[ He hisses out, but the heat's permeated tissue and blood already, made its home inside Wei Wuxian, leaving the splinters of his voice to smoothen out, his mind to chill. Think, now, clearly. Think (don't pity him). Think, and don't growl when Lan Zhan's arms constrict him tighter than a binding charm, the taut lines of Wei Wuxian's shoulders lifting, concave and full and stubborn in rise. Cats wouldn't be gripped close, not for fear of claws.
He thinks, for a treacherous moment, to try his fangs on Lan Zhan's throat til he's raw. Doesn't, because gentlemen of the cultivation world don't cannibalise their intended, and there's a strange comfort in sulkily agreeing to flatten his ear to Lan Zhan's chest and time his breathing against the southbound drum of his heartbeat. ]
You can have me. There's not much meat to me, but I'll put it back on the bone. [ Poor joke from the scion of a clan of vegetarians. And what did he say? Don't deflect. ] That's your plea answer.
[ And maybe there's a rot sickness inside him, same as festers in the cadavers he wakes last, the ones who answer Chenqing's thrall with something like rancour — less for those who slighted them in the living world, than for the necromancer who subjugates them even now, unerringly. Hollowed out, so cracked and fragile that the lightest tap of Lan Zhan's arms on his back will dent him, and then the liquid will spill out, the simmered brew of his hoarse, base bite. Lan Zhan, who asks of him now. Who wants him now. Who thinks himself entitled.
Who deserves a few seconds of solace, before the truth balances hope out. ]
You can have me, but you can't keep me. [ A gift, now and then, meetings of vicious mouths and squabble, and revising Wei Wuxian's talismans — of which he has a fair collection, each one in direr straits and need of alteration than the one before it. His patience grinds down; he stirs, pulling back. ] That's what I can offer. Think it over during dinner.
[ That other diversion which at least serves the critical point of biding Lan Zhan's time, this once. They're romantics in sect Lan. Zewu-Jun all but carved the conclusion on stone slab, beside three other thousand rules, for Wei Wuxian's literary pleasure. They are not of a kind to take lovers to bed one evening, then abandon them merrily at first light of dawns. They don't respond to cutoffs and uncertainty. ]
no subject
[ He hisses out, but the heat's permeated tissue and blood already, made its home inside Wei Wuxian, leaving the splinters of his voice to smoothen out, his mind to chill. Think, now, clearly. Think (don't pity him). Think, and don't growl when Lan Zhan's arms constrict him tighter than a binding charm, the taut lines of Wei Wuxian's shoulders lifting, concave and full and stubborn in rise. Cats wouldn't be gripped close, not for fear of claws.
He thinks, for a treacherous moment, to try his fangs on Lan Zhan's throat til he's raw. Doesn't, because gentlemen of the cultivation world don't cannibalise their intended, and there's a strange comfort in sulkily agreeing to flatten his ear to Lan Zhan's chest and time his breathing against the southbound drum of his heartbeat. ]
You can have me. There's not much meat to me, but I'll put it back on the bone. [ Poor joke from the scion of a clan of vegetarians. And what did he say? Don't deflect. ] That's your plea answer.
[ And maybe there's a rot sickness inside him, same as festers in the cadavers he wakes last, the ones who answer Chenqing's thrall with something like rancour — less for those who slighted them in the living world, than for the necromancer who subjugates them even now, unerringly. Hollowed out, so cracked and fragile that the lightest tap of Lan Zhan's arms on his back will dent him, and then the liquid will spill out, the simmered brew of his hoarse, base bite. Lan Zhan, who asks of him now. Who wants him now. Who thinks himself entitled.
Who deserves a few seconds of solace, before the truth balances hope out. ]
You can have me, but you can't keep me. [ A gift, now and then, meetings of vicious mouths and squabble, and revising Wei Wuxian's talismans — of which he has a fair collection, each one in direr straits and need of alteration than the one before it. His patience grinds down; he stirs, pulling back. ] That's what I can offer. Think it over during dinner.
[ That other diversion which at least serves the critical point of biding Lan Zhan's time, this once. They're romantics in sect Lan. Zewu-Jun all but carved the conclusion on stone slab, beside three other thousand rules, for Wei Wuxian's literary pleasure. They are not of a kind to take lovers to bed one evening, then abandon them merrily at first light of dawns. They don't respond to cutoffs and uncertainty. ]