*seductively crawls out of hell* (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
laozu) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
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.
( & all: you occupy everything, everything. )
lan wangji knows it, as though the quiet warren of his rabbits. he knows it, as he had come to know the pattern of their evenings tucked beneath the earth, their ears folded close to the soft curvature of their small skulls. he knows it, as easily as he had come to know how they would settle against their kin with ready determination. he knows it, as he waits now as they seemed to for those they were attached to.
half-alert and half-aware, his back straight and his hands curved against the tops of his thighs, he listens to the idle talk that filters through the darkness of their apartment. he catches the fall of water, the smattering of footsteps. and long ago, he had folded down the heavy blankets that he had tucked across their shared futons. long ago, he had pulled them all together and had suggested they ready themselves for bed.
and long ago, he had settled here. long ago, he had soothed himself with the certainty of their movements. and long ago, he had expected at least one to return to him, dressed down and yawning and—
he is not surprised, to see it is jiang cheng who pads in first.
and still, he does not move his lips, does not give voice to the hello that rests within his chest. but, he does lift his head. he does tilt his chin up as though the bluer flowers at the mountain's warmer recess. he does lift his eyes to him, to jiang cheng. beneath the heavy cast of dark lashes, the pale of them are at once unfocused and warm. they do not budge from the face that lan wangji has become familiar with, do not reject a single glance. and gradually, one hand lifts to touch at the handsome cut of his stern jaw. it thumbs against the bone, recognizes the bruises fatigue is leaving and has left. it reflects back upon his own flesh, the impression of sleeplessness. it touches the delicate expanse of his eyelids, looks somehow all the more severe for it. and still—
jiang cheng is beautiful, as wei wuxian is beautiful. as a summer storm is beautiful, as the distillation of energy sent crackling across the mountains, lan wangji finds the calloused pads of his own fingertips burn with it. he finds he will never seek to tame it, as he will never seek to tame the sun of wei wuxian's affections, his attentions.
and lan wangji does not smile, but there is something in the depth of his eyes that swims with comfort in the gesture that he gives. there is something that snags against an adoration, as though birds caught within a net. there is something that submits itself to jiang cheng, downy and new and willing in its flightlessness.
hello, lan wangji tells him. he takes a quiet breath, does not pull for more than jiang cheng is willing to answer with. hello. ]
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he sits upon their bed, the futon pushed together ( and jiang cheng can remember, with startling clarity, the way the distance between the mats have slowly grown thin and no more ). he waits, for the both of them, and jiang cheng is glad at the sight - some corner of his heart is warmed by the gesture, softened and bruised from the battering.
the fatigue sits upon him like some pale fog that sometimes rises up from the peaks of tall mountains; it has settled over jiang cheng also, his hair damp and curling where it sits tucked behind his ears, and the lashes that settle over his eyes tremble as the other's fingers find him - lan wangji finds, with unflinching accuracy, all of jiang cheng's rough edges not yet smoothed away. he runs his fingers along all of the seams of all that jiang cheng is, and he is like the storm dispersing, like a wave that breaks against the shore under the steadying touch.
they do not smile. they do not talk, except in gestures, in the cut of their eyes wherein sits some measure of lightness, of living, of life. hello.
they are alive. they are here.
jiang cheng tilts his head - he lays it, against the curve of lan wangji's hand. he rests, he nestles into it, almost, for a short moment before he straightens up again, eyes downcast and turned away once more. ]
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almost, jiang cheng relents. almost, he presses into the touch of lan wangji's hand. almost, he nuzzles close to his palm as lan wangji has so often done to wei wuxian. and still, there are so many "almost"s that rest between he and them. there are so many brushes, so many individual and soft approximations. and like this, they say hello. they say hello in silence, in the language of their hands and the curve of their shoulders. in this way, lan wangji is fluent. he sees what others long have not, the way jiang cheng's eyes carry forth more answers than are supplied on the tongue. he sees what rests in the the subtle edges of wei wuxian's broad smiles. he sees them, as much of them as they will afford him. he does not ask for more, no matter how it is he wishes to hold each part of them. he does not request, though he tucks his love for them in each way he watches them— listens to what it is they say.
and no matter how foolish or how mundane, he hears them anyway. he gives what they impart to him, shapes what he can into what they keep within their hands. he hears them always. and like this, lan wangji hears him. he hears jiang cheng, in the way he does not pull away, but only straightens. he sees jiang cheng's uncertain efforts and he does not ask that he stay. he does not demand, only suggests in the way lan wangji lets his hand follow jiang cheng's own movements.
