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hoseoksluna · 3 months

Text

STORY | knj

pairing: soft dom!namjoon x reader

genre: smut

word count: 7.8k

summary: yours and namjoon’s story is a bit more perverted than traditional.

warnings: serious big dick namjoon, rough touches, hair pulling, use of pet names and titles, dom/sub dynamics, horny namjoon can't help but palm himself:(, desperation, masturbation, spanking, praising, tit slapping, nipple play, teasing, oc and namjoon not being comfortable with certain practices, playful orgasm denial, oral sex (m. and f. receiving), rimming && ass play :3, cum eating yum yum, tit fucking, orgasm countdown fuck

note: smut is so fucking difficult to write but i loved every second of it. i love writing about namjoon, he just makes me feel so safe. this is purely my fantasy with him and i'll probably dream about this for a long, long time. please, take your time reading this as it's pretty long. i hope you enjoy it and that it makes you dream like it made me dream. as always, let me know what you think in the comments, like the post and if you want to—reblog, but i won't pressure you angels <3. love you guys so much, thank you for all the love. kisses!

side note: i miss namjoon and i wish he were here. all i can do is watch his lives and pretend he never left for the military.

Namjoon makes himself comfortable on the wooden chair before you.

The scene is set. Like a mermaid bathing in the sun, you rest your elbows on the cold rim of the ivory bathtub. Small surges of violet-tinted water, perfumed with your scent, blanket your body in a thin layer of glittery sheen. They kiss the tiger stripes along the curve of your bottom as it rolls over, passing by the dip in the small of your waist, breathing in your patchouli fragrance in greeting. The bath bomb, cornered by your knees, sizzles and spins, the width of the tub allowing your form to float like a little fish in the open sea as copiously as you please.

A gift from your loving boyfriend. Both the clawfoot, and the bath bomb.

The scene expands. Your Eric slouches in his seat, balancing his greatest and most stellar possession on top of his lap with one hand while he runs the other through his silver mane. He fits perfectly in the picturesqueness of the background. Soft orange and chocolate tiles zig zag behind his back, transposing him momentarily into a sunlit illustration, where he rests in the shade of a palm tree on a faraway beach. Reads the book to pass the time as he waits for you to emerge from the waters. Sets it down on his lap as soon as his gaze catches yours. Periwinkle clams for a bra, panties thin and translucent from the oncoming waves, you rest your front on the sand. He smiles down at you and you know for a fact you won’t be able to get on your feet. Might have to learn how to walk, too.

You keep this picture in your heart. Mentally, you rip out the page. Fold it and tuck it somewhere within you to keep it safe.

Legs outstretched by the sides of the tub, clad in slacks in the muted color of a persimmon, it’s almost as though you’re propped on his lap. Sporting a simple white button-down, sleeves rolled, you’re close enough to touch the material if you so much as wished so. From his angle, Namjoon sees nothing but the roundness of your eyes through the brownish rims of his glasses, hair unkempt in their dampness as the short paper thin layers frame your flushed face in such a celestial way. If he were to lean over, it’d be a different kind of book.

The one in the clasp of his hand isn’t a tale as old as time.

It’s one of your favorites. An existential story that ridicules the traditional. A transfusion of liveness to a certain forgotten room of your heart. The unlit one while the others brim with sunlight, with the golden sepia projection of the contents of the fairytales you love so much made into stop motion. A coloring book of some sort, hues fitting into the lines by your helping hand—the attention of your eyes.

Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. The book that sweeps away all those cobwebs in that chamber. Makes it less lonely.

It’s all you had talked about on your dates when you and Namjoon first started dating, having been reading it at the time. You had confided in him that the writer was the only person who understood you without ever learning your name, without familiarizing himself with the subtleties of your calamitous life.

No one has ever shared something so vulnerable with him, especially not on the first date. Not that he’d gone on many, but the few that fell into his grasp were hell to get through. Insufferable, to say the least. Absolutely superficial.

He went home in the rain thinking of you. Not for boyish reasons. But for reasons of literary character, of melancholy nature that squeezed his long-unexpressed heart in perpetuating intervals too consistent for his liking. Filled it with a nectar bubbling with a newly blooming love for books, with a sudden longing to be found within the words. His body decided for him that it was yours. Yours to teach again how to read between the lines.

The scene breaks out of the margins on the page.

“Is the water warm enough?”

The idea constructed by his own geniality, it’s by his will that you’re basking in your bare femininity before his eyes. Idleness lingered in the living room between the pair of you, the flimsy curtain by your balcony lifting and falling in a little dance as the cold air perfused the place with the drowsiness of winter. Pulling his eyes away from the TV to sink a soft kiss into your hair, Namjoon muttered into your ear: “How about I draw you a bath and read to you for a little bit?”

You said nothing. The click of your phone turning off and your hasty movements to untangle yourself from the warmth of his limbs answered him for you. Leaving your clothes as a trail for him to follow, you gave him a glimpse of your ass, arched and pointed in the draft before you ran away. Before he scolded you with his index finger like a father, raising to his feet to close the balcony door.

In two seconds he joined you in the bathroom. Leaned against the doorframe as you circled a pink roll-on lip oil you’ve been obsessed with lately around the perimeters of your lips. The one that makes them look bigger, juicier. That makes them more fun to kiss and toy with. The one that leaves his length sticky once playtime is over. You seem to cast aside little trinkets of yourself for him to collect everywhere you go.

Tits pushed towards each other while you slightly bent over the vanity sink, tapping the excess into the fullness of your mouth, Namjoon palmed himself. The tiredness from work earlier weakened his self-control to the point of unrestrained indulgence. And the plumpness of your ass just encouraged it.

You fluffed your hair and Namjoon ran the bath. Disappeared into the kitchen for a moment to retrieve the purple bath bomb from the plastic bag on the counter, one that he got from the convenience store for you. Dragon fruit and hibiscus. Thought of the twinkle that would sparkle beneath your lashes upon seeing it. Wasn’t disappointed when you exceeded his expectations.

Having seen it in the mirror, almost microscopic and round in his big palm, you turned on your heel and burst into giddiness as he took off the plastic packaging with his teeth. You pouted in gratefulness when he showed it to you.

“You planned this, didn’t you?”

You hugged him, locking your hands behind the nape of his neck. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, and he told you so. A bit hoarsely, though.

Namjoon struggled not to moan. Groaned a little when he felt the curvature of your belly against his hardness and the pointed nubs of your tits beneath his pecs. Managed to conceal it, thankfully, by clearing his throat and by allowing an authentic grin to bloom on his dimpled face at your joy. Thanked the heavens for all the bath bombs in the world.

He placed it in your much smaller palm for you to plop it into the increasing water. Watched your eyes widen at the gilded glitter spreading around. Spurred you to get in. Held your hand as you lifted one limb, then the other. Knelt by you as you engulfed yourself in the violet tinge, your hair swirling around you, silky and ethereal, coming to a stop at the top of your head to fix a splendid crown for such a princess like yourself.

Namjoon turned off the tap while you rested your back against the curved wall of the tub. You swooshed your hands around, gathering the glitter into the fine lines of your palms. Looked up at him in elation, the twinkle doing its thing in the glossiness of your eyes, and smiled. Namjoon smiled back at you. His hand reached out to your chest in a fervent need to touch you. The glitter adorned your chest with its perfect speckles and they resurfaced when you arched your back in response. Clung to his palm in the middle of your tits, held on tighter as he took a detour to your chin by brushing across your sensitive nipple to hear your little mewls because if he made a sound, then you must, too. Because if he was horny, he must get you on the same page as well. Fairness is very important to Namjoon.

