[ wei wuxian's words touch at his ears, reddened and warmed. they brush against his skin, pin him willing and wanting as though the first and last time he had seen wei wuxian up upon the mountain— peonies tucked within his robes and the black of fabric around his eyes. and like this, with such endearments so sweet and shameless, wei wuxian had always wound the thread of lan wangji's own patience. and then, back then, he had been ashamed of what he had taken. lan wangji had been ashamed of what he had done. he had been ashamed, of all the years he left himself to pine. once upon a time, before the world licked clean the idle days with fire, he had been ashamed ( afraid? yes, that too ) of all the dreams that wei wuxian himself did venture in. and in that way, it has always been that lan wangji had kept himself tethered, kept himself tied.
and in that way, lan wangji had to remind himself: he would not be as his father, he would not take what was not his to hold, he would not impose. he would not bend too far the rules that had been carved into the stone. and yet—
wei wuxian coaxes him, riles him. he stokes the burning edge of lan wangji's attentions, as much as wei wuxian stokes what is now inevitable between them both. wei wuxian knows. lan wangji knows wei wuxian knows he knows. and yet, wei wuxian's fingers stroke along his hipbones. wei wuxian's fingers make fine work to size him up, to touch him where it is no one else has dared touch. and it is lan wangji's inhalations that go thinner still as wei wuxian marks along his throat with his mouth, presses in against him as much as lan wangji himself.
and it is a pause. it is with his teeth against wei wuxian's pulse, his tongue against the grey shadows that cut beneath wei wuxian's jaw, that lan wangji finally crowds. it is a momentary lapse in all that lan wangji is, a momentary hiccup in his restraint that leads a hand down to seize the errant hand that feels him up. and it is his fingers, over-warm, that encompass wei wuxian's wrist. and it is a directive tug, a returning shove ( measured, in that his other hand still cradles the hot dip of his spine ) that backs wei wuxian against the alley wall. it is a firmer motion, that keeps wei wuxian pinned between it and himself. and it is his knee, that nudges apart wei wuxian's legs to press his thigh up against him.
and for a pause, for a pause it is as though the surge of motion in him breaks as though water at a bank. his pale eyes, dark and fixed, clearing only long enough for lan wangji to seek the corner of wei wuxian's mouth. it is only that and the downward sweep of his lashes against wei wuxian's cheek, the way his voice comes from the throat that indicates what little there is left of all his waiting.
( and still, still— the hand that touches at wei wuxian's back skims along his spine, apologetic. ) ]
Here? [ it is a question, perhaps, that has dual meaning.
he grinds his thigh up between wei wuxian's, once. ]
no subject
and in that way, lan wangji had to remind himself: he would not be as his father, he would not take what was not his to hold, he would not impose. he would not bend too far the rules that had been carved into the stone. and yet—
wei wuxian coaxes him, riles him. he stokes the burning edge of lan wangji's attentions, as much as wei wuxian stokes what is now inevitable between them both. wei wuxian knows. lan wangji knows wei wuxian knows he knows. and yet, wei wuxian's fingers stroke along his hipbones. wei wuxian's fingers make fine work to size him up, to touch him where it is no one else has dared touch. and it is lan wangji's inhalations that go thinner still as wei wuxian marks along his throat with his mouth, presses in against him as much as lan wangji himself.
and it is a pause. it is with his teeth against wei wuxian's pulse, his tongue against the grey shadows that cut beneath wei wuxian's jaw, that lan wangji finally crowds. it is a momentary lapse in all that lan wangji is, a momentary hiccup in his restraint that leads a hand down to seize the errant hand that feels him up. and it is his fingers, over-warm, that encompass wei wuxian's wrist. and it is a directive tug, a returning shove ( measured, in that his other hand still cradles the hot dip of his spine ) that backs wei wuxian against the alley wall. it is a firmer motion, that keeps wei wuxian pinned between it and himself. and it is his knee, that nudges apart wei wuxian's legs to press his thigh up against him.
and for a pause, for a pause it is as though the surge of motion in him breaks as though water at a bank. his pale eyes, dark and fixed, clearing only long enough for lan wangji to seek the corner of wei wuxian's mouth. it is only that and the downward sweep of his lashes against wei wuxian's cheek, the way his voice comes from the throat that indicates what little there is left of all his waiting.
( and still, still— the hand that touches at wei wuxian's back skims along his spine, apologetic. ) ]
Here? [ it is a question, perhaps, that has dual meaning.
he grinds his thigh up between wei wuxian's, once. ]