the rough of his palm is a warm thing still. like he, lan wangji still holds the imprint of water as his fingers coast the plain of jiang cheng's shoulder, down the strong lines of his arm. they catch at the rise of his wrist, idle there with a looseness that knows itself as easier to bend.
and for a long moment, lan wangji lets his fingers linger there. he lets them remain there, rest along the soft thrum of jiang cheng's pulse. and slowly, his lips move soundless until the word rises in-between them. ]
Sit? [ he knows jiang cheng no longer looks upon him, and so it is not a question. it is not a suggestion. at least, not directly. it is only that he knows that, like he, jiang cheng is tired.
it does not matter what it is that lan wangji desires, it does not matter what it is that lays beneath. ]
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the rough of his palm, the fingertips that press to the inner of his wrist, are warm. they leave pinprickles of heat along his skin, through the robes, through the damp skin over which they traverse. he catches him there, holds him even while he does not. ready to let go, even while he waits.
it is a short sound, aborted before it could properly rise, but it is a laugh. jiang cheng turns his hand within the cage of the other's grip - lingering, wanting, but never pressing. how like him. ]
Hanguang-jun, [ he calls, his voice sounding quite different without the usual edge. almost soft, almost kind. it chides, in so little words but for his name, his title, but jiang cheng is tired, as he is. he will relent. ]
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he knows, as he has always known. he remembers, bright and briefly, the way his mother would coax from him the downturn of his mouth and the brooding of his silence. and yet, he had felt such love for her as she had for him. he understood that this was her means to voice her attentions, her affections. he knew her hands to be warm and her hands to be soft. and he knows others, to be as her in this way. he knows it in the way wei wuxian pushes him, bullies him, until all beneath the skin is alight in frustration, knows it in the way that jiang cheng calls for him ( softly, nonetheless ). and it is lan zhan, who finds himself unable to suppress the slighter frown that catches at his lips.
jiang cheng relents, perhaps, but he does not relent. he is aware, it would seem. he is aware and unaware, as lan wangji turns his eyes so as to not look so directly upon him. and yet—
is it a tug, if it is gentle? does it count, if lan wangji, in the next moment presses his cheek against the curve of jiang cheng's hand? does it count, if he keeps hold a little tighter in the aftermath?
his affections for jiang cheng are green and curious things. they know not the full of their boundaries and curl against the trellis of jiang cheng's body. they do not climb, but chance at climbing. they do not wrap about him as though smothering things, but rest against his lines until they are pushed aside. and it is a moment longer, until lan wangji lifts his head and directs him downward again with the absent flex of his fingers about jiang cheng's wrist. ]
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he has chewed the single word in his mouth, has tasted it lingering, soft against his tongue, has worried it in between his teeth without a voice.
it is a difficult thing. jiang cheng has not been touched as this, by another. he has been as though a lone tree burned beyond growing, beyond the greeneries and the warm blistering sunlight of spring. he has been as though winter frost and snowstorms, and with the curve of his hand now pulled, pressed against the smoothness of the other's cheek, it is the beginning of some softening, some careful unthawing, if it could be possible, of his being.
it is difficult. he has always found such things difficult, and he cannot quell the shiver and knock of his heart against his ribs when the tug comes, as gentle as it is, as unassuming as lan wangji makes it. ]
Lan Wangji, [ he says, and there is the shiver again, a tremble as if a string plucked, stretched to tension as sharp as nails against glass. perhaps he knows. perhaps he recognises that this too, is one such a moment that is balanced precariously on the edge.
if he relents now, he'll -
if he falls now,
maybe, maybe this is something a little like love. maybe this is the way they fall, his hand in his own, as they have fallen before. maybe this is.
jiang cheng moves. he is pulled downward, till his gaze is level with the other's own. his pulse knocks against the fingers curled about his wrist. the word, curled about on his tongue, held back behind tightly clenched teeth, as he lifts his eyes to meet the other's.
it is a difficult thing, to voice. to admit. ]
Lan Zhan.
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he has known love, has lived with it. he has harbored it beneath the skin, folded it close within his mourning robes. he has tucked it behind his teeth, has held it upon his tongue. he has burned with it, has burned within it— and it is an ache that rises still, that catches on an exhalation. it is a declaration, an admittance. and the sound that breaks over his lips is not the sound of something wounded. it is not the sound of something that fears what it is jiang cheng imparts to him, but rather fears what it is lan wangji will do with it.
lan wangji, jiang cheng calls, and the pale lobes of lan wangji's ears pinken. they pinken, as he opens his mouth to call back to him, to speak his name as though he'd spoken it in the grasses. his lashes stutter against his cheeks as he drags his eyes to him, as the pale of them at once brighten and then darken.
lan zhan.
