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between this is always a pleasant song
Grooming is an important part of many species' rituals. It keeps them clean, healthy, and content. And a good bath? It can change the whole tone of a day from terrible to relaxed and blissful.
But nudity is sometimes viewed as a weakness - and it is almost always sexualized - so bathing is often kept a private matter. If you do share these moments with someone, they're almost always a significant other or a sexual partner.
Like you're doing now.
Whether it be after a battle or after sex, after a bad day, or just to get some peace and quiet, the two of you are going to get clean. Be sure to help each other out with that, won't you? After all, there are places on the back that just can't be reached...
it's the intimate bathing meme. you know how this works! feel free to post top levels as you'd like!
ichiro yamada ★ hypmic
so fluffy i'm getting embarrassed
However, no matter how hard Kuukou tried he wasn't able to completely get rid of his feelings for Ichiro. Once he worked out his own feelings after what happened when Ichiro joined The Dirty Dawg he found himself drawn to Ichiro again. It felt like old times sitting around watching anime and eating pizza then before he knew it he was staring in those eyes and kissing him. It was different than the frenzy make out they used to have in dark alleys after a job. Kuukou did appreciate having the time to make out now without having to worry about being outside.
After the first time they kissed they continued to do it whenever Kuukou came by to visit. Kuukou didn't have any problem with this. He enjoyed kissing Ichiro then teasing him about it later on. He could still get flustered that would never fail to bring Kuukou joy. When he came over today the routine was about the same except after they took a break Ichiro suggested taking a bath. Kuukou didn't turn it down since he planned on staying the night anyway, though he didn't expect Ichiro to suggest that they take one together. How could Kuukou say no when he saw that cute look on Ichiro's face.
It didn't take long for him to strip then join Ichiro in his tub. He sighed as he leaned back against Ichiro's chest.]
Nothing like a bath to cleanse the body and the mind.
nie huaisang | mdzs.
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it feels childish. it's not like it's his childhood home. the entirety of it had been burned down, and then reestablished into an entirely new entity, but it's that stark difference that makes it so desperately impossible to forget — he arranged the buildings back down to the inch, replaced the boats all with a craftsmen's eye for detail. but there are things they can't replicate, things they can't work in or out of the very bones of the lotus pier. a knick in the wood where wei wuxian fired a lone, wandering arrow just above jiang cheng's head — or a stain, bore into the floorboards and hidden under a mat, where the three of them stayed up late giggling, knocking over their shijie's famous soup.
sour memories with time, in any case. jiang cheng's very mentality is to keep moving so the past can't catch up to him, and when his feet feel restless, they wander. far enough, sometimes, to the unclean realm.
ironically, he finds himself in the springs, hot rock pressed against his back while nie huaisang hovers close, sat on his thigh with lazy arms encompassing him, wrapped loosely around his middle. their fingers are interlaced somewhere beneath the water, kept out of view with the foggy, hot air dosing the entire spectacle in clouds.
there's a moment of prolonged silence, warm water seeping into his muscles. it's been a long journey, but it's one that's always worthy to make — he and his men, traveling under the guise of business, when in reality —
mouth on his shoulder, jiang cheng blows out a halfhearted raspberry, tightening his grip. )
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qinghe nie as ever is a fortress, tucked into the shadows of the former wen clan’s mountain, a safe place where huaisang learned to paint and to avoid saber lessons, to stand in a massive shadow of a mountain of his own. even now, he’s been sect leader (if you could call it that) for years, but the complex still carries the echoes of his small feet on wood floors, the phantom feeling of his fingers winding braids into his big brother’s hair to keep it out of his face as he fought. it still carries ashes, the scent of a burning room, the bitter taste of jin guanyao’s betrayal never buried even years after the fact.
what’s left in the aftermath of revenge well finished? was he a phoenix from that same burnt room, or a monster born out of the innocence of his youth instead, the kind of person dage would have been disgusted with instead of proud, as he eschewed every moral nie mingjue put in his head.
what’s left is this—the position of chief cultivator dropped into his lap, a false reputation of a headshaker finally shaken for good, and a closed coffin with burial rites done properly.
over the years, nie huaisang was always good at hosting guests. he needed the help, after all, and under his social graces, qinghe nie bloomed floral and fragrant in the springs. and when a small envoy from yunmeng sends their notice of arrival ahead, huaisang has things prepared. guest rooms for disciples. liquor for the chill of the unclean realm, a dazzling dinner upon their arrival.
for the sect leader himself, the preparations seem meager. a simple guest room, a thick towel on the desk. in reality, the room won’t be used much—it’s only for jiang cheng’s privacy and courtesies and pride.
as promised, when the disciples are off to bed, huaisang waits in his private bath, and he isn’t disappointed. he could waste away hours in here with his childhood friend, jars of liquor on the edge of the pool, and his slim legs spread across jiang cheng’s thighs, tucked against him. it’s perfectly peaceful.
the raspberry is decidedly less peaceful, though. half hearted or not, huaisang is soft and ticklish as he was as a child, and he squeals his displeasure at the contact, though the squirming is perhaps a little theatrical. ] Jiang-xiong! [ but if anything, the arms around his shoulder squeeze tighter: if he’s going down because jiang cheng is feeling feisty, he’s taking the other sect leader with him, alliances be damned! ]
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Forgive me.
( he doesn't sound especially apologetic. neither does he look it, mischief alight in grayed out eyes.
still, he kisses the offended area lightly, not fearing the threat of being tossed down into the water from his childhood years growing up on lotus pier, but having at least enough faith in his ability to dissuade huaisang from any sudden movements to get away. soothing, his fingertips slide down the pathway painted by huaisang's spine, tracing him out like the curve of a vase before his hands hook under his thighs, hiking him up so jiang cheng can sink further into the water, offering him a pretty gorgeous image of huaisang, back lit by the dimly lit lanterns of the hot spring.
that degree of separation now between them, jiang cheng's hands crawl back around his thighs, worn thumbs laying flat on the pockets of his hips. he strokes that cut of skin up and down, reaching further on every strike ... though there is something almost tentative in his movements, a hesitation like he's waiting for a treaty to be signed. )
Are you ... tired?
