( Flesh parts as easily as lips to breathe; he doesn't even feel the sting, so much as the qi that follows, the kiss that never came after the bite of crueler hands, crueler weapons. Oh, this is flirtation, it's danger, it's neither of them knowing how and under a pressure that only expands and extends, and so, and so, and so.
His fingers there, and he catches them in his blood. It's a simple talisman, used infrequently, a trick, not a treat.
It is drawn against Lan Zhan's exposed wrist, each moment of it fluid and an offering of end this, you or I, or we see what happens next, and the talisman, roughshod and red against pale skins, means but this:
Wei Wuxian leans in further still, rough cheeked with the beard that's filled in as he's filled in time here, the mysteries abounding, mannequins and coal necrosis and manufactured disasters and waking up, and he says, command talisman writ in his blood, on his husband's body: )
Stop.
( Steps in, the nature of this temporary, the command behind it once an invitation to drink that was expected to be turned away, now turned to: )
And remember, always, to breathe.
( This is no talisman to hold beyond that moment, to compel more than the pause it might with the blood drawn from his neck, red ties woven between them. Even still, even yet, it's a moment caught and frozen, because one shift closer, and he'll try claiming lips with all the finesse of a man as parched as his husband claims come across clean waters in a dead land, while a sword breathes hot against his neck.
Not a man who chooses all his moments. A man who lives within the moments he finds himself in, maddeningly. )
no subject
His fingers there, and he catches them in his blood. It's a simple talisman, used infrequently, a trick, not a treat.
It is drawn against Lan Zhan's exposed wrist, each moment of it fluid and an offering of end this, you or I, or we see what happens next, and the talisman, roughshod and red against pale skins, means but this:
Wei Wuxian leans in further still, rough cheeked with the beard that's filled in as he's filled in time here, the mysteries abounding, mannequins and coal necrosis and manufactured disasters and waking up, and he says, command talisman writ in his blood, on his husband's body: )
Stop.
( Steps in, the nature of this temporary, the command behind it once an invitation to drink that was expected to be turned away, now turned to: )
And remember, always, to breathe.
( This is no talisman to hold beyond that moment, to compel more than the pause it might with the blood drawn from his neck, red ties woven between them. Even still, even yet, it's a moment caught and frozen, because one shift closer, and he'll try claiming lips with all the finesse of a man as parched as his husband claims come across clean waters in a dead land, while a sword breathes hot against his neck.
Not a man who chooses all his moments. A man who lives within the moments he finds himself in, maddeningly. )