Work Header

in this arid land (i'll be your oasis)

Work Text:

Wei Ying stumbles over the nonexistent threshold separating the hallway from their double hotel room. Or maybe his foot had gotten caught on the doorjamb; there's no way to tell, not with the weight of one very drunk, 30-something cultivator dangling from the arm wrapped around Wei Ying’s shoulders.

Once they make it past the entryway, the corner of the TV stand jumps out to stab Wei Ying right in the meaty part of his thigh.

He yelps because it startles him. Not because it hurts, or anything. The bruise will probably be neg—neglig—negligibbible. (That is totally a word. Wei Ying would bet on it. Hypothetically. If he had money.) Anyway, the bruise won’t be a problem.

What will be a problem is getting Lan Zhan off the floor, which is now where he has seated himself. His back is against the bed. His eyes are half-shut. He keeps telling Wei Ying funny drunk-person things like, “You’re pretty” and “Thirsty :(” and “Wanna sleep with Wei Ying.” That last one makes Wei Ying’s face do some face gymnastics. He giggles about it.

Lan Zhan would be so embarrassed if he understood the double entendre he just used! Wei Ying is pretty sure Lan Zhan would know if he was—no, if he ‘were’ (good job, Wei Ying! The vodka hasn’t yet robbed you of your grammar king abilities!)—sober. Which he is not.

Wei Ying is also wondering how Lan Zhan did that “:(“ thing with his voice so perfectly. Like, obviously he didn’t actually say “colon, left parenthesis,” but if voice tones had little text expressions to match, that would have been the right one.

So. Lan Zhan + Floor = Problem. Wei Ying knows basic math. He can’t do anything about being pretty, but he can fix Lan Zhan’s cute little problem of ‘thirst :(’ because he’s got, like, so many water bottles. Wei Ying fishes one of these many water bottles out of his duffel bag and opens it up. He crouches down and tilts it to Lan Zhan’s mouth, but Lan Zhan... doesn’t open up, which is not very equitable of him. Where is his sportsmanship??

So Wei Ying gets the brilliant idea that he can open Lan Zhan’s mouth for him. He cups this drunk man’s stupidly perfect jaw and thumbs at his stupidly plush lower lip in the universal—(probably)—hint to Open Up, Buttercup! But instead of opening up, buttercup, Lan Zhan just??? Licks him?? Instead?!!

So of course Wei Ying yoinks his hand right the fuck out of there, but then Lan Zhan clamps his mouth shut and refuses to open for anything at all. Even Wei Ying’s best pleading face, which he knows is cute, okay? He’s practiced in the mirror. Reluctantly, he gives the jaw-holding thing another go. If Lan Zhan licks him, so be it.

He pushes his thumb to Lan Zhan’s lower lip once more, goes, “Say ‘ahhh’!” and then makes the mistake of sliding his thumb a little further inside when Lan Zhan obeys.

...Lan Zhan bites him.

Because Lan Zhan, courtesy name Wangji, of the modern-day Lan sect of Gusu, is a feral, weird little gremlin.

“Aiya! I thought you were thirsty! If you’re actually hungry, you should have said so,” Wei Ying gripes at him. “Thumbs are not on the menu.”

Pouting and looking sufficiently chided, Lan Zhan finally cooperates and allows Wei Ying to help him drink from the bottle.

He downs the whole thing.

Ah, right. He hasn’t had anything non-alcoholic to drink since dinner. Wei Ying is a bad friend. But in his defense, he’s also capital-D Drunk. So he can’t be held accountable. So there. Regardless, now is as good a time as any to get some liquid into this rapidly-dehydrating gremlin-man. Lan Zhan drinks down another bottle—a whole three-quarters of it before he, sigh, dumps the rest over his head because he’s ‘warm.’

Wei Ying does not get a towel. If Lan Zhan wants to attempt to enter a one-man wet tshirt contest, that’s his business. He can live with the consequences of his actions. And if Wei Ying happens to be present to enjoy the way the water drips off of Lan Zhan’s perfectly-shaped nose and lips and chin, and down his perfectly-sculpted-but-unfortunately-still-clothed pectorals, then that’s his business.

.............Next on the agenda is................. hm, Wei Ying does Not remember. Did he even have an agenda? Had he entered the room with actual thoughts in his head or what?

And THEN Lan Zhan yawns (without covering his mouth! the man is absolutely feral!!). Right! Right. He said he wanted to ‘sleep with Wei Ying.’

Well. Okay. It’s not like that’s gonna be hard to arrange.

Wei Ying hopes Lan Zhan won’t mind that he sleeps shirtless. He says as much, and apparently the concept of sleep is so enticing that Lan Zhan leaps right to his feet from the floor. There’s probably even some cultivation involved in the action, given how weirdly-coordinated it is for a lightweight of Lan Zhan’s calibre.

