( He stumbles back. Catches his footing, caged and contained and Lethe sworn to right him, belt of her neck coiled against his waist. What is it that men are, when they unleash themselves?
Light like a sheen of bathing salts, diluted. Half whisper, half blinks of glittered fall. He delays to close his eyes, and the world is pallor and dark weed of Wei Ying's hair, slithered down, and violence, the tip of Wangji's head, and he does not know, cannot know, if he is meant to oppose, or move in same direction, if it will be as with animals and the first ride, and the truths of of collaboration reveal themselves.
The first kiss was a print on the universe, long tearing. Novelty pronounced a miracle, to live controversial in blasphemy. It was excused of form, of expectation. Now, Wei Ying claims the second — the first too, Wangji cannot be so brittle a maiden, goaded like thunder — and they meet, artlessly, at the intersection between the shame of incompetence and the enthusiasm of children. He remembers, from the many sightings at travelled inns where men and their road wives so often neglected a cultivator of Hanguang-Jun's stature would practise seclusion, and threw themselves and their passion at the nearest shared table, the loudest wall — he remembers and shutters his eyes, and drags his mouth until the fits rights and latches, tongue and teeth and kitten licks, and a queue of fine men, gawking.
One whistles. Another scoffs. A woman laughs, encouraging. They make spectacle of themselves, and yet Wei Ying wants it so, wants the madness of a moment to — ...divert himself. Lan Wangji is not a choice, only a sheltered, bought and paid for. The coin of Wei Ying's body shared.
He shudders, breaks free. Spiders out the fingers of his hand to bracket Wei Ying's temple, then steers the wet warmth of his mouth on the stretch of pulsed skin on the other side. Here sleeps the jewel of the land, a mind to sunder dark infinities. )
...how deep do waters run, where you are?
( Far, so very away from Lan Wangji, drifting amid tempestuous thoughts. Where Wangji cannot reach. When he kisses Wei Ying again, it's snow-soft and fleeting, one heartbeat and a nod. He knows. He knows what this is, he knows all it can be, there is a dragon, scales pin sharp, who bars his path. )
no subject
( He stumbles back. Catches his footing, caged and contained and Lethe sworn to right him, belt of her neck coiled against his waist. What is it that men are, when they unleash themselves?
Light like a sheen of bathing salts, diluted. Half whisper, half blinks of glittered fall. He delays to close his eyes, and the world is pallor and dark weed of Wei Ying's hair, slithered down, and violence, the tip of Wangji's head, and he does not know, cannot know, if he is meant to oppose, or move in same direction, if it will be as with animals and the first ride, and the truths of of collaboration reveal themselves.
The first kiss was a print on the universe, long tearing. Novelty pronounced a miracle, to live controversial in blasphemy. It was excused of form, of expectation. Now, Wei Ying claims the second — the first too, Wangji cannot be so brittle a maiden, goaded like thunder — and they meet, artlessly, at the intersection between the shame of incompetence and the enthusiasm of children. He remembers, from the many sightings at travelled inns where men and their road wives so often neglected a cultivator of Hanguang-Jun's stature would practise seclusion, and threw themselves and their passion at the nearest shared table, the loudest wall — he remembers and shutters his eyes, and drags his mouth until the fits rights and latches, tongue and teeth and kitten licks, and a queue of fine men, gawking.
One whistles. Another scoffs. A woman laughs, encouraging. They make spectacle of themselves, and yet Wei Ying wants it so, wants the madness of a moment to — ...divert himself. Lan Wangji is not a choice, only a sheltered, bought and paid for. The coin of Wei Ying's body shared.
He shudders, breaks free. Spiders out the fingers of his hand to bracket Wei Ying's temple, then steers the wet warmth of his mouth on the stretch of pulsed skin on the other side. Here sleeps the jewel of the land, a mind to sunder dark infinities. )
...how deep do waters run, where you are?
( Far, so very away from Lan Wangji, drifting amid tempestuous thoughts. Where Wangji cannot reach. When he kisses Wei Ying again, it's snow-soft and fleeting, one heartbeat and a nod. He knows. He knows what this is, he knows all it can be, there is a dragon, scales pin sharp, who bars his path. )
Shameless thing, you will not drown.