in Wildly Not Working, but apparently sweet words drip from Wangji's palms...
...when he wants to miss his mark regarding pressing his husband's bottom line, which, like all sane people equally stubborn as their spouse, was going to happen )
( found in his perch, tucked on one of the lesser rooftops, blankets around his shoulders, he lifts an eyebrow as the wine settles into his lap. )
Nothing's hiding in your sleeves? Under your robes?
( as he finds his tumultuous way into the wine, staring down at it, fingers curling around it's bulk. fine is fine, as long as no canine is waiting to intrude. there's no war but the one they make for themselves. cold and otherwise, colder than the air here, high above the courtyards and business of ghosts and humanity alike. )
( He is too brittle for winter, his shrivelled husband, too gentle, too soft. Snow drips and dances down past the sill in threadbare invasion, and it is siege on his bird bones. A battering ram.
He lingers enough to make a show of lifting his arm and unstitching the rim of one sleeve, folded over his wrist. Its brother. Then, calmly, turning to illustrate the tangle of his legs, lifting their hem to ankle.
See, then. No wolf cub. )
No wolf, child, husband.
( A failed smuggling operation, as these things go. And yet. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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...should Wangji be scouting his quarters for paperman????? )
Rest easily.
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two... hours... later...
Isolated. In a bloodied shed.
( ARE YOU FEELING BAD YET. )
eventually...
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Less well for others, but you're not worried about after it grows.
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Anyway, you've two parents, plenty to feed.
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Goodbye.
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( When You Only Endear for Cannibal Cub. )
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in Wildly Not Working, but apparently sweet words drip from Wangji's palms...
...when he wants to miss his mark regarding pressing his husband's bottom line, which, like all sane people equally stubborn as their spouse, was going to happen )
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When you have learned the way of the venal and conjugal world, and the twain ever collide, you come a knelt and bowed-back penitent. )
Have we peace between us?
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Nothing's hiding in your sleeves? Under your robes?
( as he finds his tumultuous way into the wine, staring down at it, fingers curling around it's bulk. fine is fine, as long as no canine is waiting to intrude. there's no war but the one they make for themselves. cold and otherwise, colder than the air here, high above the courtyards and business of ghosts and humanity alike. )
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( He is too brittle for winter, his shrivelled husband, too gentle, too soft. Snow drips and dances down past the sill in threadbare invasion, and it is siege on his bird bones. A battering ram.
He lingers enough to make a show of lifting his arm and unstitching the rim of one sleeve, folded over his wrist. Its brother. Then, calmly, turning to illustrate the tangle of his legs, lifting their hem to ankle.
See, then. No wolf cub. )
No wolf, child, husband.
( A failed smuggling operation, as these things go. And yet. )
I bring a gift.
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