( or in jiang cheng language — you want some fuck? )
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the fierce part of him shows in these situations in spades. this is not the first or even the tenth time they've done this, secret rendevouzs here in the bathhouse or in nie huaisang's room or even at discussion conferences, trying to muffle themselves, and it's still ever as pleasant when jiang cheng runs his fingers down his spine like that. he shifts with it, graceful as ever, back arching slowly, head tipping up. that fierce part is what hikes him upwards: the motion surprises him, but huiasang goes with it gleefully, his mouth falling open in a pretty little oh! shape before he closes it again and smiles down at jiang cheng from this new position. it's soft and warm and a little mischievous, like someone plotting something. (he is, in some ways, even now, always plotting something. it's never for power. it's often for his own benefit or laziness or both.)
but the hesitant, embarrassed part comes out too. nie huaisang feels a fondness tug at his heartstrings, and he moves to press his fingers delicately to the broad expanse of jiang cheng's chest, dainty and more powerful than anytime he's ever tried to swing a saber. ] Tired?
[ hm. the fondness overflows into his gaze, too, warm, as he walks his fingers up jiang cheng's chest, one by one. ] I'm quite tired of listening to other sect leaders at the discussion conference next week, and it hasn't even started. I'm tired of paperwork. I'm really tired of my advisors sending matchmaking agencies to my door.
[ as he speaks, he leans in closer, mouth curling up, and his tone drops to near a whisper, sticky sweet and slow like honey, barely a breath away from his mouth. ] But, Jiang-xiong, I couldn't imagine a day where I was too tired to fall into bed with you.
[ as he finishes his sentence, nie huaisang rolls his hips down against jiang cheng's under the water, right into the stroke of his thumbs. his thighs part a little further when he drifts inwards, invitingly. asking. daring, really. nie huaisang will sign it for him, and deliver it while he's at it. ]
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he swallows, one breath and then two. he's not a child anymore, but even back then he wasn't so inept that he could turn down a silver platter with huaisang on top. surging up again, his hand grows firm on huaisang's hip, sharply holding him in place as jiang cheng crosses that small divide and kisses him hungrily.
matchmaking. he pushes his own irritation at the mention of it into the kiss, freeing up one hand to push through the hair at huaisang's neck, gaining a tight hold and biting his mouth, free with a new wave of demanding energy — the forth right point of proving himself there at the front of his mind. huaisang himself said he's tired of it, and yet jiang cheng still insists he could use a reminder, feeling more confident in himself with every shared breath.
he's quick to stand, huaisang an effortless weight in his arms, turning them and bracing huaisang against the rocks. his kisses get wilder, explorative — across the red raw corner of his mouth, down the feminine outline of his neck. at his chest, jiang cheng draws his teeth across his flesh, licking warm droplets of water off the elegant dip of stomach. his eyes lift up, fiery, threatening. )
You don't need anyone else.
( the benefit of growing up in lotus pier — an almost unearthly ability to hold his breath underwater for extended periods of time, beneficial for, say, underwater blowjobs. he shucks himself down after a big gulp of air, easily finding the length of huaisang a drawing his tongue up him, base to tip, with a fervor befitting only jiang cheng's overly emotional self. )
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so, he expected that reaction, and nie huaisang isn't disappointed. jiang cheng gets aggressive in the kiss and nie huaisang makes a helpless, hungry noise at the bites, the way he trails his way down his neck once he's lifted him right off of his lap and put him where he wanted. perfect, perfect--it's so good, jiang cheng is so good, and he hums his praises, only taking his hands off of him long enough to brace himself against the rocks. his legs spread further into the hand on his thighs, and nie huaisang's back arches off of the hot rocks, only tilting his head down to look at jiang cheng when he speaks.
that look in his eyes is an instant turn on. fiery, fierce, the sandu shengshou himself. how exceedingly attractive. anyone who thought otherwise didn't have eyes. (all the more for nie huaisang: jiang cheng's destruction of his own prospects have left him greedy, too.) he can't help himself, his mouth curling into a smile of it's own, eyes a little dark in match.
and then jiang cheng does actually surprise the hell out of him when he ducks underwater. nie huaisang yelps, his hands shooting down to curl into jiang cheng's hair and fucking up any semblance of braid beyond all recognition. half surprised at his boldness and half thrilled at the fact he surprised him (like this!), nie huaisang's squeal of - ] A-cheng! [ is one hundred percent real.
the squeal dissolves into a moan a second later, his shoulders rolling backwards, and nie huaisang squeezes his hands in his hair, dropping his head back and trying not to push his hips up to his mouth to beg for more. yunmeng jiang... who would've thought.... never in his wildest dreams..... ]
xiao xingchen | mdzs
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Whenever possible, Song Lan keeps them from the main roads. That sends through rougher terrain and leaves them more than a little dirty at the end of each day (much to Song Lan’s distaste, but for safety’s sake, he’ll endure). Tonight’s rest is in a remote inn. Being in an out-of-the-way location, the innkeeper is happy to take Song Lan’s silver in exchange for silence about their visit should anyone come asking.
