This is the truth of him, startled and stone, given to stubborn resistance: to persist, hands claws and sundering Wei Ying's hair again like waters, picking out strands as if they were his noose. How would Lan Wangji die of him, of Wei Ying?
Grit and gravel scrape his knees through granules of sand, shifting, and the world transforms, and he is still this — an anchor, still fixated on Wei Ying, still hollowed, still an accessory. The lace trim on Wei Ying's sleeves, his doubled collar. This is Lan Wangji, flickered beat adorning his soulmate's pulse. He wants to scent him — take, this is what means to own, the capacity to singularly and indifferently shatter.
Does not. He releases (again), withdraws (again), reconsiders (again). Fear is damp and lichen, the silvered edge of his smile, deceptive. )
You are a terrible man.
( Selfish, whimsical, breezy. Possessed of strange and eerie righteousness. Utterly, painfully, wickedly impulsive. Prone to brilliance, to laughter, to sacrifice. To cleaving Wangji's innards and glistening them with their fats over fire. To being, as ash is, dispersed in wind, one moment contained the next coagulated, the heartbeat after gone.
A mystifying, glorious creation. Yiling Patriarch, first disciple, Wei Ying. )
It will know. ( As Lan Wangji knows, a man complicit. One who leads into blindness by example. He thinks, if Wei Ying's hair flies free in the wind spell, it will yet tempt him. Starts, gently, to braid it and leave the ends loose. ) You have no more truths solely your own.
no subject
This is the truth of him, startled and stone, given to stubborn resistance: to persist, hands claws and sundering Wei Ying's hair again like waters, picking out strands as if they were his noose. How would Lan Wangji die of him, of Wei Ying?
Grit and gravel scrape his knees through granules of sand, shifting, and the world transforms, and he is still this — an anchor, still fixated on Wei Ying, still hollowed, still an accessory. The lace trim on Wei Ying's sleeves, his doubled collar. This is Lan Wangji, flickered beat adorning his soulmate's pulse. He wants to scent him — take, this is what means to own, the capacity to singularly and indifferently shatter.
Does not. He releases (again), withdraws (again), reconsiders (again). Fear is damp and lichen, the silvered edge of his smile, deceptive. )
You are a terrible man.
( Selfish, whimsical, breezy. Possessed of strange and eerie righteousness. Utterly, painfully, wickedly impulsive. Prone to brilliance, to laughter, to sacrifice. To cleaving Wangji's innards and glistening them with their fats over fire. To being, as ash is, dispersed in wind, one moment contained the next coagulated, the heartbeat after gone.
A mystifying, glorious creation. Yiling Patriarch, first disciple, Wei Ying. )
It will know. ( As Lan Wangji knows, a man complicit. One who leads into blindness by example. He thinks, if Wei Ying's hair flies free in the wind spell, it will yet tempt him. Starts, gently, to braid it and leave the ends loose. ) You have no more truths solely your own.