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cw sxx knives; testing
It’s not about the knives, at first. That’s what Song Lan tells himself. It’s something much cruder. Scraped knees. Black snot. How you can’t see into the eyes of bottle flies—that opacity.
It’s everything about Xue Yang, and not in a good way. His leather jacket, weighty enough to bend back knuckles at the joint. The spider-mesh of his tattoos. They break up the lines of him, twisting apart the inside of his elbow, cutting across his cheek. Always dislocated, a series of constituent parts. So Song Lan can’t pin the essence of him down.
Illegibility. Xingchen seems to like that about Xue Yang, but nothing is impermeable to him. Not to the wormy grind of his curiosity; that arch knowingness that just drifts right the fuck out of his mouth. Gentle aphorisms, clicky tsk chastisements chafing at you until you’re red and glowing, all over. Yeah, Xingchen will do that to a person. Song Lan’s been there. Wear them down bone-deep till they beg to break. He’s getting somewhere with Xue Yang. Not that Song Lan doesn’t like to watch them at it together, but cat and mouse never did much for him, the slip sliding game. Oil. A spill, like the shape of Xue Yang’s lashes, abstract in the siren lights. No, Song Lan sees the world as simply demarcated: matter in its place and matter out of its place. And as it stands, he’s never been afraid to move a body where he wants it. Where it needs to go.
It’s a small thing, when it happens. A recon mission. Xue Yang catches himself on some razor wire hopping a fence; so fucking careless. It tears the black luster of his glove from fingertip to palm. Blood oozing from his hand. Gash of skin, pale. He wipes it on the seat of his pants, but Song Lan likes him like this, perforated. Still--“Let’s go, big guy,” Xue Yang says and even though he’s smiling, his mind’s titanium. Impervious.
Song Lan’s dick gets hard at the thought of sawing Xue Yang into two perfect, even halves. Watching the gore slop out of him and pulse at his feet.
The language of writhing. It’s more honest than Xue Yang will ever be. With Song Lan anyway.
Xingchen licks the blood off Xue Yang off when they get home. He takes his time. He chooses to take the same amount of time that it takes Song Lan to make them all eggs and rice and miso soup. Languid. When Xue Yang gets to the table, he’s well-tuned, got that wide-eyed thing from Xingchen’s attention. A fine tremor. Song Lan wants to feel the quiver of his skin through a blade. Xingchen’s private smile. It’s cruel.
It’s not about the knives, Song Lan thinks to himself later, when he flicks Xue Yang’s bangs out of his face with the straight razor and hears his breath catch rough. When he brings the blade in a thin, vicious line down Xue Yang’s bicep and watches the skin separate as if unzipped—elastic and asunder. There’s a waver in Xue Yang’s chest. Scooped deep like Xue Yang’s all uncertain in a place even Xingchen can’t reach. That place where his ribs grind together.
Song Lan presses down.
“Gege,” Xue Yang whimpers, and the sound is brittle in the air. He’s not tied up, just docile, drugged with it. The red that floods Song Lan’s vision is a haze. An alluring candy-shimmer. And sure, he’s no Xingchen, but this--this makes him feel like he can bend reality.
No yeah, it’s not about the knives, it’s about knowing, even if he’s not sure what about, and Song Lan can’t stand it, he needs Xue Yang to know, he just needs Xue Yang to know; in the same way that Xue Yang knows to make his tongue wet and loose now. Wriggles it slippery it along the sides of Song Lan’s fingers, the handle of the blade. In the same way Xue Yang’s flexes his arm involuntarily so the blood comes quicker. A stain on Song Lan’s mouth. Xingchen’s teeth, hungry at his lips. Bubble of red. Wet gasp. The razor slips deep. Song Lan doesn’t mean it. But the blade doesn’t hitch, when Song Lan twists it to part Xue Yang’s flesh wide open. Opacity is also the color of water. The color of Xue Yang’s eyes, when Xingchen slips his fingers inside.
