Wei Ying, packaged and purposed and reduced to the shell and root and seed of himself, eroded — follows. Between them, the mountainous body of the dragon fills out and stretches the span of her wings, coils her neck and teases him with happy, warm-snouted kisses to the back of Wangji's silks, his collar. Here and there, she catches the scent of his hair, grips dark threads in his mouth. And he waits, patiently, until the roads rupture into thin paths that want a delicate step, or they stay their momentum to give rambunctious children passes in the square, while their mother blitzes by relieved, or there is a great, callous deluge, spilling at their feet, where the streets have overflown from last night's rains.
Then, he affords Lethe a gentle nudge and she retreats in fine form and at a respectful distance, allowing the length of the reins Wangji collects in a slack hand to pull, if never grow taut. And his soulmate drifts, as if his melancholy is the blood that leaves fresh wounds scored on patient, young skin. Fearless Wei Ying cannot learn fear.
In the ports, light dims and slouches like an old cat, base greens whispering back from waters across the filigree of bays. An impression of winter that he suspects never comes. And it shivers his back all the same, agony of white lattices and his scars weeping, Once you were worth more than the skins of my back.
Today, more than any limb Lan Wangji has sworn and sold to the Gusu Lan sect's use, already, Guanyin have and forgive him. )
What is loss to a death king?
( Only trails of sand ground and scattered between fingers, only dust motes for Wei Ying's hungering hands to regain. You push hard enough, any man will break, but Wei Ying stands royal, Patriarch and true. His will bends and chokes the unworthy. )
no subject
( He leads.
Wei Ying, packaged and purposed and reduced to the shell and root and seed of himself, eroded — follows. Between them, the mountainous body of the dragon fills out and stretches the span of her wings, coils her neck and teases him with happy, warm-snouted kisses to the back of Wangji's silks, his collar. Here and there, she catches the scent of his hair, grips dark threads in his mouth. And he waits, patiently, until the roads rupture into thin paths that want a delicate step, or they stay their momentum to give rambunctious children passes in the square, while their mother blitzes by relieved, or there is a great, callous deluge, spilling at their feet, where the streets have overflown from last night's rains.
Then, he affords Lethe a gentle nudge and she retreats in fine form and at a respectful distance, allowing the length of the reins Wangji collects in a slack hand to pull, if never grow taut. And his soulmate drifts, as if his melancholy is the blood that leaves fresh wounds scored on patient, young skin. Fearless Wei Ying cannot learn fear.
In the ports, light dims and slouches like an old cat, base greens whispering back from waters across the filigree of bays. An impression of winter that he suspects never comes. And it shivers his back all the same, agony of white lattices and his scars weeping, Once you were worth more than the skins of my back.
Today, more than any limb Lan Wangji has sworn and sold to the Gusu Lan sect's use, already, Guanyin have and forgive him. )
What is loss to a death king?
( Only trails of sand ground and scattered between fingers, only dust motes for Wei Ying's hungering hands to regain. You push hard enough, any man will break, but Wei Ying stands royal, Patriarch and true. His will bends and chokes the unworthy. )