( He's never had the patience for binding. He's borne up under it, regardless; no choice behind the action, and when chosen, especially. Now he waits, and it is the turning of his intellect and curiosity toward anything but Lan Zhan's kiss at his knee, the fluttering of moth-like butterfly, his own fingers twitching, calling upon a finger flick seal of qi that sends his barrier breaking streaks of beautiful, twinkling red dashing forward. Not toward the room swallowing his husband, but oh he listens, he listens for anything so failing to think it might consume, listens as his eyes watch red surround the not-quite white, the cascade of them flying about the room, twitching the bound presence and its oppositioned twin into gurgles of awareness.
Nothing much more.
Nothing much won.
Everything, however, sliding toward the cliff's edge of loss. A battle waged, and he tugs at his bindings, tugs harder, bleeds without the consideration of the pain that accompanies it. Methodical, and oh, when he manages it, one freed hand, he lets his own lacerations drip down to fingertips, begins writing out his own escape in the sort of qi that sends the world around them thrumming with hunger, the paranoia reaching higher notes, dipping lower. Mine.
The second shackle falls, but the barrier he senses, the opposition of his self to whatever room continues to lurk behind him lessens not at all. One stronger bewitching, and this mockery of binding that he methodically breaks through, even as he starts to hum. Starts to whistle. Considers, idly, if he might sing. )
no subject
( He's never had the patience for binding. He's borne up under it, regardless; no choice behind the action, and when chosen, especially. Now he waits, and it is the turning of his intellect and curiosity toward anything but Lan Zhan's kiss at his knee, the fluttering of moth-like butterfly, his own fingers twitching, calling upon a finger flick seal of qi that sends his barrier breaking streaks of beautiful, twinkling red dashing forward. Not toward the room swallowing his husband, but oh he listens, he listens for anything so failing to think it might consume, listens as his eyes watch red surround the not-quite white, the cascade of them flying about the room, twitching the bound presence and its oppositioned twin into gurgles of awareness.
Nothing much more.
Nothing much won.
Everything, however, sliding toward the cliff's edge of loss. A battle waged, and he tugs at his bindings, tugs harder, bleeds without the consideration of the pain that accompanies it. Methodical, and oh, when he manages it, one freed hand, he lets his own lacerations drip down to fingertips, begins writing out his own escape in the sort of qi that sends the world around them thrumming with hunger, the paranoia reaching higher notes, dipping lower. Mine.
The second shackle falls, but the barrier he senses, the opposition of his self to whatever room continues to lurk behind him lessens not at all. One stronger bewitching, and this mockery of binding that he methodically breaks through, even as he starts to hum. Starts to whistle. Considers, idly, if he might sing. )