he breathes out, breathes in. how can he not, when what tears that well within are relief and a tentative thread of happiness? how can he not, though he manages, blinking once and heavily as wei wuxian moves from him. twice, perhaps, as wei wuxian balances himself low against his stomach, lan wangji’s heart stuttering to see him as he is. for all that is questionable and without righteousness, wei wuxian is beautiful thing within their expanses. wei wuxian, and all that he is, is as though peonies tucked between thin pages – a welcomed warmth in winters that lan wangji once lived. even without the touch of his mouth, the touch of his hands, it is his voice that brings hungry, green things to brush beneath the surface of lan wangji’s skin. it is his voice, the way wei wuxian looks upon lan wangji, that makes all in him turn to blooming as though the reddened flowers that spilt across the mountains. lan wangji thinks that, perhaps, he had never truly stopped the spring that wei wuxian had started in the moment lan wangji first saw him. it is only that it had rested, that it had waited to catch its breath until his heart said “when.”
wei wuxian ( his wei ying ), in the end, it was him who taught lan wangji to accept more than what he knew and more that could be known. it was him, who taught lan wangji what it was to love as this: what is “good” and what is “not” is never truly obvious, but what choices can be made are his. what choices can be made can be made as they are just, as they are honest, as they true— as they are kind, as they do more to heal than to harm. and as wei wuxian says nothing at all of substance, lan wangji hears him. he hears wei wuxian, as desperate and as urgent as he himself is. he hears him, lit up in blues and painted in reds, and it is his name that fans out from the full of him, lan wangji. it is the thought of his mouth, parted around the silence lan wangji once saw upon phoenix mountain, kissed warmer and pliant.
and it is nothing else, as wei wuxian leans back in. it is nothing else, except the love he’d kept forever locked up behind his ribs. endlessly, each sentiment he’d folded within himself. and endlessly, each sentiment was never turned over to the one it so belonged to begin with. and so, it is that same need that brushes up against him, lan wangji. his hands are guided with it, his mouth is taken by it – and he lets his fingers and palms settle and curve against where wei wuxian most wants ( he holds him tight against himself, tight enough to know not at all where the warmth of wei wuxian’s skin began and his own ended ). lan wangji kisses him, takes in all that wei wuxian affords –
and presses on for more, made certain by the way wei wuxian asks for him, pulls for him. cognizant and aware, with only a sheet between them, lan wangji yields to wei wuxian’s desires and shows him too his own.
lan wangji’s teeth catch at his bottom lip, pair even with the flat of his tongue against the seam he’s tasted. even now, even as wei wuxian is, this too remains the same. this too has not changed, this want of wei wuxian. this too has never and lan wangji is mindful, even still, of where it is wei wuxian remains injured – is gentle as he keeps him firmly there. ]
no subject
he breathes out, breathes in. how can he not, when what tears that well within are relief and a tentative thread of happiness? how can he not, though he manages, blinking once and heavily as wei wuxian moves from him. twice, perhaps, as wei wuxian balances himself low against his stomach, lan wangji’s heart stuttering to see him as he is. for all that is questionable and without righteousness, wei wuxian is beautiful thing within their expanses. wei wuxian, and all that he is, is as though peonies tucked between thin pages – a welcomed warmth in winters that lan wangji once lived. even without the touch of his mouth, the touch of his hands, it is his voice that brings hungry, green things to brush beneath the surface of lan wangji’s skin. it is his voice, the way wei wuxian looks upon lan wangji, that makes all in him turn to blooming as though the reddened flowers that spilt across the mountains. lan wangji thinks that, perhaps, he had never truly stopped the spring that wei wuxian had started in the moment lan wangji first saw him. it is only that it had rested, that it had waited to catch its breath until his heart said “when.”
wei wuxian ( his wei ying ), in the end, it was him who taught lan wangji to accept more than what he knew and more that could be known. it was him, who taught lan wangji what it was to love as this: what is “good” and what is “not” is never truly obvious, but what choices can be made are his. what choices can be made can be made as they are just, as they are honest, as they true— as they are kind, as they do more to heal than to harm. and as wei wuxian says nothing at all of substance, lan wangji hears him. he hears wei wuxian, as desperate and as urgent as he himself is. he hears him, lit up in blues and painted in reds, and it is his name that fans out from the full of him, lan wangji. it is the thought of his mouth, parted around the silence lan wangji once saw upon phoenix mountain, kissed warmer and pliant.
and it is nothing else, as wei wuxian leans back in. it is nothing else, except the love he’d kept forever locked up behind his ribs. endlessly, each sentiment he’d folded within himself. and endlessly, each sentiment was never turned over to the one it so belonged to begin with. and so, it is that same need that brushes up against him, lan wangji. his hands are guided with it, his mouth is taken by it – and he lets his fingers and palms settle and curve against where wei wuxian most wants ( he holds him tight against himself, tight enough to know not at all where the warmth of wei wuxian’s skin began and his own ended ). lan wangji kisses him, takes in all that wei wuxian affords –
and presses on for more, made certain by the way wei wuxian asks for him, pulls for him. cognizant and aware, with only a sheet between them, lan wangji yields to wei wuxian’s desires and shows him too his own.
lan wangji’s teeth catch at his bottom lip, pair even with the flat of his tongue against the seam he’s tasted. even now, even as wei wuxian is, this too remains the same. this too has not changed, this want of wei wuxian. this too has never and lan wangji is mindful, even still, of where it is wei wuxian remains injured – is gentle as he keeps him firmly there. ]