and it is as though he is young again. it is as though his impatience and his frustrations have broken free of the skin, have lapped against the shores of his own body, have worn him thin. ( lan zhan, wei ying had long since called him. in the library pavilion, his hair as dark as ink stone and his hands so near to his. lan zhan. )
and like this, in this apartment, in this dark corner of their room— he pulls him down beside him. he does not think, he does not think to think. instead, it is only the connection that casts in blues between them that indicates the strength of his restraint as his hands tremble against jiang cheng's frame, against the wet curls of his hair as he cushions his head against the force of it.
the force of it, that is, as he is nudged upon his back beside him as lan wangji too relents to what it is he has been seeking.
in the next breath, lan wangji is kissing him. he is kissing him, firm and bruising and slow. ]
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there is something vulnerable in the way he meets the other's eyes, but jiang cheng is - he has always been - too adept to a fight. too used to wrapping himself back up in some cloak of thorns and lightning, and the slight crease of his brow, the line of his mouth shutting, firm and defiant, after the word ( the name ) as if he dares - as if he seeks to know what lan wangji would do with it, even if his skin grows cold, pricking like shards of ice under the touch.
the blue-lit glow within his chest feels almost uncomfortable, in that pause between one moment to the next.
it is fear, but there is also some distant, fatalistic part of him which expects otherwise - that surely it must mean little, coming from him. he must mean so little.
the silence lingers. in the dark of the room jiang cheng cannot spy the way the other colours as if touched by some invisible heat - the way his ears pink, though he hears the intake of breath, the way his mouth parts, as if to speak, but think better of.
and he feels something a little very much like fear.
he should - leave. he should rise, to turn back, to withdraw as if nothing has happened, anything to get them out of this awful suspended mess that is his own making, and jiang cheng drops his head even as he moves to pull his arm out of the other's grasp, but.
but for that little movement. for the change in the other, so immobile and silent, to something akin to a sudden whirl of motion that it almost catches at his breath as jiang cheng is caught up, is pressed upon his back, and there is that faint surprise again, of panic, and he cannot even voice a note of enquiry or question before their lips meet. ]
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that they chose to fall with him, to die at his side - it has touched him in more ways than he wants to let on. it has both soothed an old wound he had long since tried to ignore, as well as ripped it open - a yawning cavern of solitude and loneliness, crying out to be seen, to be heard, to be held. he had died alone, once. this time, they chose to go together. they choose to live together, now. and it is in the doorway, dressed loose in his spare sleeping robe with his hair curling at the ends with dampness and his eyes red-rimmed from rubbing too hard at them for too long (he is tired, his grief and his aches come in fits and bursts-- ).
this time, he says nothing to disturb them. he draws the sliding door (made, for aesthetic as well as to keep the already-small space from becoming crowded with swinging doorways) closed behind him and presses it into place with barely a sound. barefoot, barelegged, he crosses to the futons on the floor where jiang cheng is underneath lan wangji and he can lean down, over lan wangji's shoulder to kiss the man's throat. he is a weight, light and airy, that half-leans to lan wangji's strong side as he kisses, as he mouths soft against the line of throat and shoulder, as he moves his hand to trace the length of jiang cheng's waist too, pressing his hand to the same space as lan wangji's.
he says nothing, but watches with dark eyes. ]
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he has always felt far too much and far too deeply. he has always buried within him his wants and his affections, afraid to know if his too would form within him ugliness. he had only known what it was his parents had suffered, had only known what his uncle had tried so hard to forbid. and still, lan wangji had fallen regardless. no matter his best efforts, no matter the strength of his resolve, lan wangji loved and loved without hope of its return at all. he had loved, knowing that what was good and what was just was difficult for others to guess. he had loved, when no one else believed him.
and now, jiang cheng says his name as lan wangji says his. he presses it against his lips, breathes it into the warmth of his skin: jiang cheng, he tells him. and beneath that, it is the bloom of his intentions. it is the pale, green things that love him. it is named and it is desperate, but it chokes within lan wangji's chest and does not free itself. it waits. it waits and waits and still, had it not been that they had all met each other in the end? had that they not all ended here, tangled in the cramped space of this apartment, tucked against each other as though the distance was intolerable? ( and for him, it is - for lan wangji, it is. )
lan wangji has always been a tender thing. and he still is, as wei wuxian gently presses up against him. he still is, as he lets out a soft and shuddering breath as he scrapes his teeth against the fullness of jiang cheng's bottom lip.
wei ying, he says too. muffled and quiet, still and obedient as wei wuxian entrusts his weight to him. and yet, he balances. he threads his fingers through wei wuxian's, makes the movement one and tender as he guides them to touch across jiang cheng's waist, across the rise of his hip. he warms through where it is they are linked, his adorations banked and barely as something so close to grief, to relief catches at his lips.
