( The burr on Lan Zhan's back, warmed and warming and no less damp than either of them had been before, waits with a hunter's patience for his husband's answer. His gaze, slanted and considering, matches to the small smile pulling at his lips when Lan Zhan all but stumbles, all but answers, as if it's some strangeness in the navigation of themselves.
Wei Wuxian believes, erroneously or otherwise, he can read people well. Reading Lan Zhan is a skill and a dance, is the healed cuts and the cutting silences and the difference between an inclination of the head in acknowledgement, and the nestling of a head against the side of his neck. The words come slower, come ponderous, come weighted, and more precious than gold under Lan Zhan's knees.
The answer that arrives, questioning with hesitance, elicits a further smile, a flash in dark eyes for less prurient purposes than current conversation indicates. )
Then my hands have ideas on what to do, ( he says, only shifting enough to free one clasping arm and bring dried fingers to damp locks, cutting nails through and working through the temporary tangles their rolling adventures invited under their hands and those of the dead. Scrape against skin, against the curve of skull, and hold, firm, while from the side opposite he nuzzles at Lan Zhan's temple, lazy and loving and cat-like in his exhaustion. ) next time we're pursuing our mutual pleasures.
no subject
( The burr on Lan Zhan's back, warmed and warming and no less damp than either of them had been before, waits with a hunter's patience for his husband's answer. His gaze, slanted and considering, matches to the small smile pulling at his lips when Lan Zhan all but stumbles, all but answers, as if it's some strangeness in the navigation of themselves.
Wei Wuxian believes, erroneously or otherwise, he can read people well. Reading Lan Zhan is a skill and a dance, is the healed cuts and the cutting silences and the difference between an inclination of the head in acknowledgement, and the nestling of a head against the side of his neck. The words come slower, come ponderous, come weighted, and more precious than gold under Lan Zhan's knees.
The answer that arrives, questioning with hesitance, elicits a further smile, a flash in dark eyes for less prurient purposes than current conversation indicates. )
Then my hands have ideas on what to do, ( he says, only shifting enough to free one clasping arm and bring dried fingers to damp locks, cutting nails through and working through the temporary tangles their rolling adventures invited under their hands and those of the dead. Scrape against skin, against the curve of skull, and hold, firm, while from the side opposite he nuzzles at Lan Zhan's temple, lazy and loving and cat-like in his exhaustion. ) next time we're pursuing our mutual pleasures.