[ wei wuxian holds against him, as does lan wangji. their hands on his hip and on his chest, trailing from hair to face to throat, has jiang cheng alight - in fires blue and black, spreading from his chest to his ribs to his gut.
he stutters under the touch, under the press of their bodies like a dying flame, like a candle held aloft in the wind. he breathes out staggered and shallow against the press of lan wangji's lips and tongue and teeth against him and into him, and his other hand ( the one that has not got wei wuxian in a death grip ) move to grip around the other's wrist similarly - like a dying man, jiang cheng grasps - he holds on, thumb pressed against the fluttering pulse point of the pale wrist, a countering beat to his own unsteady, faltering heart.
a part of his mind is still suspended, surprised and stunned by the turn of events. a part of his mind is still disbelieving, unable to process the situation as it happens. first, wei wuxian's lips against his warm and sweet and trusting - and so full of that age-old affection, the familiar summer-air scent of him that has jiang cheng choke on his breath - and then second, lan wangji, like some spring rain that suddenly beset an unprepared traveler walking down strange paths - and jiang cheng thinks, breathless and weak, flushed and wanting, ah.
he has been - caught. not just in body, trapped and cornered by the twin press of weight and twin pairs of hands, but - like hooks into open wound, like barbs that catch at soft flesh and ankles unaware. caught by their affection and their soft-unrelenting will.
it is not happiness that rears its head, with the realisation. he is too old, too jaded, grown too withered and dry in the years. jiang cheng has grown out of hopes the way children grow out of robes, but it is a similar feeling that comes over him now, left to somehow reciprocate the gesture in turn, his tongue moving, sliding before it withdraws, against lan wangji's.
it is some wild, delirious feeling of - relief, maybe. it is ( his ) undoing, it is forgiveness, some blessing, some kind of mercy though he believes not in such things. ]
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he stutters under the touch, under the press of their bodies like a dying flame, like a candle held aloft in the wind. he breathes out staggered and shallow against the press of lan wangji's lips and tongue and teeth against him and into him, and his other hand ( the one that has not got wei wuxian in a death grip ) move to grip around the other's wrist similarly - like a dying man, jiang cheng grasps - he holds on, thumb pressed against the fluttering pulse point of the pale wrist, a countering beat to his own unsteady, faltering heart.
a part of his mind is still suspended, surprised and stunned by the turn of events. a part of his mind is still disbelieving, unable to process the situation as it happens. first, wei wuxian's lips against his warm and sweet and trusting - and so full of that age-old affection, the familiar summer-air scent of him that has jiang cheng choke on his breath - and then second, lan wangji, like some spring rain that suddenly beset an unprepared traveler walking down strange paths - and jiang cheng thinks, breathless and weak, flushed and wanting, ah.
he has been - caught. not just in body, trapped and cornered by the twin press of weight and twin pairs of hands, but - like hooks into open wound, like barbs that catch at soft flesh and ankles unaware. caught by their affection and their soft-unrelenting will.
it is not happiness that rears its head, with the realisation. he is too old, too jaded, grown too withered and dry in the years. jiang cheng has grown out of hopes the way children grow out of robes, but it is a similar feeling that comes over him now, left to somehow reciprocate the gesture in turn, his tongue moving, sliding before it withdraws, against lan wangji's.
it is some wild, delirious feeling of - relief, maybe. it is ( his ) undoing, it is forgiveness, some blessing, some kind of mercy though he believes not in such things. ]