these two have meant more to him than lan wangji could once articulate to himself. and yet, he knows now. he has known and knows and knows now as he keeps close to them in any way he is permitted, in any way he can. ]
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do not let go, it says to him, and he will not, he cannot, for fear of leaving.
he reaches down, his hand laid atop of theirs, fingers barely skimming over the knocks and rise of knuckles.
it was his choice to fall. his choice to die with them, next to them, and there is no regret in the action upon recalling - it is, in a way, freeing - it is a settling of debts, of a kind. it is acceptance. it is forgiveness. it is understanding that which has carried him through, sustained him during the years of wanting and waiting.
with no one and nothing else to blame, jiang cheng lays open, and it seems to him that they would now see him for what he is - even if they had called him good, that he is anything but - some ugly emotion that thrums within his veins, the poison that had made itself a home within him for so long.
he lives, despite all that. wei wuxian, too. he is alive, and in the half darkness he cannot look up at his brother and see with clarity what he might be thinking or feeling. ]
Wei Wuxian, [ he calls, and the hand that had lain atop his hand moves, rising up to catch itself against his elbow. it is not quite - a plea, he has his pride, still, but it is as near a thing. ]
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Hi, [ he breathes, overflowing with warmth and a shred of something raw; he has been crying again, in private, curled around his own body clutching at himself because he cannot warm up. his meridians are unbalanced, his core is a muted thing and he cannot self-regulate. since he cannot, it means he turns to the two of them and the warmth of their bodies, their live bodies, their beating hearts. ] You're so good, Jiang Cheng.
[ he praises him gently, even as his fingertips find jiang cheng's hair and brush it behind his ear.
even as he holds lan wangji's waist to his own and turns his head to kiss the pink rim of his ear: ] You too, Lan Zhan.
[ he praises them, because he stumbles over his own emotions even now. ]
I want to be with you, both of you. Tonight. You understand, right?
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lan wangji shuts his eyes, listens to the thrum of their emotions. and without thought of it, he leans into each touch that wei wuxian bestows upon him. he urges down the wash of his anxieties and wants, but they bruise within the ribs. they batter, for all that he adores wei wuxian. for all that he adores jiang cheng.
for all that he wishes to say— ]
Yes, [ he breathes, after a moment. yes, he echoes beneath the skin. and yet, the word smudges at its edge. it lingers too in that imbalance, his perceptions of what could be and what now is. unable to amend its shape, lan wangji had found it too something strange and something difficult. he had found it as he had within the fields, his lashes damp against the curve of wei wuxian’s pale throat. yes.
and still, for all the praises that have been laid upon his head, it is only these that matter most to him. it is only these, that pull for the tenderness that lan wangji keeps. it is only his jiang cheng and his wei ying. it is only these as he wills the words up to his lips. and they come, soft and slow, from his own heart. ] Wei Ying is too.
[ good, he confesses. so good. good, as they are good. as wei wuxian too has done as they have done, as wei wuxian has given to them both so much— his fingers tighten within wei wuxian’s own, guide them sure and upward. he presses kisses to firmer rise of knuckles, curves the hand that rests beside the dark of jiang cheng’s hair, strokes slow and even against the drying curls that bend beneath the persistence of his fingertips.
you too. ]
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jiang cheng cannot help the sound that rises from somewhere within; it sounds itself a whimper, a sob, like some animal in a hunt. he must look a sight, he thinks, an utter fool, to do nothing but lay here and cry. his vision blurs softly at the edges as he blinks back the tears, but it is much like what happened earlier when they had all once again awakened - he cannot stop.
good. so good. so good.
he reaches out, again. jiang cheng is not like lan wangji in the utter adoring tenderness, nor is he like wei wuxian, in the way he is so open, so accepting - he is not so much, and there is an awkward sort of brutality in the way he reaches for the two of them once more to pull them down beside him, to press his face against wei wuxian's hair, to curl his hand over his waist to rest against lan wangji's hip. ]
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Come here, [ he reaches up with his hands, twisting at the waist to fit himself between them better, to leave his torso exposed for both of them, the soft material of his dress robes falling open across the sharp arch of collarbone and pale length of neck. each one, he touches their cheeks with his hands, curling fingers under their chins to bring them in; each one, he kisses in turn. he kisses the tear shivering on the end of jiang cheng's eyelashes before he kisses his mouth. he kisses the thrum of lan wangji's pulse in his temple before licking his way past his lips. ] Be close to me.
