing the work tonight.”

Carefully, Lan Zhan retracts her hand from her panties. Wei Ying watches her glistening fingers with wide, hungry eyes. Lan Zhan’s hand tightens again in her hair. “Open,” she orders, and immediately, Wei Ying pillows her cheek on Lan Zhan’s thigh and parts her lips. Wei Ying hums around Lan Zhan’s slick fingers, sucking them down, content.

“You’re pleased with your performance,” Lan Zhan says. She strokes Wei Ying’s hair more than pulls, now.

“Mmhmm,” Wei Ying says dreamily. She has no idea what Lan Zhan is saying.

“You can do better,” Lan Zhan informs her.

“Mmmmhmmmmm,” Wei Ying hums. She wants Lan Zhan’s fingers, clit, and nipples in her mouth all at once. She settles for her fingers. These are good. Lan Zhan has very good hands, graceful and strong and beautiful. Wei Ying bites her nails and has swallowed so much drugstore black nail polish over the course of her life that she’s surprised she’s still alive. She still aches between her legs, thrumming and clenching, but it’s so good. The feeling is so good. Lan Zhan will take care of her. Lan Zhan will always take care of her. The thing about sex with Lan Zhan is it’s like one big, long orgasm. There are peaks, but it’s always just so good, for so long, Wei Ying feels wrung out like a dishcloth in the best possible way.

Finally, Lan Zhan pulls her fingers from Wei Ying’s mouth. Wei Ying drools a little, self-conscious, and hides her face in the crease of Lan Zhan’s thigh. “Wanna lick you all over,” she mumbles, drawing a fingertip up Lan Zhan’s calf.

Lan Zhan calls her bluff. “Do it.”

Wei Ying whines. “I said I want to. Not that I had the fortitude to. I don’t have any muscles left.”

Lan Zhan tsks quietly. “I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Wei Ying calls her bluff. “Do it.”

Lan Zhan moves Wei Ying’s head off her thigh and slips gracefully off the bed.

“Shit,” Wei Ying says.

Lan Zhan glances up from where she’s digging in her freaky sex drawer. She asks innocently, “You don’t want it?”

“Oh, shut up,” Wei Ying says. She’s halfway down the bed, but can’t bring herself to move. She simply pillows her cheek against Lan Zhan’s heather gray bedspread and carefully avoids her own wet spot and pulls at the ribbon around her wrists. As much as it pained Lan Zhan, she learned the hard way that it was just more convenient to have a duvet cover that could easily be thrown in the wash, as opposed to painstakingly dry-cleaned every week. Wei Ying loves this boring bedspread. It’s soft and she gets fucked on it all the time. Lan Zhan always tells her it’s Wei Ying’s fault it gets so messy and Lan Zhan is right.

Lan Zhan slaps her ass again, hard. Wei Ying yelps and her hips snap forward. She turns her head to chide Lan Zhan, but her words die in her throat.

Lan Zhan, that bitch.

“You didn’t let me eat you out because you wanted to keep your panties on for when you broke out the matching mint green strap, Lan Zhan?” Lan Zhan does, indeed, own a number of straps in varying colors. Wei Ying has never known which came first, the strap or the sets, but over the past few months she’s been fucked by the entire pastel rainbow. Wei Ying’s so offended she could come again. She’s going to, from the look Lan Zhan’s giving her as she wraps one hand around each of Wei Ying’s ankles and tugs.

Wei Ying goes easily. Lan Zhan’s ethereal beauty and matching bra and panty and strap set are so fucking insane Wei Ying can’t even look at her for too long. Lan Zhan, still standing, pulls her further down the bed until she’s holding the underside of Wei Ying’s knees at her hips.

Lan Zhan is not gentle. On her first thrust, she slides in all the way. There’s lube somewhere in this apartment, but Wei Ying has never seen it. They’ve never needed it, between the two of them.

Wei Ying keens as Lan Zhan stays seated inside her. She never plans to understand why Lan Zhan with a strap, though mechanically similar to having sex with a man, is on an entirely different plane of existence, why Lan Zhan burns through her with every quirk of the lips and raised eyebrow, why humans are all the same, really, in the end, but the only one out of all of them she wants inside her is Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan pulls out and thrusts back in and Wei Ying feels drunk. Drunk on Lan Zhan’s mint green dick. Lan Zhan’s hair, usually so perfectly parted down the middle and shining and either pin-straight or mermaid-wavy depending on the day, is falling across her face, into her dark eyes and in front of her open mouth as she snaps air in and out of her lungs.

