( He might have thought he would flinch when teeth find throat, might have thought at worst he would gasp: the low groan, unplanned, unexpected thrill of a particular kind of, not competition, but striving. A particular indulgence, just between them, in their borrowed privacy and twinned heat, in unsteady heartbeats and quiet cacophonic inhalations.
He likes the thought of being wanted, even as he shoes away from that tragedy of wanting, of separation and death and the finality presented and denied to his unknown husband, his known brother. Not thoughts for now, not for this, not shades to linger at the headboard as so many are wont to do.
Yet there's allure in being desired, because he does not think that beautiful has even been enough, does not think love carves itself from pain and joys and everything else simply for beauty, for delight. He trails lips and fingers that rake with measured force through the freed waterfall of Lan Zhan's hair, against scalp, against propriety, for the sheer pleasure of it.
Frames a face familiar and loved in so many expressions and moments, pale and beautiful, ruddy and enchanting. Brushes a thumb across a cheek, holding dark strands at bay, and strains just so, just like this, to deliver another kiss, to nip gently at Lan Zhan's lower lip. Gentle, because it's easy to be rough. Gently, because it seems like it's what's been asked, even before a pledge forms on his husband's tongue, a deep fear, and aching sweetness, in words.
Not too disappear as a dream, as a nightmare. There's no logic to it — he's hardly slept away from Lan Zhan in the last two years, why of all times should he willingly do so now? — but hearts don't care for logic, fears don't understand reason.
His husband bargains, and dozens of tiny needles claw at his heart, affection overwhelming. )
That's no price, Lan Zhan. That's a pleasure.
( Another slow kiss, the hitch of his hips in an abortive roll, the dropping of his head but not his gaze. )
I promise. Short of some major disaster, I'm here. For tomorrow morning, and add many as you'll have me for after.
( Not a bargain, not a cost. If he thought it was true in any meaningful sense, he would roll them both over now, limpet clinging, and praise nothing but the merits of platonic rest.
He understands, and it's the wits and words Lan Zhan does not always employ to clarity, but it's there.
Please don't leave me to take alone after this. Don't leave me to wake to an empty, cold bed, to the uncertainty of how much this all is dreaming. )
( after. There is yet an 'after' brokered between them, ring by ring weaving the chainmail, and clinks and glints of it blinding and deafening and stolid. It is at once pledge and permission, Wei Ying forfeiting of himself both his present and his future.
So it begins: torrentially, without thanks, only Lan Wangji assailing like a huntsman pursuing prey, hands cruel and bound in Wei Ying's hair and the rest of their geometries falling in clumsy, then a righting place — and later, he will ask himself, was this the way of it? Was this the root of trouble and qualm, was it always so simple?
But now is for a thousand notches on the vellum of his headband, rounded clean around Wei Ying, now is learning and bright footsteps on an inn's half-deserted corridor and sighs of wind warring beyond, and a night cool and kindly. Now is their own. )
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( He might have thought he would flinch when teeth find throat, might have thought at worst he would gasp: the low groan, unplanned, unexpected thrill of a particular kind of, not competition, but striving. A particular indulgence, just between them, in their borrowed privacy and twinned heat, in unsteady heartbeats and quiet cacophonic inhalations.
He likes the thought of being wanted, even as he shoes away from that tragedy of wanting, of separation and death and the finality presented and denied to his unknown husband, his known brother. Not thoughts for now, not for this, not shades to linger at the headboard as so many are wont to do.
Yet there's allure in being desired, because he does not think that beautiful has even been enough, does not think love carves itself from pain and joys and everything else simply for beauty, for delight. He trails lips and fingers that rake with measured force through the freed waterfall of Lan Zhan's hair, against scalp, against propriety, for the sheer pleasure of it.
Frames a face familiar and loved in so many expressions and moments, pale and beautiful, ruddy and enchanting. Brushes a thumb across a cheek, holding dark strands at bay, and strains just so, just like this, to deliver another kiss, to nip gently at Lan Zhan's lower lip. Gentle, because it's easy to be rough. Gently, because it seems like it's what's been asked, even before a pledge forms on his husband's tongue, a deep fear, and aching sweetness, in words.
Not too disappear as a dream, as a nightmare. There's no logic to it — he's hardly slept away from Lan Zhan in the last two years, why of all times should he willingly do so now? — but hearts don't care for logic, fears don't understand reason.
His husband bargains, and dozens of tiny needles claw at his heart, affection overwhelming. )
That's no price, Lan Zhan. That's a pleasure.
( Another slow kiss, the hitch of his hips in an abortive roll, the dropping of his head but not his gaze. )
I promise. Short of some major disaster, I'm here. For tomorrow morning, and add many as you'll have me for after.
( Not a bargain, not a cost. If he thought it was true in any meaningful sense, he would roll them both over now, limpet clinging, and praise nothing but the merits of platonic rest.
He understands, and it's the wits and words Lan Zhan does not always employ to clarity, but it's there.
Please don't leave me to take alone after this. Don't leave me to wake to an empty, cold bed, to the uncertainty of how much this all is dreaming. )
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( after. There is yet an 'after' brokered between them, ring by ring weaving the chainmail, and clinks and glints of it blinding and deafening and stolid. It is at once pledge and permission, Wei Ying forfeiting of himself both his present and his future.
So it begins: torrentially, without thanks, only Lan Wangji assailing like a huntsman pursuing prey, hands cruel and bound in Wei Ying's hair and the rest of their geometries falling in clumsy, then a righting place — and later, he will ask himself, was this the way of it? Was this the root of trouble and qualm, was it always so simple?
But now is for a thousand notches on the vellum of his headband, rounded clean around Wei Ying, now is learning and bright footsteps on an inn's half-deserted corridor and sighs of wind warring beyond, and a night cool and kindly. Now is their own. )