After they’re settled (as much as they can be when they’re fleeing), the innkeeper prepares a bath and leaves them to their own devices. Because the room is small, there’s nothing but a small screen separating them. Song Lan offers to let Xiao Xingchen bathe first while he washes the clothes. ))
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in maybe a stroke of cruel irony, he had been blind in more ways than one for the past few years. he'd lifted xue yang out of a ditch and nursed him back to health. xue yang. they'd laughed together, taken meals together, spent time together as a family might have, with a-qing trailing at his heels, the blind leading the (supposedly) blind. there was something missing the entire time, and the distraction of song lan's suffering and (righteous) anger had made it so easy for xingchen to miss. twice, now, he'd been fooled, moved like a puppet to xue yang's malicious little game. the worst part of it all had been he'd quite enjoyed his company. like he was a normal person, when he'd--
there's no time to think about it as they escape. it's been weeks, and xiao xingchen wonders when that singsong voice calling daozhang will find him again. those are the thoughts that blur him away from reality, and being led to a remote inn and instructed to bathe is the first time he really has a moment to proper center himself. to pray, think for a moment about something that's not fleeing, that's not the sting of betrayal that twists like a knife, that's not song lan, song lan--
xiao xingchen sinks into the water slow, his hair pooling across the surface. the bandage across his face remains, but he can feel the filth lifting from his skin just at the touch, dust from his fingertips, warming up the cold. he inhales, slow, tries to center himself and focus on the sound of song lan washing their clothes on the other side of the room. it's so bizarrely normal, like old times, that the invitation comes out of his mouth weighted less with guilt and sorrow. ]
...Zichen, washing the clothes with dirty hands feels futile. [ it's soft, not quite chiding, not quite playful either, a point to be made. you're just as filthy as i am, and i know you hate it. you're taking care of me. why are you taking care of me? ]
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For a moment, things feel like they used to. It’s like before when they would stop to travel: one of them would bathe while the other busied himself with some chore or other. Then they’d switch. They’ve been in smaller rooms than this, but the silence was comfortable then. Song Lan busies himself with the washing, partly to distract himself from this strange distance between them and partly to keep his mind off the layer of dust and dirt cover his skin. Thankfully, he’s able to start washing his outermost robes while Xingchen is in the bath.
His hands still, fingers twitching slightly around the fabric in his hands when the other man speaks. It’s a good point, but more importantly, Xingchen sounds more like himself (as if Song Lan is qualified to judge such a thing). He cants his head toward the screen, catching a glimpse of Xingchen’s shadow behind it. ))
I do not wish to be idle.
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when they used to travel together, xiao xingchen always felt like he could read song lan. it was one of the many little joys between them, their bond so unbelievably strong, so true, that it would just take a sideways glance to have a conversation. he could tell when song lan was feeling uncomfortable, prickly--could step between him and whoever tried to reach out to touch him, no matter who they were, easily insert himself as a protection, a barrier. as a friend. on the mountain, friends had been few and far between, and no one--not before, and certainly not since--could ever fill the void that song lan's departure left. he never tried to fill it or patch it over. he just let it exist, as empty as his eyes.
right now, he can't even begin to parse what song lan is feeling. xiao xingchen isn't even sure if he's allowed to consider it.
(after all, the guilt of xue yang was irreplaceable, unsolvable. the eyes that xiao xingchen gave his best friend wouldn't even begin to make up for what, inevitably, had been his fault. always his fault. this, now, too. )
in this inn room, xiao xingchen's senses pick up on many things. he can hear the soft sound of the water stilling across the room, of song lan's barest motion, the sound of floorboards creaking from across the hall as patrons make their way through the hallway. though he sees nothing, his senses have sharpened, now quite used to the life he's given himself, and he centers himself with them the best he can.
how strange, how normal, this almost feels. xiao xingchen stays still, hands laced on his chest, fingertips tapping against his knuckles, the motion repetitive. it's something to focus on, instead of the boulder he's called his heart since everything came to light. the words lift from his chest; they soften, again, low, like an ember flickering in a dying flame. ]
...Neither do I. [ is what he chooses, the phrasing lamer than he wants. he tries to choose what he says with purpose, but xiao xingchen feels lost. it's not big enough--there's no phrasing that even comes to match where he wants to start. instead, he says: ] Would you bring me my outer robe?
[ a lame excuse. it's a terrible excuse. what is he doing? ]
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He can almost feel the weight of Xingchen’s thoughts. The silence between them is a deep chasm, a sort of stifling miasma that taints any sense of comfort they might find in their reunion. While Song Lan also felt the pain of Xingchen’s loss, he had to recover before his friend’s master would let him leave. And since then he’s been searching, he’s been hoping…
In some moments, it feels like it used to, just the two of them trying to clean up and find comfort in some tatty inn with tasteless food and watered-down tea. But he sensed snippets of guilt, his own and Xiao Xingchen’s. There is so much to be said and yet, neither want to broach the subject.
After brushing the creases from Xingchen’s robe, Song Lan finally pads toward the bath. He slips beyond the screen, catching only a glimpse of pale skin dotted with sweat and water before he politely looks away. He knows Xingchen can’t be finished, it hasn’t been long enough. The water is still steaming. ))
Xingchen.
(( The word is soft, reverent as a prayer. He wants to say more than I’ve brought your robe, but his throat feels tight and dry and his voice small. After a moment, he finally manages to start again. ))
Xingchen… I am sorry.
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it sticks in xiao xingchen's ribs more than any sword ever could, twists barbed wire around his heart and gives a squeeze. not because xiao xingchen won't accept it, but more so because it's stunning. zichen is sorry? zichen?
he might have guessed for anger, festering and old. fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice? shame on xiao xingchen, who is, as far as he's concerned, an idiot. how he let xue yang trick him for so long is frustrating and upsetting, and the thoughts of the kindnesses that he showed someone who ruined so many things make him ache with regrets and an anger he doesn't often feel. song lan had every right to be angry with him then, and xiao xingchen has done nothing but betray him again.
and he's sorry?
a strange, not quite huff of a laugh escapes him. it's more incredulous than anything, and even half submerged, he sits up, the water rippling with the movement as his hands grab for the edge of the tub. ] What-- [ he starts, too, and sounds wrung out, breathless and incredulous (and a part of him, so fond, so unbelievably fond, his song lan so kind and caring and - ) ] --what could you possibly have to be sorry for?