He squeezed your breast hard. Pinched your nipple between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger in broken intervals, similar to little dashed lines of Morse code. You imagined he was telling you something through that secret language as you closed your eyes during an intense wave of pleasure coursing down your body, and perhaps he truly did because he pulled your legs apart harshly when you pressed them together. Punished you by lightly slapping your tit—the same one he abused with those firm touches—the force splashing you in the face with violet pearls. All as if you disobeyed the command he transmitted wordlessly.

The command possibly being: Only I will give you the release you need when I decide it’s time.

You bit your bottom lip to suppress the neediness erupting in you. Namjoon wrapped his hand around your throat and you dragged his rolled sleeve further up his arm, so it wouldn’t have gotten soaked in the water. He smeared your lip oil just because he wanted—just because he could, scattering the rosy tint around your mouth messily. He took advantage of the aftermath of his punishment and collected those tender beads, now translucent upon your carmine skin. Not with the thumb as you expected him to, but using the pillows of his lips, he kissed the round bulb on your cheek. It melted on the puffy surface when he withdrew. He looked you in the eye for a mere beat of time before he lowered to your other cheek to collect another trinket. None of the corners of your mouth were overlooked, not even the button of your nose. He peppered those kisses to erase the harshness of his selfishness, supporting your lifted chin with his long thumb beneath it, still sticky from the consistency of the lip oil, apologizing, smoothing down his sternness until you giggled.

Once he cleaned you, Namjoon returned the digit to your smudged mouth, delicious in his sight due to the essence of sloppiness that gets his length even harder in his pants. He presses the pad against it, already craving your tongue. You kissed it, a thank you for his softness, before you granted him the access. Tongue toying with the tip, you said hello in the mother language of the love stored in your bodies for each other. Wrapped both of your hands around his wrist. Didn’t break eye contact. Smiled, teeth showing happily, when he bit his lip, but soon got distracted by a small movement on his groin area out of your view.

You peeled your back off of the tub to curiously take a peek, but Namjoon pushed you back to your place. All while his thumb remained sucked by your mouth. You frowned at him, dismayed by his recurring roughness that you weren’t used to.

Namjoon tapped your cheek twice with his fingers to let you know it was enough and rose to his feet.

“Joon, what’s going on? Why are you so rough with me?” you asked, voice tender, the question shooting arrows into the wideness of his back.

Stopping in the doorway, he hung his head, fingers coming to intertwine with the short hair above his neck. “I’m sorry, baby. Let me get the book.”

A moment later, he returned with the stellar possession in one hand and a wooden chair in the other. He slumped against it, fingers finding the first chapter unwittingly.

You swam forward as if to the shore, propping your elbows on the rim to be closer to him.

“Is the water warm enough?”

You nod, your teeth picking at the excess skin on your lips. Namjoon notices and, as if registering the reason why you put on the lip oil in the first place, he leans towards you and rubs away the smudginess he caused. As if the walk into your dining room sobered him enough from the dark wine of his lust that he now regretted his actions.

“You really scared me when you were rough,” you said calmly, unafraid to uncover your feelings, knowing you’ll be caught now that you’ve jumped head-first into the hungry sea of honesty.

He apologizes again. Repeats it in the aphonic form of a deep chaste kiss.

“Won’t do it again,” he promises. “Unless you ask me to.”

Your lips form a smile, but it quivers into a straight line just as quickly as it appeared. The yet unknown cause behind his untypical behavior troubles you.

“Did something happen today at work?”

Namjoon sighs. “No, I’m just tired.”

“Just tired or tired of your job?” you try, tilting your head to the side, remembering this isn’t the first time quiet broodiness clutched his figure when the clock struck five.

“Both.” He kneads the heel of his palm against his eye.

Not expecting his honesty, your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It propels you to investigate further. Gives you the green light. Namjoon usually keeps to himself when it comes to work-related storms, holding respect that reaches the bottom of his heart for those above him and for his peers as well.

“Did someone make you upset?” you ask, paving your way in this inquiry to the realm of understanding so you can help him. At least in a small way.

He drops his hand, gazes up the ceiling to stare at a fixed point. Perhaps he’s looking for words, perhaps he’s avoiding the question altogether. The regret of your prying swallows you. You’re afraid you’ve overstepped a boundary.

You reach out your arm, wrapping wet fingers around his wrist on his lap. The gesture says, ‘you don’t have to tell me but I’m here,’ and you squeeze the limb to emphasize that. As if he heard you, he looks down at you. His eyes that are usually narrowed into slits now round in tenderness. The swallowing lets go, the lump that threatened to obstruct your throat disappears.

“It’s Friday, Joonie, and you can forget about your job for a little while. It’ll get better,” you say, caressing his soft skin.

To your another surprise, Namjoon nods. Slips his fingers into the hollowness between yours, squeezing back, saying, ‘I hear you.’ Your heart jumps with gladness that you haven’t made a mistake, that instead your reassurement made a difference.

To lighten up the atmosphere, you begin to joke around.

“Should I beat them up?” You raise your brow in mischief, a goofy smile coating your face in lightheartedness.

A grin cracks on his face. “Don’t get your hands dirty for me, baby.”

You scoff, half-seriously and half-unseriously shaking your head at his eagerness to please but never letting himself be pleased. “But I want to. I’ll do it for you.”

Namjoon shakes his head as well. Leans over to you. Cradles your head in his hands and kisses you. Picks the hair plastered on your face and puts it away. You forget all of your jokes for a moment, breathless. Your neediness nudges you in your sensitive parts, reminding you of its lingering presence.

“Come on, Joonie,” you coo, prolonging the vowels, the best you could come up with considering his allure, “I’ll fight them,” you start to construct your imaginary plan, the dimples adorning his face making it a bit harder for you to get the words out, “then, they’ll be scared of me and they won’t bother you again. Because if they do, I’ll smash their fucking teeth in. And then… then, you’ll get your peace for good. Easy.”

Namjoon listens with his features bathed in enamoredness, seemingly lost in a deep thought. A twinkle, a twin to yours, glistens in his eyes. Dimples out provoking you, he softly smiles at you. Coyly. He’s unaccustomed to being the one fought for. He’s always been the one who fights. The one who settles, resolves, makes things right. He’s never been the person these things are done for by another person. It makes his heart pulsate in a strange new rhythm.

He stretches out his hands and runs his fingers through your hair. Begins to plait an intricate braid down your back, keeping you caged in the confines of his arms. Safe. Protected. His warrior princess.

“There’s something else you can do for me,” he mumbles, finished with your braid. Now your hair is away from your face, just like he needs it for what he’s about to do.

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow in question, your smirk growing on the side of your face. “Like what?”

“I’m so hard for you, baby,” he whispers into your ear, shoulders hunched, lips tracing the edge of your earlobe. A secret just between the two of you. “My body’s confused. I need a release.”

Even though you saw it coming, even though you saw it a hundred times before, you can’t help but gasp at his desperation, bare and open before you. It’s a new experience each time. Thrilling and titillating, the vividness and ferocity of his sexuality. It causes a flock of playful butterflies to buzz you with electricity in your tummy and a shiver to run down your spine. You feel your own neediness making itself known again and you squeeze your thighs together.

This is the Namjoon you know. Strong in his softness. Mellow. Intense. The Namjoon who showed you plain roughness was a stranger to you, one you could take the time to get to know, because now you understand that the incentive to act like he did was his frustration from work. You can’t really blame the natural inclination of his body—his body that is yours to love in all shapes or forms.

