*seductively crawls out of hell* (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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meadowlarklogs2019-04-21 07:05 pm
laozu) wrote in meadowlarklogs2019-04-21 07:05 pm
CLOSED.
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.
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.
no subject
he has never been good at being deceptive with his emotions, to hide what he feels; jiang cheng has always been too easy to read when it came to things close to his heart - and he is suspicious now, he is wary and unsure, uncomfortable in his own skin ( the skin that lan wangji's fingers have brushed over, mapped out the lines as if drawn with a brush ) and it shows in every ungraceful line of his body. sharp and jagged in his uncertainty, like a hedgehog or some spindly plant cloaking itself hidden with thorns.
nevertheless, he watches. the mechanism of the wine key seems simple enough - but the process is something else; it requires some measure of finesse that he is not surprised coming from a man such as lan wangji - something that he feels lacking in himself, but jiang cheng watches, his gaze tight on every turn of his wrist until the cork pops open, and he tenses again, minutely.
jiang cheng eyes the glass, the liquid inside smelling sweet and alcoholic, with a little bitter acidity to it that he finds - somewhat nostalgic, maybe, something that faintly brings a memory of some other time, a long ago.
he does not offer, does not ask lan wangji; he had experienced it before - the almost childish way that he somehow reverts back to, the stubbornness that lays under the surface rearing its head with the haze of alcohol. he himself must be aware of it, as well.
so jiang cheng does not ask. they are more silence than words together, like this, more with their eyes or the twist of brows, microexpressions that say everything and - nothing.
he reaches. jiang cheng is careful, when he takes the glass, so their fingers do not touch. ]
no subject
instead, lan wangji waits. he waits for jiang cheng to take sips of what it is he has poured. he waits for jiang cheng to pay him further mind. and still, lan wangji's dark brows knit in the smallest increments. his lips, at the corners, are soft in their downturn.
he knows. he knows that jiang cheng, for all that he is, struggles in presence of him. ]
Jiang Wanyin, [ he says finally and at length. should lan wangji had been another, perhaps it is more that would come. but, lan wangji has always found his words at times short. as though caught in drought, his tongue pressed against his teeth in hope of sound, lan wangji only instead lifts his pale eyes to him.
there is something that bothers him, perhaps. there is something more he wishes to tell jiang cheng, should he only invite it. and still, lan wangji does not push the boundary of jiang cheng's uncertainty. he does not drag sentiments across the line, crowd him into smaller spaces. he does not contain with his body, his words, the way his fingers curve uncertain and unsure toward his palms. he accepts only and again what it is jiang cheng will afford. it matters little, what it is that lan wangji wants.
it always has, in this way. ]
no subject
it is only right, he thinks. it is he who makes the air around them heavy and uncomfortable, prickling along skin like charged ozone, crackling with some nervous energy that ripples beneath surface. it is he who thinks too deeply into this, and makes lan wangji stay, stray, further. it is the way it has always been - jiang cheng is used to this. he is clumsy and ungainly when it comes down to his heart; it has not yet had time to grow, it has not known anything else but loss, but regret, but some brutal force that lingers like a bruise bitter and dark.
he does not know how to be anything else but this, twisted and ugly, all of the dark to wei wuxian's summer brilliance. ]
What? [ it is not meant to come out as harsh as it does, but that is how it is. he has not learned - he will never learn.
jiang cheng lifts his gaze, brows drawn low over the grey depths, and he looks not as much angry as he does anxious, uncertain of his footing, as if driven to some edge of a cliffside. ]
no subject
for who without desiring would wish that pressed upon themselves? who would allow themselves to divorce lan zhan from hanguang-jun? who?
and yet, the thin edge of jiang cheng's voice seems to do no more than give him pause, no more than to make clearer the reticence upon his brow. it does no more, than to bring the dark sweep of lan wangji's lashes once again down. ]
I, [ he starts, after a breath. and still, the word comes too soft from the chest. his mouth twists, so slight, but visible. and it is not for sadness that he does this, but for frustration. the words he composed within himself dissolve, between the heart and the tongue. but, he makes himself manage. he makes himself piece together what it is jiang cheng needs hear. ] Back then, at the party, I fear I was too forward.