[ he can hear song lan close to him, the shifting of the floor under his feet. xiao xingchen can't see, but his senses are as clear and sharp as they've ever been, and his head tilts upwards towards where song lan is standing, to bring his face up like he could see if he tried hard enough. ] If there was anything - you reacted no differently than anyone should have, Zichen, there's nothing you should have to apologize for.
[ there's some intensity to the statement, a passion xiao xingchen exhibits most often when talking about the sect he wanted to build, his place of love and acceptance away from the politics of the rest of the cultivation world. he used to talk like the stars themselves could hear him, his clever hands moving with his vision for the future, with song lan, for hours and hours, in those simpler times.
the passion of it fades, though, and xiao xingchen's face turns back towards the water, away from song lan again, as the pinprick of a reminder comes through. guilt seeps in more than the hot water can wash away. he deflates. it's not quite visible, just a tenseness in his neck, his shoulders. ] ...I'm the one who should be apologizing.
[ even that feels flat. it's not enough. little gestures, little words, none of those make up for the chasm of feelings that xiao xingchen had long stopped trying to cross (because if he loved song lan, if he really, truly, loved him, then he had to respect the fact that he never wanted to see him again.)
the words come tumbling out anyway, and xiao xingchen's hands curl tight on the rim of the bathing barrel, squeezing against oak until he's white knuckled. ] I--with everything I have, Zichen. It makes up for nothing, but I-- I'm so, so sorry. You don't have to stay, if you don't want to.
[ xiao xingchen would never blame him, if he left. he didn't then. he wouldn't now. ]
Sorry this is so short :C
Some unnamed emotion surged up from his chest, bubbling over in its steadfast refusal to be ignored. It prompts Song Lan to reach out, for his shaking hands to drop the robe in favor of grasping Xingchen’s hands. He makes no move to pry them from the basin’s edge, but merely to touch, to reassure. ))
Xiao Xingchen,
(( His voice is low and severe, but breathless. ))
Now, as ever, I choose to beat your side. There is no other place for me in this world. Only with you.
omg no need to apologize... i told you i write novels don't feel like you gotta match ;__; <3
any sort of severity in his tone is only enough to shake xiao xingchen out of what was becoming a terrible, tight spiral of guilt. he's always been a bit cerebral, the type of person to reflect and think on his actions--as a true daozhang should be--and the paths those thoughts take him down are dark, twisted, and have no end in sight. words like could have and should have are inevitably useless, but he thinks them anyway, so frustrated with his own behaviors, his own stupidity.
but (and it's like things are normal again), song lan pulls him out of it again. his fingers are familiar, callouses he knows as well as he knows his own, from holding fuxue, from once or twice where he dared to let them touch, where they passed weapons or food or locked hands in spars that went from graceful to childish rolling around in the dirt. though he can't see, he turns his head towards it anyway, as if he could visualize, and instinctually, xiao xingchen's grip loosens, and he lets go of a breath he didn't know he was holding.
it comes out in a huff, not quite hysterical, but certainly surprised, almost a laugh. it's still hard to believe this is real, and song lan isn't making it any less unbelievable. the feelings well up in his chest, dangerous, full, threatening to overflow, and xiao xingchen takes a breath to gently push the tide back. he speaks up, soft, almost unsure in contrast to song lan's determination. ] Zichen...
[ it doesn't work; the wound at his eyes leaks, and he turns his head away, abruptly, moving to cover it the best he can. (it's futile. he is in fact, completely naked in this bathtub, something he has yet to properly consider. xiao xingchen is having a moment, here, and none of it is very thoughtful, or composed, or entirely daozhang like.) xiao xingchen huffs again, only frees one hand to reach up and put the heel of it underneath the silk bandage at his eyes, rubbing away a thin streak of red. ] ...I'm sorry. I keep apologizing, and I'm sorry for that too--I think I must be losing it.
[ i choose to be at your side. the words echo again, and he gives song lan a smile, lips quirked at the corners. it's small and unsure, not so serene. a gentle breeze, scattered. ] Please excuse this behavior...I don't think I ever imagined you saying that in my wildest dreams, after --
[ he inhales. ] --After. [ and just lets the sentence finish their, in its finality. the fingers of his hand still covered by song lan's flex, softly, but it's not rejecting. in fact, he only loosens them to turn his hand upwards, the gesture so tender and soft, slowly opening his fingers, palm holding song lan's gently now in his own.
song lan is trembling. he can feel it, and xiao xingchen's heart aches for him. ] I didn't dare to ask for your forgiveness, let alone your company.
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Song Zichen took that time for granted, he knows that now. All those sleepless nights spent talking, tired mornings that saw them out on the road despite spending the whole night awake. There always seemed to be time. Later, in the future, tomorrow.
And then the future was gone. Tomorrow came and went, over and over again for three long years while Song Lan searched the land for his lost friend. Every day he mourned, he regretted the poisoned words he spat, and he hoped— oh, above all else, he hoped. He hoped to reclaim even some small piece of the past, to catch one last glimpse of his soulmate, to apologize for a moment of flared passion and pain.
But now they’re together again, Xiao Xingchen’s hand warm and alive beneath his. Not a ghost of a memory from a time that seemed an eternity ago. Real. Tears sting his eyes and he blinks quickly, dispelling them silently over his cheeks. ))
There is nothing to forgive.
(( His fingers curl around Xiao Xingchen’s in kind, gently squeezing. ))
There is nothing to forgive between us. Not now. Not ever.
