CLOSED.

[laozu]

WHO: Ancient China Wuxia Crew ( Wei Wuxian laozu, Lan Wangji wangxian & Jiang Cheng sandu )
WHERE: Various locations.
WHEN: Various times.
WHAT: A catch-all log for literally everything so we don't spam.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Sexual content, discussions of suicide/suicidal ideation, physical violence, difficulties in communication, etc.

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[wangxian]

[ don’t cry.

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. ]

[laozu]

[ it has been a slow thing, building alongside things he has long felt for lan wangji: admiration, for his talent and his handsome face, for how fun and easy it was to tease him and lead him across the cloud recesses in nightly chases, wondering what it would be like to be caught. to be captured. it has built, with the contact they've shared - the blue, glowing thing that has spread its wings and shared their intimate feelings across the touch and brush of skin. without words, without sound, they are able to convey to one another a language that they have heard spoken, but cannot form the words to express. his own bloom like lilies, whispering affectations to lan wangji self-consciously, nimble and quick as the piping of chenqing at his lips. ]

Ow --

[ he whispers the word against lan wangji's mouth, not because the man has set his teeth to the soft swell of his bottom lip, but because as he stretches his arms to embrace lan wangji's neck, he feels pain tear through his shoulder, streaking along his ribs to his hips. where he is bruised, where he has been shot and his hand mangled by teeth to the point where he fears infection will set in and rob him of his dexterity, if he does not lose the fingers entirely. it reminds him, in part, of yi city. of xue yang, a boy so wrapped up in his madness and cruelty that he had to be put down as a dog given to brain-malady might be. of a boy, so mangled inside and out, that he could have become if not for the yunmeng-jiang.

he pulls back, aware suddenly of where they are. of lan wangji's nakedness under the sheet and he touches his uninjured fingers to his mouth, stroking thumb over the spot where he had been bitten, ever softly. and then he drops his head, to the sun-spark burn on lan wangji's bare chest, to the scar that has settled at the core of it -- his mark of death. don't cry, he tells lan wangji -- even as he, himself, feels the urge to sob rise inside of him once more. because lan wangji is alive, because he is given a second ( no, a third chance ) and he doesn't understand why he is being given such kindness. why has the world given to him family, love, chance after chance to pursue any sort of happiness -- why has it taken and given lan wangji back to him? he doesn't understand, and it curls within him like paranoia, abyssal and sticky-sick. it settles there, as much part of him as his gratitude is. as his affections for lan wangji are. ]

I want to kiss you more, Lan Zhan -- but I'm nervous about what I'll do, if I keep going.

[wangxian]

[ lan wangji has loved him since he was a child.

he has loved wei wuxian, since before he knew his name. he has loved him, through all wei wuxian's teases. he has loved him, though wei wuxian broke against the rules that lan wangji once so rigidly followed. and lan wangji still recalls the scent of wine clinging to their skin back then, as wei wuxian shoved them both over the cloud recesses's high, white walls. he still remembers the crush of wet grass, the way wei wuxian had pinned him. he still remembers, in all his anger, thinking of what it would have been like to pull him down and kiss him.

and for each way wei wuxian's unvoiced affections and unvoiced emotions flit between as music, like the whitened skins of magnolias and lilies too— lan wangji's roots them. he tends to them, careful to let them have their room. he is careful to nurture them, among his own love that has sustained itself within him long before wei wuxian himself had come to this realization. it is patient, like hands that soothe along the curve of spines— against the dark of hair.

and—

pain and answering concern breeches the edges of lan wangji's awareness. as wei wuxian pulls back, he steadies him upon his hips. between them both, the thinner rise and fall of breath seems an afterthought as lan wangji realizes what it is that sweeps between them now. he focuses on wei wuxian's words, his dark brows knit almost indiscernibly, until he finally finds means to speak again. ]

Wei Ying. [ his hands, his voice— both are gentle. within the warmth of his palms, he cradles wei wuxian's injured fingers. he stabilizes them, knowing he cannot heal them as he once did. he feeds words across the breaks in bandaging, where the skin is mottled and dark: be careful, take care. ]

When you are well, [ lan wangji tells him, a promise and assurance. when you are comfortable, he tells as well. beneath the current of his affections, the words carry through. clear and warmed, for has lan wangji not always wanted this too? has he not always wished to provide wei wuxian all he could afford? has he not always wished to hold wei wuxian within his arms, support him as wei wuxian has so supported lan wangji? I have always trusted you, lan wangji had told him once.

and it is true. he trusts him, even as wei wuxian's emotions grow confused and muddied and dark. he trusts him, because wei wuxian has always attempted to do what he could for those who were weaker than he. he had always attempted to do impossible and improbable things. he had chosen, in many ways, what lan wangji himself would have chosen were he in his place.

and was not true, that lan wangji could not leave wei wuxian as wei wuxian could not leave those in yiling? was it not true, that lan wangji too could not leave a-yuan? was it not true? and still, he holds wei wuxian's hand between his own.

I am here, lan wangji says, his fingers as though a shield about wei wuxian's own. I am here.

he is here, as he has always been. he is here, even as the urge to sob passes from wei wuxian to lan wangji. he is here, even as the tears that had threatened once to break across the skin brush closer still showing form. he is here, as he presses their hands gently to where it is his heart beats. it is a nervous thing, a hungry thing— a thing that loves. and it loves him, wei wuxian. it holds him, it holds so much of him, that lan wangji cannot recall what it was to have never known him.

and like this, he tells wei wuxian again: I am here. he tells him it, as he knows where it is wei wuxian's focus sits. upon the brand, upon the mark death has left against his skin. he knows it.

he will not leave again, as long as lan wangji holds say it in. ]