[ he wants to pull them flush to his sides. humans were born with two halves, mirrored and equal in so many ways - why not, if to hold someone in each arm, to hold them to places that are vulnerable and for them to complete the circle together as well. he holds jiang cheng to one side, he holds lan wangji to the other and kisses them each - slow, wanting - in turn. his throat and shoulders pinken, body warming as he sighs and whispers wordless sounds against them both. eventually he frees his hands from their faces, hoping they understand what he wants from their mouths ( their kisses, their sounds, their words - sweet or sultry ). the backs of his knuckles dip low, brushing across their chests, their bellies, settling low on their hips where his fingers beg entrance below the hemline of their pants. ]
Let me.
[ it's not a question. he knows what he wants and intends to have it. ]
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he knows limits of his patience, limits of his restraint. he knows limits of what he himself imposes, the steep edge of their boundary. and yet, he knows none at all when it comes to love. he knows none at all when it comes to waiting. he knows none at all, like this, when wei wuxian pulls for him sweetly, tenderly. ( and how can he say no? how can he, when he has promised wei wuxian with his own lips that there is no means he has left to refuse him? how can he, when the upturn of wei wuxian's mouth ensnares him so wanting, so willing? )
he knows his wants, he knows them intimately. he has lived with them, bundled within the chest and tucked to the heart as though peonies in the press of pages. he knows them, as wei wuxian presses kisses to his temple and asks him to be near to him. he knows them, as lan wangji obeys without question— as his breathing stutters at the edge as he opens his mouth to let wei wuxian taste all of him, one hand feeling for the strum of jiang cheng's pulse against the pale skin of his throat, the other parting the soft material of wei wuxian's sleeping robes. he skims along his side, touches wei wuxian as he has long since touched him. unreserved and unashamed, his fingers play the trim angle of his hip, knead the muscle of his thigh. ( let me? )
for all the blues that paint between, lan wangji has learned how it is wei wuxian wishes to be touched. he hears it echoed in all of him, hears it echoed in jiang cheng. he feels it echoed in the way his fingertips kiss along the firmer edge of jiang cheng's collarbone, the pale of his eyes cut dark and focused in the low light of new amsterdam.
and how is it, that he has found himself here? he thinks it more a dream than not, to have them beside him. in all the nights he had spent in the quiet of his jingshi, he had thought it an impossibility. he had thought— and still, wei wuxian's knuckles kiss the firm plain of his stomach, the ridge of his hips. he does not sigh, but his exhalations shudder. his exhalations thin, as he noses against the ink of wei wuxian's damp hair, presses kisses to the warmed shell of his ear.
wei ying, he tells him. he asks him. his fingers stroke slow and thoughtful across the broad of jiang cheng's chest, stroke in opposite against the inside of wei wuxian's thigh.
he hears them both. he hears them. ]
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it echoes, and he hears it in the way they nestle close, closer, the callused fingers against the edges of his collar to his chest to his waist, the way lan wangji exhales, and from this distance of less than a heartbeat he feels the tension in them, and can do no more than to shiver in response.
it is a first, for him. he has not known anything like this, not once before, and jiang cheng does not know whether what it is that he feels is fear or elation or both, as he curls his fingers against the thin layers of their robes, pressing his mouth up against wei wuxian as he kisses him.
he kisses him, tasting the salt of the tears lingering, the line of his mouth softened with words mouthed silently. so good, you are, you are, you are. he skims his fingers against the firm line of lan wangji's waist. he breathes out, shaky and uneven, caught in his chest like some sickly bird, silent adoration and plea.
it feels like lightning, it feels live currents trapped under his skin. it is power more than the simple contact of their skin sliding against each other, it feels alive, and jiang cheng can do no more than to turn his face against the warmed skin of wei wuxian's throat and breathe. ]
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as he bare himself for them, as he urges them to climb as close to him as they can, he slips his fingers below the waistbands of their pants, cupping his hand to capture the material and guide it down, pushing a little to gather and shove down against the natural weight of their hips. he feels hot flesh against the back of his hands, running his knuckles along them. he isn't shy, in the way he scoops his fingers under lan wangji's "junior" ( as he's called it before, playful and filthy-mouthed ); he is a little more gently with jiang cheng, coaxing his shidi's thing into the palm of his hand as well.