(( He almost laughs when he realizes how ridiculous this emotional scene must look. It takes him but a moment to compose himself and he adds, ))
Xingchen, you’re still filthy.
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well, it doesn't matter. at this moment, xue yang is just an echo of the past, a ghost that will follow at their heels until all is said and done. inevitably they'll face him, and xiao xingchen won't be fooled again. not this time--not with song lan at his side. inevitably, they'll face him together.
xiao xingchen won't let song lan go again, and though he'll do so silently, he will earnestly, fullheartedly, give himself over to try and fix what he'd broken. if faced with the same question--his master looking at him near expressionless, "is this truly what you want, xiao xingchen?--he would answer "yes", a hundred times over. his sight was a small sacrifice. for his best friend, his other half, the most important and good person he's ever met, xiao xingchen would do anything.
slowly, the regret and guilt twisted up in his chest loosens, uncurling and leaving him feeling warm all over. he's unable to see song lan, can't pick up on if he's crying or not, but he's not much better--blood leaks from the old wounds at his eyelids, red tracing tracks down his face. it's an odd, unfortunate picture, but his mouth is curled up at the corners in a soft, unsteady smile as he uses song lan's grip against his hand to bring him home.
...however, his comment brings him back to reality, too, as their situation comes to light. he is in fact, still sitting in this bathtub, completely unclothed, crying tears of blood as he finally gets the chance to apologize to song lan. reaching up with his free hand, he touches his own cheeks; his fingertips come away wet.
he laughs. it's soft, a huff of a thing, a little hysterical, as he turns his head back towards where he knows song lan is. he looks a bit helpless with it, but the lightness of the moment after all that gravity is nice, and xiao xingchen can't stop the smile on his face from growing more. his shoulders shake, and then he's laughing, softly, but still there, enough that xiao xingchen's politeness takes over and he muffles it gently with that same, slightly bloodied hand, curling against his mouth. this is ridiculous. this is completely and utterly ridiculous. if song lan won't laugh, then xiao xingchen will, and be thankful for little mercies like being allowed to feel mirth. ] ...I am, aren't I? On that, I'll trust your judgement.
[ as he always has; that goes unsaid. ]
another shorty bc I'm tired
His hands tremble subtly. He swallows hard as he lays Xingchen’s arm back on the edge of the bath basin. ))
Is this alright?
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maybe it's because xiao xingchen's been lonely, or maybe he's over emotional, or maybe his senses are just too strong, but even just the touch of song lan's fingertips sends a jolt of electricity down his arm. even the nubs of the cloth give him goosebumps.
he's supposed to respond. he does, a little breathlessly. ] Yes--yes. [ that's more than fine. this is beyond fine. this is stepping right back into uncharted territory, where they left off, before xue yang and baixue, to starlit nights and the promises of a sect (a home) created together. the implication, that they'd run it together, that they would cultivate-- well, that they'd cultivate together, like they'd always been.
he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, in a soft whoosh of air. ] ...Thank you, Zichen. [ and xiao xingchen shifts, just a little, leaning backwards, and tipping his chin up, baring a little more skin, his dark hair shifting away and towards the water itself. don't stop, it says, because he's too much of a coward to say so. ]
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Now that apologies have been made and forgiveness granted… Well, the can never undo what’s been done, but they can move on from it. They’ve patched the wound and, with time, it will heal. But even so, it’s so easy to return to the halcyon days, to the breathless late-night musings, to dancing around the unspoken something that sparks in their air between them and leaves Song Lan feeling as if lightning struck the spot.
That why his hands shake and his breath stutters. A soft shuffle of robes accompanies his movement around the tub to settle behind Xingchen. Once more the cloth dips into the water, this time with a brush of long hair and the sleeve of a robe lightly against Xingchen’s exposed skin. Then the wet cloth moves across the back of his neck and shoulders. Slowly, gently. As if too much pressure would shatter the man in the bath. ))
I have missed you.
(( It’s barely more than a whisper. ))
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almost immediately, goosebumps crawl down his spine. the silk of his sleeve is an overdrive of sensation, and song lan's hair, and--
xiao xingchen reaches upwards, moving to pull his dark hair properly over his shoulders and out of song lan's way. he exhales, his shoulders drooping underneath the care of his touch. maybe he shouldn't be listening so much to song lan behind him: if his heart keeps beating this fast against his chest he might sooner drown him out. he's talking himself back into rational thoughts here. (song lan isn't the only one feeling like he's been struck by lightning. xiao xingchen can taste it in the air, the faint burnt feeling of something more powerful than he's ready to put to words.)
slowly, his head dips forward. the faint touch feels nice; xiao xingchen tries to focus on that instead of every other haywire emotion thundering in his bloodstream, playing a tune on his ribcage. he listens instead for the sound of song lan's breathing, to try and link them together, to find a state beyond teetering over the edge of a cliff of something.
as he counts (inhale, and exhale) he doesn't hear a breath. he hears i have missed you, instead, and something in xiao xingchen snaps.
he turns his head, the best he can, even though he can't see him, and blurts-- ] Join me. [ in a way that completely escapes any sense of logic or propriety, a sudden burst of intense emotion actualized. instead of letting this simmer, it's taking the bridge that's been thrown across the chasm between them in a running leap, because xiao xingchen's already ruined this once. what is the worst that could possibly happen?
(admittedly, the moment it comes out of his mouth, his cheeks color. it has nothing to do with the heat of the water, and everything to do with he just said that out loud.
none the less, he stands by it, mouth opening to say something again and then closing, stubborn in the admittance and refusing to back down, even if it was impulsive.) ]
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It wasn’t until after Xingchen was gone that Song Lan realized those feelings he held for the other man were more than just affection. Only after the hole formed in hi life where Xiao Xingchen used to be did he realize the depth of his love. Yes, he had always considered Xingchen a fated friend, but then he realized soulmate was the apt word.