[ and yet, in that moment, was it not true that jiang cheng too enjoyed himself? he had felt much that evening, but what if he had mistaken it? what if jiang cheng had changed his perspective and declined? ]
What I did, each action was true from my heart. [ and as he says it, the pale of his ears paint themselves redder as each word goes. ] If you should need me to be distant from you, I will not place myself nearer to you.
[ and it is nothing, if not sincere. it is nothing, if not earnest. lan wangji, for all that he is, knows how it is to bear burden. he knows, what it is to be anxious. ]
no subject
but jiang cheng does. or at least, he feels as if he does, and the more fool him if it ends up being some kind of deception pulled over his eyes again - but lan wangji is someone too serious and too sincere for such things. he is a good man, jiang cheng thinks. a better man. a man that would be wasted on, being thrown in with the likes of him.
he is too gentle, too reticent ( but has he not felt the tremble of his fingers upon his skin? has he not felt the edges of teeth pressing on flesh till something gave, bruised and softened? ) and as jiang cheng stands there, he sees all the little changes about the other, the way the shell of his ears colour, the way his lashes come down like some protective wings of a water bird, the way those smooth pale brows knit itself in what he could only guess the meaning of.
yet lan wangji is here. he stands, and asks jiang cheng for permission, for forgiveness, for understanding, for something that he himself is not even altogether sure of.
jiang cheng has not - yet settled. he is like some river, flooded out of control and murky with the slit that has been kicked up from the depths. he is some confused, violent force that could suck you in and drown, and he likes to keep his distance. he knows what kind of person he is, and jiang cheng, for all the pride of a son of madam yu, does not put himself very high in actuality.
what is he to him?
what is he, himself, to this man?
in his heart of hearts, within the blue-lit cage of his chest, jiang cheng could say - that he does care, that something within him has already tied itself inexplicably with the both of them like kite string to fingers. he has been drawn to wei wuxian, to lan wangji, caught in a net so fine that he can only guess at it, can only feel it when he struggles as he does now to put some distance.
he feels as the fish may feel, caught and brought ashore, short of breath and missing the cool safety of the floodwaters, being burnt by the sun of their attentions. ]
Fool, [ and it is much like how they had been - there is little venom in the way he calls lan wangji thus, though his eyes narrow over the rim of the glass as he tilts it to drain fully, setting it upon the table between them.
it is poor manners, unbecoming of someone in his position to blame anything on alcohol ( and one as weak as this ), but jiang cheng still finds some comfort in hiding behind fog, in shadows, and it emboldens him to reach out - to step into the other's space.
he looks annoyed, as he usually does, the pearly string of teeth tight on his lower lip, brows drawn down in a deep crease, but he reaches out with a silent drawn in breath and settles his hands against the reddened edge of lan wangji's ears, against the smooth fall of his hair. ]
You worry too much, [ it is as much to himself as it is to lan wangji - and here, he pauses, the flush making itself known over skin, spreading like ink spilled upon paper, before he leans in.
jiang cheng leans in, and like floodwater against the banks of the river, like some storm that breaks over the mountain peaks, he presses his mouth to his. ]
no subject
a fool. he is a fool, who gives too much and too ardently. he is a fool, but he has come to know it. he has come to know it well enough, that he contains himself. he has come to know it well enough, that he knows where it is his patience will break, where it is his passions will unburden themselves. he knows it, but—
fool.
he remembers the downward dip of eyes, the press of fingers into calloused palms. he remembers the cold, how it bit gentle at himself in face of such insistent warmth. he remembers how it was jiang cheng laughed, much like his mother. what little he remembers, what little he recalls— and though jiang cheng is not as she at all, there is a sentimental ache as the word lands soft, as jiang cheng downs the wine as though wei wuxian and echoes patterns wei wuxian too has drawn with the touches at his ears, the smoothing of his hair.
lan wangji's gaze does not rise, until it is jiang cheng places upon him gentle scolds. it does not rise, until it is almost too late to hold the image of jiang cheng, his cheeks reddened and his teeth cut to the flesh of his own lip.
