Work Text:
It’s past one when Zhao Yunlan makes it home. He toes off his boots, sheds his jacket and jeans, and crawls straight into bed. The case of the face-wiping serial killer is a shitshow, has them running around in circles. Zhang Danni is suspicious but she hasn’t provided any firm leads, and Chu Shuzhi said the kid he caught isn’t Dixingren. Zhao Yunlan should be devising a new strategy, but he’s too tired to think. It’ll have to wait for morning.
Except when his head hits the pillow, sleep doesn’t swallow him. He aches in all the usual places. He’s overheated.
He fights his way out of his t-shirt and tries again. He’d left Da Qing curled up asleep on Lao-Li’s lap, safe and peaceful. Hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but now he misses the cat’s snoring. The flat is so quiet he can hear the distant hum of traffic. A police siren. Fuck, that had better not be another victim. He waits, but his phone doesn’t buzz, and after a while, miraculously, the images behind his eyelids aren’t dead women with their features removed. Instead, unbidden, he pictures Shen Wei alone in the interview room, composed, proud, and patient.
Zhao Yunlan’s breath catches. Shen Wei isn’t responsible for the deaths, he does believe that—despite catching him leaving tonight’s crime scene. Despite the aura of mystery that hangs around the man. Shen Wei had been trying to help, probably playing vigilante—and that’s a chilling thought in itself, with a serial killer on the loose. But this tension in Zhao Yunlan’s stomach isn’t about the case at all.
It’s because, like a self-indulgent fantasy come to life, this evening Zhao Yunlan had sat in the dark, in the observation room, and feasted his eyes on Shen Wei. In the name of work. Yes, Zhao Yunlan had been obliged to study the man’s features, his reactions, his wits, the tilt of his head, and the confident reach of his hand towards Chu Shuzhi’s puppet—
It had been a real-life fantasy, that opportunity, but it wasn’t enough. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, hours or days—Zhao Yunlan could watch Shen Wei his whole life and he still wouldn’t know everything he wants to.
Like—what would it take to unsettle the man’s composure? Like—what does Shen Wei want?
Zhao Yunlan reviews the interrogation—Shen Wei patronising Zhu Hong; his triumphant smirk; the calm way he pulled his wrist from Chu Shuzhi’s hold.
If that had been Zhao Yunlan’s grasp—if Zhao Yunlan’s hand were wrapped around Shen Wei’s wrist, with Shen Wei’s pulse beating against his fingertips—would Shen Wei still free himself? Zhao Yunlan’s fingers curl into his palm, imagining—imagining Shen Wei going still, his eyes locking with Zhao Yunlan’s, his tongue wetting his lips. His pupils darkening.
The next thing Zhao Yunlan knows, he’s pushing his shorts down, grasping his already full cock.
All right, then. All right. But Shen Wei is still a mystery, still suspicious—Zhao Yunlan can’t get too carried away if he wants to maintain his last shreds of objectivity. He puts his imagined self back into the observation room, back in the dark. Watching.
None of the rest of the team are there with him, in this fantasy. He’s free to touch himself. And on the other side of the glass, alone in the interview room, Shen Wei is waiting at the table, eyes closed, quiet and perfect. He’s fully clothed, not even doing anything. He’s still one of the hottest things Zhao Yunlan has ever seen. The line of his jaw is poetry, the quiet set of his lips makes saliva pool in Zhao Yunlan’s mouth.
Heat spreads through Zhao Yunlan’s belly, deep muscles tightening. Just being able to watch Shen Wei at his leisure had been a gift, but now his thoughts run rampant, beyond facts, rationality, decency.
Shen Wei in handcuffs. They’d caught him fleeing a crime scene, after all; cuffs aren’t unreasonable—not that they’d make any difference to Shen Wei’s attitude. He’s too proud. Too confident. Slapping cuffs on him would be more demeaning for the slapper than the slappee.
On the other hand, if it were Zhao Yunlan in the cuffs—
The fantasy fractures, and Zhao Yunlan’s hand speeds up. It’s still the interview room, but Zhao Yunlan is in there with Shen Wei now. Zhao Yunlan’s arms behind his back, cuffs digging into his wrists. His shoulders pulled tight. He feels the intensity of Shen Wei’s gaze and grins, taunting, provoking Shen Wei into shoving him face down onto the table. And because this is a fantasy, the hand on Zhao Yunlan’s nape isn’t a gentle scholar’s hand—it’s relentless steel, and Zhao Yunlan is whining into the table top. (Whining into the silence of the flat.) Shen Wei bends over him to whisper in his ear, and his body pressing down, radiating heat, make Zhao Yunlan shudder.
Yunlan, Shen Wei whispers, his voice breaking across Zhao Yunlan’s skin, stirring the fine hairs of his cheek. Yunlan, I know you.
Zhao Yunlan gasps for real, and it’s not just heat anymore, it’s softer. The words soothe his soul. This is what he wants from Shen Wei—not just to be fucked, but to be known. To be seen as if he’s the one in the interview room being observed. As if Shen Wei is studying him, and he likes what he sees. Zhao Yunlan’s stroke speeds up helplessly, his body stirred in a way that’s only partly sexual but thoroughly devastating. He bites down on his knuckles, sucks them messily as he shivers on a lightning-sharp precipice—feeling exposed and strangely safe at the same time. It’s a new sensation.
Doggedly, he trains his attention on the fantasy, the scene in his head—the table under him, Shen Wei behind, holding him down. Shen Wei’s other hand covering the cuffs, warm and honest. Shen Wei whispering in his ear again—this time saying, You’re mine.
And that’s it, that’s what it takes. Zhao Yunlan’s back arches off the mattress, his heels dig in, and he comes everywhere, helplessly, feeling like he’s falling—and like the landing will be fantastic. He’s half tempted to track Shen Wei down wherever he is—probably the teachers’ dorm. If Shen Wei had a cellphone, Zhao Yunlan would compose some stupid embarrassing text begging him to come over, to make the scene a reality. Despite the orgasm buzz thrumming in his veins, Zhao Yunlan still craves Shen Wei’s touch.
Honestly, he just wants to be with him.
Zhao Yunlan wipes up with the edge of the duvet and lies back, letting his heart slow. Letting the longing settle into his body. He doesn’t know exactly what Shen Wei sees when he looks at him—but he can already tell Shen Wei would treat him well. Shen Wei frowns sometimes, but he doesn’t condescend to Zhao Yunlan, even when provoked. And there’s an electric current between them—it’s been there since that first, lingering handshake. But is it this? Does Shen Wei have filthy jerk-off fantasies about him? Does he get turned on by the idea of his crisp suits and dress shirts pressed up hard against leather and frayed denim? When he eyes Zhao Yunlan eating a lollipop, does he want to lick the sugar from Zhao Yunlan’s lips?
That is the next mystery Zhao Yunlan will solve. After the case, after the serial killer is safely handed over to the Black-Cloaked Envoy, Zhao Yunlan will start that investigation. The thought cheers him, drawing him into the future. Already planning his first steps, he finally falls asleep.
END