Date: 2025-05-31 11:54 pm (UTC)
wife_material: (114)
Maybe Li Lianhua wasn't so wrong to be putting words in a panther's jaws after all; the unlooked-for bitterness leaves Di Feisheng frustrated by the limitations on what he can convey, and the self-imposed stricture on talking like this isn't even mostly to blame. What backs up his throat isn't a martial lecture but simply the acrid familiarity of fear. Of being made to be afraid. An exhausting vigil, an almost superstitious dread not just of loss but the reminder of powerlessness. If it were any kind of secret, he'd be dying of the unutterability too.

He's here for commiseration. And general worry, and warding off untimely ends through some kind of apotropaic quality, but the commiseration is a big one and it's as compelling as its lack is vexing. Calling it boring just makes him bunch himself up to spring, either away or to wipe the poisoned smile off Li Lianhua's dear face. In lieu of either argument, escape, or unseemly violence against an invalid he turns the kinetic energy to a very purposeful prowl, tucking his ears and whiskers and ramming the bed with his shoulder. Somewhere between a demanding housecat and a shark looking to sink a raft. TRY AGAIN.
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