he holds them both, his body humming blue and eager as well. of all things, he knows he has delicate hands, fingers that move skillfully and nimbly due to his own prowess with instrument. it's those fingers he turns loose on his lovers, toying and teasing and stroking them slowly - warming them to his touch as they warm him to theirs. he bites his lip, when not kissing either of them, to remain silent and not loose his tongue. jiang cheng is shy, he doesn't want to run him off now, not like this, when they're all so wanting and so close. ]
I wish I could get you both in my mouth tonight, but I'm so tired - this will have to do. You can fuck my hands, it's okay~~
[ nevermind he can't help himself it seems ]
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( and had he been braver then, had he understood how much the lan wangji of now would love wei wuxian, he would have taken him among the scrolls and the quiet. he would have bound wei wuxian beneath him, would have tucked him so close to him that lan wangji would no longer care for where he started and wei wuxian began. )
and is it not true, that lan wangji would not have it any manner other than that? no matter how he finds he can never abide it, how it stirs far more than the childish frustrations in him, the turn of wei wuxian's language laps always at all he holds back. it finds the angles of it ( as it has always found the angles of it ), presses thick and eager into all that he keeps secreted. it spurs his fingers against wei wuxian's inner thigh to abruptly vice and pinch, his hips rolling up into the loose circle of wei wuxian's fist.
it is barely a retort, barely a reprimand and the warm press of his mouth ( open and warm and wet ) against wei wuxian's throat is proof of that as he splits his attentions between renewing old marks and painting all that is new across jiang cheng's skin. like this, he tucks fingers into what jiang cheng has not yet exposed— presses his palm flat against his heaving chest, plays the pads of his fingers just so over the rise of rosy flesh and breathes around the pull and push of their emotions lit end-to-end-to-end.
and it is not true, that lan wangji reflects back such sentiment too? adoration spun to yearning, spun to something deeper too than that. for all that wei wuxian's shimmers between himself and jiang cheng, his own remains steady and almost too blue. it banks itself behind the walls of his ribs and aches within and still, the mantra comes clear: i am here, i am here, i am here.
and he is. he is, as they are. he is, as he roots within himself what remains of his control and strokes once then twice then caught in something slow and rhythmic between the apex of wei wuxian's thighs, his fingers too controlled and sure as wei wuxian's are, a familiar form of music. ]
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it is too much, too much, too much.
they have barely touched him yet it feels already too much ( and too little ). it has not been long since wei wuxian's fingers wrap around him, since lan wangji strokes over the lines of his throat and chest, but jiang cheng already feels torn, ripped open and laid out piece by piece bare.
fleetingly, there sounds a note of panic, a spike of something like fear, of an animal cornered beyond escaping. a feeling that he is already beyond the edge of some unknown landscape, that he had come now, too far, to turn back, but still yet that feeling of apprehension against this change - knowing that something is happening, and he would be changed by it, by the both of them, inexplicable and inevitably.
he cannot help it; his teeth catches at his lip, the flesh that is soon to be bitten and worried beyond all that.
wei wuxian, he says, or he tries to; lan zhan, he stutters out, but his mouth cannot seem to be working properly, as he rolls his hips up into the touch, his body, against the both of them. ]
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[ jiang cheng gasps, lan wangji's breath catches. he feels teeth against his throat and knows that he will be marked in red and soft purple-blues come morning, as lan wangji sets his teeth into his tender flesh and lays claim to him. he wishes that jiang cheng's mouth would find the other side of his throat, his shoulder. instead, he tips his head to the side to bare more skin for lan wangji to bite and kiss, laughing breathlessly and blearily as he fists the ends of their cocks in soft circles and sets his eyes, for the moment, on jiang cheng. his shidi, who looks as though he will die before he gives in to such sensations.
to jiang cheng, he releases him and runs his fingers along his lower belly, tracing the dip and minimal give of his muscle, the sharp angle of his waist. he touches his warmed skin, finds where lan wangji's hand strokes and teases the curve of his chest and joins him on the opposite side - wei wuxian's sets his nails soft against jiang cheng's chest and digs a little, as though ready to seize hold of chunks of his flesh and bring him closer. closer still. he could have the two of them climb inside of his ribs and not feel as though they're close enough. his fingers return soon, teasing the tip of jiang cheng's cock - stroking it with his thumb while his fingers curl and weave over the shaft. ]
You're wet already, Jiang Cheng. [ he whispers to him, leaning in to drag his tongue over the tip of jiang cheng's nose. even in the dim light, his smile is a coy little thing.
