( but he is heading that direction, taking to... high routes that aren't routes at all. easiest for avoiding those roaming the streets, and keeping an eye out for trouble to break up. )
( polite, with a quieting of the wind, self generated or otherwise, and then, lower, huskier, half because no distractions please what is their life: )
( for not dithering? for the open windows? hard to say, when the pendant goes quiet, and his focus is simpler, slipping between shadows and slivers of silvered light at the heights, moonstruck and starlit where the warmth of lights and fires within homes below are banked, turned inward, concealed. see us not, do us no harm.
such stark consideration, then, to see the glint of glass and depths of shadow and light open to him by his husband's directive; that he must circle round, walk light foot and quiet across one last rooftop, avoid the pitfall of collapsing through into another's room, voyeur to another person's life.
he flips down, hands on eaves, feet on window ledge, and for a moment he is as perched as any bird, surveying possibilities, taking in the untouched battlefield. which is pristine, in it's own findings: then he's in, and through, and smiling, and he's less seeking Lan Zhan out that with certainty allowing gravity to draw him in, and close, and irreverent to the particulars of how Lan Zhan holds himself, or the new bruise blooming on his shins. simple, then, to skim hands along upper arms, let the chill of them brush along the sides of his husband's neck, brushing back hair, sinking into warmth at the his protected nape, and find lips with lips, chest to chest, hips angled slightly off to not meet bone with better covered flesh, and want, and want, and let the aching tiredness sink deeper to where he eedn't follow it down yet, to the level of dreams and nightmares and promises, until the dead cannot call to him, and the bright flame of life pulsing within consumes all.
which is to say, he didn't much bother with hello. )
( And then the eye of the storm settles on him wide-bright unblinking, and hands roil and snag in his hair, dark weave of it unwinding like sea spume, and he is panting, consumed, light-footed — a step back and waxed floors screeching, and he nearly surrenders his footing but for catching the fallback on a swinging arm against the wall —
And he peels back long enough to regain the dregs of his bearings, fever high on his cheekbones like a candle's oils, spilled. He looks, inevitably, at the wet bruise of his husband's mouth. Looks away, incandescent — opens his mouth — closes it.
And, finally, raises his hand as if to either stay or beckon Wei Ying close, fumbling in his step against the wall, blush deepened.
( A step stumbled, caught, the flush that sweetens pale skin into blooming fire, oxygen deprived and glorious. Dark eyes flickering, first here, then there, and he finds his own gaze does not shift, consumes Lan Zhan expression by expression, each degree of heat and want and is it not this simple.
A moment. Two. His step, taken closer, nudges back towards the sturdiness of the wall: no rot within, no insect devoured husk. A hush following an exhalation, but he feels patience as a memory, not a truth, and it weaves into his voice. )
Lan Zhan.
( Him, and here, and wherever they are. He adds: )
Charm the room silent, if it isn't anyway.
( So that the window, as it still lays open, defeats the purpose, or aids it through sheer willpower alone. Fingers stroke, taste, tease; his tongue tracing his own lips, the extent of his mercy. A man certain of his welcome, and he delights within it, terribly. )
( Hint of bloodshed to Wei Ying's gaze, and this might be Yiling again, empire ruinous, and Lan Wangji might look upon the dark demonic shadow of the risen patriarch. Brittle charcoal and commanding, at once too much and too little, overwhelming and sedate.
Lan Wangji, impossibly and predictably, falls tender prey to this predation, charmed into perfect, docile paralysis. At first, he does not move. Then, jolting, he bursts into action, deploying a twin set of parchment papers enlivened with hasty scribble that land on the door's pillars and blink golden, before dying down — he considers — then exerts himself for a second round of two parchment strips more, now toward the window. Insurance.
