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. )
( he observes the show, dark eyes quiet, lips curling into a smile as the second sleeve folds, soft exhalation of gracious appreciation following as robes lift, and almost, he's tempted to laugh for the sheer relief. shoulders hitched upward sliding down in increments measured by breaths forming clouds in the air, cut by falling snow.
a second hand emerges, patting the roof to his side. invitation and calculation, where small discomforts wish for trading, small comforts negotiated in the tap of chilled fingers against thin veneer of collecting snow. )
You already brought wine. Though I wish you wouldn't, sometimes.
( tremor of temptation into falling far, and he hasn't forgotten Taravast, the weeping of a dead woman, the loss of self guiding action, the subsuming to another's will. the wine sits in his lap. his knuckles whiten around it, quiet thoughts stolen as the snow blankets all, muffling sound. )
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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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a second hand emerges, patting the roof to his side. invitation and calculation, where small discomforts wish for trading, small comforts negotiated in the tap of chilled fingers against thin veneer of collecting snow. )
You already brought wine. Though I wish you wouldn't, sometimes.
( tremor of temptation into falling far, and he hasn't forgotten Taravast, the weeping of a dead woman, the loss of self guiding action, the subsuming to another's will. the wine sits in his lap. his knuckles whiten around it, quiet thoughts stolen as the snow blankets all, muffling sound. )
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