to lan wangji, he knows the unique weight and size of him. he's touched him a few times now, taken him inside of his body and thought to put his mouth to him. even now, he'd like to try and fit them both inside of his mouth, but they're all so weak, so tender still from their leap of faith and the death that followed. he can lazily fist a cock, he can't move himself as eagerly as he would want to. while he coaxes jiang cheng, the more maidenly of the two, he reaches for all the spots on lan wangji he's begun to memorize - the ticklish angle of his abdomen, the soft skin of his strong inner thigh, stroking him to fullness and resting him against the warm skin of his hip, using the plane of hip and palm to stroke and grind the head of him playfully. ]
You know, you don't have to hold back. I thought of doing this before Zerzura, too. I almost did this at the holiday party when we found ourselves such a delightful little corner and kisses under the mistletoe. I could have touched you both without anyone noticing, I bet. [ he babbles sleepily, rolling his body to make more room. to draw them closer. he wants them plastered to him, until he has no room to move save for the angle of his wrists and the curl of his fingers. ]
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he has never known touch as this, before wei wuxian. before jiang cheng. to touch for the sake of touching within the cloud recesses was odd, rare. to touch because one wished to touch, one desired to be touched was a curiosity to him. to lan wangji, who further eschewed proximity ( remain neat, remain restrained, remain void of all earthly concerns ), it was something he had not considered. it was not something he knew, perhaps, that he had wanted. and then— lan wangji is quiet, so quiet. he is quiet, even as this, even as wei wuxian's fingers flit playful at his cock-head, as jiang cheng gasps out and bites back.
and yet, he knows. he has been learning, how it is wei wuxian wishes to be held. close and closer still, frenetic and beautiful and alight between the palms of his hands, within the circle of his arms. he knows. and what more can lan wangji do, then to mold to the way wei wuxian presses back to him? what more may lan wangji do, then obey the way wei wuxian tips his head and bares his neck to him? what more might he do, then to tuck beneath him the sturdiness of his arm as wei wuxian shifts up upon his side to face jiang cheng? and so, it is like this, that he slides the hot of his palm down the front of wei wuxian's chest— teethes the skin at the back of his neck, swipes his tongue against the indented aftermath. if jiang cheng will not take advantage, then it is lan wangji who will. it is lan wangji, who will answer the innate itch to make it obvious that it is wei wuxian and jiang cheng who have chosen him, as much as he himself has chosen them.
for jiang cheng, he mirrors wei wuxian without thought of it. he pulls and tugs and does not whisper with his words, but rather with the brush of fingertips. the blue cast from their bodies thrums furious and frantic and alive and it is in that that comes all of lan wangji's want ( banked, still banked ), all of his tenderness. it is that, which couples wei wuxian's efforts to bring him nearer to them. it does not demand, it does not ask, but it suggests. it suggests, with the gentle edge of his nails, the way they kiss the rise and fall of muscled lines about the caging of his ribs. and it is that, the way that wei wuxian's words come obscene and eager and untamed for all of his fatigue, that spurs lan wangji only further on.
( what would it have been like, to have been taken in hand despite the crowd? what would it have been like, to be pressed to the corner of that hall, greenery in wei wuxian's hair— ) ]
... Shameless, [ he grinds out, on a rough edge. ( as if he himself had not too thought of it? as if he had not too thought of establishing what it was that bloomed between he and wei wuxian and jiang cheng? as if— ) his chest tightens, arousal pressed to low of wei wuxian's back, the generous round of his ass. his fingers press past the fullness of wei wuxian's cock, skim warm and rough about the curve of his thigh. he knows what it is that wei wuxian desires, as much as lan wangji knows he wishes to grant him anything at all, everything and all.
here? is the question, as he breathes out damp and shallow close ( so close ) to the pale shell of wei wuxian's ear.
he knows the answer, even so. he gives wei wuxian a moment adjust as needed. ]
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as he is, he can only mutter, stutter out a shut up that loses still none of the furious fiery edge, and he sets his nails against the meat of wei wuxian's thigh. overlapped, for a moment, with lan wangji's arm, as he scratches angry lines down the flesh, enough to sting, hooking into the crook of his knee and hitching it over his own.
close, closer still. it sets off something needy in his veins, something frantic and desperate that makes him tremble as he presses closer. it is the closeness he needs, that he feels, through the blue-lit glow of contact, that they need. he is here, he is here, and he is here.
the rough edge of lan wangji's voice catches at the peripherals of his attentions - like this, he can almost hear the way his jaws tense, the fine brows creasing, narrowing to pinprick point that frays over the light-speckled eyes. his own focus wavering, divided upon and between the two, and - he breathes, the realization somehow ridiculous that it only happens now - that he is even in this situation at all - and it is almost a laugh, almost a sob, almost anything at all. ]
Shut up, [ he says again, breathless and stunned, his body twitching, twisting under the touch of his hand, and jiang cheng is - almost, maybe perhaps, tender, in the way he tilts his head, presses his lips against the corner of that smiling mouth. ]
just.......... cw for wwx's horrible mouth and so much dirty talk
[ for all his merriment, wei wuxian's voice is a delicate rasp - it betrays his own arousal, his own state of semi-exhaustion. in such a state, he's more than willing to allow himself to be manhandled. to be moved into a position that makes the two of them content with the adult things that they're doing. lan wangji had taken his first time, in an alleyway when the two of them were feeling the heat of their own blood and the warmth of drink fading from their systems. this is the first time that he has truly touched jiang cheng's body, for he cannot count the false memories built inside of his mind in zerzura -- though he knows them for fantasies, rather than true lies. if there had been no basis for the world to build upon, no lingering desires, it would not have felt so real.