You perceive he needs to let out some steam—he said so himself. Proud of him for voicing it out, a decision to be his helper already makes a way to your heart. You no longer feel slivers of consternation slithering in your veins. Knowing the cause, knowing it’s still your Namjoon helps you submit to the call of his needs. If a dab of roughness is what entails the sand-speckled footpath to the seaside of his well-being, you’ll take it. Welcome it, even. Within the realm of your established boundaries, that is.

“Can I see?”

The book falls to the floor with a thud. Namjoon stands up.

Ever so eager. Responding to his body language out of pure instinct, you hum and lift yourself to your knees. The outline of his engorged length, tight in his pants, greets you and you will your brain not to tell your fingers to rub your swollen clit. To busy your hands, you grip the rim until white brushes along your knuckles.

Emerging from the water, it left you smothered in a luster of wet silkiness. Namjoon’s eyes rake over your bare femininity. Heavenly, pure, seraphic. Groans a little loud. Doesn’t know whether to touch you first or his painfully hard and heavy member. You move your body to the side wall of the tub and he follows you, hand opting for his girth to relieve himself a little bit.

You sit prettily on your folded legs and lean over, pulling his wrist away. You plant a dewy kiss to the middle of his clothed length and look up at him, just at the right time to catch him whimpering. Your clit pulses again and you feel like crying, needing release as much as he does. He doesn’t make it easy for you, making sounds like that.

“What does my baby girl need me to do?” you ask, stroking his member while stifling your giggles at the title that fits him so well.

“Baby girl?” He frowns down at you.

It’s usually what he calls you, hence why his confusion. And you call him by an entirely different title, too.

A giggle does escape your mouth after all. You squeeze at his tip, drawing those delicious whimpers out of him again.

“Only needy little baby girls make sounds like that. You are needy, aren’t you?” You lick that sensitive part, palming his balls.

Namjoon whines.

The shift of dynamics, the change of titles ever so dizzying to the mind. He doesn’t even have the strength to correct you.

He grips the back of your head and moves you away from his cock. Then the realization he’s being rough again wafts over him and he softens his hold, fallen stray hairs coming to rest at your temples. Namjoon tucks them behind your ear. Taps you on the cheek once.

“Get to sucking off your baby girl,” he rasps.

You smile. Find it immensely attractive that he’s embracing the pet name while still being dominant. A masculinity in its true form.

“You can be rough with me if you want to,” you say, wanting to make that clear. “I think I can handle it.”

Namjoon traces the shell of your ear with his thumb, pondering.

“Just don’t hit me, okay?”

He says your name sternly, as if you offended him. “I would never deliberately hurt you. How can you think that?”

“No, I meant—” You lick your lips. “Don’t slap my boobs or anything. You can spank me, I like that. But don’t be as rough with me as you were. Can we take it slow? Is that okay?”

He stares at you for a moment.

“Do you trust me?”

You nod, turning your head to press a kiss into his palm. “Yes, I trust you.”

“I’ll teach you, then. We’ll take it slow,” he says, fingers stroking the side of your cheek, where a small amount of fluff creates a path for him to lay down his silent love on. “It was a mistake on my part for not preparing you for it, and for that I’m sorry. But I’ll teach you. Show you how good it is.” He pauses. “Until you beg me for it.”

Your throat dries up. The pulsing in your cunt unbearable.

“Fuck, Namjoon. Save the talk or I’ll come on the spot.”

“The talk is important,” he reprimands you. “Whether you come or not without my permission is your problem.”

“Shit,” you whimper, gripping his hand on your cheek. You tighten your hold as if to brattily change his mind on having this kind of control over your orgasm because you need to come as soon as possible. And not just once. You’re sure your dewiness is leaking into the water.

“No bad words or I’ll fuck your filthy mouth.”

You gasp. So unused to this side of him. But it turns you on, now that you feel safe. Turns you unstable.

“Say you’re sorry.”

You’re tumbling out the words before he’s even finished with his sentence. “I’m so sorry.”

He beams at your immediate submission, purring at the quintessence of your compliance. Wants more. “Who are you apologizing to?”

You pause. His usual title almost slips off of your tongue. But since this is new and you’re both experiencing a new dynamic that causes you to feel so playful, that guides you ever so gently and carefully into the kingdom of subspace, you opt for the pet name that suits him well. “To my baby girl,” you say, laughing softly. “I’m so sorry, baby girl.”

He laughs as well, the sound a deep rumble in his chest. You’re giddy that you’re allowed to be wild, your inner child healing and quivering within you. You overflow with the desire to kiss him.

“What for?”

He wants you to say the full sentence. You take a deep breath.

“Baby girl, I’m so sorry for having a filthy mouth and saying bad words.”

“Hm, do you regret it?”

You almost curse again. “Yes, I do. I’m sorry for being bad.”

“Good. Get to work, then,” he says. “Make that mouth useful.”

Fuck.

“Kiss me first, please. Make it better,” you beg, fluttering your eyelashes at him.

Namjoon moans and you bite your lip. Bends and sucks it between his, deepening the kiss as he opens your jaw and slips his tongue inside. Massages the muscle against yours. Makes those sounds again. Palms his cock. Withdraws with a pop.

You mewl in satisfaction. That kiss alone ruined you.

“Good girls get kisses.” Hand under your chin, he squishes your cheeks. “You’ve been exceptionally good. I’m gonna destroy you.”

He kisses you again with the same intensity but briefly, inhaling your skin. No tongue this time.

Cheeks awash with rosiness, you hastily unbuckle his belt. Not to cut time and get to his promise faster—on the contrary, you’re dying to pleasure him. He doesn’t help you like he normally does; he merely watches you as you pull down the cotton material of his slacks along with his boxers down his muscular thighs. Only when you wrap your lips around his cock from the side does he throw his head back. Thrusts his hips.

He’s rock hard. The weight of him makes you absolutely fucked out.

Namjoon likes you there so he keeps you still—there in the middle of his girth. You moan, producing as much saliva as you can to gratify him while he uses your mouth, alternating between keeping those pillows firm and soft. When he gets you to his tip, he expects you to swallow him, but you merely move your head from side to side rapidly, flicking your tongue. Namjoon groans lowly, a string of curse words spilling from his throat. His precum drops onto your chin and you suck in a breath, horny beyond your mind.

You swipe your index finger to collect it. Check if he’s watching before you plunge the digit into your mouth. Roll your eyes back as the tanginess overwhelms your senses. Namjoon hisses. Grabs your braid as if it were a ponytail. Kisses you, aching to be one with you. You feel the vibrations of his fervid mania in unity with him like this and it echoes down your body once he pulls away.

“Take it in your mouth.”

Namjoon holds it at the base for you and you find the long vein that you favor so much. Pepper kisses along the length of it, feeling it throb in tandem with your clit. Straightening your spine, you bite your lip. Give him an utter look of adoration before you swipe your tongue along the slit. Humming in delight, you slip him into your mouth. Your cheeks hollow and you begin to bob your head, fingers following your movement, bumping into his fist. Tears pool in your eyes when you dare to inch closer to his hand and even though you gag, you try your hardest to keep him nice and tucked in your warm throat. You sputter and cough, swallowing around him, because you deem he deserves it, knowing how much he loves it when your flesh contracts around him like that, and Namjoon groans deeply. It fills you with a dose of satisfaction almost akin to an orgasm, the lack of oxygen in your brain heightening the experience so much that your head spins.

“Such a good girl,” he whispers. “Breathe, baby.”

He slips out of your mouth. Pats you on your head before he sinks his fingers into your hair, gripping at the roots. Ascertains you pay attention to him.

