( The burned bruise of Wei Ying's mouth on his, talisman-roused paralysis dissolving. There is a great, stalwart pressure that grows inside him, sixteen years of another man's want, the ghost he was, soul without body. Now he feels a consummate fever, a man incarnate — wrist answering first in rapid rotation, to summon Bichen from her fall, when he inevitably loosens his hold on her to restrain the blade from biting Wei Ying's throat.
All at once, he feels known, unknowable, invincible. One hand drifting to Wei Ying's nape, drawing hair, turning it, turning the stubble of his fine, hunger-sharpened jaw to scratch Wangji's chin, to rake him. Wei Ying's chest and the cracked rush of his breath, and the round moan of Wangji, fighting the fury of fast reconnaissance, of the aridity that are Wei Ying's lips, blistered beneath his.
He bites, tongue hunting after, teeth like straits thinned by rivulets of fricative breath between them. Raking.
When he peels back, mouth glistened red with Wei Ying's wet, thread of his blood ribboned between them, eyes swept dark between huntsman's desire and trembled stupor — he is silent. Not the disciplined, learned suspense that Cloud Recesses practises, but the gasped muteness of anticipation.
He is learning himself, learning Wei Ying. Learning the steep, abyssal distance between them. )
Like this, then?
( Blood on his wrist, residue of Wei Ying's qi electric between them. Wangji's mouth torn, Wei Ying bitten down. Violence between then. Bichen in sullen gloat. )
no subject
( The burned bruise of Wei Ying's mouth on his, talisman-roused paralysis dissolving. There is a great, stalwart pressure that grows inside him, sixteen years of another man's want, the ghost he was, soul without body. Now he feels a consummate fever, a man incarnate — wrist answering first in rapid rotation, to summon Bichen from her fall, when he inevitably loosens his hold on her to restrain the blade from biting Wei Ying's throat.
All at once, he feels known, unknowable, invincible. One hand drifting to Wei Ying's nape, drawing hair, turning it, turning the stubble of his fine, hunger-sharpened jaw to scratch Wangji's chin, to rake him. Wei Ying's chest and the cracked rush of his breath, and the round moan of Wangji, fighting the fury of fast reconnaissance, of the aridity that are Wei Ying's lips, blistered beneath his.
He bites, tongue hunting after, teeth like straits thinned by rivulets of fricative breath between them. Raking.
When he peels back, mouth glistened red with Wei Ying's wet, thread of his blood ribboned between them, eyes swept dark between huntsman's desire and trembled stupor — he is silent. Not the disciplined, learned suspense that Cloud Recesses practises, but the gasped muteness of anticipation.
He is learning himself, learning Wei Ying. Learning the steep, abyssal distance between them. )
Like this, then?
( Blood on his wrist, residue of Wei Ying's qi electric between them. Wangji's mouth torn, Wei Ying bitten down. Violence between then. Bichen in sullen gloat. )