( Because whatever forces sought to crush in him, what the world thought it would swallow, had only been true in the moment he watched his sister die. When the only unconditional love in his life had been stolen by the violent greed of their righteous leaders, when every restraint, every moment lived quiet and desperate and simple, had never, would never be enough.
Does he notice when his grip grows too tight, when flesh parts, when blood breeches, when the open air touches what should remain within and meets no difference, so hot, balmy, cloying the surrounding air? No, pain is not what registers. The heat of his husband's hand, the feral angles of his unwarranted smile, the edges creeping up his spine, and he turns into him, blood welling fat and fertile, dripping towards wards in a slow, steady inevitability.
Wraps his arms around his husband's violence, leaning in, inhaling for the joy of breathing, the cruelty of exhalations against skin. Speaks then, limpet even as blood traces and falls at his back, wood greedy and thirsting, chains tense with desire, by Lan Zhan's ear. )
Why is it you don't think to start with asking? Or do you like it, sounding so firm? Commanding? Expecting to be heard? Heeded?
( Penitent, in only the edges of his affection, in the ways he would rather pursue those lines electric through his frame than the grave paranoia, the anger, the despair that suffused the surrounding, broiling air. Sweat beads and falls and evaporates from the exposed expanse of his neck, and oh.
Oh, he acknowledges, he refuses, the fears now. Be equal, he asks with his own heat and forced proximity. Be equal in this too. )
no subject
( Dry, desert dry, the voice that answers: )
That would explain A-Yuan, wouldn't it?
( Because whatever forces sought to crush in him, what the world thought it would swallow, had only been true in the moment he watched his sister die. When the only unconditional love in his life had been stolen by the violent greed of their righteous leaders, when every restraint, every moment lived quiet and desperate and simple, had never, would never be enough.
Does he notice when his grip grows too tight, when flesh parts, when blood breeches, when the open air touches what should remain within and meets no difference, so hot, balmy, cloying the surrounding air? No, pain is not what registers. The heat of his husband's hand, the feral angles of his unwarranted smile, the edges creeping up his spine, and he turns into him, blood welling fat and fertile, dripping towards wards in a slow, steady inevitability.
Wraps his arms around his husband's violence, leaning in, inhaling for the joy of breathing, the cruelty of exhalations against skin. Speaks then, limpet even as blood traces and falls at his back, wood greedy and thirsting, chains tense with desire, by Lan Zhan's ear. )
Why is it you don't think to start with asking? Or do you like it, sounding so firm? Commanding? Expecting to be heard? Heeded?
( Penitent, in only the edges of his affection, in the ways he would rather pursue those lines electric through his frame than the grave paranoia, the anger, the despair that suffused the surrounding, broiling air. Sweat beads and falls and evaporates from the exposed expanse of his neck, and oh.
Oh, he acknowledges, he refuses, the fears now. Be equal, he asks with his own heat and forced proximity. Be equal in this too. )