“Don’t do that again,” he says, softly. “You need to breathe. Take a deep breath with me.”

You’re still on your knees and he’s merely looking down at you. You fold your hands on your lap. Your mind is so empty that you’re not sure how you feel right now, having been entirely focused on his pleasure.

Namjoon inhales deeply with his nose and you do the same.

Inhale, exhale.

Fondly, he caresses you on your cheek.

“I just wanted to make you feel good,” you explain yourself, thinking that you should.

“I know, baby, and you did. It’s okay, I’m not mad at you.” He smiles at you. “You hear me? I’m not mad at you.”

You nod your head yes. Pout.

“You feeling okay? Take a deep breath for me again.”

You do as he says, your senses returning to you like a warm spring wind.

“Better now?”

You nod again.

“Words.”

You wet your lips with your tongue. “Yes, I feel better now.”

“Good. Do you still wanna continue?”

“Yes, Namjoon. I wanna make you come.”

Almost like you flipped a switch, his eyes darken.

“Hands behind your back,” he rasps.

You oblige, crisscrossing your wrists below the dimples on your lower back.

“‘Atta girl. Back to work, come on.”

It’s much harder to do so without your hands, especially in the position you’re in. You hesitate.

“I don’t know if I can,” you admit.

He tuts in pity. “Should I use you then?”

You roll your eyes back, the idea intoxicating your body. You feel woozy.

“Yes, please.”

“Focus on your breathing, okay?”

“Yes, Namjoon.”

Humming, Namjoon grabs your hair gently and sinks your mouth down on his cock, moves you up and down slowly. You focus on not just sucking in your cheeks but also on breathing through your nose like he told you, although you can’t help but moan around him. It turns you on how he manhandles you to his liking so delicately. You swirl your tongue around his tip once he wants you there and you let out a series of whines and whimpers. He keeps you there for a little longer, moaning after you, the sounds creating a paradisiacal symphony. You twist your head in half circles as you continue sucking him, slobbering all over him, using your tongue to flick beneath the mushroom.

“So good, baby. Yes, fuck.” Namjoon squeezes his eyes shut. “You’re gonna make me come.”

You pull away, but a string of saliva still connects you to him.

He blinks at you. “You want a spanking?”

You run the tip of your tongue along the top of your lip, giving him the eyes. Cock your eyebrow at him. Namjoon draws a sharp breath in.

He leans over. One hand tugs at your braid firmly to arch your back over the edge of the tub. The other smacks you sharply on your ass cheek, smoothing over the sting. You moan, nipples rubbing over the cold surface, curse words dying on your tongue. Namjoon grips the flesh, spanks you again. Skims his fingers over your exposed heat. Repeats it on the other cheek, twice in a row. You wiggle your hips, needing to feel more, needing him to touch you right there between your legs. You cry out into his ear.

Letting go of your braid, Namjoon kisses you beneath your jaw. Slides his tongue along the sensitive spot, sucking it between his lips. A secret message that he hears you, that he’ll fuck your needy cunt soon.

“Think you’ll be a good girl for now?”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you nod a few times. Not a single rational thought passes through your brain.

Namjoon straightens. Pulls down his foreskin for you. “Spit on it.”

You watch as your liquid love trickles down and lands on his tip. He hums and surprises you by wrapping your hands around his girth, spreading down the lubrication with you. You feel the ridges and the thick vein in a new, vehement way and even though you’re not the one pleasured, you moan. The simple up and down movement grows in rapidness that your body follows, emulating the effort, making it seem like you’re bouncing on a dick. Your ass splashes the water around, creating tender waves full of love, inherited from your still leaking dewiness.

His hands are so warm enclasped around yours, pressed tight. Not once unclenching.

You start blabbering.

“You’re so big. I can’t even wrap my hand around you.” You make sure to look him in the eyes as you say it. “So big in my mouth, too. Could barely fit you.”

Your words set those twilit embers in his eyes on fire. His breathing quickens. He’s close again and you’re stunned, once more, by the vividness of his sexuality. Your hands go limp in his grasp.

“Nuh-uh, keep up the pace,” he husks. “Thought I was your little baby girl?”

You shake your head, willing your hands to gain strength again, but it has no source to draw from. “Not anymore.”

Namjoon chuckles, darkly. Notices your movements fluctuating, arms shaking. “Tired?”

You nod and he unclasps his hands. You twist your wrists in circles to alleviate them from a cramp.

Then, you get an idea.

Sitting back on your heels, you arch your back. Tip your chin down and spit on your chest, the essence flowing down the pathway between your breasts. You do it again, though this time you spread it on your skin.

“Fuck, baby,” Namjoon mumbles. Unbuttons his shirt. You squeeze your nipples with both hands as your eyes flick to his, then down to his exposed chest. “How are you gonna address me, huh? What’s my name?”

He forcefully tugs the fabric off of his arms, tossing it on the floor. His body—with its vulgar beauty, broadness and definition—takes your breath away. You don’t let it show, or perhaps you pretend that you don’t because you allow your hand to travel down your stomach. Namjoon imitates you, running his fingers down the chiseled muscles that make you drool. He stops at the hair adorning his pelvis. You don’t.

You rub circles on your clit instead.

“Daddy,” you cry out in pleasure, announcing his title—his rightful, most fitting title. Face contorting at the brisk, blooming flashes of sensuality rising up your form.

His body tenses. It’s like he’s stopping himself from reaching for you, pulling you out of the bathtub and spanking you until your bottom resembles the water. Or tugging at his length until he paints you white with his cum.

You make it easy for him.

Lifting your body, you step over the edge of the bathtub. Kneel at his feet on the fluffy black mat. Far enough for him to see purple liquid pearls make their way down to your cunt. Far enough for him to see how you resume those circles on your bundle of nerves, fingers reaching to your hole for lubrication. You roll your hips into your hand, arm propped behind you.

“What’s this show?” Namjoon rasps, his cock twitching. “I don’t remember giving you permission to touch yourself. You wanna end up with zero orgasms?”

You pause.

“That’s what I thought,” he says. “I believe you have unfinished work to do.”

You smile mischievously. “You want it bad, don’t you?”

Namjoon nods. Holds out his hand. “Come to Daddy.”

Exuberantly, you leap into his arms. Namjoon throws you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing and walks into your shared bedroom. Sets you down on your bed, spreading your legs, and he crouches between them, reaching into his bedside table for the tool that he wants.

The aroma of strawberries lovingly boops you on the nose. Namjoon squirts a good amount of lubrication on your chest, paying special attention to the pathway in the middle of your breasts. He massages it in, incorporates your sensitive nipples in the preparation, coaxing whimper after whimper out of you by squeezing them and rolling them between his long fingers.

“I’m gonna make a mess,” you say, grinding your hips against nothing.

Namjoon clicks his tongue. “Already?”

Your dewiness oozes out of you onto the bedding. To prove your point, you lean back on your elbows and lift your knees, revealing your dripping hole and the shine of your soaked folds. Namjoon stares at your cunt but doesn’t touch, doesn’t blink. He bites his lip. Flicks his eyes to yours.

He kisses the middle of your tummy. Moves over to your heat. Licks a tiny stripe on your clit.

You cry out.

“Namjoon!”

Hands on either side of your waist, crawling up to you, he growls. “Good girls are patient, aren’t they?”

He doesn’t wait for your response.

“They take what is given to them and they finish what they started,” he continues. “Don’t they?”

You nod.

“And you are a good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m a good girl.”

“Then thank your Daddy for what he gave you.”

Your walls squeeze around nothing when you hear him utter his title. It refreshes your body with energy.

