[ He who guides, not he who rules — the distinction so granular and semantic that Wei Wuxian appreciates it in the spirit in which Lan Zhan's newly-learned pedantic shrewdness intends it.
He laughs, the nods slight and congratulatory, celebrating Lan Zhan's diplomatic endeavours before he dips in to collect a tender spread of fleshy eggplant between trembling chopsticks, scooping a light bedding of rice from his bowl, then drenching it in the glistened waters of hot oil Lan Zhan graciously presented him with, generously painting each side.
Brows perched, smile yet glaring, he holds out the lethal chopstick-led menace in the general vicinity of Lan Zhan's mouth, invitation plain.
Be that coward, Hanguang-Jun. Pull back before the red death. ]
Come on. What's a man without war — [ Fortunate, Sizhui, spared. ] — and a cultivator without a sword — [ Wei Wuxian. ] — and life without suffering?
[ Does Lan Zhan yet live, if his tongue and teeth don't ache gruellingly for that pleasure? No man in the history of Yunmeng has ever qi deviated from the horrors of his peppers, though they're of a different breed in Gusu Lan, tender and pretty and frail. To look at Lan Zhan's body — Wei Wuxian allows himself the measure, slow and careful, eyes slanted — he might be a rope of muscle, twined, but the sun will flay him for his pallor, the ]
Eat, and I'll share your burden. You can write me all your sect troubles, and I'll solve them. All of them.
[ Not one letter ignored or trouble loitering. Noble Hanguang-Jun will write, The sect leaders grow complacent and querulous, and Wei Wuxian will answer, Have you considered setting their robes on fire? And Lan Zhan will, of course, say, Yes, that is sound, and Wei Wuxian will agree, The most sound, now tax Jiang Cheng for two lotus pod, make it the riper pair from the northern lakes, and Sun Tzu will tremble for the ruthlessness of their war cunning.
Sharing is caring, and the rims and edges of Wei Wuxian's tired heart feel impossibly fat and disastrously stretched full. Eat this heavens-cursed eggplant, spare some troubles of the mind. ]
no subject
He laughs, the nods slight and congratulatory, celebrating Lan Zhan's diplomatic endeavours before he dips in to collect a tender spread of fleshy eggplant between trembling chopsticks, scooping a light bedding of rice from his bowl, then drenching it in the glistened waters of hot oil Lan Zhan graciously presented him with, generously painting each side.
Brows perched, smile yet glaring, he holds out the lethal chopstick-led menace in the general vicinity of Lan Zhan's mouth, invitation plain.
Be that coward, Hanguang-Jun. Pull back before the red death. ]
Come on. What's a man without war — [ Fortunate, Sizhui, spared. ] — and a cultivator without a sword — [ Wei Wuxian. ] — and life without suffering?
[ Does Lan Zhan yet live, if his tongue and teeth don't ache gruellingly for that pleasure? No man in the history of Yunmeng has ever qi deviated from the horrors of his peppers, though they're of a different breed in Gusu Lan, tender and pretty and frail. To look at Lan Zhan's body — Wei Wuxian allows himself the measure, slow and careful, eyes slanted — he might be a rope of muscle, twined, but the sun will flay him for his pallor, the ]
Eat, and I'll share your burden. You can write me all your sect troubles, and I'll solve them. All of them.
[ Not one letter ignored or trouble loitering. Noble Hanguang-Jun will write, The sect leaders grow complacent and querulous, and Wei Wuxian will answer, Have you considered setting their robes on fire? And Lan Zhan will, of course, say, Yes, that is sound, and Wei Wuxian will agree, The most sound, now tax Jiang Cheng for two lotus pod, make it the riper pair from the northern lakes, and Sun Tzu will tremble for the ruthlessness of their war cunning.
Sharing is caring, and the rims and edges of Wei Wuxian's tired heart feel impossibly fat and disastrously stretched full. Eat this heavens-cursed eggplant, spare some troubles of the mind. ]