and then, it is tentative relief. an answer, in the way he leans in to kiss lan wangji as lan wangji had too kissed jiang cheng some nights ago. and it is no sound, that gives way to the thrumming of his heart. it is no word, that catches up against jiang cheng's mouth. instead, it is the way that lan wangji's hands stutter ( brief, before it is they are made inquisitive as they are bold ), settle upon the dip of jiang cheng's thin waist. he does not pull, lan wangji. he does not demand, but his fingers curve. they tighten once, reflexive.
nearer? they ask. nearer. ]
no subject
even then, he is unapologetic. call it some stubborn defiance, but jiang cheng, like wei wuxian, wears his weaknesses as proudly as he does with his strengths. it is there for all to see - his pride, what little remains of his family, the name and the crest of the sect that he bears upon his shoulders. all there to be exploited, if you could come near, nearer.
the hands upon the dip of his waist makes him take in a sharp, quick breath against the other's mouth; the tremble of those fingers traverses, merging with the tremble of his own body, mingles with their shared breath and the blue-lit glow that shines faintly from his breath stutters, flickering uncertain with his hands as they part, before they draw nearer.
and nearer still.
he is not gentle - he does not see himself as such. to jiang cheng, he is nothing more than some half burnt husk of a thing, some withered, terrible thing that has no place by the lush greenery of the other two. even now, he feels it - even as he draws nearer, closer, the small hardened core of him shivers and shy away. ]
no subject
he will not force jiang cheng into his arms, will not smother him with the turn of his attentions, the weight of affections ( new, so new ). he will not insist, will not corner, will not fold himself into the grooves that jiang cheng has left within his heart for him. he will let jiang cheng decide, he will let him come nearer if he should want.
he will let jiang cheng turn back if he must.
and still, for all jiang cheng's inexperience, it is lan wangji that does not imply that he is as such. lan wangji, brilliant in ways of learning, complements what it is jiang cheng starts. lan wangji grazes teeth against jiang cheng's lip, returns his kisses and his breaths in even rhythm. he lets jiang cheng edge against his body, tastes jiang cheng with the heat of his tongue. he is not gentle, though he is gentle, because lan wangji angles not at all to chip against jiang cheng's efforts. he angles not at all to keep jiang cheng hostage, the wash of blues painting where it is they join cool.
jiang wanyin, he shapes against his mouth. jiang wanyin, he cradles in his palms. and it is inquiry, that smudges at corner of jiang cheng's uncertainty, a tenderness that offers in its way to stop as his hands drift up. as his lan wangji's hands rest steady - one at the curve of his jaw, one at the pale curve his throat. ]
no subject
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? ]
no subject
and still, lan wangji thinks it just enough to let the hand upon his throat stroke long and down. enough, to find the buttons of his shirt, tuck fingers between the gap of fabric that buttons keep close. enough, to chance the skin just under. and he thinks it fair enough, to follow in the pace that jiang cheng sets. he thinks, perhaps, all that is wild and green and new should be allowed space to grow. he thinks, perhaps, that his feelings, his hopes, his selfish wants— these are not things without reciprocation.
how long? jiang cheng asks him, his breath caught up against his lips and caught now against lan wangji's. how long?
enough to decide, is what is written in his palms. it is written in the light that spills between both clear and sharp, the way his fingers strum idle rhythm nearest jiang cheng's own heart. enough to decide you are one.
one, to hold closest. one, to touch just as this. one, that lan wangji himself does not avoid the brush of. he knows well what it is to be stained with the insidiousness of loss. he knows what it is to feel one is tainted with its rot. he knows, where it is he and jiang cheng diverged. and he holds its difference in the way he kisses him now, with more surety and warmth.
at the end of all things, hanguang-jun is only lan zhan. and lan zhan is a bright on his own as he wraps jiang cheng in what is now permitted. what is now ( maybe, maybe ) wanted. and is that that spurs him on, that sliver of that possible happiness, that rooting of content—
he guides jiang cheng back, if he chooses to step alongside him. he anchors jiang cheng, between the solidity of what he is and the kitchen's white walls and tells him again, with the way of his breaths grown thinner and soft:
jiang wanyin. ]
no subject
he shivers as the willow branches, as the moonlight and the cries of night insects as they throw themselves to luminous pieces against the air.