“Thank you, Daddy.” You smile.

Namjoon kisses you, rewarding you.

“Sit up.”

Changing the layout, it’s Namjoon who reclines halfway on the bed while you sit perched on your knees between his legs, cock in your face. He spurts the lube on his length and jerks himself off, his skin shining in the abrupt spillage of burnt-orange sunlight from the window. Watches your eyes round in astonishment similarly to the way they did earlier when you had gazed upon the glitter swarming around you.

He nods at you, giving you the green light, and you sheathe his girth into the tightness of your squished tits. You may start a face pace from the get go, fucking him into oblivion, but all Namjoon sees is the whites of your eyes, the glimmer, the pure enjoyment of what you’re doing while the rest of you is immersed in subdued late afternoon shadows. Sweat glistens on the planes of his face, dribbling down to the strained column of his neck.

It’s intense. So intense that he can’t vocally react.

Precum appears once more on his mushroom, displaying his arousal, and you slurp it up, the braid coming undone—your hair falling around you like a curtain.

It’s brutal. It’s wet.

Namjoon gathers your hair to the side in a makeshift ponytail and leans over to be closer to you. Needs you like this. Feels his relief catching up to him the more effort you put in, the more you stick out your tongue to flick at that sensitive part of him whenever you can.

“Want your come. So bad. Want it all over me,” you whisper, and that’s it for him.

“Say please,” he murmurs, and it’s barely a sound, but you hear him.

“Please, Daddy, come for me.”

Pulling your hands away, Namjoon takes charge. Fucks your tits in frenzy, your hair, now half dry, tickling your skin. With his thumbs, he stimulates your nipples to coax those little sounds of yours and—

“Play with your pussy,” he commands. “But don’t come. Tease yourself like you teased Daddy.”

The relief on your face inches him closer to his. He hears the wetness as you dip a finger in, your walls sucking it in. He hears your breath get stuck in your throat. The slow crescendo of your moans. Suddenly, he hears himself too.

Whiny, desperate, so unlike himself.

It’s a fortress of safety, his forehead on top of yours. His nose bumping against yours. Open mouth ghosting over the sounds of your well-deserved pleasure. It’s a safe place for him to come in.

And he does.

Ropes upon ropes of come color you ivory white, color you clean. The reversal of a coloring book—changing the lines, changing the scheme, changing your life.

You milk him dry, your pussy long forgotten. Milk him until he pushes you away, chest heaving, unable to catch his breath. You just watch him, his seed hot on your chest. Glittery. And not just there. On your neck, on your chin, in the wavy strands of your hair.

You’re in awe of him. You can see the pressure leaving him like a ghost slinking out of the window.

Namjoon takes off his glasses. With two fingers, he collects as much of his essence as he can and plunges them into your mouth. The other hand rests on the crook of your neck, thumb protectively over your throat. “Swallow.”

Not for long. Namjoon throws you on the bed. Doesn’t waste time.

He laps up your pussy, clit to hole, sucking your labia into his mouth. He does it again, but this time he travels a bit further. Clit, hole, ass. Tongue flat. Your screams are muffled by the rumpled bedsheet you grip.

Going back to your leaking hole, he circles the flesh before he dips the tongue in. Wraps his arms around your ass to control your squirming, feeling the dip of your spine as the sunlight kisses it. Dust particles spiral in the air—Namjoon sees it. The dark grey curtain keeping half of the world shrouded in dimness while the other illuminated, a picture cut in a heart shape due to the deliciousness of your ass.

Fuck, Namjoon longs to play with it again.

He spits on it, rubbing the saliva around it before he slides his tongue back into your wet hole. Says hello to it—long time no see—teases it, before he dips his thumb in. You arch your back even more, welcoming the intrusion, and Namjoon kisses your pussy lips as a thank you. He quivers with the craving to fuck you right there in your ass, but knows better than to do it. You’re not ready for it.

Spreading you more open, while keeping his thumb there in that sweet place, he begins to focus on your poor little clit. Swirls his tongue around it firmly, sucking it until your back trembles—goes up and down like a seesaw. The kisses he leaves there are obscene, loud, full of thankfulness that he gets to play with you. Full of love for you that he burns bright with—that propels him to flick his tongue harder. And full of joy that his stress is gone. Joy that you’ve been the helper unscrewing the steel body of heaviness off of his because, as of now, his bones feel lighter.

“You’re so good for me.” He smacks his lips against your cunt. “Fucking Daddy like that when he needed you.”

Vigorously, he rubs his face against you, shaking his head from side to side. You stretch your fingers behind you and helplessly grip the back of your thighs. Namjoon catches one of your hands, holds it with his free four fingers, sucking your clit.

“Thank you, baby,” he whispers, withdrawing to pay attention to your other hole, missing it. Abuses it once he spits on it, eating it, dipping his tongue in with ease since he stretched you. Fucks you there in the only way he can.

“Wanna come?” he asks and as he waits for your answer, he goes lower to drink your freshness, not letting a drop go to waste.

You’ve lost your voice screaming. “Yes, Daddy, please. I can’t hold it in anymore. Please, let me come,” you croak.

Namjoon makes a sound of appreciation, proud of you for holding out for so long without saying anything.

“I think you can,” he says. Stuffs a finger into your dripping hole and lets you adjust for a moment. Adds another. “I think you can hold it while I count to ten.”

His digits pump into you slowly. Kneeling by your side, he turns your head so you can see him, twisting your body into the position he wants. The curve of your back is so beautiful in his sight that he can’t help but run his free hand over the route that your spine has become. The route he wants to plant kisses on like flowers of various colors, adding to the coloring book, erasing the old.

And he does. Begins at the nape of your neck. Picks up the speed.

“One.”

You cry out. First before your tears rush out, pooling in your waterline. You clench your whole body in naive hope it would stall the orgasm, but it quickens it, squeezing his fingers in, so you relax your muscles.

“Two.”

A kiss to the first round protrusion of your spine. Shifting your weight to your shoulder, you take his cock into your hand.

“Three.”

The middle of your shoulder blades. You hear your wetness oozing out of you, the relief prowling closer. You whine and Namjoon understands.

“Hold it or I’ll stop,” he whispers. “I can feel your pussy squeezing around my fingers. Relax.”

You match your pace with his. Namjoon begins to pant. You feel his hot, heavy breath beneath your shoulder blades.

“Six.”

Ass shaking from the force, he jackhammers into you. Pulls out for a moment to spank you, a merciful gesture, before he’s back in. Leaves a wet fingerprint on your skin.

“Eight.”

The last protrusion of your spine. You silence your moans by pressing your hand against your mouth because they bring you closer to your orgasm, however Namjoon yanks your arm away.

“Make those pretty sounds for me, come on,” he huffs, kissing both of those dimples on your back. “Ten. Come. Come for Daddy. Come all over his hand.”

And you do.

It’s a paradise, the heat closing in on you. The loss of hearing, the muted ringing, resembling the flap of a bird’s wing. The loss of surroundings as you’re momentarily transported somewhere entirely else. A gilded illustration, perhaps a lively projection. Something, somewhere, where all is good. The orgasm rips through you and the repetitive echo of his name leaving your mouth is what brings you back. Away from the storybook into a brand new coloring book.

Namjoon strokes your hair.

He holds you in his arms, but something sticks you uncomfortably together. You peel yourself off of him and cringe. Strings upon strings of his come, gleaming with speckles of glitter, do not want you to leave. You sit on his thighs, resting your palms on his chest.

He kisses you. “Are you okay?”

You nod with droopy eyelids.