The seconds stretch long and still Song Lan hasn’t moved. His heart beats hard, swift as a rabbit’s, and he finally remembers to breathe. Very carefully, he lays the washcloth over the lip of the bath basin. It isn’t like either of them to speak needlessly and so Zichen can only take the invitation at face value. When has Xingchen ever spoken words he did not mean?
The soft rustle of fabric lasts longer this time as layer after layer of robes are loosed and slide free. The dark outermost layer, the dark robe, the white underrobe, and finally he stands in naught but undergarments, face flushed as if he were already in the hot water. A deep breath begins the final question: ))
Are you certain?
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this is neither of those things. so, no, xiao xingchen certainly does not regret his suggestion. he's startled at himself in a passing sort of way for saying it so suddenly, and certainly embarrassed--his ears have started to turn red now to add to his cheeks, and the flush blotching cutely down his neck--but he doesn't regret it.
listening to the sound of him taking off his clothes (song lan is taking off his clothes, this should not be exciting considering the fact that they've shared beds in inns together millions of times but in that same detached way it is), xiao xingchen gently pushes himself forward in the bath. they're both grown, though xiao xingchen knows he's more delicate than his friend, and it won't be an easy fit, but that doesn't -- there's nothing wrong with that, either.
he feels... odd. not bad. just a bit..off-kilter. his world's gone topsy turvy in the past few days, and this is the first piece of genuinely warm, positive (confusing?) emotion it feels like he's had in ages. xiao xingchen's heart is hammering and he ends up ducking his head, finding a piece of his own hair with his fingers to give him something to fiddle with while he's trying not to chicken out and change his mind at the last second. back turned to him again, he's left plenty of space for song lan to join him. ] ...If you are.
[ he's always checking his boundaries. he used to know them better--he knew song lan's familiarity with his touch was a special thing, and could always tell when to linger and when not to, but it's been years and this is a special thing in and of it's own right. this is a whole lot of touching, bathing or not. so he'll check in one last time, too. he might vibrate out of this plane of existence after all at this rate. no backing down now.
(he wonders if song lan is as embarrassed as he is. what his expression looks like right now. it would be nice to be able to see.) ]
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I am.
(( His eyes are fixed on Xingchen, moving over his pale skin and following the droplets of water that trickle back into the bath. Just beneath the water he can discern the rest of his torso and the way he folds is legs to make room for another grown man. The sight is enough to leave him breathless while sending a pang of arousal jolting through his body.
Zichen swallows hard and discards the last of his undergarments, and climbs carefully into the bath. Water sloshes over the side as he sinks in with a quiet sigh. It’s still hot enough to steam and turn the skin it touches a pale pink. Once he settles, he reaches out gingerly the ghost his fingers along Xingchen’s spine )).
Turn around.
(( The words are barely more than a breathless whisper. But then he adds, ))
It will be more comfortable if you sit astride me.
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it's selfish, but he really does wish he could see. he wishes he could read song lan's expression, instead of just his tone, his movements. he's left anticipating, not quite breath held, but focusing in on the water moving and the sudden presence of a body, behind him. song lan's sigh, separated from the splashing of the water. that's that--this is just the true closeness of two friends, isn't it? it's completely normal. if you had told xiao xingchen many years ago this was happening, he might have laughed. (or, he might not have been all that surprised: they were, after all, the most intimate of friends.)
the fingers down his spine feel like they leave ripples of their own, some kind of spiritual energy; the hair on the back of his neck stands up, and xiao xingchen's entire attention is focused on the pads of song lan's fingertips. to turn around is crossing a completely different border of "intimate friend", and while he's never once been tempted by any sort of worldly desire, this is -- something on an entirely different level. his hands pause where they had been toying with his hair, and there's a beat of silence. ]
--Alright. [ he breathes out in response, nodding to steel himself as much as to agree with the notion. song lan does make a good point, and there's zero resistance to the idea of being closer (not to mention, sitting like this, it must be cramped; song lan's legs are awfully long.)
alright. alright!! this is happening. carefully, xiao xingchen pushes himself up to his knees; the water catches in his long hair and weighs it down, covering his back from view save for the pale crescents visible at his shoulders. it's a bit of awkward manuevering, as his hand slides across the inside of the barrel to make sure he doesn't disrupt song lan too much. all in all, it's not a graceful process for someone who has always been completely graceful, and finally, he stops touching oak and his hand finds song lan's arm instead.
familiar. his skin's warm, soft. xiao xingchen's fingers curl, and as carefully as he can in the small space, he uses song lan's arm to push himself upwards better. still, even with good hearing--these finely cultivated senses--he could probably use a little help, and he offers song lan a small, sheepish smile from where he's facing him at least. ] I'll make no promises to not send us both crashing to the ground.
[ it's almost a tease, a gentle rib at himself. xiao xingchen gives a small squeeze to song lan's bicep, a wordless if you wouldn't mind helping, because he doesn't need to say such things out loud. ]
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This is truly the sort of person one would imagine to be near the immortal Baoshan Sanren: ethereal, otherworldly, a man who looks as if he may have descended from the Heavens. That’s when his heart stutters and his pulse quickens. Warmth that has nothing to do with the bath fills his chest, spreading over his skin, and forming a churning knot low in his belly. Zichen reaches out gingerly to lay his hands on Xiao Xingchen’s waist beneath the water to better guide him. ))
I trust you implicitly.