it is only now, that he finds understanding - his heartstrings shiver on the same notes and chords that follow under the brush of fingers that traverses from jaw to throat to skin beneath, below, and jiang cheng can do so little, can only do so much but to grasp at the other's arm, his free hand ( damp, spikes of nerve making them shake faintly ) finding a handful of the crisp ironed shirt and work creases into it.
at the end of all things, he is only -
they are as only what they could be. they are some newly hatched thing, they are young green unfurling against the warmth of the sun, the first brush of spring wind that shakes the branches, and jiang cheng feels too much, too much, too much.
but not enough. his heart is a nervous thing, yes. his heart has not known what it is like to have itself pulled as such, has not had itself beat so loudly, and so much, for another. but it is also impatient.
it is jiang cheng then, who sets his teeth against the soft of lan wangji's lower lip - he grazes against it, not harsh enough to draw blood nor bruise, but enough, to make itself known. ]
no subject
impatient, as wei wuxian too is impatient. impatient, as the springs that push through snows. impatient, in the way that lan wangji too is impatient, but hides it well. well enough that it is difficult to feel, beneath the way he seeks to soothe the prickle of panics with the assurance that he will pause, that he will cease, that he will do as it is jiang cheng pleases, if only he asks him to.
but, the word ripples beneath the skin and bone. it shapes itself against a mirth, rounds its edges with the way lan wangji allows himself to work open the buttons of jiang cheng's dress shirt. and it is not for trepidation that his fingers tremble. it is not for that at all, as two then three open for all his efforts. it is for the urge to seize, the urge to claw— an unrestrained and feral thing that gnaws along the base of his spine, the dark places just beneath.
and still, lan wangji's palm finds the warmth of skin. still, the hand at jiang cheng's jaw smooths its way down. it kisses at the lines of jiang cheng's form, tells him without word of it that he is handsome, that he is beautiful, that he is jiang cheng and therefore— lan wangji parts his lips, acquiesces to set of jiang cheng's teeth. he hums, indulgent as he is inviting. he hums, as his fingers curl about the rise of jiang cheng's hip, thumb along the rise of bone beneath it.
like this, he angles their bodies flush. like this, there is no mistaking that lan wangji is aware of what it is tenderness does, what hunger does. like this, he exhales uneven through his nose. keeps himself closer, close.
like this, lan wangji's heart bruises itself against his ribs. and, like this, still it wants for more. ]
no subject
his movements are too eager in some ways, before he is made aware, to draw back, to shy away - his fingers stutter a line from the other's face to his jaw; he parts a little, to suck in some uneven line of breath against the dampness of the other's mouth, callused palm tight against the curve of his nape to throat to shoulder, traversing.
briefly, within the myriad of sensations and thoughts that light up between them, underneath palms and fingers and teeth, he feels the rounding off of mirth, some faint echo of it - and lan wangji is truly, only a man, to feel such things made of human blood and human warmth. to not be always so austere and cold as some wintry mountain peaks do.
and how wrong he has been, about it, about him.
jiang cheng thinks, as he is pressed, till he is gasping, against the wall. how wrong he has been - it is wrong to compare lan wangji to the mountains, to relegate him to some distance too far to measure with the span of his hands. he is as the first melting of the stream, the water that flows over rough rocks and quiet ponds. he is someone who, reaching the base of the mountains from whence he came, becomes a steady flow, a torrent that cannot be moved nor change its course as rivers do.
he has to pull away first, when lan wangji presses their bodies flush together, angling him with the hand that fits itself over his hip. jiang cheng shivers - the nervous strumming drum beat in his blood pounding in his ears, and he leans his head back, stares up, up, up at lan wangji with eyes rimmed faintly in red, flushed and not knowing where this road quite takes them, whether he would like it at all - but he would, he would.
he is - one of three. lan wangji tells him in so little words - that he is one, he holds some measure of space in his heart, that jiang cheng holds, in his hands and within his ribs, the blue glow trembling, his heart unsteady like a baby animal learning how to walk the first time.
jiang cheng does not, or did not, think that he would be - even in the early days of their conversations, the words falling intermittently like moths being allowed to beat themselves to fine dusty powder, crazed by the light.