After, poets and tales of romance would recommend wooing his lover abed. He has, in no uncertain terms, invited. Only, he slips to one knee, then thudded, the next, by the floor of the beside, sleeves pooled at each side of him like a bleedout. )
Sit. Let me unbind your boots. ( Let us speak, but in a way profoundly domestic. )
( A blink, half pleased, a touch amused, a smidge uncertain: he doesn't want time to think, both brilliant and moronic in its fashion. There's a thrill when Lan Zhan starts to sink, but it muddies, swirls somewhere between anticipation and avoidance when he sinks down too, fingers twitching, reaching out again for hair, to trace his husband's features. He's no still, calm thing: he's not a man who knows how to be cared for, tended, worshipped, and he cannot, does not fathom it now.
He should, perhaps. His blindness can take surprising turns. )
Have you even seen to yours?
( Wei Wuxian hasn't looked, twirls a finger slow, delicate, to curl smooth, dark locks around. Fiddles and twitches and leans in because he's only soft angles when clothed, but here his throat curves, here his lips purse, here are kisses peppered botheringly over brow, to want, to want, to not understand the quiet wishes done for his comfort, too alien a concept even now.
Let him prostrate. Let him plead. Let him shiver before the touch of fingers to bare calf, then the release of socked foot, the tension in his body bow right before the next one, muscles of his legs twitching, a restless horse ready to bolt, to run. Not away, but haphazardly, joyously forward.
He doesn't want to think, because it's always too loud, and Lan Zhan at his feet is li too distant when he wants the weight of him, the heat of him, the blushing force of him here, melding, and what to say? )
Lan Zhan...
( A swallow, throat dry, another quick wetting of his lips. What two men do is less a mysterious education than it once was, but it's empty, a hollow to fill, and he shudders again over the nothing of his husband's fingers brushing brief against his skin, and this is unexpected torment. )
Come here?
( Stop, and start, and go. Don't see him, then do. He has little enough idea of what he wants other than the silence of thinking, the focus on affection and love and no little lust too, he's well aware, into this moment and the ones that stretch beyond. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Where are you?
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Well-aired quarter. A respectable bed. Privacy.
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( but he is heading that direction, taking to... high routes that aren't routes at all. easiest for avoiding those roaming the streets, and keeping an eye out for trouble to break up. )
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1/2
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only to then trip recovering himself, sending in audio: )
Ooph!
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Why is this man like this. )
Perhaps better subtle.
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( the hurried, somewhat wheezed response, before wind catches at the pendant as he's back in motion. )
What room?
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( polite, with a quieting of the wind, self generated or otherwise, and then, lower, huskier, half because no distractions please what is their life: )
What room?
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Open windows.
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Thank you.
( for not dithering? for the open windows? hard to say, when the pendant goes quiet, and his focus is simpler, slipping between shadows and slivers of silvered light at the heights, moonstruck and starlit where the warmth of lights and fires within homes below are banked, turned inward, concealed. see us not, do us no harm.
such stark consideration, then, to see the glint of glass and depths of shadow and light open to him by his husband's directive; that he must circle round, walk light foot and quiet across one last rooftop, avoid the pitfall of collapsing through into another's room, voyeur to another person's life.
he flips down, hands on eaves, feet on window ledge, and for a moment he is as perched as any bird, surveying possibilities, taking in the untouched battlefield. which is pristine, in it's own findings: then he's in, and through, and smiling, and he's less seeking Lan Zhan out that with certainty allowing gravity to draw him in, and close, and irreverent to the particulars of how Lan Zhan holds himself, or the new bruise blooming on his shins. simple, then, to skim hands along upper arms, let the chill of them brush along the sides of his husband's neck, brushing back hair, sinking into warmth at the his protected nape, and find lips with lips, chest to chest, hips angled slightly off to not meet bone with better covered flesh, and want, and want, and let the aching tiredness sink deeper to where he eedn't follow it down yet, to the level of dreams and nightmares and promises, until the dead cannot call to him, and the bright flame of life pulsing within consumes all.
which is to say, he didn't much bother with hello. )
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( And then the eye of the storm settles on him wide-bright unblinking, and hands roil and snag in his hair, dark weave of it unwinding like sea spume, and he is panting, consumed, light-footed — a step back and waxed floors screeching, and he nearly surrenders his footing but for catching the fallback on a swinging arm against the wall —
And he peels back long enough to regain the dregs of his bearings, fever high on his cheekbones like a candle's oils, spilled. He looks, inevitably, at the wet bruise of his husband's mouth. Looks away, incandescent — opens his mouth — closes it.