He carries you into the shower and makes a way for all colors of the rainbow to perfuse your body. To create a new storyline for the day, for the week, for the month. Reds and pinks show their faces first in the steam, and even though Namjoon is glad to see them, he looks forward to meeting the rest. To learning their objectives so he can fulfill them.

Grabbing the yellow book on the way back to the bedroom, Namjoon makes himself comfortable beside you. Is careful not to touch your face out of habit because you have a face mask on; careful not to bump into you either because you have a plate of mozzarella and sliced tomatoes on your lap. He kisses your hair, though. Doesn’t have the strength to fight internally—grabs your jawline and ever so slowly and heedfully, he kisses you, fingers finding the first chapter unwittingly.

“When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into a monstrous cockroach in his bed.”

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10thmusemoon · 10 months

Text

"Start Here, at these Irrefutable Truths"

X Posted from twitter and ao3 Rating: Gen Fandom: MDZS Ship: none, Yunmeng Shuangjie reconciliation, Jiang Cheng & Wei Wuxian, background Wangxian Word Count: 4,544 Tags: Brief & skippable Mention of suicide ideation, body dysmorphia, Grief/Mourning, Survivors Guilt

Summary:

Mo Xuanyu’s body burns in the sun. Among the sins that Wei Wuxian counts against him, this is one of the most grievous. Jiang Cheng looks at one of the most dangerous men alive, the scourge of the cultivation world, and the first thought that comes to mind weighs heavily on his heart. He looks like Jin Ling. --- Or: The Body doesn’t feel like it's Wei Wuxian’s, but his shidi would recognize him anywhere.

notes: this was my first foray into fic writing in over a decade so it's more angsty and experimental 🙈 the single line of suicide ideation is marked by /// at the beginning and end so it is skippable.

Mo Xuanyu burns in the sun. This is not uncommon, or surprising. The Jin, with their creamy complexions and delicate figures, are not known for laboring beneath it. Only sect leader Jin, the latest, is known for enjoying resting beneath its rays. His cheeks turn a warm pink in the heat and settle to a light brown by end of day.

But Mo Xuanyu- Mo Xuanyu burns in the sun. Pale skin turns red and peels as easily as an overripe persimmon. On long days outside, his body will itch and blister and lead to dizzy spells.

The first time Wei Wuxian faints in the heat he laughs as his husband applies a cooling salve to his neck and back. The second time, he sits so still in the cold spring that there are no ripples. His gaze stays glued to the opposite shore but does little else. His husband keeps a vigilant watch, afraid that he'll fall asleep and drown if he looks away for even a moment. Lan Zhan is always looking at him.

Even during those long years apart, the ghost of his image haunted him from his peripheral. He never could turn his head quickly enough to catch it. When he sought echoes of those features in the faces of strangers, they could never come close. There was a time he panicked and took this to mean he was forgetting him. In moments of desperate longing, he would return to familiar locations and overlay scenes from his memories to be see him again, even for just a moment.

To have him again, to be able to hold him and press kisses down his back and on his knuckles, to discover him a new, is like a prayer answered. It does not matter to him what form he takes, Wei Ying is Wei Ying.

Lan Zhan will love him anyway. All the more for returning to him

But- But Mo Xuanyu burns in the sun. Among the sins that Wei Wuxian counts against him, this is one of the most grievous.

He will always be grateful for his sacrifice, for the chance to see through his eyes the faces of those he loves so dearly.

Mo Xuanyu's too small hands fit neatly in A-Yuan's large ones.

They are just long enough to play a dizi with ease but not strong enough to train with a blade for hours.

This small body can be carried so easily by his husband, can bend in so many marvelous ways, yet takes all day to recover from a hangover. This body, in moments of pure unadulterated joy, does not instinctively turn to either side to share it. It does not seek that which it has never had.

This weak golden core allows him cultivate again but he cannot race across the skies. He cannot heal his own injuries. Wei Wuxian, the head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang, once shrugged off errant arrows from his cute shidis with nothing more than a laugh.

Wei Wuxian, husband and cultivation partner to the illustrious Hanguang Jun, cannot even heal irritated skin. That is a skill that is second nature to the disciples of Yunmeng Jiang, though hardly necessary for anyone used to summers at Lotus Pier.

The third time Wei Wuxian faints in the sun, they are on the way to a cultivation conference in the Unclean Realm.

His quiet demeanor goes beyond the time his husband spends circulating healing qi through his system. Wei Wuxian does not notice the stares from other sects, nor the way they whisper to one another about the sound of his silence. He does not notice the searching gaze from Yunmeng Jiang.

Sect Leader Jiang hates these conferences. If he wanted to hear people disagree and complain about every minor decision he would talk to the matchmakers again. The food is rarely to his tastes and the rooms are always too cold. The Jin are ostentatious, the Nie's too utilitarian, and Gusu Lan is much too quiet. People always tip toe around him as if he will start whipping people at any moment.

He is watched like a tiger in the middle of a market, the threat is implied by his mere presence. His reputation is hard earned.

When they had nothing but ashes and mud, when the vultures were circling above Yunmeng Jiang, and their back was to the flames, they had Sandu Sengshou. Rooster, pig, and snake. The war hero that no one must ever make the mistake to anger or offend. A man who could kill his brother, a demon in his own right, is capable of anything. The Yunmeng Jiang were protected by the reputation of a man known for his cruelty and quick whip, a man who was always ready to address any offense.

In the settling dust of the war, when Jiang Cheng had nothing else, when his life had gone up in flames around him, he had this: The last gifts from his parents, Sandu and Zidian. The last remnant of his sister, Jin Ling. And a dizi.

////

In those early years, the only thing that kept him alive was the obligation to his sect and to his nephew.

But on the nights where Jin Ling’s absence felt like a hollowing of the soul, when every time he closed his eyes he felt the discipline whip, when the shadows showed him the last memories of his family covered in their own blood, that obligation felt like a noose.

////

Yunmeng Jiang had Sandu Shengshou and little else. If you ask Sect Leader Jiang, he would say that didn't amount to much. If you asked a Jiang disciple, they would say that was all they needed.

Who else but Sect Leader Jiang embodied the the ways of Yumeng Jiang so clearly? Who else could have taken mud and ashes and raised a sect so strong? Who else would haven taken in street orphans and misfits and given them a name and a home? What other sect leader would have waded in the mud and labored along side them during the scarce years? Who else had the unrestrained strength of their rivers in their blood and lightning coursing through their veins? Who else could have done the impossible, if not a man birthed from the very waters he protects.

If you ask the elders whose lakes sit at the edge of Lotus Pier, those who remember a time before the ashes when laughter would echo across the water, they would tell you this: The people of Yunmeng Jiang do not love lightly.

Whether it be people or places, once that seed is planted in their hearts, you’ll have an easier time drinking the river than uprooting it.

What could be considered impossible in the face of such devotion? That is the Yunmeng Jiang way.

And that is a son of the Yunmeng Jiang.

The terror of one land is a hero at home. When is a monster not a monster?

When you are the reason it has become so mangled.

The people of Yunmeng Jiang understand this better than most for they are the only ones who survived the war with two terrors to their name.

But the passage of time softens the blows of war. Yunmeng Jiang, once isolated as a consequence of having nothing to offer, is self sufficient in a way no other sect can claim. For this reason, there is always someone trying to corner sect leader Jiang at these conferences. There is always a trade contract to be negotiated or a someone’s cousin or disciple to meet. For reasons sect leader Jiang can’t quite parse, the smaller sects have stopped throwing every woman of marrying age at him and have started introducing him to cultivators of various talents and renown. He is mildly offended at the implication that he would want their castoffs when his own disciples are so highly skilled.

