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adilypi · 5 months ago

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COLLECTION OF A LEECH'S RAMBLINGS:

Tang Bō stirred slowly—or at least tried—, the world taking form through the overwhelming yet soothing scent of plum blossoms, a sweetness tangled with a faint hint of baijiu. It enveloped him, weaving through his senses and lulling him into a rare, all-consuming peace. Strangely comforting. For once, there was no heaviness weighing down his mind—only warmth. His lips curled upwards at the sound of a pleased hum. Then he noticed the literal weight pressing down on him. Solid and grounding, it anchored him to the mattress in the best possible way. A sturdy arm wrapped firmly around his waist, their chests crushed together with a pressure that should have been stifling but wasn’t. Oh, and their limbs knotted together, intimately, like strands of a tightly woven braid, locking him in place with easy dominance. Only one person possessed the audacity to lay claim to him so casually.

"Chung Myung~"

The man’s head nestled snugly in the crook of Bō’s neck, his face half-buried against his skin, like a ruffled owl hiding from the sunlight. The thought made Bō’s smile widen faintly. Each exhale from Chung Myung brushed against his neck, warm and steady, the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing a quiet assurance that seeped into his chest. He noticed, with emerging delight, the trail of drool trickling from Chung Myung's parted lips, meandering down Bō’s neck before disappearing into the mattress. He let out a soft snort—more amused than exasperated. Even asleep, Chung Myung had the audacity to be so damnably overwhelming. Like the ocean, vast and inescapable, filling him and hollowing him out all at once.

No room to escape, no room to breath anything but this scent, and their warm breaths mingling in the air.

The diary, he realized, still rested in Tang Bō’s hand, caught awkwardly between their bodies, its edge faintly digging into his ribs. The sharpness was a distant discomfort, overshadowed by the warmth draped over him. Reluctantly, he maneuvered his arm free, extricating the diary with painstaking care, like it was a fragile treasure. A quick glance to confirm its pages were unscathed was enough. Satisfied—and relieved, he placed it on the free side of the mattress, that fragile little treasure deserved better than to be crushed under Chung Myung’s obnoxiously heavy sprawl.

Perfect. Now with both hands free, nothing could stop him from the impending savagery he was about to unleash upon the revered sword saint, who shall undergo the dark arts of back-petting.

His fingers began their sinister descent across the length of Chung Myung's stalwart back. Viciously! Tracing the line of the spine in a simple, tender stroke of his fingers, nesting in the curve of the back. His dark fingers violently brushing against the ridges of his spine with a care both soft and reverent, as though he were handling something sacred. His other hand crept higher, with all the wicked intent to stroke the nape of Chung Myung’s neck, his fingers threading through the soft hair there before brushing lightly against the vulnerable skin beneath.

It was diabolical—devious, even—and Tang Bō relished every second of it.

Chung Myung, for his part, stirred faintly at the assault. His breath hitched, but instead of recoiling, the man leaned in closer, nuzzling deeper into Bō’s neck like a stubborn cat claiming its favorite perch. His grip tightened, purely reflexive, as if to warn Bō against any attempts at escape. At that point, the man could've started purring, he was impossible, even like this.

And yet, Tang Bō couldn’t bring himself to mind. His fingers continued their slow, insidious journey, memorizing the planes of his back. It was scandalous, borderline treacherous. If anyone could see him now, they’d say he was handling the Plum Blossom Saint with all the delicacy of a scholar leafing through ancient scrolls.

But this was savagery, pure and unbridled. The most dangerous kind. And yet, somehow, it left Tang Bō feeling a little more whole.Tang Bō closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the moment.

He let his hands rest on Chung Myung's hips, finally dropping the act.

There was no dread here, no claws, no chaos. None of the poisons on which he had been weaned on. Just the scent of plum blossoms, the weight of a man who held him without knowing the depth of what it meant, and the quiet hum of a morning that, for once, felt like a gift.

Tang Bō’s gaze dropped to the man’s face, softened in sleep, free of the usual bravado and sharp-edged humor. It was a face that didn’t belong in the chaos of the jianghu—a face that could almost trick him into thinking about quiet mornings and warm nights, of things he didn’t deserve and couldn’t afford to want. Chung Myung, just Chung Myung draped over him like a shield, all consuming in his presence, a weight Bō didn’t mind carrying.

He leaned his head back against the pillow, exhaling softly, his gaze tracing the cracks in the ceiling above. Mornings like this—so quiet, so still—felt more dangerous than any battle he’d survived. There was no defense against the ache in his chest, that insistent pull in his gut that clawed at him harder than any blade or poison ever had. But strangely, he didn’t mind. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break the spell yet.