he feels more than a little crazed now, his blood sings wild and hungry - but jiang cheng stands, he waits. ]
no subject
he follows and all in lan wangji stirs, as though in heady aftermath of drinking. he does not protest, as jiang cheng parts only enough to cast his eyes up to him, to watch lan wangji and all he does. instead, it is lan wangji that makes the starting sound. it is a soft breath, the softer flutter of his lashes down as his fingers work through further buttons, steadier now. and yet, it is the fever that builds beneath jiang cheng's skin that spills too into him. eyes rimmed, the wet catch of his exhalations— lan wangji must remind himself that jiang cheng has not been touched as this, has not been made vulnerable to this. and it is that thought, that brings to light the bitter thread of lan wangji's possessiveness, the hunger that he too feels even as coaxes his own wishes down.
instead, lan wangji imparts something else. he presses to jiang cheng kisses, unhurried and slow. he presses them to the corner of his mouth, the dark part of his hair, the crease between his brows. he presses kisses to reddened apples of his cheeks, nudges down. it is all right, lan wangji tells him as much as he tells himself. he noses beneath the stern cut of his jaw, catches his breath there amid the thicker scent of him, the way his pulse beats hard against lan wangji's dampened mouth.
is this all right? it is said, as much as it is felt.
jiang cheng is though the tang of ozone, the moment before the sky parts. he drapes across all of him, all of lan wangji, as though a welcomed humidity. he sticks to walls of lan wangji's heart, makes his head full more of the wants that wei wuxian so impressed into the flesh since he was young. lan wangji knows nothing of what it is not to love. he knows nothing, if not to carry tenderness and sincerity. he knows nothing, if not pining in months and years and decades long. and now, it is jiang cheng's fingers that implore. they do not know what man he is beneath the tight of his control, though he crumbles now in wake of asking.
is this? the hand upon his waist dips, circles low to the small of jiang cheng's back. it presses up, his roughened palm hot, to meet the languid roll of hips. ]
no subject
[ finally, he finds it in himself to speak up from his place in the doorway, hands laden with bags full of additional items that he's procured for their household. organizational implements, a few additional blankets for their juniors, and so on and forth. the items have found their way to the ground at his feet, hands now clutching his cheeks as though a maiden who has seen something scandalous. wei wuxian's face, a pale shade of pink ( excitement, not shame ), mirrors the sudden outburst as he plays at being scandalized by what he's walked in upon, shocked by the heated expressions on jiang cheng and lan wangji's faces; the places their hands have gone, the pale blue glow of their chests as they touch.
it's quite the sight, and he's stopped to enjoy it for a handful of seconds, before he's unable to keep quiet. ]
If only you two would put your hands on one another while I was around, I feel as though I've missed out on something extraordinary and scandalous! Two handsome, talented men feeling one another up - my own boyfriends at that! [ there is a pause only as he tries the word on for size, licking his teeth to taste it, eyes turning up into the curious arch of his brow. it sounds lovely, to him. his boyfriends, as though able to claim the two of them with words alone. time will tell if jiang cheng can accept such, as wei wuxian understands that lan wangji will devour what is freely given to him. ]
Please don't stop on my account. [ chel.gif ] I've been blessed, I am so lucky that I am alive to witness this. Why aren't you moving anymore, do you need instruction?
[ BLUNTLY ]
no subject
he feels as if he is afire. he feels as though those fields that are set alight for the coming of winter - jiang cheng is lit from within, as the other's fingers work upon the neat row of buttons of his shirt. he breathes out heat, his eyes and skin damp with it, as lan wangji presses his lips and tongue to him, into him.
but he too, is impatient. he is not a good man, he is not gentle. he is selfish, yes, and jiang cheng turns his face into the fall of the other's hair, exhales damp and hurried breath against the shell of lan wangji's ear as their hips press, rolling even and unhurried, and-
the sound of things falling to the ground has him look up, half shadowed behind lan wangji, and his expression is all at once stricken, horror and anger and embarrassment some strange thing of guilt that passes like clouds over the sun, all in quick succession.