His second in command has perfected the art of diversion in these instances and Jiang Cheng has become intimately familiar with the isolated corners of every sect. So when Hanguang Jun’s husband disappears and misses dinner, he has some ideas of where to look. Not that he is searching for him or anything, but if anyone were to ask him, there are directions he could point to. Such as the training ground behind the stables. It just so happens that his post dinner walk has taken him in that direction.

The food Nie Huaisang provided was too rich and made such a stroll necessary. It has nothing to do with Jin Ling sneaking away with his friends or Wei Wuxian’s absence. This is a digestive walk, practically medically mandated for a cultivator that cares about being in peak condition.

Danger lurks around every corner, it would be embarrassing to perform poorly in a battle simply because food didn’t sit well in his stomach. He is in the middle of creating a new nightly regimen to torment-train his newer disciples with when he comes across Wei Wuxian

Jiang Cheng looks at one of the most dangerous men alive, the scourge of the cultivation world, and the first thought that comes to mind weighs heavily on his heart. He looks like Jin Ling.

Here is the thing about about the Yunmeng Jiang, a trait every child of the lake shares: they will always seek comfort in water. When a Jiang disciple marries out or leaves the sect, it is not uncommon to find them staring longingly into ponds or streams.

When Jin Ling was young and had to return to Carp Tower after months spent in Lotus Pier, his disappearance would often cause a havoc among his caretakers. More often than not, he could be found wading in the lotus pond his father built or sitting at its edge.

Once, when he was still a toddler and throwing a tantrum about being left behind, Jiang Cheng found him asleep in the stables next to the horse's trough. The sight was so achingly sweet that he took the time to commit it to memory before carrying him away.

If he had possessed any artistic talent, he would have painted a portrait to be able to look back on it across the years.

As Jin Ling's chubby little hands grasped against his robe, sleeves still wet from the horse's water, he felt like he could finally breathe. For the first time in years, something slotted into place, and It took a moment to realize what it was.

Relief.

When Jin Ling finally leaves him, or when Jiang Cheng dies, whichever comes first, he will still have the comfort of water. Jiang Cheng has failed in so many things, has let countless of people down, but he was able to give him this. This one thing that no one can take that from him. This intrinsically Jiang thing.

It had been an old fear, he wasn't sure that Jin Ling would take to it in the same way, the Jin are different after all. They don't share their ways.

He will never forget his shijie's shamefaced confession right before his naming day. Frantically whispered in a rare moment they had stolen away, Jin Ling bundled in her arms. "A-Cheng, they wouldn't- the wouldn't let me do it. He wasn't born in the water." It had stunned him into silence.

It didn't seem feasible that any child of Jiang Yanli wouldn't be born swimming. Even his own mother, raised in the mountains where it is too cold to swim, made certain to have water births. When Wei Ying came to them as a half starved thing, he couldn't swim but would still float on his back for hours until he learned.

Raised alongside the heirs of Yunmeng Jiang, it wasn't long before he was swimming as strongly as any of them. Countless days were spent under the sun for hours, until their skinned pruned up and other tasks called them away. The happiest moments of Jiang Cheng's life were spent in the waters of Lotus Pier.

His father had taught him how to swim, and Jiang Cheng had taught Wei Ying.

It should have been Jiang Yanli who taught her son how to dive off a dock without making a splash, and go for lengths without breaking the surface.

Instead, he got Jiang Cheng.

He had taught countless shidis how to swim, of course, it wasn't difficult.

But could a man so devoid of affection teach Jin Ling to find safety and security in the currents. To love them? He wasn't sure. It felt like it would be the final betrayal of his family's memories if he failed in this. And yet, Jin Ling learned to swim before he learned to walk. Running around Lotus Pier in those ridiculous golden outfits that made him stick out like a sore thumb, his shijie's beautiful little boy was every bit as Yungmeng Jiang as any of them.

And beneath the moonlight, sitting next to what passes for a pond in the Unclean Realm, Wei Wuxian looks like Jin Ling.

His face holds the same delicate softness that Jin Zixuan's did, his eye brows furrow similarly to Jin Guanyao's when someone arrived with an unexpected guest.

It’ss Barely noticeable, but he can see that at some point, Mo Xuanyu had broken his nose.

It's in a different spot from the break in his memories. During their second Dragon Boat Festival together, before the development of their golden cores, Wei Ying had stolen the poisonous paper animals from Jiang Cheng's wrist and tripped in his attempt to get away. It was ugly. He had smashed his face into a food stall run by their shixiong's sisters and painted his festival robes red. Jiang Cheng kept an arm around him as their shixiong's elder sister flagged someone down to take them back home. In an attempt to calm a crying Wei Ying, the younger of the sisters gave them three sticks of wrapped tanghulu that Jiang Cheng ended up tucking into his sleeves for later. Back then, food always cheered Wei Ying up.

By the time his shixiong found them, with their shijie trailing behind, his crying had deescalated to just hiccups. Thinking back on it, he remembers Wei Ying being more upset about the sullied robes than from the actual pain.

Things between them right now...they're not good. They're also not horrible. But the bar is very, very low. But Wei Wuxian has been quiet all day.

He hasn't moved from where he is sitting with his knees pulled next to his chin and arms wrapped around his shoulders. There's no indication that he's heard Jiang Cheng approach, but at his age, he knows better. He should leave.

He should turn around and tell one of his disciples to go tell Jin Ling to tell The Boy to have Hanguang Jun come collect his husband. But- Right now, sitting alone in the Unclean Realm, Wei Wuxian looks like Jin Ling when he wants to cry.

And he has never been able to walk away from his nephew when he's worn that expression. It seems he's just as defenseless to it when his- when Wei Wuxian wears it as well.

It's the same face, that's all.

Wordlessly, he shuffles over and sits a little more than an arms length away. He doesn't look over, instead choosing to stare out into the pond and pretend like he isn't hyper aware of the weight of his qiankun pouch.

It's a cloudy night, and in the time that they sit there in silence, the light of the moon is blocked and darkness blankets over them. The sound of the grasshoppers and the leaves shifting in the wind is almost meditative. He startles when Wei Wuxian's voice breaks the peace.

"Mo Xuanyu burns in the sun." It's not what he expected. He can't say with any definitive confidence what he thought Wei Wuxian would say, but it's not that. He grunts in the affirmative.

"The peacock was a tomato during those first few summers."

Before he formed his golden core and was suddenly too good to be trailing after their sister. Somehow, this was a misstep, Wei Wuxian grip on himself tightens. This too, is familiar. He used to hold himself so fiercely that he would leave bruises on his arms.

Concerned, Jiang Cheng had asked his shijie why he did that, couldn't he see he was hurting himself?

Back then, it felt like she had all the answers. Jiang Cheng knows now, she was just child trying to fill in the gaps in their lives.

She brought him into a hug with one hand and ran her hand through his hair with the other. He remembers that the look on her face was so sad.

"A-Cheng, A-Ying was alone for a very long time. He didn't have anyone to hold him or to hug him when he was sad or scared. So he holds himself." And that was the saddest thing Jiang Cheng had ever heard. And he had just lost his dogs. But the solution felt simple.

"So we have to hold him then, right?"

She pressed a kiss to his forehead and he felt her nod against him. Shijie never wanted to let them see her cry. Overnight, they implemented a secret rule. If Wei Ying was sad, you had to hold him. If he was happy, you had to hold him too.

They still shared a room back then, so when he had nightmares, Jiang Cheng would make his way over to his bed and hug him until he stopped shaking. He had nightmares a lot. More often than not, Jiang Cheng would wake up in the wrong bed.