If given a choice, Tang Bō thought wryly, he wouldn’t mind dying like this. Encased in warmth, locked in those insufferably possessive arms, pinned beneath a weight that somehow made him feel lighter. A treasure, kept close and jealously guarded—what a laughable thought. But the flutter in his chest betrayed him, and he closed his eyes against it.

The ache in his cheeks dragged him back, sharp and annoying, for smiling too much—again. He let out a low chuckle, the sound rumbling faintly between them. It was absurd how easily this fool reduced him to smiles and giggles he couldn’t hide. A part of him—some foolish, reckless part—wanted to press his lips to that jade face, to graze the line of his jaw or trail a kiss over his ridiculous nose. Or better yet, that insufferable mouth, which he knew would wear a pout even in sleep.

That would be ridiculous. Reckless.

Dangerous.

Still, as Bō’s grin widened, a sharp flicker of mischief sparked in his eyes. Oh— the sheer hilarity of it all. Chung Myung, fearsome Plum Blossom Saint, reduced to an overly possessive bedmate, tangled up like a child afraid to lose his favorite blanket. What a scene this would be when the idiot woke up. Bō could already picture the flustered outrage, the sharp bark of denial, the glorious embarrassment that would paint his face. He bit back a laugh, but the grin stayed, devilish and gleeful.

Tang Bō nearly laughed aloud at the absurdity of it all. The image alone was enough to make him want to grab a brush and ink, to immortalize this tangled disgrace in the margins of his diary, nestled right between the darker entries.

That rascal. Did he have any idea what this looked like? Walking into another man’s room in the dead of night, sliding into his bed uninvited, and then locking their legs together as if they were lovers caught in the hectic aftermath of some unwary fling.

Tang Bō smiled so wide he could already feel the pang on his cheeks, the corners of his lips twitching upward in amusement. As things stood, maybe they should just strip their clothes while they were at it —There was no room for modesty between them, after all, they've already seen everything there was to see. Yes, perhaps that would be the logical next step. The thought slithered through his mind, unbidden, and lingered far too long. It would be nice, idyllic even. Flesh against flesh. The taste of salt in his tongue, laying on bed, entangled in sheets... A motion both sweet and rough. And then—

No.

What a mess.

What a wretched, godforsaken mess.

He shouldn't think like this.

He shelved the thought —like all the times he did before.

Tang Bō couldn't stand the idea of disgracing him like that. The sheer idea came as blasphemous in his mind. For all the things one could ascribe to his character, lewd wasn't one of them. Would he call Chung Myung pure? Far from it; the idea itself was laughable, Taoist Chung Myung would never be pure. But there was something untainted about him, some intangible quality that Tang Bō preferred to leave unmarred. Whatever it was, it felt wrong to sully it —And yet, despite his better judgment, the longing lingered. Not to defile, but to connect. To reach for an intimacy that had always seemed just out of grasp.

His gaze lingered on the man atop him.

What a wretched excuse of a taoist. There was nothing ascetic about him—about the solid arm curled possessively around Bō’s waist, the weight of his chest pressing them together, or the quiet vulnerability of his face softened by sleep.

Oh, if those righteous prudes could see him now. The untamed swordsman, wrapped around the Dark Saint. And wasn’t it something? this ridiculous taoist, with his brazen disregard for rules and his maddening lack of self-awareness, had somehow become the only person capable of invading both his space and his silence. Lucky bastard, he mused. Or maybe unlucky, depending on how you viewed things.

Bō’s fingers resumed their quiet exploration, brushing against the ridges of Chung Myung’s spine with a touch that balanced on the knife’s edge between reverence and mockery. His other hand toyed again with the soft hair at the nape of Chung Myung’s neck, his movements unhurried, deliberate.

“Hah,” he whispered to himself, the word barely audible as his fingers traced a path over Chung Myung’s shoulder blade. “If he’s going to cling like this, maybe I should charge him rent. Or just send a dowry. However it works for clingy taoists.”

Chung Myung shifted, his body instinctively pressing closer, as if even in sleep, he sought to close the space between them. His breath was warm against Bō’s neck, his head tucked snugly into the crook like it belonged there. What a fool. What a brazen, reckless fool.

“What a mess,” Bō murmured, his voice laced with mockery and affection as he let his eyes drift closed again. “What a wretched, delightful mess.”

Again Chung Myung stirred reluctantly, the haze of sleep clinging to him like morning dew. He fought to stay in the cocoon of unconsciousness, lulled by the lazy, sardonic touch of Bō’s fingers tracing idle patterns against his back.

"Bo-ya" Chung Myung mumbled, and Tang Bō couldn't tell for the sake of him, whether the call was delivered or instinctual.

"About time, Brother~" came a low whisper, brushing against the shell of his ear. Willing to sacrifice that beautiful arrangement to delight in the man's exquisite reactions. "You're crushing me."

In the end, Chung Myung was just himself in his wake, wild and untamed.

—continue on ao3—

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