[ Years in, it shouldn't surprise him any longer that Lan Zhan — who's made a fortress of the prison of his regulated body, like a hummingbird sheltering in a gilded cage — yearns for touch indiscriminately, that he chased Wei Wuxian's mouth and his knuckles before, drinks in the twining of their fingers now. Days, years later, will he still be so easily satisfied, part emboldened wolf taking the measure of his prey, part child trotting towards fresh revelation?
Certainly, Wei Wuxian doesn't complain. Their fingers thread together, like roots of an ageing tree, the fit ancestral. Let Lan Zhan be bright-eyed and muscle-soft, as if Wei Wuxian were more willow bark than humble palliative. His courtship suit, which isn't that, would need all the help it can get, if it were. ]
Delinquent.
[ Hanguang-Jun, the thickness of his cheek, skirting his duties. If the line of Wei Wuxian's grin falters, it's to mourn the loss of every teasing opportunity Lan Zhan's countless titles bestowed on the adoring masses. Humming, he tugs up, and they both pretend his newfound strength had no convenient ally in Lan Zhan's assistance. Woe is Wei Wuxian, vanquishing the evils of Lan Zhan's twig-weight, all on his lonesome. Woe and agony, cough, cough.
But then they're two simple, lively fragments of lightning in the dark, facing each other with animal grace. This close, Lan Zhan's gaze cuts new shapes, thunderous. Wei Wuxian retaliates by exploring suicide (again) and hardening the bite of his nails in Lan Zhan's palm, hollowing skin, flirting with blood. Cultivator's healing, sword calluses. In the alcoves of Wei Wuxian's learned kindness lurks natural cruelty. He has said before, Yiling is not a place, but a state of mind. ]
Hi again. [ Heavens help them all, if Lan Zhan decides to weaponise his beauty. It's not fair, snagging the breath out of Wei Wuxian's lungs again, when he only just complained of suffocation. ] Free world. Love whom you want. Hate whom you want. Wear the terribly painful hair fashions you want.
[ He winces, within himself, every time rising moonlight trains on the ridiculously heavy piece of spun silver that has been thrust down on Lan Zhan's head. Is this vanity? And somehow not against the three-slash-ten thousand rules? Zewu-Jun and the grand master seem equally complicit in the habit, so Wei Wuxian has long suspected some part of it must be disciplinary. Ancient torture. Completely on the Gusu Lan mark. ]
no subject
Certainly, Wei Wuxian doesn't complain. Their fingers thread together, like roots of an ageing tree, the fit ancestral. Let Lan Zhan be bright-eyed and muscle-soft, as if Wei Wuxian were more willow bark than humble palliative. His courtship suit, which isn't that, would need all the help it can get, if it were. ]
Delinquent.
[ Hanguang-Jun, the thickness of his cheek, skirting his duties. If the line of Wei Wuxian's grin falters, it's to mourn the loss of every teasing opportunity Lan Zhan's countless titles bestowed on the adoring masses. Humming, he tugs up, and they both pretend his newfound strength had no convenient ally in Lan Zhan's assistance. Woe is Wei Wuxian, vanquishing the evils of Lan Zhan's twig-weight, all on his lonesome. Woe and agony, cough, cough.
But then they're two simple, lively fragments of lightning in the dark, facing each other with animal grace. This close, Lan Zhan's gaze cuts new shapes, thunderous. Wei Wuxian retaliates by exploring suicide (again) and hardening the bite of his nails in Lan Zhan's palm, hollowing skin, flirting with blood. Cultivator's healing, sword calluses. In the alcoves of Wei Wuxian's learned kindness lurks natural cruelty. He has said before, Yiling is not a place, but a state of mind. ]
Hi again. [ Heavens help them all, if Lan Zhan decides to weaponise his beauty. It's not fair, snagging the breath out of Wei Wuxian's lungs again, when he only just complained of suffocation. ] Free world. Love whom you want. Hate whom you want. Wear the terribly painful hair fashions you want.
[ He winces, within himself, every time rising moonlight trains on the ridiculously heavy piece of spun silver that has been thrust down on Lan Zhan's head. Is this vanity? And somehow not against the three-slash-ten thousand rules? Zewu-Jun and the grand master seem equally complicit in the habit, so Wei Wuxian has long suspected some part of it must be disciplinary. Ancient torture. Completely on the Gusu Lan mark. ]