We could both be here, enjoying ourselves... instead of pickling, ah?
( do not ask your son to likewise pose now by having rolled into his back, hair tossed up so it spreads in a halo around his head, collars... loosened... to display clavicle. h o t. this is so saucy he almost doesn't miss his chili sauce.
( the vee of his robes now nudging open enough to see a whole hands breadth of his upper chest exposed. the salve has been set to sprawling in the halo of his bed mussed hair. )
Alas, I'm too overcome to be contained...! I come apart at the seams, wanting.
( the real question is: is this a threat of what wen qing will have to deal with or not? )
( there is progressively more chest in these photographs, though he's chosen a slight preference for the right side over the left. smoother skin and all it doesn't have to say about the past. he's biting down on his lower lip, peering up at his pendant with a Hopeful Look. also again trying to hide his inclination to smile: hence the teeth sunk into his lower lip. )
Burning up for you, left alone and unquenched, thrown on the mercy of a doctor who'll laugh at the both of us...
( he doesn't find reason to keep from her the absurdity when she's... one of his closest friends.
and after here, there's too high a chance he'll never have any chance to say anything to her ever again. not if everything back home remains unchanging.
also congrats, he fails to send a photograph this time!!! )
( as in the challenge is. all that meant is now he's very nonchalantly hunting after his husband, so.
there's his excellence.
his yunmeng heritage coming out.
wei wuxian is on the prowl while also listening to the word on what's happened with prassenze, concerns about the storms, and oh, the thievery that's gone down, meaning yes he's distracted, but he's going to find Lan Zhan in spite of all the other new information he's taking in. )
( Excuse, master Wei, the gentleman who takes cover solace in the company of two singularly pointy-nosed, chinned and fingered elderly dames, who are having the slow and measured time of their lives answering his questions.
Discovering the whereabouts of a missing bride is a fine and honourable endeavour, worth neglecting one's husband over, until spidey senses tingle, hair climbs Wangji's nape, and he turns all at once — feeling hunted. )
...good morning. ( Kindly, do not skin him, O Scorned Conjugal One, your nose looks — adequate in perfect dark. )
( the badge of Lan Zhan's morning transgression is a red, swollen tip of his nose, comic cross between an insect sting and the rawness of a winter suns burning. it brings the comical drawings of the Yiling Patriarch to mind, the decades of heavy drinking that Wei Wuxian did not have opportunity to engage in. if his eyes were less clear, if they were more red than gently shadowed, if he were not, hah, freshly shaved, the comedy might have played out to a different extent. instead of looks the young man stung and swollen, unfortunate what it does to that pretty face, and:
his patience, such as he has it, set gently, deliberately, finally aside. he smiles, but he's not looking at either esteemed woman, graced with the lines of their years while every woman in his life and in his husband's has only met too early graves. age is venerated, respected, and utterly ignored as he steps close, sliding into his husband's space with only courtesy paid in passing to his companions. fingers of each hand skim the sides of Lan Zhan's neck, his inexorable tenderness a spring flood bearing down a box canyon.
fingertips hook and hold, catching at loose hair at the base of Lan Zhan's skull, anchoring there when his thumbs frame either side of Lan Zhan's face, aimed to hold him steady, hold him true, for the canted angle of Wei Wuxian's descent, lashes that close like a sigh when lips meet lips, chapped and imperfect. yet it's the parting of those same lips, the heat of exhalation and a tongue that lathes over Lan Zhan's mouth in request, the small sound caught in the back of his throat if he's allowed entry, if the kiss deepens, that leaves him lingering, forming himself to the curves of Lan Zhan's hard planes, content.
and the deliberate disregard for the commentary, the surprise, of the older women in their prestigious, ponderous daze, oh, he thinks nothing of it, even when the kiss finds a conclusion, when his head pulls back without the rest of him deciding to retreat. what he does find are words at perfect conversational volume. )
You forgot to give me a good morning kiss.
( and one of the two women, hearing this, cackles into an unconvincing cough, behind her raised, tremoring hand. )
( One heartbeat: he sits lone, courteous, a man of dignity, honour and obligations.
The next: Wei Ying attacks him, mouth feral and burgeoned greed, the fire of him a torch calling banners, all consuming. If Wuxian, born Wei, were sired in a leading sect, he might have ruled hillside and valleys, made nest over cradles of bones. Instead, a servant's son, thorn in Yu Ziyuan's throat, the soft of her belly.
He consumes Lan Wangji, piece, particle. Warmth of him incadescent, a hard burn. A woman draws her voice thick. Another coughs. The third murmurs, There, there, easy. Then Wei Ying relinquishes him, and Wangji's arm fetters his waist on instinct, draws him in, their foreheads a tight collision. Dust dancing long and slow like winter's plays. )
I did not. ( Whispered, as if there has been a moment since they've ventured in these hungering lands that they have ever been alone. As if they may have this — as if a woman does not bemoan the scandal already — and Wangji pulls away, taut. )
My husband has come for his ribbon. ( This, to their audience. He starts, carefully, to peel it from his own forehead. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Memory deserts me.
no subject
( do not ask your son to likewise pose now by having rolled into his back, hair tossed up so it spreads in a halo around his head, collars... loosened... to display clavicle. h o t. this is so saucy he almost doesn't miss his chili sauce.
almost. )
no subject
See yourself to decency.
no subject
Alas, I'm too overcome to be contained...! I come apart at the seams, wanting.
