( What in him shivers at the touch to his lip, at Lan Zhan's mouthed words that don't mean much to him in the moment, the implication of sounds formed and delivered just so, when he's so incredibly distracting with his finger slipping into his mouth—thought doesn't hold coherent, when Wei Wuxian swallows hard.
Bloody lipped, red mouthed. He doesn't crave devouring like this, not dredged into veins, but also like this, the injury of want. Lan Zhan is a picture in pales and blues and dark eyes and the hair that flows down his back, over his shoulders. None of it bears softness the way the rabbits do, their fur silk and velvet, but they're not half the lure of leaning in to the cupped hand, to Lan Zhan's own lean. Fingers twitching, and he moves his hands, runs nails into combed back hair, toward the back of Lan Zhan's head, and up, as the knot of his hair crown holds, whatever the decoration.
Soft now, or hardened? He smiles, teeth a pale wonder that catch light, heart recalling what it is to run when he holds everything in stillness. )
Soft. With the stairs... If we overbalance, the rabbits will suffer.
( As will they, but he's always been more resilient, more used to recovering, more used to the lengths of pain and their forgettings, and the rabbits, the rabbits aren't. Shouldn't be. Are mostly not on his mind at all, given how he's staring invitation at Lan Zhan's lips, not certain he shouldn't have said hard, hard as we can, before this moment flees too.
The ache of his heart, the one that isn't liquid heat that flows through no meridians but through another system entirely, pooling in the absent places of his core and lower still, doesn't diminish. But its edges lose their sharpness, dull down to the inevitable ending of that thread, coming, coming, soon. )
no subject
( What in him shivers at the touch to his lip, at Lan Zhan's mouthed words that don't mean much to him in the moment, the implication of sounds formed and delivered just so, when he's so incredibly distracting with his finger slipping into his mouth—thought doesn't hold coherent, when Wei Wuxian swallows hard.
Bloody lipped, red mouthed. He doesn't crave devouring like this, not dredged into veins, but also like this, the injury of want. Lan Zhan is a picture in pales and blues and dark eyes and the hair that flows down his back, over his shoulders. None of it bears softness the way the rabbits do, their fur silk and velvet, but they're not half the lure of leaning in to the cupped hand, to Lan Zhan's own lean. Fingers twitching, and he moves his hands, runs nails into combed back hair, toward the back of Lan Zhan's head, and up, as the knot of his hair crown holds, whatever the decoration.
Soft now, or hardened? He smiles, teeth a pale wonder that catch light, heart recalling what it is to run when he holds everything in stillness. )
Soft. With the stairs... If we overbalance, the rabbits will suffer.
( As will they, but he's always been more resilient, more used to recovering, more used to the lengths of pain and their forgettings, and the rabbits, the rabbits aren't. Shouldn't be. Are mostly not on his mind at all, given how he's staring invitation at Lan Zhan's lips, not certain he shouldn't have said hard, hard as we can, before this moment flees too.
The ache of his heart, the one that isn't liquid heat that flows through no meridians but through another system entirely, pooling in the absent places of his core and lower still, doesn't diminish. But its edges lose their sharpness, dull down to the inevitable ending of that thread, coming, coming, soon. )