[ Stop making my excuses, he doesn't bite back, teeth have blunted between the past hour's offensives. Too much. He's filled one evening's tally with Lan Zhan's hurts, and they're too bound for more blood, connected decisively at the point of Lan Zhan's heartbeat.
It's too much, so it has to reduce top nothing: he invades, distracting, in the two-pace radius where only practised glares and a gentleman's dagger might still protect Lan Zhan from close-range harm. Brows a hard slant, he studies — then decides, the clash of his mouth on Lan Zhan's temple, jaw, mouth, like a wave hitting shore. Soft, for the resigned lack of recourse.
Self-taught, he'll have to also finish Lan Zhan's education: these are kisses of apology. Before, of acquaintance. At some point, they will be teasing, at another passionate, territorial, cruel. Nuances, like in sword work. ]
I know more things than you've ever thought to teach me. [ Lan Zhan and his pretty sect and his rigorous grand master, rooted so rigidly in orthodoxy. ] I'll be good over dinner.
[ He's already spoiled the better part of their journey down the hill, to the firefly-lit span of a crouched village, where inns and administrative halls dwarf dwellings like juts of a hungry dagger over sand lines. They walk. He nudges them to it. This body lacks the benefits of cultivation — within a few hours, like a child, it will need rest.
From earlier, he remembers: the meandering walkway into the main marketplace, to the sibilant street to the miniature artisan district and, ever separate, the foreign inn quarters. Little Apple's enjoyed fine hospitality against Wei Wuxian's coin for the better part of a day, that scoundrel.
And then, the inevitable adjustment, slip of Wei Wuxian's step from beside Lan Zhan to gently ease behind him, where a light breeze or, say, the small but ever-present likelihood of a stray dog begging road scraps must cross Lan defenses before reaching him.
He may have a problem. That problem tends to bark. ]
You could silence me and feed me, if you'd like. But you should talk. You never talk.
[ Arguably, because Wei Wuxian never shuts up to allow it. ]
no subject
It's too much, so it has to reduce top nothing: he invades, distracting, in the two-pace radius where only practised glares and a gentleman's dagger might still protect Lan Zhan from close-range harm. Brows a hard slant, he studies — then decides, the clash of his mouth on Lan Zhan's temple, jaw, mouth, like a wave hitting shore. Soft, for the resigned lack of recourse.
Self-taught, he'll have to also finish Lan Zhan's education: these are kisses of apology. Before, of acquaintance. At some point, they will be teasing, at another passionate, territorial, cruel. Nuances, like in sword work. ]
I know more things than you've ever thought to teach me. [ Lan Zhan and his pretty sect and his rigorous grand master, rooted so rigidly in orthodoxy. ] I'll be good over dinner.
[ He's already spoiled the better part of their journey down the hill, to the firefly-lit span of a crouched village, where inns and administrative halls dwarf dwellings like juts of a hungry dagger over sand lines. They walk. He nudges them to it. This body lacks the benefits of cultivation — within a few hours, like a child, it will need rest.
From earlier, he remembers: the meandering walkway into the main marketplace, to the sibilant street to the miniature artisan district and, ever separate, the foreign inn quarters. Little Apple's enjoyed fine hospitality against Wei Wuxian's coin for the better part of a day, that scoundrel.
And then, the inevitable adjustment, slip of Wei Wuxian's step from beside Lan Zhan to gently ease behind him, where a light breeze or, say, the small but ever-present likelihood of a stray dog begging road scraps must cross Lan defenses before reaching him.
He may have a problem. That problem tends to bark. ]
You could silence me and feed me, if you'd like. But you should talk. You never talk.
[ Arguably, because Wei Wuxian never shuts up to allow it. ]