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at this very moment, he's understanding every maxim about temptation and want. but this sort of thing is paired with what has to be love. xiao xingchen knows of that for sure (on his own end anyway.) he'll do his best to try and focus on finding some normalcy and enjoy the little things about this instead of going absolutely, completely bonkers over how it feels like every point of contact between them has been electrified.
focus on things like song lan's voice. he thought he'd never hear it again, let alone saying such kind things, and it brings a smile to xiao xingchen's face again, ducking his head gently at the admission as almost bashful. a part of him that still hurts replies you shouldn't, but he keeps those self-depreciating thoughts off to the side and instead says, softly- ] And I you.
[ it's implying a little more when song lan's hands touch his waist, maybe, but xiao xingchen doesn't say anything to prove otherwise. his hands feel nice and familiar, and carefully, using this steadying force, he puts his other hand against the rim of the tub and settles, unfolding his legs to sit in his lap.
it's definitely a new feeling, but there's absolutely nothing bad about it. the water's warm on his exhausted muscles, and zichen's body is solid and warm too, familiar. the hand still resting on his arm drifts upwards, up the length of song lan's bicep, until his fingers spread out against his shoulder, curling tips against the supple skin and muscle, using it to ground himself.
the other comes up to tuck a lock of his own hair behind his own ear. he's a little embarrassed. ] ...there.
[ i want to kiss you, he thinks, for not the first, second, third, hundredth time. xiao xingchen won't say it, even like this, even when it's close. ] ...perhaps this was a bit silly. [ with a small huff of a laugh--it's sweet and teasing, almost breathless with the bubbly warmth of it all. happier thoughts, like this situation they've found themselves in. it's hard to feel too awkward with someone who might as well be the other half of your soul.
he hopes, vaguely, that zichen can't hear how hard his heart is beating. or feel it, with how tightly they've become pressed together. xiao xingchen certainly feels it. ]
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Zichen knows this, has always known it since they day they became friends. Hearing it now, in this context, it takes his breath away. As does every brush of wet fingertips against his arm. He’s hyperaware of the other man’s thighs against his, his own hand on the gentle curve of his hip. Individually, all of these touches are nothing extraordinary, but together, combined with the heat of the bath and the small space… Well, Zichen can’t help the way it makes his pulse speed up.
Once Xingchen settles, there’s a span of silence— awkward, yes, but also filled with possibility. Every what-if he’s ever thought could fill that silence. What if I kiss him? What if I tell him? What-if, what-if, what-if. What if it ruins everything? Always the final question and the one that holds him at bay.
Finally, Xingchen’s voice breaks the quiet too full of steam and Song Lan huffs out a breath of a laugh. He cants his head, eyes following the way either water or sweat rolls down Xingchen’s throat. In his cultivation robes, he’s ethereal, untouchable. But like this, he’s simply a man like any other— except that he’s the man Song Lan has and always will consider his soulmate.
At length, he reaches a hand up to brush the backs of his fingers lightly against Xingchen’s cheek. ))
Perhaps not.
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xiao xingchen can't see song lan's expression, but he can feel him watching him. a part of him wants to shy away out of embarrassment, almost unused to the attention, but it's song lan and xiao xingchen trusts him beyond all belief, beyond anything. the fact that he returns the favor (still, even after--even after this) that they're still here, together, maybe even closer than they've ever been, is still beyond his wildest dreams. he shifts, hyperaware of the touch of their skin together, the slide that comes when he moves even the tiniest bit, and when song lan reaches to touch him, he lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
it's so soft it gives him goosebumps. so tender, xiao xingchen melts.
his smile lifts, more and more, eyebrows knitting together until his expression, even blind, is sappy and warm, as soft as soft can be. xiao xingchen has never been the type to hide his warmth or kindness, and here is no different. he tilts his head into song lan's gentle fingers, and the palm of his hand rises, sliding up song lan's warm wrist, to wrap around the outside of his hand, and he squeezes, softly, reassurance. whether it's for himself or zichen is yet to be seen. ]
Perhaps not. [ xiao xingchen repeats, softly, just loud enough to be heard in the quiet of this inn room, where they might have finally found a bit of peace. he is so lucky, to be here, with song lan, to be safe. as a pair of consistent travelers, xiao xingchen's best home was always by this person's side.
he turns his face and summons his bravery. cheeks warmed by the heat of the bath and his own, softly flustered intentions, he tilts his head towards the fingers against his cheek--now brushing his mouth--and presses the softest, most featherlight kiss to his knuckles. his voice drops again, nearly hesitant. ] Zichen...perhaps not.
[ a repeat, there, hollow compared to what he wants to say. how does he quantify how he feels about song zichen? after this, this great and beautiful kindness, his forgiveness, his care, the tenderness in his touch. it's too big for his chest. is this how his shijie felt, coming down from the mountain and falling head over heels, enough to have a family? nothing about this closeness is really that silly (aside from the fact that they're both too big for this tub.)
never once has xiao xingchen regretted his decision, and this--this is the kind of (great, big, perfect, heavenly) thing is worth facing tragedy for. ]
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He lifts his free hand from the water, trailing his fingers lightly, oh-so-lightly, up the length of Xingchen’s arm. Fingertips brush over the mixture of water and sweat dampening his skin, imagining what it might be like to taste. Up, up, over his forearm, along the firm curve of his bicep, to the sharp turn of his shoulder. Slowly, gently exploring the continent of his skin. Oh, how he could spend his life traveling the length of Xingchen’s body night after night. Mapping out the terrain like some adventurer.