Wei Ying, an accomplished drinker of alcoholic beverages, remembers to set out water and Advil on the nightstand. Multiple waters. Lan Zhan downs another half bottle before haphazardly flopping onto the bed with all the grace of a bird hitting a window.

Wei Ying removes his jacket and his shirt. Then he makes Lan Zhan wiggle around enough to take off his jacket, and because he’s not sure of Lan Zhan’s preferred shirt situation, he... leaves it be. With great difficulty. He thinks there should be an equalizing of shirts here—namely, zero.

Right as Wei Ying settles in next to him, Lan Zhan swings his legs off the bed, walks all the way around to Wei Ying’s side, and proceeds to climb on top of him. Which, um. Ummmm. Um. 

“Lan Zhan???” Wei Ying squeaks. Does Lan Zhan not understand how fucking heavy he is?? 

...aaaand Lan Zhan’s not gonna move, is he. Great. At least Wei Ying can still, like, breathe. And access his phone. And reach the light switch, which he turns off, plunging the room into darkness.

Lan Zhan makes a very nice weighted blanket, actually. He makes Wei Ying feel very... contained. And comforted. Ok. Maybe Wei Ying will forgo the phone tonight and actually get some rest before two am. (Now wouldn’t that be something.)

Except Lan Zhan’s face is tucked into the crook of Wei Ying’s neck, and he keeps nuzzling. Which is objectively cute, but also objectively not conducive to sleeping for either of them. And surely Wei Ying does not a comfortable mattress make, right? He’s got, like, bones and stuff. Pointy bits. He’s probably kind of lumpy.

“Lan Zhan,” he sighs, tapping him on the shoulder. “Hey. Are you still awake?”

Lan Zhan wraps himself tighter around Wei Ying—like a koala, or possibly a boa constrictor. He mumbles something Wei Ying can’t quite make out. ‘Need to you—’ mumble, mumble, mumble.

“Need to what?” Wei Ying prompts, but receives no answer. Lan Zhan’s body relaxes against him entirely. Asleep. Resigning himself to his fate, Wei Ying heaves the biggest sigh he can manage with his chest crushed under the weight of so much... Man™, and closes his eyes.

He must fall asleep. Because he wakes up. And Lan Zhan is... wriggling? On top of him. It’s the only way Wei Ying’s alcohol-addled mind can describe the little back-and-forth shifting of hips, the tensing of those massive, muscular thighs. Wei Ying slowly blinks himself awake-awake.

Eyes closed, Lan Zhan’s face draws taut with concentration. He makes a noise—a tiny, desperate-sounding little thing that apparently has an express, one-way ticket to Wei Ying’s dick—and gasps as he grinds his front against Wei Ying’s front. “I can’t—” he whispers.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying asks, voice slurred with sleep and the approximately four-point-seven vodka cranberry highballs that are still swimming around in his head like it’s their beach episode. “What’s wrong?”

“Can’t move.”

“But you are moving.”

“Have to—have to use—” Lan Zhan buries the last part in Wei Ying’s neck. It sounds suspiciously like he said ‘the bathroom.’

“Probably,” Wei Ying agrees. “You did drink a lot.” Then, a whole ten seconds later, it clicks. What Lan Zhan’s predicament is.

And Lan Zhan says, with another squirm of his hips, “Can’t hold it.”

“Ah! Lan Zhan, sure you can, let’s just—get you to the bathroom real quick, okay? Um. Up you get.”


“If you get up, you can go. Then you don’t have to hold it anymore. And maybe I can get some sleep if you lie beside me instead of on top of me.”

“’M gonna go,” Lan Zhan says, voice carrying the distinct edge of desperation.

“Okay, let’s get up together then—” Wei Ying freezes as Lan Zhan’s face goes slack, as his whole body sags against him. Against Wei Ying, Lan Zhan’s human mattress. “Oh. Oh, you meant—”

If Lan Zhan is actually doing what Wei Ying thinks he’s doing, then he’s going to feel it in three–



He whispers, “Lan Zhan.”


“You’re peeing.”

“...Mhm :(.”

“Oh. Ok. You’re, um.” Wei Ying shudders at the strange jolt of pleasure that zips through him. “You’re peeing on me.”

“Mmmm,” Lan Zhan hums in what starts as a whine and pitches down into a groan. “’M sorry,” he mutters. A shiver racks through his body, pressing the newly-wet fabric of Wei Ying’s pajama pants against Wei Ying’s very-interested dick.

Wei Ying can’t help himself—it just happens. He thrusts upward. And he whimpers, too. “I’m sorry too,” Wei Ying says, not feeling all that sorry, actually. “I should have—I should have made you go before bed, probably? I’m—ah fuck, Lan Zhan, can you feel? How hard I am?”

Another shiver runs through Lan Zhan—maybe deliberately—and he grinds down. “Mn.”

“Are you finished yet?”