But the bruises disappeared.

He's so wrapped up in his own head that he almost misses the choked whisper that comes next. What he hears is so preposterous that he almost asks Wei Wuxian to repeat himself.

"What if- this body- Mo Xuanyu- what if-" he rushes the last part, as if the somehow saying it all in one breath might keep it from being true. "-what if it can't swim?" It, not I.

Something separate from himself. Something not Wei Wuxian. And Jiang Cheng- He can't accept that.

He can't. Because that would imply- That would mean- He can't even finish the thought.

He kept a dizi for over a decade to avoid thinking that.

Here are some objective truths of the world: The sun will rise every day. The seasons will change. Sect leader Jiang loves his nephew. Wei Ying swims.

In the event that any of these stop being true, it's a sign of something calamitous to come. Something unspeakable.

It takes all his will power to keep looking straight ahead. There's only one answer here. "Then learn." Wei Wuxian's bark of laughter catches even him by suprise. Of course, of course. Jiang Cheng makes it sound so easy, so simple. He's always been like this, no time for frivolities, cutting straight to the point.

He nearly drove their teachers mad insisting that it was senseless to use so many metaphors, waste so many lines, just to say "Let's get married," all the while blushing and stammering at the mere thought of it. Even now, Jiang Cheng is still Jiang Cheng.

It's a comforting thought. Wei Wuxian woke up in a different world, in a body that often feels stretched too tight, too misaligned. But Jiang Cheng is Jiang Cheng. It makes his heart hurt. He misses him. From his perspective, it wasn't that long ago that he had his shidi.

It wasn't that long ago, that shijie- That- It hasn't been that long, that's all. It's just- Sometimes, when he's alone, it feels like a chasm is opening up in his chest. Like he is still lying on that mountain with Wen Qing's hands re-arranging him and hollowing him out. And if he stops to think about it, to truly analyze what any of it means, he'll start screaming and never stop.

He can't do that. It would scare Lan Zhan. He'd be sad.

Lan Zhan has spent enough of his life being sad about Wei Wuxian. He won't add to it. And this thing going on with- with the body. He wouldn't understand it. Lan Zhan loves Wei Ying so much, he could have been reborn as Little Apple and Lan Zhan wouldn't love him any less. And A-Yuan, oh his little A-Yuan, his little radish. The only evidence that he still had a heart, at the end of it all.

If anyone had ever bothered to ask, he would have sworn it stopped beating alongside his shijie's. After that night, he felt more like one of his own corpse puppets than an actual person. Maybe that was when he died. And this thing that he is now- It came back wrong.

Maybe it's not Wei Wuxian. How would they know? How could they know? Lan Zhan, his A-Yuan, they have now spent more time with the body than they ever had with Wei Wuxian. In another 20 years, this is how they'll remember him.

In a body that burns in the sun.

Heat starts to pool behind his- the- Mo Xuanyu's eyes. It's a strange sensation. Back then, after becoming part of the Jiang, he didn't cry often. The body cries so much. Is this him? Or is it the final vestiges of Mo Xuanyu mourning his death? He doesn't know.

How would he know? The silence has stretched long enough, Jiang Cheng can hear Wei Wuxian's breathing pick up next to him. Whatever this is, it has him treading on unsteady ground.

He's rattled by it.

If Jiang Cheng closes his eyes, he can still picture that little boy in the bed across the room, trying to keep silent, shaking in the night. Shijie, does the rule still apply after death? Yours and his? Does his husband know how often Wei Wuxian needs to be held?

How would he know? Only the Jiang saw what he was like before the rule had been implemented and Wei Wuxian has been operating at a deficit of affection for the majority of his life. Surely death has only amplified it.

In this moment, little more than an arm length away, he has never felt further from Wei Ying. The distance feels insurmountable, impossible even.

Here are some objective truths of the world:

Sandu Shengshou is a war hero.

Jiang Cheng is a coward.

Jiang Cheng loves his nephew.

Wei Ying is Wei Ying.

Here is the thing about the Yunmeng Jiang:

They do not love lightly.

Whether it be people or places, once that seed is planted in their hearts, you’ll have an easier time drinking the river than uprooting it.

What could be considered impossible in the face of such devotion?

That is the Yunmeng Jiang way.

And Jiang Cheng is a son of the Yunmeng Jiang.

Jiang Cheng steels himself with a breath. He is a coward, a man devoid of affection, but he has experience building something from mud and ashes. A familiar shudder next him has him turning his head on instinct, seeking what always used to be there. His shixiong.

The clouds above them finally clear and there, under the moonlight in the Unclean Realm, is Wei Ying. The sight of him makes his heart hurt. Jiang Cheng is struck by the realization that he misses him.

He missed him so much. It doesn't feel like he'll ever stop missing him.

This epiphany gives him the courage needed to finally speak the words he's been desperate to say since that night hunt on Dafan Mountain and again that time at inn.

"Wei Ying," his voice cracks and his shixiong, conditioned by a lifetime of taking care of his shidi, immediately turns to face him at the first sign of distress.

"Come to Lotus Pier. Come home."

He swallows back a sob because the next part is important, he needs to get it out before he loses his courage. Jiang Cheng can, at the very least, give him back this part of himself. Maybe he's the only person who can.

"I'll teach you. If you can't, I'll teach you. Again."

The words haven't left his mouth before Wei Ying is scrambling over to wrap his arms around him.

And oh.

Oh. Jiang Cheng has always been the stupider of the two. How could he have forgotten? How could he have missed something so important?

Jiang Cheng always held Jin Ling when he was sad. He made sure to hold him when he was happy too. Though he threatens to break his legs, he has never once hit him. Jin Ling has never feared his touch nor wanted for it.

Jiang Cheng could count on one hand how many times Jiang Fengmian had held him and still have fingers left over. His mother had done it significantly more often, though she was unaccustomed to such easy affection. But if he initiated, she always reciprocated. Such tender physicality, the gentleness of it, just wasn't the way of the Meiyan Yu. But his siblings? There aren’t enough lotus pods in all the piers to calculate how often they held him.

But no one who knew that had been alive to remind him.

Until now. The Twin Prides of Yunmeng had always been mirror images, more alike than one would initially think. And in many ways, they never stopped being those boys sharing a bed in the dark. They stay holding each other until they both stop shaking. Wei Ying is the first to pull away, he croaks out an "Okay. Okay." before taking another moment to compose himself. He has to look away before he starts back up again. Otherwise, they'll be here all night and there is still a discussion conference going on. He never thought he would have this. After Guanyin Temple it had felt impossible. He should have known better.

This is Jiang Cheng, after all.

Speaking of, there was one thing he's been dying to ask.

"Back then, on the mountain and in the inn, how did you know?" the It was me goes unsaid.

When he had really sat down to think about it, Jiang Cheng only spent a handful of moments with him before immediately clocking his identity.

He hears a familiar snort of disbelief behind him, maybe wetter than it would normally be, and a rustling of fabric. Wei Wuxian, still sitting on the grass, peeks over his shoulder to look up at his shidi. Jiang Cheng is giving him that lopsided smile that Madam Yu always said would make his face stick like that.

His answer is so simple, so Jiang Cheng, he doesn't know what he expected. "In what life wouldn't I know you? You move like my brother." Wei Wuxian's jaw hangs open as he watches Jiang Cheng retreat into the night. When he finally recovers from the shock and looks down, there is a bao wrapped in fabric next to a clarity bell catching the moonlight. Here is the thing about the Yunmeng Jiang, an objective truth of the world: The waters will always welcome them home.

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