[ He is a child, still. It is known, it is certain, the corners of Zewu-Jun's smile bloomed for this truth. He hears, I've an interview I may as well take them too, sees the bright light glint of study in Wei Ying's eye, predatory — and he reaches with a hand made wall, to draw the lines of territory, his threshold, to pull until the fruit gain their old momentum and waddle back to the edge, within Lan Wangji's reach.
Unwanted now, but a gift given. Lan Wangji's own. To draw a man's appetites, you need only say what he declines, another desires. And then, it stokes like summer swelter, like cloying warmth, like sun. Stings and blisters at Wei Ying's largesse, his peace offering so freely redirected.
Apologies stain Wei Ying's mouth red, ripen it. Lan Wangji's gaze follows them, feline, and wonders where the blood's set to spill on them, where Wei Ying's fang will come down and drip. ]
Whom will you see?
[ Blade sharp, tongue cutting. The air greyed and electric in that state of sickly anticipation, of building, layered wait. He smells a city waking, for all the hour grows dark, and no man of honour would yet visit, but — Wei Ying is a wet knot drawn tangled, of his own devices. Ethics and etiquette bend their knee to him.
And Lan Wangji barely straightens on the limbs he names his own, until skies crackle again, rain adjourns. He wets his lips. ]
...apologies. Wei Ying has his freedom to do as he pleases.
no subject
Unwanted now, but a gift given. Lan Wangji's own. To draw a man's appetites, you need only say what he declines, another desires. And then, it stokes like summer swelter, like cloying warmth, like sun. Stings and blisters at Wei Ying's largesse, his peace offering so freely redirected.
Apologies stain Wei Ying's mouth red, ripen it. Lan Wangji's gaze follows them, feline, and wonders where the blood's set to spill on them, where Wei Ying's fang will come down and drip. ]
Whom will you see?
[ Blade sharp, tongue cutting. The air greyed and electric in that state of sickly anticipation, of building, layered wait. He smells a city waking, for all the hour grows dark, and no man of honour would yet visit, but — Wei Ying is a wet knot drawn tangled, of his own devices. Ethics and etiquette bend their knee to him.
And Lan Wangji barely straightens on the limbs he names his own, until skies crackle again, rain adjourns. He wets his lips. ]
...apologies. Wei Ying has his freedom to do as he pleases.