Wei Ying, an atheist, does the sign of the cross and covers her face with her hands. “Fuck,” she says mulishly. She feels like a lech, staring at Lan Zhan’s tits in her bra as they bounce up and down with her movements, face hot. Sometimes she feels like a pervy thirteen year old boy doing his best and Googling “jiggle psychics”, but most of the time the shame makes way for the heat, for the horrifyingly arousing sound Lan Zhan’s strap makes as it fucks into her, over and over.

“Lan Zhan,” she says. “Lan Zhan, fuck, Lan Zhan, fuck fuck fuck. You’re being too nice. Too good. Be mean to me again.”

Lan Zhan pinches Wei Ying’s thigh very hard. Wei Ying cries out. Then, she tickles Wei Ying’s foot. Wei Ying tries to kick, but Lan Zhan is too strong and holds her down. “Lan Zhan!” she cries. “If I come while I’m being tickled that’s a point of no return! I can’t be held responsible for the new neural pathways my brain will construct if that happens!”

“Hm,” Lan Zhan says as she fucks Wei Ying. Now, both her hands hold Wei Ying’s ankles, icy pink nails against Wei Ying’s light brown swathe of skin. “Maybe an anklet. To rub against the sensitive area.”

“I’m not—” Wei Ying says, gnashing her teeth. “I’m not going to wear your freaky sex anklet out in public, Lan Zhan!”

“We’ll start in private.” She shoves her hands back up Wei Ying’s legs, until they’re resting at her hips, almost fully around her torso to her lower back. She slams into Wei Ying so hard it hurts, and then Wei Ying is coming, and Lan Zhan is fucking her through it, Lan Zhan is fucking another orgasm out of her through penetration alone, layered on top of each other so thoroughly Wei Ying doesn’t know where one starts and one ends.

Finally, she has to beg Lan Zhan to stop, for real this time. Immediately, Lan Zhan unhooks the strap, steps out of both it and her panties, and kneels on top of the bed, straddling Wei Ying’s chest.

“Lie back,” she orders.

Wei Ying does, immediately. 

Lan Zhan shuffles forward and tangles her hand in Wei Ying’s hair. It’s so matted at this point it’s going to take Lan Zhan an hour afterwards to tend to it. Good.

Wei Ying opens her mouth without Lan Zhan asking, and Lan Zhan rides her tongue. She keeps her hand in Wei Ying’s hair to balance and reminds her with a smack on the thigh to stay still. Wei Ying squeezes her eyes shut and pulls her tongue taut, trying to make it better for Lan Zhan. It must work, because Lan Zhan makes an incendiary sound and pulls Wei Ying’s hair again. Tears pool at the corner of her eyes, hot and itchy, and she swirls her tongue around, just a little, just enough to make Lan Zhan snap at her to knock it off.

Wei Ying couldn’t possibly come again, but she does stroke herself lazily, carefully, with one hand, the slack of the ribbon trailing tantalizingly over her thigh. The world shimmers and sparkles around her, like champagne confetti, and she gives, proffers, lets Lan Zhan take whatever she wants. 

Lan Zhan finally comes—she’s always so quiet, but Wei Ying can feel her pulsing on her tongue—and when she’s done riding it out, she curls down towards Wei Ying, paying no heed to her glistening mouth and nose, and kissing her deep and sinuous with a hand on her face. Carefully, she frees Wei Ying of the ribbon. Wei Ying sighs. 

After waiting so long, Wei Ying finally catches Lan Zhan at a weak moment and manages to unclasp her bra and yank it off. Lan Zhan allows it to happen, hissing slightly at the contact. Her nipples are still so hard, Wei Ying has to reach out and play with them, licking them and nibbling them gently while Lan Zhan draws gibberish on her back. In turn, Lan Zhan unhooks her bra as well, and they lie together completely naked and glistening on Lan Zhan’s bedspread that is going to have to be washed-- again.

Wei Ying pillows her head on Lan Zhan’s breasts. She fondles one gently. “Missed you this time, babe,” she coos at it.

Lan Zhan says, fondly, “She missed you too.”

“Maybe if you weren’t so intent on looking hot as hell at every moment of every day she could’ve come out to play.”

Lan Zhan, in a million lifetimes, would never admit to being half as vain as she really is. She just walks through life as if she woke up looking like she does. She simply says, “Next time.” She runs a fingertip across Wei Ying’s nipple. “You too,” she reminds her with a flinty eye.

Wei Ying laughs breathily. “Next time,” she confirms. “Next time, Lan Zhan. And so many times after that.”