( there's a delay: not long, but telling of distances between holy spaces to long departed monks and their whims. then the eventuality, the certainly, of things set around an unseen hearth, of murmured conversation with the dead. he's charming, he knows it most days, and it's into silence that he sits and takes hold of two things: pendant and fruit, a native and ripe and juice bleeding thing, held up as the pendant hangs from stone, taking in his face.
a smile and a nod of his head, fruit held like a cup in offering, and then wei wuxian bites down and into the skin of this delight, spared from the birds by merit of hiding within a bag. his eyes close when he bites down, when the juices flow with sudden generosity, down his chin and mapping his throat and hand and oh, he moans not for the effect, but for the sharp delight of its flesh dancing across his tongue, down his throat. dark eyes open, watching the pendant, daring the unseen husband to validate: eating.
and the ridiculous, sucking sounds of it, the lathing of his tongue across his lips before he bites down again, this time not at much as blinking.
(after, he'll wish to bathe. after, he shall. for now, this, and the challenge, ever growing, between them.) )
Why is this man just so: odiously, painstakingly, lavishly obscene, alive in the glimpses between modesty and disaster. Forcing Lan Wangji to question both the fit of his robes when his breath thins, laboured, and the justice of his choices.
( let it be known that Wei Wuxian does not consider himself a man knowledgeable in seductions of the flesh and mind in tandem, in coaxing want to a foreground of indulgence, in understanding what will draw his husband forward across the ache of their feigned indifference. he doesn't consider this difficult especially, eager to learn, but time and situations have stacked against them again and again, and the wanting is simple. is direct. is untaught and eager to learn.
which is to say, Lan Zhan asks if it was satisfying, his fruit, and he answers by letting one hand holding it fall, and using his tongue to meticulously, slowly clean his hand, absolve every digit from sticky mess, from sweet outpouring. )
I don't know.
( he says, intent as he stares, as his finger slides between his lips and is caught against his tongue. as his lips press down and around it, and the wet, sucking sound of it's withdrawal is suggestive even as it's ridiculous. )
I can imagine tasting you instead feeling far more satisfying.
( no subtle measures, not with his husband, who does not see the poetry in motion so much as hear verse and trade it for glimpses of scarred, healing hearts )
( This is... perverse. Undiluted. Obscene. At once too much and too little, sight-searing. He should look away and return Wei Ying's modesty by force. Kittenish licks and wet suckle, and the burn of Lan Wangji's gaze, locked.
Truly, what was it his brother said? They have too many excuses. )
Wei Ying. Enough. Do not demean yourself, and me in my affection. ( Speaking as a flower house girl, a creature of easy and course pleasures. As if they mean nothing to one another but base satisfaction of the flesh. )
May I see you this evening?
( A difference from how they always convene to hold vigil over each other's sleep. )
( a languid, lazy statement, the burr of his voice touching on yunmeng, not the honey thick sweetness of gusu's tongue. a finger comes to rest against his lips, considering. his smile slow and spreading, eyes dark and warmed and burning, when he says: )
All of me?
( and allows that finger to trace down his chin, over those sticky pathways which surely would annoy him in the immediate time that follows, down the curve of his sticky sweet neck, to hook at his layered lapels, implying the tug. clarity in purpose: he agrees to be seen, but not observed. )
( too many, as he's always done. wear the face most acceptable for a given audience. don't be his whole self, just his parts. )
Yes. ( and he leaves his finger hooked where it is, in the vee of his robes. ) The world will always demand more of us. Lan Zhan, when will we claim time for ourselves?
( less the seduction in that question, more the quiet, direct question: this is between us, one part of many. when will we face it, instead of push it back? )
( firmer, stating that much. now is not when others get to dictate how he feels or acts around his husband. only lan zhan has sway in that, as his whole, as his paths partner, as the one who navigates the swells and storms and joys of life with him, with each other. they're not perfect men. they're learning. )
And it's not something I want done to move on from or say there, I've done it, I've been intimate with the man I love — Lan Zhan, surely you've realised by now I want you. In every way. Wanting this too is ... is it not natural? Is it not what you want?
