( Heat, the clash of them, the suddenness of joining mouth to mouth and no, nothing about it breathes out poetic, but it tips, it tilts, it's the first slide of rocks down a sheer mountain path. He can hear it, the cascade of possibility unformed but breathing in the silence beyond wet noises, neglected grunts of minor impact, the involuntary sound of appreciation when fingers tangle in his hair.
Feel it against the thrum of Lan Zhan's chest, even layered and caged as it is, his own mouth the invitation for more without needing it framed in hows and whys. His eyes, open, lashes peered through as sly flirtation fanned wider, heeding, bear down into Lan Zhan's, and he swallows, tongue tracing over his lips, the ache, the taste of copper he's known so well, so often, scents now on both of them in small, defensible, understandable ways.
Like this, then? There are rivers whose blockades he's seen give under the weight of a storm's onslaught. A violence, a magnificence, that stirs and awes, quick to come, quickly gone, leaving behind its muddy wake. Which he stands, whom dams for whom, what moment it pours over shivers through his veins, expecting. Adrenaline, not unlike when meeting blade to blade, but utterly unlike it in the same shivering, indrawn breath. )
In the moment, ( he says, voice dropping lower, convulsive swallow of his throat followed by the running of his tongue over his teeth, invitation: ) yes.
( In this moment, in so many moments, he doesn't know what this is without the grounding weight buried inside the violence: a call to spar, to meet with purpose, to cut small wounds and lick them clean again in the aftermath. Kindness undoes him too fast; gentle touches are an unmaking he's yet to learn. To press forward, to flow in, to nip at a jawline too smooth in comparison, raked teeth and roughed lips wet and pressing, momentarily there then drawn back, eyes to eyes, nose to nose, breath come faster.
Thrill, then, to fall forward into a trust that balances against his own expectation of defense. To fight, to surrender, no, to meet with terms: )
no subject
Feel it against the thrum of Lan Zhan's chest, even layered and caged as it is, his own mouth the invitation for more without needing it framed in hows and whys. His eyes, open, lashes peered through as sly flirtation fanned wider, heeding, bear down into Lan Zhan's, and he swallows, tongue tracing over his lips, the ache, the taste of copper he's known so well, so often, scents now on both of them in small, defensible, understandable ways.
Like this, then? There are rivers whose blockades he's seen give under the weight of a storm's onslaught. A violence, a magnificence, that stirs and awes, quick to come, quickly gone, leaving behind its muddy wake. Which he stands, whom dams for whom, what moment it pours over shivers through his veins, expecting. Adrenaline, not unlike when meeting blade to blade, but utterly unlike it in the same shivering, indrawn breath. )
In the moment, ( he says, voice dropping lower, convulsive swallow of his throat followed by the running of his tongue over his teeth, invitation: ) yes.
( In this moment, in so many moments, he doesn't know what this is without the grounding weight buried inside the violence: a call to spar, to meet with purpose, to cut small wounds and lick them clean again in the aftermath. Kindness undoes him too fast; gentle touches are an unmaking he's yet to learn. To press forward, to flow in, to nip at a jawline too smooth in comparison, raked teeth and roughed lips wet and pressing, momentarily there then drawn back, eyes to eyes, nose to nose, breath come faster.
Thrill, then, to fall forward into a trust that balances against his own expectation of defense. To fight, to surrender, no, to meet with terms: )
Lan Zhan.
( Not so little now. )