A fresh surge of moisture seeping through the fabric says ‘no’. Wei Ying is already mulling over talismans that would make cleanup a cinch, but—might as well enjoy it while it lasts. Probably. Maybe Wei Ying should counter-pee. Lan Zhan pees on him, he pees on Lan Zhan. They complete a strange, animalistic claiming ritual and are piss-married. Then they can proceed to fuck like rabbits across every available surface, and maybe Wei Ying will further explore this new kink he didn’t know he had. (Or maybe he did—thinking back, his weird obsession with trying (and sometimes failing) not to piss his pants as a kid makes a lot more sense in retrospect.) He hopes Lan Zhan will be amin—abemba—amenable to it, too.

But right now, he’s drunk. Lan Zhan’s drunk. And pissing on him. And then he’s not pissing anymore, and instead his hips start grinding down. Wei Ying doesn’t normally hair-trigger orgasm, but if he gets a little sample of that hardening erection in Lan Zhan’s pants pressing up against his dick again, he’s going to come.

“I’m going to come,” he whines out loud, and Lan Zhan doesn’t do the gentlemanly thing and stop. Because, and Wei Ying might be the only person in the world who knows this, but Lan Zhan is not a gentleman. And Wei Ying might never forgive him if he did stop. But Wei Ying’s belly starts doing that thing where it gets all tense and his core muscles pull at his groin and it feels really fucking good, and—

“Too good,” Wei Ying whines. “Don’t stop—you’re gonna—you’re gonna make me—”

Lan Zhan tilts his head to the side and bites Wei Ying’s neck right below the jaw, and somehow that’s what does it. Wei Ying’s release fires through him like a laser rifle until he’s making an even bigger mess of himself than Lan Zhan already has, body jerking with every pulse of his dick. He keeps twitching under Lan Zhan’s rhythmic grinding, more and more cum leaking out with every movement. (Holy fuck, Wei Ying just. He just came. In his pants? Because Lan Zhan pissed on him and dry-(or wet??)-humped him a little???)

Lan Zhan doesn’t stop. He keeps going and his movements grow more frantic, and Wei Ying whines that it’s much—too much stimulation and too much Lan Zhan and, and, fuck. Lan Zhan’s ragged breathing and his own noises that he’s probably making unconsciously play out like a symphony above. Best one Wei Ying’s ever heard. He imagines what the wet slap of their bodies would sound like if they were fucking skin-to-skin—hot as hell, definitely. Wei Ying winds his fingers through Lan Zhan’s hair and makes the determination that he will get to have that with Lan Zhan. If Lan Zhan wants. But Wei Ying knows a thing or two about how drunkenness lowers inhibitions, and he suspects Lan Zhan would be on board if only Wei Ying would take the bull by the horns here. Perhaps literally. He tugs at Lan Zhan’s scalp and draws a low keen from his throat.

Judging by that and his quickening breath, Lan Zhan’s own orgasm careens ever closer.

Wei Ying tries helping him along with a couple of attempted thrusts of his own, but the (literally AND figuratively) filthy man on top of him seems to have a pretty good handle on things. His body feels divine and his cock feels massive.

Wei Ying wants that inside of him. “Want you inside,” he moans.

“Wei—Ying—” Lan Zhan gasps into Wei Ying’s neck. Their hips slam together; he grinds tight, fast little circles until his body seizes up in a long, arching curve over Wei Ying’s supine form. His face, through the darkness, paints the hottest picture Wei Ying has ever witnessed—brows pinched, mouth open as the—as the throes of his ecstasy shudder through him. Wei Ying can die a happy man now. Holy shit.

“Yeah—Lan Zhan—” he gasps. “Ohfuckyoufeelsogood. Oh fuck, there’s gonna be—gonna be cum everywhere. Shit, that’s hot. You’re so hot—”

Lan Zhan shuts Wei Ying up by smashing their mouths clumsily together and biting his bottom lip. It hurts, kinda, but also it’s probably the third-hottest thing Wei Ying has ever experienced (the first two having occurred mere moments before this) and he Does Not Care. He wraps his legs around Lan Zhan’s calves, leaving them intertwined like that. Trailing wet kisses from Wei Ying’s mouth, down his cheek, and to his neck, Lan Zhan relaxes against his body once again. His breathing evens out, and he falls asleep.

An eternity later, Wei Ying finally does too.


In the morning, Lan Zhan makes no effort to get up. He’s definitely awake, though; Wei Ying doesn’t have to open his eyes to know that. “Maybe we should shower,” he mumbles. “And then you can fuck me after.”

Lan Zhan’s hips don’t halt their lazy thrusting, but they do stutter in their rhythm. “Wei Ying,” he breathes.

“Aiya, Lan Zhan. We have another night hunt to get to later, and I want to be as thoroughly fucked as possible before we go on it.” Wei Ying peeks to find Lan Zhan staring at him in awe. “Can you do that for me?”

Judging by the way Lan Zhan’s eyes darken immediately, that’s going to be a yes.

But first, a drink of water. Wei Ying is fucking thirsty.