( trying now to understand, because yes, he'd believed differently, from the hunger behind lan zhan's kisses to the predatory grazing of nails through hair, against scalp, to the desire twinned and twined with affection, with warmth, with longing. a touch of fear, too, for what night be lost, what has been lost before through too many things not said, not done. )
( This, to be clear, certain. A foregone conclusion. A conversation perhaps best delivered in person — but better still not to let questions and uncertainty linger. )
It has been so often the end of a road, that I do not know what to do, now that steps lead to it.
( he doesn't even notice the relaxing of his shoulders, the clarity a balm to the what if, the not enough, the too much, and he would laugh at himself if he did. oh, he knows Lan Zhan has struggled as they find themselves as people, but the truth is also: neither of them have chosen to leave.
and they could. theoretically. )
Take the steps and not think things end here, I guess. I don't know any more than you do, little of what I read said much about things between men.
( and the one that had been explicit also was sliced to pieces by a certain party here, when they were younger. )
( Are they much better than innocents, learning? Than children.
In truth, it matters little. Generations of young men have made themselves apt to the task. Apprehension is the moment of bated breath between hope and realisation.
And Wei Ying looks — for one moment, too long — heartbroken. )
...no. Not where there lives the possibility of intrusion. ( Why betray themselves? ) The quarter.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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A distant quarter. Afar. Without morning meals.
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Is that what they're celebrating?!
( He is, however, at the edge of this particular room, fleeing to the ledge across the cliff face. His voice sounds further away, until: )
un: xianxian of yunmeng
Lan Zhan! It worked! They didn't follow me!
( being followed by animals is not something that happens for him in general, but look, those birds were relentless )
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......oh no, he's being -
...
cute in bird exile. )
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( sounding in better humour now that he's not being bird bombarded, adjusting what's in his arms as he makes his way across the cliff face. )
I'll see another monk on their way to contentedness and set up a hearth, less the birds.
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Is that all?
( there's a delay: not long, but telling of distances between holy spaces to long departed monks and their whims. then the eventuality, the certainly, of things set around an unseen hearth, of murmured conversation with the dead. he's charming, he knows it most days, and it's into silence that he sits and takes hold of two things: pendant and fruit, a native and ripe and juice bleeding thing, held up as the pendant hangs from stone, taking in his face.
a smile and a nod of his head, fruit held like a cup in offering, and then wei wuxian bites down and into the skin of this delight, spared from the birds by merit of hiding within a bag. his eyes close when he bites down, when the juices flow with sudden generosity, down his chin and mapping his throat and hand and oh, he moans not for the effect, but for the sharp delight of its flesh dancing across his tongue, down his throat. dark eyes open, watching the pendant, daring the unseen husband to validate: eating.
and the ridiculous, sucking sounds of it, the lathing of his tongue across his lips before he bites down again, this time not at much as blinking.
(after, he'll wish to bathe. after, he shall. for now, this, and the challenge, ever growing, between them.) )
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( ...why.
Why is this man just so: odiously, painstakingly, lavishly obscene, alive in the glimpses between modesty and disaster. Forcing Lan Wangji to question both the fit of his robes when his breath thins, laboured, and the justice of his choices.
Then, rasped: )
...was that satisfying?
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( let it be known that Wei Wuxian does not consider himself a man knowledgeable in seductions of the flesh and mind in tandem, in coaxing want to a foreground of indulgence, in understanding what will draw his husband forward across the ache of their feigned indifference. he doesn't consider this difficult especially, eager to learn, but time and situations have stacked against them again and again, and the wanting is simple. is direct. is untaught and eager to learn.
which is to say, Lan Zhan asks if it was satisfying, his fruit, and he answers by letting one hand holding it fall, and using his tongue to meticulously, slowly clean his hand, absolve every digit from sticky mess, from sweet outpouring. )
I don't know.
