Furry Porn Costs Extra

Chapter 1: Furry Porn Costs Extra

Cool ocean breezes blew across the boardwalk and Lan Xichen took a deep breath. The salty tang on the wind coated his lungs and he felt some of his frustrations dissipate. It was unlike him to step out of the office midday like this, but the sky outside his windows was too blue. It seemed a shame to waste such a day.

His brogues tapped along the uneven wood and he enjoyed the sound. Leaving the office without telling anyone where he was going was probably not his wisest decision. Lan Wangji would be unhappy to learn that he had left with no bodyguards, either, but there was little point in getting some air if he was surrounded by people.

It was noon on a weekday, so the boardwalk was scarcely populated. Lan Xichen was able to maintain his leisurely stroll without stopping. His hands were resting in the pockets of his expensive pants that matched the rest of his suit. Truthfully, he didn't know the brand. His housekeeper usually set out whatever clothes he would wear that day. He couldn't be fussed about things like labels and matching fabrics. That same housekeeper kept lamenting about the length of his hair, but he couldn't be bothered to get it cut either. The shaggy black locks hung down the nape of his neck and accentuated his pale skin in a way he found pleasing when he glanced in the mirror.

Despite being raised to care about appearances, he found the entire process of shopping and picking out clothes to be tedious. It was easier to hire someone to do it for him. When asked, he truthfully told people he did not know what brand he is wearing that day. His brain was filled with expense reports, HR regulations, and other clerical work that came with running a massive fortune 500 company.

His days were usually filled with meetings that could have been an email, and emails that could have been solved with a google search.

But he knew what he signed up for when he took over the company from his aging uncle. He didn't really want to run the company, but if he didn't then the responsibility would fall to his younger brother. Lan Wangji would do an excellent job, of that there was no doubt. But his passions lie elsewhere, and while he would never say anything about it, Lan Xichen couldn't bear to take that from him.

So here he was. Taking an afternoon stroll as a small form of rebellion. A way to remind himself that he was still capable of stepping out of line. No matter how small an infraction.

Up ahead he could see a small crowd gathered around the railing of the boardwalk. At first, he thought some lucky fisherman had caught something in the rough waters below, but upon closer look he could see it was a young painter.

A canvas was propped up on an easel that was held together with duct tape and prayers. It faced the ocean and Lan Xichen could see broad strokes in a myriad of blues across the bottom half of the blank canvas.

He couldn't be sure why he stopped, he was far from an art aficionado, but something drew his attention.

There was something in the broad strokes that made Lan Xichen look a little closer. Clearly the artist had just begun the work, but already a shape was taking place. There was nothing definite but the way the ocean waves were mixed gave Lan Xichen the impression of drowning. In the infinite oceans, the feeling of claustrophobia began to choke him. The way the waves were spinning together in a maelstrom of deep blues and purple was at times intoxicating but at other times deafening.

Lan Xichen dragged his eyes away from the painting to the artist. He was a young man, which surprised Lan Xichen. He expected a grizzled old man of many years. Someone who had the experience to put such pain into his work. But no, this artist couldn't be more than 25. His violet colored hair was pulled up into a bun on his head. Thick braids were twined through the strands in a messy way that should not have looked as put together as it did. Thick bangs framed a thin face, brushing against an angular jawline as his eyes narrowed at the paining. The artist was scowling at the canvas as if he was angry at it. His brush strokes were hard too, like he was personally attacking the paint and the paintbrush was his weapon.