( the real question is: is this a threat of what wen qing will have to deal with or not? )
no subject
no subject
Burning up for you, left alone and unquenched, thrown on the mercy of a doctor who'll laugh at the both of us...
no subject
( That moment when you know far too well you are being toyed with. )
Will you speak these hurts to Wen Qing?
no subject
( he doesn't find reason to keep from her the absurdity when she's... one of his closest friends.
and after here, there's too high a chance he'll never have any chance to say anything to her ever again. not if everything back home remains unchanging.
also congrats, he fails to send a photograph this time!!! )
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
:(
no subject
( .................irrespective of their cause. )
no subject
:(
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
( as in the challenge is. all that meant is now he's very nonchalantly hunting after his husband, so.
there's his excellence.
his yunmeng heritage coming out.
wei wuxian is on the prowl while also listening to the word on what's happened with prassenze, concerns about the storms, and oh, the thievery that's gone down, meaning yes he's distracted, but he's going to find Lan Zhan in spite of all the other new information he's taking in. )
no subject
( Excuse, master Wei, the gentleman who takes
coversolace in the company of two singularly pointy-nosed, chinned and fingered elderly dames, who are having the slow and measured time of their lives answering his questions.Discovering the whereabouts of a missing bride is a fine and honourable endeavour, worth neglecting one's husband over, until spidey senses tingle, hair climbs Wangji's nape, and he turns all at once — feeling hunted. )
...good morning. ( Kindly, do not skin him, O Scorned Conjugal One, your nose looks — adequate in perfect dark. )
no subject
( the badge of Lan Zhan's morning transgression is a red, swollen tip of his nose, comic cross between an insect sting and the rawness of a winter suns burning. it brings the comical drawings of the Yiling Patriarch to mind, the decades of heavy drinking that Wei Wuxian did not have opportunity to engage in. if his eyes were less clear, if they were more red than gently shadowed, if he were not, hah, freshly shaved, the comedy might have played out to a different extent. instead of looks the young man stung and swollen, unfortunate what it does to that pretty face, and:
his patience, such as he has it, set gently, deliberately, finally aside. he smiles, but he's not looking at either esteemed woman, graced with the lines of their years while every woman in his life and in his husband's has only met too early graves. age is venerated, respected, and utterly ignored as he steps close, sliding into his husband's space with only courtesy paid in passing to his companions. fingers of each hand skim the sides of Lan Zhan's neck, his inexorable tenderness a spring flood bearing down a box canyon.
fingertips hook and hold, catching at loose hair at the base of Lan Zhan's skull, anchoring there when his thumbs frame either side of Lan Zhan's face, aimed to hold him steady, hold him true, for the canted angle of Wei Wuxian's descent, lashes that close like a sigh when lips meet lips, chapped and imperfect. yet it's the parting of those same lips, the heat of exhalation and a tongue that lathes over Lan Zhan's mouth in request, the small sound caught in the back of his throat if he's allowed entry, if the kiss deepens, that leaves him lingering, forming himself to the curves of Lan Zhan's hard planes, content.
and the deliberate disregard for the commentary, the surprise, of the older women in their prestigious, ponderous daze, oh, he thinks nothing of it, even when the kiss finds a conclusion, when his head pulls back without the rest of him deciding to retreat. what he does find are words at perfect conversational volume. )
You forgot to give me a good morning kiss.
( and one of the two women, hearing this, cackles into an unconvincing cough, behind her raised, tremoring hand. )
no subject
( One heartbeat: he sits lone, courteous, a man of dignity, honour and obligations.
The next: Wei Ying attacks him, mouth feral and burgeoned greed, the fire of him a torch calling banners, all consuming. If Wuxian, born Wei, were sired in a leading sect, he might have ruled hillside and valleys, made nest over cradles of bones. Instead, a servant's son, thorn in Yu Ziyuan's throat, the soft of her belly.
He consumes Lan Wangji, piece, particle. Warmth of him incadescent, a hard burn. A woman draws her voice thick. Another coughs. The third murmurs, There, there, easy. Then Wei Ying relinquishes him, and Wangji's arm fetters his waist on instinct, draws him in, their foreheads a tight collision. Dust dancing long and slow like winter's plays. )
I did not. ( Whispered, as if there has been a moment since they've ventured in these hungering lands that they have ever been alone. As if they may have this — as if a woman does not bemoan the scandal already — and Wangji pulls away, taut. )
My husband has come for his ribbon. ( This, to their audience. He starts, carefully, to peel it from his own forehead. )
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)