a distant, close-to-heart part of him, the pieces of him that are still young, still green, wishes that he could just fly and slap wei wuxian senseless.
another part of him catches uneven, stumbles as one would upon that word, the thing that wei wuxian tastes - the thing wei wuxian gladly sinks his teeth into, has jiang cheng suck in a slight, small breath in retaliation - and another, a little more audible, when lan wangji also reacts - to any or all of those words - making it known to jiang cheng that their hips are still flush together, that his hands are still upon jiang cheng, to mold and press him against his own.
all at once, he knows what they must look like to him - to wei wuxian who stands at the doorway. it is the sort of self realisation that has jiang cheng scrambling away, palms flat against lan wangji's chest, his stomach, to push at him - to drop his gaze and try to ignore the buttons of his shirt that now lay open, across his chest, the flush that travels even to his collarbones and past it.
he runs - there is no other way to really explain it, to give an excuse that would somehow change it from something cowardly - he runs, roughly pushing past wei wuxian and, throwing the shoes that had lain so neatly, now haphazard on the ground in his hurry, disappears out the door. ]
no subject
and what is acidity, to all of lan wangji's envies? what is it at all, for these are things from which they cannot divest themselves? no matter how it is lan wangji has tried, no matter for his shame and insidious wants, he finds within his affections lays plain the tang of vinegar that he drinks directly from the pot. and what was it, that was said? should one drink a poison and expect another to succumb? lan wangji had tucked these things within his heart. and he tucks them away deeper still, even as he feels the frenetic beating of jiang cheng's heart. and then—
wei wuxian's voice catches him, seizes him. it has always and somehow still, regardless of obscenities he spills, lan wangji hooks memory into the term he calls them both and warms. hazy, his eyes still dark, he turns his head from the dampened lines of jiang cheng's neck and feels jiang cheng gasp as lan wangji too draws breath. he feels it again and it stirs him all the more, before jiang cheng's emotions loop from the outward whip of his aggressions to something else and lan wangji takes an unsteady half-step back before jiang cheng makes break for the door, his hands shoving him back and lan wangji obedient in how he follows.
he had thought that perhaps— but, it does not matter now. instead, what is left is a nervous coil of some flustering, the way heat settles against his ears again in the same familiar ways ( his ears, so pink before, now redden as he turns his eyes for a moment from wei wuxian ). and it is something of frustration and confusion and concern that flits across what is left of the pale of his eyes, thinned and sharpened and hot. and then, it is his mouth that works for sound, the heavier way of his breaths to silence and drown. ]
Wei Ying, [ he exhales, eventually. it is without real reproach, but it takes a moment longer still for lan wangji to turn the weight of his eyes to him, his own teeth catching at the inside of his lip.
there is a question in it, perhaps. an unvoiced worry beneath even that. ]
no subject
he laughs, and it is not cruel laughter, but it is utterly charmed by their lack of discretion. imagine, he knows, if it had been one of their juniors to walk in instead of him. ]
Lan Zhan, am I not satisfying you? Do I not give you enough kisses, are you unhappy?
[ he teases, because he can. because there is no reason he cannot do this to the second jade of gusu-lan. he teases, and wordlessly presses a kiss to the high, flushed arch of lan wangji's cheek. there there, their blue connection soothes, there there. and that betrays him to lan wangji, in the end. though he giggles madly over the hilarity of the situation, there is no anger or betrayal inside his heart. perhaps a morsel of disappointment, that jiang cheng has fled, but he is not cross. there is no need for the man before him, gentle of heart, to worry himself over wei wuxian's reaction. ]
Did he leave you all wound up, then?
no subject
but: ]
You have made me very happy, [ he assures, with neither hint of insincerity nor guile, his breathing coming still soft and short and warm. ] In each of these ways. [ he clarifies, just before he turns to nose against a palm, an action in contrast to the set of his mouth. he frowns, if only just a little. he is being teased, as he is always teased, and yet he feels only the firm lap of strictness in the truths and affections that break from his mouth.
it has been said by his own brother that lan wangji has always been gentle in this way. he has always been sensitive and stubborn in the most peculiar ways, for what should have expected of a man such as hanguang-jun is not what wei wuxian holds within his hands and presses his lips to, full of need to soothe the sting of his embarrassment and the blister of his shame.
