[ tonight is one of those times when Xue Yang wants to bite at the pulse in Xingchen's neck just to feel the pulse of life beneath his teeth. wants to crack open Xingchen's rib cage to see his heart still beating in his chest. he settles for a press of lips to the tendon in his throat (knows that seeing redpurple blooming there will send him into a spiral) and leaves a line of bruises down his sternum instead. leaves a mark the shape of his fingertips against the inside of his thigh. it is worship and possession in equal measure.
everything he does is worship and possession in equal measure, though there are times he is unsure as to who possesses who.
(maybe it doesn't matter at all, maybe this time--)
the heat of Xingchen never fails to make him gasp, make him tremble in his bones like this skin is not enough to contain him. has him stilling so he does not snap his hips hard and fast and punishing as if he might somehow be able to crawl into Xingchen entirely and stay there until the world turns to ash around them.
time doesn't hold much meaning for him when they are like this, when Xingchen has his fingers in his hair and is making noises sweeter than honey against his skin. time means nothing as the pleasure builds and pulls, clings to them both and drags them under. and he lets it, lets the tide roll through him, through them both until Xingchen cries out and it's too much and -- the rhythm he has built, the steady thing he has. falters at that. Xue Yang is shaking as much as Xingchen when the pleasure finally crests, muffles his own noise against a sweat damp shoulder and remembers how to breathe as he tries not to simply collapse.
lingers a moment, then a moment more, before pulling himself away. not far, he topples over beside Xingchen before he gathers him close despite the fatigue in his bones. presses his lips to the tear tracks that are still damp at the corner of his eyes and hums.]
You're pretty when you cry. It's unfair. [ he's pretty all the time, but even more so then. when he can't keep it together anymore. when Xue Yang pushes and pushes and --]
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Date: 2020-01-29 04:16 am (UTC)everything he does is worship and possession in equal measure, though there are times he is unsure as to who possesses who.
(maybe it doesn't matter at all, maybe this time--)
the heat of Xingchen never fails to make him gasp, make him tremble in his bones like this skin is not enough to contain him. has him stilling so he does not snap his hips hard and fast and punishing as if he might somehow be able to crawl into Xingchen entirely and stay there until the world turns to ash around them.
time doesn't hold much meaning for him when they are like this, when Xingchen has his fingers in his hair and is making noises sweeter than honey against his skin. time means nothing as the pleasure builds and pulls, clings to them both and drags them under. and he lets it, lets the tide roll through him, through them both until Xingchen cries out and it's too much and -- the rhythm he has built, the steady thing he has. falters at that. Xue Yang is shaking as much as Xingchen when the pleasure finally crests, muffles his own noise against a sweat damp shoulder and remembers how to breathe as he tries not to simply collapse.
lingers a moment, then a moment more, before pulling himself away. not far, he topples over beside Xingchen before he gathers him close despite the fatigue in his bones. presses his lips to the tear tracks that are still damp at the corner of his eyes and hums.]
You're pretty when you cry. It's unfair. [ he's pretty all the time, but even more so then. when he can't keep it together anymore. when Xue Yang pushes and pushes and --]