[ lan wangji shapes words against his mouth. he presses without pushing, his hands against skin alighting sparks that dance beneath in currents blue and white and jiang cheng - jiang cheng feels it again, the odd maybe-not happiness, the contentment that he has so long been in denial of.
he has felt it, before, in the quiet of the safehouse, in the closed space of the snowfall. he has felt it first with the cold callused hands cradled between his own and he had laughed then - silently, with downturned eyes and hushed breath, thinking himself an utter fool.
he feels it now, what he had felt then. lan wangji's hands are warm against his throat, his jaw and he can't help it, the weak shaky noise that escape from somewhere between his ribs - like a knife sliding free, like strips of skin cut away from between bones. it asks in words that are not voiced - is this enough? am I enough?
how long, it asks, all trembles and silence of lashes closed tightly over eyes, as the heat of his tongue slide against his own. how long, have you felt this way? ]
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he has felt it, before, in the quiet of the safehouse, in the closed space of the snowfall. he has felt it first with the cold callused hands cradled between his own and he had laughed then - silently, with downturned eyes and hushed breath, thinking himself an utter fool.
he feels it now, what he had felt then. lan wangji's hands are warm against his throat, his jaw and he can't help it, the weak shaky noise that escape from somewhere between his ribs - like a knife sliding free, like strips of skin cut away from between bones. it asks in words that are not voiced - is this enough? am I enough?
how long, it asks, all trembles and silence of lashes closed tightly over eyes, as the heat of his tongue slide against his own. how long, have you felt this way? ]