lan wangji is warm and firm against his back, his chest finding the familiar home against the arch of his spine and hips. he feels him, the calluses on his fingertips stroking his bare skin, the way his hand feels so strong and big against his thighs as he gathers the muscle there in silence, waiting for his consent. the consent is there, trembling blue and bright between them, snagged by the rougher snarl of jiang cheng's hand as it gathers that same thigh and drags wei wuxian into a twist between the two bodies he holds desires for. ]
Ah, [ he breathes out, startled and wanting. ]
Jiang Cheng, don't be so greedy. Lan Zhan wants to fuck my thighs, you have to share. If you let him have my thighs, you can have both of my hands, hm? Doesn't that sound nice? I'll stroke you until you burst, you don't have to hold back - I think I like being used roughly.
[ he speaks to both of them easily, his voice ragged but bright; his own hardness twitches as he palms jiang cheng's, bringing both hands to his cock to stroke him in opposite directions - when one hand slides low, seizing the base of him, the other goes higher to round the head and palm it as though rolling dough across the table. he can feel jiang cheng's mouth seeking his and turns his head with a soft, warm hum to tongue his way past jiang cheng's teeth, open-mouthed and sloppy and asking for something a little harder, a little more earnest. he asks the same, silently, of lan wangji - spreading his thighs wide enough for him to fit between, rolling his hips and shoulders back into an arch so that as much of him is pressed to that man as he can possibly press. ]
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it is a phrase that hums across the skin, digs into the marrow. it is beautiful and brilliant thing, tempting in that it harbors all of what lan wangji cannot break around his fingertips, cannot break over his tongue. but, wei wuxian is giving as lan wangji is giving. wei wuxian has told him with his body, his emotions what it is he wants. lan wangji had learned it in the alley, had learned in the evenings that fell as though the down sweep of wei wuxian’s dark lashes against the soft round of his cheeks. lan wangji had learned it when he kissed him, had dug his teeth into the tender junction of his throat and shoulder. he had learned it, as much as he learns now that wei wuxian wants more to feel of them. that he wants to more to ground, to hook back into jiang cheng and himself. he wants, as lan wangji wants— he wants in all the ways that lan wangji cannot state aloud.
and yet, where lan wangji scrapes the white moon of his nails across the valleys that sit between jiang cheng’s muscled ribs, where lan wangji coaxes back the thigh that jiang cheng had taken from him— and still, the sentiment pushes up against them. it breaks across them, disperses as morning fogs up upon the mountains, as though the frozen surfaces of clear rivers running rife with the fissuring of spring. ( but, more than anything, it is a warmth and adoration that consumes it all. it is a tenderness, a love that does not waver and does not bend for all that it hides within itself the perception of its burden. )
and still, still with that permission, lan wangji binds himself back. even at the ends of all tethers, there lies the last of his restraint as he breathes out soft and sharp, unsteady. he digs his fingers into the meat of wei wuxian’s thigh and again pinches as though a warning for his mouth’s continued turn of language ( but, there is no hiding how hot his lips are against the lifted curve of wei wuxian’s shoulder, how he teethes at the line of it ) as he rolls back against lan wangji.
immediately, the arm that pins wei wuxian close pins him closer still ( i am here ). his hand, roughened as it is, slides to the juncture of wei wuxian’s thigh and hip (i will catch you ). and it is with a low hum against all of wei wuxian’s consent that he shifts to angle himself between wei wuxian’s legs.
there is barely time to startle, the moment he settles up against wei wuxian and rolls his hips— the weight of his cock heavy and hot beneath the underside of wei wuxian’s, between the tremble of his legs. and lan wangji’s fingers dig in ( where? upon both, at the curve of jiang cheng’s waist, the meat of wei wuxian’s hip ) as he sets his pace gradually, his breathing staggered and damp against wei wuxian’s neck.
like this, they’d all dreamed individually in zerzura. like this, they’d all been filled with he falsity of memories between them. here, as lan wangji presses kisses open-mouthed to what he can reach of the heat of wei wuxian’s skin, it is the first time he sees them both as this. it is the first time that slight of wei wuxian’s body is solid weight against his as surely as jiang cheng’s hand is against all that he too can reach of lan wangji's skin. and here, lan wangji loves them as he always has. he loves them, though the words will not unwind themselves until it is that they are ready. ]
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