( he says, intent as he stares, as his finger slides between his lips and is caught against his tongue. as his lips press down and around it, and the wet, sucking sound of it's withdrawal is suggestive even as it's ridiculous. )
I can imagine tasting you instead feeling far more satisfying.
( no subtle measures, not with his husband, who does not see the poetry in motion so much as hear verse and trade it for glimpses of scarred, healing hearts )
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( This is... perverse. Undiluted. Obscene. At once too much and too little, sight-searing. He should look away and return Wei Ying's modesty by force. Kittenish licks and wet suckle, and the burn of Lan Wangji's gaze, locked.
Truly, what was it his brother said? They have too many excuses. )
Wei Ying. Enough. Do not demean yourself, and me in my affection. ( Speaking as a flower house girl, a creature of easy and course pleasures. As if they mean nothing to one another but base satisfaction of the flesh. )
May I see you this evening?
( A difference from how they always convene to hold vigil over each other's sleep. )
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It's never demeaning to want you.
( a languid, lazy statement, the burr of his voice touching on yunmeng, not the honey thick sweetness of gusu's tongue. a finger comes to rest against his lips, considering. his smile slow and spreading, eyes dark and warmed and burning, when he says: )
All of me?
( and allows that finger to trace down his chin, over those sticky pathways which surely would annoy him in the immediate time that follows, down the curve of his sticky sweet neck, to hook at his layered lapels, implying the tug. clarity in purpose: he agrees to be seen, but not observed. )
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He is silent, for a moment, sprawling. )
Have I... proven neglectful?
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( too many, as he's always done. wear the face most acceptable for a given audience. don't be his whole self, just his parts. )
Yes. ( and he leaves his finger hooked where it is, in the vee of his robes. ) The world will always demand more of us. Lan Zhan, when will we claim time for ourselves?
( less the seduction in that question, more the quiet, direct question: this is between us, one part of many. when will we face it, instead of push it back? )
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( Softened: ) Brother startled you.
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Both brothers were loud and easily ignored.
( firmer, stating that much. now is not when others get to dictate how he feels or acts around his husband. only lan zhan has sway in that, as his whole, as his paths partner, as the one who navigates the swells and storms and joys of life with him, with each other. they're not perfect men. they're learning. )
And it's not something I want done to move on from or say there, I've done it, I've been intimate with the man I love — Lan Zhan, surely you've realised by now I want you. In every way. Wanting this too is ... is it not natural? Is it not what you want?
( trying now to understand, because yes, he'd believed differently, from the hunger behind lan zhan's kisses to the predatory grazing of nails through hair, against scalp, to the desire twinned and twined with affection, with warmth, with longing. a touch of fear, too, for what night be lost, what has been lost before through too many things not said, not done. )
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( This, to be clear, certain. A foregone conclusion. A conversation perhaps best delivered in person — but better still not to let questions and uncertainty linger. )
It has been so often the end of a road, that I do not know what to do, now that steps lead to it.
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( he doesn't even notice the relaxing of his shoulders, the clarity a balm to the what if, the not enough, the too much, and he would laugh at himself if he did. oh, he knows Lan Zhan has struggled as they find themselves as people, but the truth is also: neither of them have chosen to leave.
and they could. theoretically. )
Take the steps and not think things end here, I guess. I don't know any more than you do, little of what I read said much about things between men.
( and the one that had been explicit also was sliced to pieces by a certain party here, when they were younger. )
Lan Zhan... later, at the waters?
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( Are they much better than innocents, learning? Than children.
In truth, it matters little. Generations of young men have made themselves apt to the task. Apprehension is the moment of bated breath between hope and realisation.
And Wei Ying looks — for one moment, too long — heartbroken. )
...no. Not where there lives the possibility of intrusion. ( Why betray themselves? ) The quarter.
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( the curl of his lips into a not quite smile. )
I mostly meant to bathe first. We should set wards. An array. Something.
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Something.
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Today?
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Moonlight. Better for shivered hands.
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( to shivered hands or shivered bodies, scarred and otherwise. )
No interruptions.
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