But Song Lan doesn’t stop there. Those tender fingers continue along, following the line of his collar bone inward, where he presses his hand over the center of his dearest companion’s chest, splaying his fingers over soft, wet skin. He shifts slightly beneath Xingchen, doing his best to ignore the heat pooling low in his belly, bringing a certain part of him to life. He shifts to lean in, closing the slight distance between them to brush his lips against the corner of Xingchen’s mouth. ))
24 comments later................................ the kiss icon
and though he'd tried to move on -- for song lan's sake, because he would have understood intimately if his closest, dearest friend hated his guts, because xiao xingchen hated his own guts just a little for the horrible things song lan was put through -- he couldn't. a bright moon shining lonely in a sky that used to be filled with stars.
but here, they have a second chance. suddenly (even if they're on the run, it's no different than before) - suddenly he and zichen have each other again, like nothing and everything has changed all at once. for the first time in a while, xiao xingchen feels an utter, complete clarity.
his heartbeat ratchets up when song lan's fingers touch his skin. goosebumps rise underneath his fingertips, and he exhales, soft, shaky, keeps his hand curled against song lan's other, still pressed to his cheek. xiao xingchen rises with him just a little, the oxygen filling his lungs as he seems to follow his fingers, then back out again. he thinks, please, more when he stops, tries to visualize, imagine his expression, cool and smooth, light in his eyes, and his fingers curl tighter against song lan's when his mouth just brushes the corner of his. it leaves behind a spark.
xiao xingchen has wasted enough time. his chest heaves with the force of the breath he sucks in, heart aching, and his other arm comes off of the rim of the tub to grab for song lan's cheek. he misses the perfect angle, just a little too high so his fingertips brush his brow, but ever quick to adjust, xiao xingchen moves to cup his cheek properly, and just like that, the dam breaks.
he turns his head to the side, and for the first time, for something that feels so much like finally xiao xingchen kisses song lan, and wraps his fingers around his other hand to squeeze, and tight. to say, i'm here. to say, you're here.
to say, i love you, i love you, i love you. ]
bastí valentino | oc
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But he persists. He endures, continues to go on, to exist, no matter who comes for his life, or how, or when. This one ruined one of his good suits, the flesh gouged from his abdomen still slowly knitting, spitting out foreign matter like gravel and tatters of clothing, as he starts up the steps to home.
That there should even be such a place for him. Four walls, someone waiting within. He remembers all the nothing that came before, remembers it in moments like this more sharply than any cut of any blade. He stands at the door, fumbling for his key with numb fingers, cold with blood lost and not yet replenished in his body.
Basti won't like seeing him like this. The thought makes him laugh, as most things do. He can see it now, the furrow of that already serious brow. He'll worry for him, hurt for him, grieve for him. Basti gives Shunji things he's never been afforded before, and what does he give Basti in return?
What indeed.
He steps in, relieved to hear the shower running. If Basti's in the shower, maybe he doesn't have to know the full extent of it. Shunji will discard his clothes, let his wounds finish mending, then slip in next to him. He'll notice the blood, but he doesn't need to know how much of it there was. They can just have a quiet night together.
Basti likes it when they have quiet nights together.
Honestly, he should've just gone to the precinct or gotten himself a hotel. Spared Basti the whole mess of it, come to him whole, after. But that would require Shunji to be a better, less selfish, less weak-minded man. But he is none of those things. He hurts, and he's tired, and he wants the only thing that makes the curse of his existence ease.
He double bags his bloody clothes, shoves them into the trash. Makes his way to the bathroom, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.
He opens the bathroom door, feels the steam wash over him, smiles at Basti's familiar silhouette on the other side of the frosted glass. ]
Sebastian, [ he murmurs, barely audible under the shower's spray. Opening the shower door, he lets himself in, slipping in behind to put arms around the other man's waist. ]
Forgive me, it's been a long day.
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perhaps he shouldn't be. shunji is as immortal as immortal can be--many people have tried to kill him, on bastí's watch and off of it. bastí, even, at one point, had tried to kill him on assignment, before he realized that shunji was soon to become his entire world. it is nigh impossible to take him out. therefore, bastí knows he'll always come back from being harmed, but seeing him in danger makes him want to do anything to stop it. he'd jump in front of shunji without a second thought--he'd taste his food for poison, he's shielded him with his body more than once when things have gone awry.
but. he has to give shunji his space. his hobbies, unfortunate as they are, require discretion and also privacy, and bastí has learned over the years not to ask questions, to just provide shunji a place to come home to. he makes dinner, he puts the kettle on. he waits. he waits, and waits. (bastí would have built him this home with his bare hands if that's what shunji wanted, using the cybernetic strength shunji gave him when he had nothing to create a whole life for him, to try and hold him together when he falls to pieces. there is no action sebastian can do to make up for the things shunji has done for him, but god, he tries.)
the later he's gone, the more he tries to soothe his worry. they're both grown men, have both survived living in solaris point with all of it's strangeness and idiosyncrasies, with all of its nightmares, both imagined and real. they both have careers that cause them to brush with danger on the daily, shunji even more so as he engages with the darker sides of the city in ways bastí tries not to tangle with (not anymore).
shunji will be home. (he thinks.) he moves on as usual. he steps into the shower to wash the grime from the day off of himself, the prosthetic of his arm proofed against the damage, and it's there, in the soft noises of the water and the static of worry in his head, that shunji comes home to him.
in retrospect, he should've probably heard him when the door first opened, but bastí is attuned to the sound of shunji's voice instead, and though he tries not to show it, there's a visible slump to his shoulders when a pair of familiar arms wind around his waist.
...there's something wrong.
he's not sure what--shunji's mind is a minefield, and even an expert like bastí has to sift through to find the path to safety--but he reaches down with his real, human hand to cover his, the touch utterly tender, his thumb stroking against the top of his palm. ]
...there's nothing to apologize for, amor. [ what happened, what did you do, he doesn't say. bastí closes his eyes, and for the moment, resists the urge to turn, to ask, to fuss, and just lets shunji take what he needs from him, for the moment. for just a blissful second, when the words leave his mouth, the two of them feel domestically, utterly, normal. ] Welcome home.