It’s everything about Xue Yang, and not in a good way. His leather jacket, weighty enough to bend back knuckles at the joint. The spider-mesh of his tattoos. They break up the lines of him, twisting apart the inside of his elbow, cutting across his cheek. Always dislocated, a series of constituent parts. So Song Lan can’t pin the essence of him down.
Illegibility. Xingchen seems to like that about Xue Yang, but nothing is impermeable to him. Not to the wormy grind of his curiosity; that arch knowingness that just drifts right the fuck out of his mouth. Gentle aphorisms, clicky tsk chastisements chafing at you until you’re red and glowing, all over. Yeah, Xingchen will do that to a person. Song Lan’s been there. Wear them down bone-deep till they beg to break. He’s getting somewhere with Xue Yang. Not that Song Lan doesn’t like to watch them at it together, but cat and mouse never did much for him, the slip sliding game. Oil. A spill, like the shape of Xue Yang’s lashes, abstract in the siren lights. No, Song Lan sees the world as simply demarcated: matter in its place and matter out of its place. And as it stands, he’s never been afraid to move a body where he wants it. Where it needs to go.
It’s a small thing, when it happens. A recon mission. Xue Yang catches himself on some razor wire hopping a fence; so fucking careless. It tears the black luster of his glove from fingertip to palm. Blood oozing from his hand. Gash of skin, pale. He wipes it on the seat of his pants, but Song Lan likes him like this, perforated. Still--“Let’s go, big guy,” Xue Yang says and even though he’s smiling, his mind’s titanium. Impervious.
Song Lan’s dick gets hard at the thought of sawing Xue Yang into two perfect, even halves. Watching the gore slop out of him and pulse at his feet.
The language of writhing. It’s more honest than Xue Yang will ever be. With Song Lan anyway.
Xingchen licks the blood off Xue Yang off when they get home. He takes his time. He chooses to take the same amount of time that it takes Song Lan to make them all eggs and rice and miso soup. Languid. When Xue Yang gets to the table, he’s well-tuned, got that wide-eyed thing from Xingchen’s attention. A fine tremor. Song Lan wants to feel the quiver of his skin through a blade. Xingchen’s private smile. It’s cruel.
It’s not about the knives, Song Lan thinks to himself later, when he flicks Xue Yang’s bangs out of his face with the straight razor and hears his breath catch rough. When he brings the blade in a thin, vicious line down Xue Yang’s bicep and watches the skin separate as if unzipped—elastic and asunder. There’s a waver in Xue Yang’s chest. Scooped deep like Xue Yang’s all uncertain in a place even Xingchen can’t reach. That place where his ribs grind together.
Song Lan presses down.
“Gege,” Xue Yang whimpers, and the sound is brittle in the air. He’s not tied up, just docile, drugged with it. The red that floods Song Lan’s vision is a haze. An alluring candy-shimmer. And sure, he’s no Xingchen, but this--this makes him feel like he can bend reality.
No yeah, it’s not about the knives, it’s about knowing, even if he’s not sure what about, and Song Lan can’t stand it, he needs Xue Yang to know, he just needs Xue Yang to know; in the same way that Xue Yang knows to make his tongue wet and loose now. Wriggles it slippery it along the sides of Song Lan’s fingers, the handle of the blade. In the same way Xue Yang’s flexes his arm involuntarily so the blood comes quicker. A stain on Song Lan’s mouth. Xingchen’s teeth, hungry at his lips. Bubble of red. Wet gasp. The razor slips deep. Song Lan doesn’t mean it. But the blade doesn’t hitch, when Song Lan twists it to part Xue Yang’s flesh wide open. Opacity is also the color of water. The color of Xue Yang’s eyes, when Xingchen slips his fingers inside.
no subject
The language of writhing. It’s more honest than Xue Yang will ever be. With Song Lan anyway."
fuck fuck fuck you
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