( He is, faultlessly, mesmerised. He knows and has always known that Lan Zhan is an objectively, and subjectively, beautiful man. Handsome, delightful, delicious, whatever words one wanted to use, paired with significant ones such as collected (hah), elegant, reserved. Aloof, perhaps, to anything which he doesn't believe concerns him. There used to be more such things in the worlds. These days, in Wei Wuxian's estimate, there are less.
Water traces features he's come to know by eyes and hands and mouth and tongue and slide of skin against skin as much as the nestling, lazy contentment of an evening passed too hot against a body as prone to producing excess heat as his own.
Perhaps that's part of the distracting contrast, seeing Lan Zhan damp, seeing the cold waters consume the warmth of a man whose heart beats larger than many in their particular, peculiar, and cruel sort of righteous world. Or perhaps it's any memory, of words spoken, or silences applied as balms, which leads him into that moment of hazy bewitchment, the urge to tease a quiet voice in the back of his skull.
Until the binding, bonding qi at his wrist, and he smiles then, tugging back on it to see Lan Zhan's arm move a touch. )
Then you'll have to warm me, won't that be a waste of time?
( Yet he's not protesting the impending plunge, or the countdown that proceeds unimpeded: he speaks throughout, his fingers fast, his hands practiced, and unlike the modesty of his husband he does not leave his innermost robe on, the darkest blues and whites sloughed off in haphazard piles under the threatened time-limit.
There's nothing impressive with his standing there nude before the man he's married repeatedly, even unaware of said man's intent. Hard to be anything but reactionary to physical reality with no barrier to the chill air, the spray of colder waters. Gooseflesh ripples down his arms, fine hairs across his body standing on end, nipples contracting like breathing lungs, along with less lauded parts, and he knows it's all preparatory for what happens the moment his husband makes good on his promise.
Hence he's smiling, brows quirked, when Lan Zhan reaches the end of his count.
Because he definitely plans on tackling him after. This day, he suspects, is going to be a long one. They may as well have this moment to themselves, without restriction. )
no subject
( He is, faultlessly, mesmerised. He knows and has always known that Lan Zhan is an objectively, and subjectively, beautiful man. Handsome, delightful, delicious, whatever words one wanted to use, paired with significant ones such as collected (hah), elegant, reserved. Aloof, perhaps, to anything which he doesn't believe concerns him. There used to be more such things in the worlds. These days, in Wei Wuxian's estimate, there are less.
Water traces features he's come to know by eyes and hands and mouth and tongue and slide of skin against skin as much as the nestling, lazy contentment of an evening passed too hot against a body as prone to producing excess heat as his own.
Perhaps that's part of the distracting contrast, seeing Lan Zhan damp, seeing the cold waters consume the warmth of a man whose heart beats larger than many in their particular, peculiar, and cruel sort of righteous world. Or perhaps it's any memory, of words spoken, or silences applied as balms, which leads him into that moment of hazy bewitchment, the urge to tease a quiet voice in the back of his skull.
Until the binding, bonding qi at his wrist, and he smiles then, tugging back on it to see Lan Zhan's arm move a touch. )
Then you'll have to warm me, won't that be a waste of time?
( Yet he's not protesting the impending plunge, or the countdown that proceeds unimpeded: he speaks throughout, his fingers fast, his hands practiced, and unlike the modesty of his husband he does not leave his innermost robe on, the darkest blues and whites sloughed off in haphazard piles under the threatened time-limit.
There's nothing impressive with his standing there nude before the man he's married repeatedly, even unaware of said man's intent. Hard to be anything but reactionary to physical reality with no barrier to the chill air, the spray of colder waters. Gooseflesh ripples down his arms, fine hairs across his body standing on end, nipples contracting like breathing lungs, along with less lauded parts, and he knows it's all preparatory for what happens the moment his husband makes good on his promise.
Hence he's smiling, brows quirked, when Lan Zhan reaches the end of his count.
Because he definitely plans on tackling him after. This day, he suspects, is going to be a long one. They may as well have this moment to themselves, without restriction. )