he leans down, makes easier the stretch to reach him. instinctive now, an arm comes to settle about the low of wei wuxian's back, a steadying weight to counter the balance of his toes. careful, is what he says in all things. and softer, still: wei ying.
but, lan wangji has not been entirely broken of the discomfiture of his wants. and now, as wei ying speaks so openly, it is only the mildest furrow of his brow that gives way to an answer.
he has, he did. and still, lan wangji cannot say it, his lips moving about the absence of sound. ]
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[ as if to impress this falsehood upon lan wangji, he clutches his chest as his face begins to redden under the impact of those words - direct, unwavering. he makes lan wangji happy, radiates within him, fills him from top to toe with something soft and warm. it is the feeling of how much he likes this man before him, saying sweet things though he has been working himself ( and jiang cheng, the silly coward! ) into such a state. he is both a gentle and a roughened man, depending on what beasts possess him - but, he is a man. to see lan wangji, untouchable and pure, brought to such a bestial state by anyone - be it wei wuxian or jiang cheng, is an addictive thing. ]
Was he nice to kiss, Lan Zhan?
[ his hands find the man's hips, but no further; wei wuxian awaits an answer, caught on the edges of lan wangji's pretty, thin lips. he leans in, rising on his toes to kiss that soundless mouth briefly, a delicate peck of his own mouth to lan wangji's as he tries to coax words from him. he kisses him again. ]
Did he taste good? What were you going to do to him, why don't you show me now, hm? Show me what you wanted to do to Jiang Cheng here in our new kitchen where anybody could have walked in on the two of you.
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it is a falsehood that lan wangji knows too. it is one he has always understood to be stronger than most, warmer than most— more courageous, selfless. and still, it is that happiness that threads into lan wangji too. it is that gentleness of color that bleeds, the heat of wei wuxian's blush climbing up from his heart to paint faint against his throat.
beautiful.
and it is a thought that surfaces against the skin, that flickers through as readily as wei wuxian's hands settle at his hips. as readily as wei wuxian again raises himself upon the balls of his feet and kisses him, coaxes him. and for all wei wuxian's suggestions, he cannot refuse. he is no longer the boy within the library pavilion that tells wei wuxian "no" in fear of what is he and what he may be. he is no longer the person who can only wish to hold wei wuxian's attention the way that wei wuxian holds his. and so—
lan wangji takes a steadying breath. he takes two, but the palm against the small of wei wuxian's back guides wei wuxian closer still. and still, wei wuxian asks him to show him what it was he intended to do to jiang cheng. what it was he had thought, pinning jiang cheng and all the green of his emotions between himself and the wall. ( and he would never voice that it was like this, that he felt safety in that trust that he would not cage either. he felt relief, that he could hold them for a moment as willing altars upon which to lay his affections, his lusts. and more, they both understood that they were free.
they knew that they were free, with lan wangji. )
but, wei wuxian evidently does not take to lan wangji's warning. he does not take the gradual way his gaze drags across the mischief in wei wuxian's expression with a barely tethered heat. he does not take the way he murmurs out to him enough at length between wei wuxian's declarations. and he does not take the way the dark of his eyes sits heavy against wei wuxian's mouth as he touches upon something that stirs within lan wangji the ugly and possessive things that knot within his heart.
he wants nothing more to show that they are his, that he is theirs.
and yet, he yanks his own reins. he pulls himself back. he tells himself to be patient and starts just as he did with jiang cheng, just as he did before. just as wei wuxian requested.
he curves his other palm to the angles of wei wuxian's face and seizes from him kisses, catches all the obscenities with his own mouth and teeth and tongue. he tastes too wei wuxian, all that he has brought back with him forgotten for the moment as he turns them too back to the wall, his patience and his resolve dissolving beneath the way he conveys to wei wuxian ( again ) that he too wants him in this way, though his love for wei wuxian holds firmer roots. it has become part of his foundations, has weathered and thrived against most anything and he still he does not impress upon wei wuxian that he must keep it all. it is only if he wants it. it is only his to have, in whole, if wei wuxian wishes for it too. ]