And, finally, raises his hand as if to either stay or beckon Wei Ying close, fumbling in his step against the wall, blush deepened.
Give him a moment, sir. )
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( A step stumbled, caught, the flush that sweetens pale skin into blooming fire, oxygen deprived and glorious. Dark eyes flickering, first here, then there, and he finds his own gaze does not shift, consumes Lan Zhan expression by expression, each degree of heat and want and is it not this simple.
A moment. Two. His step, taken closer, nudges back towards the sturdiness of the wall: no rot within, no insect devoured husk. A hush following an exhalation, but he feels patience as a memory, not a truth, and it weaves into his voice. )
Lan Zhan.
( Him, and here, and wherever they are. He adds: )
Charm the room silent, if it isn't anyway.
( So that the window, as it still lays open, defeats the purpose, or aids it through sheer willpower alone. Fingers stroke, taste, tease; his tongue tracing his own lips, the extent of his mercy. A man certain of his welcome, and he delights within it, terribly. )
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( Hint of bloodshed to Wei Ying's gaze, and this might be Yiling again, empire ruinous, and Lan Wangji might look upon the dark demonic shadow of the risen patriarch. Brittle charcoal and commanding, at once too much and too little, overwhelming and sedate.
Lan Wangji, impossibly and predictably, falls tender prey to this predation, charmed into perfect, docile paralysis. At first, he does not move. Then, jolting, he bursts into action, deploying a twin set of parchment papers enlivened with hasty scribble that land on the door's pillars and blink golden, before dying down — he considers — then exerts himself for a second round of two parchment strips more, now toward the window. Insurance.
After, poets and tales of romance would recommend wooing his lover abed. He has, in no uncertain terms, invited. Only, he slips to one knee, then thudded, the next, by the floor of the beside, sleeves pooled at each side of him like a bleedout. )
Sit. Let me unbind your boots. ( Let us speak, but in a way profoundly domestic. )
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( A blink, half pleased, a touch amused, a smidge uncertain: he doesn't want time to think, both brilliant and moronic in its fashion. There's a thrill when Lan Zhan starts to sink, but it muddies, swirls somewhere between anticipation and avoidance when he sinks down too, fingers twitching, reaching out again for hair, to trace his husband's features. He's no still, calm thing: he's not a man who knows how to be cared for, tended, worshipped, and he cannot, does not fathom it now.
He should, perhaps. His blindness can take surprising turns. )
Have you even seen to yours?
( Wei Wuxian hasn't looked, twirls a finger slow, delicate, to curl smooth, dark locks around. Fiddles and twitches and leans in because he's only soft angles when clothed, but here his throat curves, here his lips purse, here are kisses peppered botheringly over brow, to want, to want, to not understand the quiet wishes done for his comfort, too alien a concept even now.
Let him prostrate. Let him plead. Let him shiver before the touch of fingers to bare calf, then the release of socked foot, the tension in his body bow right before the next one, muscles of his legs twitching, a restless horse ready to bolt, to run. Not away, but haphazardly, joyously forward.
He doesn't want to think, because it's always too loud, and Lan Zhan at his feet is li too distant when he wants the weight of him, the heat of him, the blushing force of him here, melding, and what to say? )
Lan Zhan...
( A swallow, throat dry, another quick wetting of his lips. What two men do is less a mysterious education than it once was, but it's empty, a hollow to fill, and he shudders again over the nothing of his husband's fingers brushing brief against his skin, and this is unexpected torment. )
Come here?
( Stop, and start, and go. Don't see him, then do. He has little enough idea of what he wants other than the silence of thinking, the focus on affection and love and no little lust too, he's well aware, into this moment and the ones that stretch beyond. )
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