( What is this hunger, the greed to own so much of another that you must hollow him, must claw and ribbon out his being and replace his flesh with your inner self, pulsing alive beneath his skins? That you must wish the twain destructively bound, colliding, coalescing in union?
The better, wiser, kinder half of Lan Wangji is repelled by the possibility of Wei Ying harmed, least of all by his hand, his teeth. The Yiling Patriarch, a rhetoric of ruin, crafted to the shape of man. And then there's the mould wickedness of Lan Wangji, black and all-reaching and fungal, and it stretches out to want again — the word that could unmake this man, the learning, the gestures.
He does not flinch when Wei Ying irritates the stretch of his jaw, when it blooms to redness that forecasts bruising. When Wangji retaliates with the clever cruelty of every man who is possessed of crude strength, of opportunity: dragging both hands down Wei Ying's flank, Bichen cold and cradled now on hard ground — and bullying, as only predators do, his husband against the flat of the long wall.
There are spring books that depict this in tales of submission, men who find pleasure in their capture. He knows, because Wei Ying's once-upon-a-time stolen masterpieces attested it. And it's his heart that trembles, with the wall in synchrony, it must be, barely contained strength of his arms and their impulse and Wei Ying's weight sending the structure of the room to quiver — )
Let me have you.
( A simple, brazen, proposition — routine among husbands of sixteen, seventeen years, soulmates of decades, and surely the time is ripe for them, shiny and terrible like the blood smear crowning Wei Ying's lips, surely they are owed the satisfaction of —
( They are not their best selves; they are want, consuming, violent, they are the thrum of desire that plays across the cords of their veins and sends heat rushing, running, rampant. He's had books and illustrations and enough of all kinds to know the extent of creativity and none of its application. Craves to be closer, without cracking open the casing of their selves to curl up within, coming as close as one might still breathing through one's lungs.
Lust needn't be poetic, but affection and want weave together into a secondary string as Lan ZHan's hands burn trails down his sides, his back, until the wall shifts to meet them and the air evacuates his lungs in a gasp, eyes locked on Lan Zhan's face.
His hand moves, and it feels like falling, as if the wall gave way under his weight and Lan Zhan's bearing down. These walls aren't the termite-devoured ones of the island village, and it's wrong, it's
shifting
Lan Zhan's lips move and
the roaring crash of a formless tide
the drop of his stomach, the air ripped from his lungs
and the fall, complete, as reality's coil winds down. )
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no subject
( What is this hunger, the greed to own so much of another that you must hollow him, must claw and ribbon out his being and replace his flesh with your inner self, pulsing alive beneath his skins? That you must wish the twain destructively bound, colliding, coalescing in union?
The better, wiser, kinder half of Lan Wangji is repelled by the possibility of Wei Ying harmed, least of all by his hand, his teeth. The Yiling Patriarch, a rhetoric of ruin, crafted to the shape of man. And then there's the mould wickedness of Lan Wangji, black and all-reaching and fungal, and it stretches out to want again — the word that could unmake this man, the learning, the gestures.
He does not flinch when Wei Ying irritates the stretch of his jaw, when it blooms to redness that forecasts bruising. When Wangji retaliates with the clever cruelty of every man who is possessed of crude strength, of opportunity: dragging both hands down Wei Ying's flank, Bichen cold and cradled now on hard ground — and bullying, as only predators do, his husband against the flat of the long wall.
There are spring books that depict this in tales of submission, men who find pleasure in their capture. He knows, because Wei Ying's once-upon-a-time stolen masterpieces attested it. And it's his heart that trembles, with the wall in synchrony, it must be, barely contained strength of his arms and their impulse and Wei Ying's weight sending the structure of the room to quiver — )
Let me have you.
( A simple, brazen, proposition — routine among husbands of sixteen, seventeen years, soulmates of decades, and surely the time is ripe for them, shiny and terrible like the blood smear crowning Wei Ying's lips, surely they are owed the satisfaction of —
...the walls, the windows
the world
rattling, shattering, surging, breaking
Lan Wangji's mouth a tired, fissured gasp
floors beneath shifting like stormed seas
and instant, visceral collapse, as reality starts
Unwinding. )
no subject
Lust needn't be poetic, but affection and want weave together into a secondary string as Lan ZHan's hands burn trails down his sides, his back, until the wall shifts to meet them and the air evacuates his lungs in a gasp, eyes locked on Lan Zhan's face.
His hand moves, and it feels like falling, as if the wall gave way under his weight and Lan Zhan's bearing down. These walls aren't the termite-devoured ones of the island village, and it's wrong, it's
shifting
Lan Zhan's lips move and
the roaring crash of a formless tide
the drop of his stomach, the air ripped from his lungs
and the fall, complete, as reality's coil winds down. )