( 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. )
( The tidal pull of Lan Zhan's step back is what draws Wei Wuxian along even still, arms a slow slide from his husband's neck to slide momentary and deliberate down the front of his near immaculate robes. He ever means to rule little beyond himself and command the safety, the unhunted happiness, of those he calls his own, but the call down from the hills in this pursuit is one where his husband denies himself as much out of petulance for outside interruptions as it is simplicity of responding with you cannot take what isn't there to give to a world that remains unmoved.
He watches, dark eyes hawk-sharp and softening only as Lan Zhan's hands slide along silk, as the ribbon is coaxed free of its home tangled into the weave of Lan Zhan's hair. The fall and catch of his breath in as Lan Zhan's ribbon slides free, and he tugs at his husband's waistband, forward, onward, where are you fleeing to now? )
And his husband.
( To the gasp of the same voice, the scandal, hushed by another older woman's strident tones, hardly can be if they're married, Edith as their voices rise and fall, white noise to his enduring preoccupation.
He is a parched landscape; he is Yiling, dormant but living in its duress; he is the shrieking need beneath the limitations of his flesh; he is the spark, and tinder, and kinder than the easy conflagration he might otherwise command. What he wants is not to kneel before the unconcerned whims of the world. If he kneels, let it be willing. Let it be before no man other than the one before him now, or let it be a different prostration, before those he holds as family, were he to beg a forgiveness that stirs no heat within, only heartbreak. )
If he's willing.
( Challenge laid out, wrist raised, for the binding: he goes not easy or simply into the morning's stretching hours, beckoning for his wants, his wishes, and his husband's frustrated sharing, the tide creeping back in around their feet. Too ready, to easy, to be swept away. )
( Cornered, like a hunted thing, entrapped. To look upon Wei Ying, skin and bones and cartilage, threadbare and crumbled — he might appear the lesser between them, the likely victim of Lan Wangji's pursuit. But then he drags his hand over his husband's waistband, voice sibilant. He entreats. He conquers.
And the world is only Wei Ying's to own, after all.
The women, coo or croak or simply fill out the negative spaces between them with sound, so that nothing will presume to part them. This is too private a moment for spectators — beyond the subject of intimacy, the velvety, heavy weight of Wangji's own tenuous rejection. )
He is willing. ( Conciliatory, calm. His brother's voice, woefully repurposed. Zewu-Jun would not approve. Zewu-Jun need never learn that Lan Wangji's diplomatic debut safeguards his chastity. ) But, stand with justice. No regrets.
( The pledge of a lifetime passed, haunting the halls of their frustrations. The man Wei Ying became bled out for the principles of the boy who created him. )
We cannot gladden, while two young spouses are parted. ( For all that Firo and Prassenze are both strange and strangers, ephemeral silhouettes who would not have spared a thought for Lan Wangji or Wei Ying, a few days prior. He knows this much: that Wei Ying's righteousness is shared by few. ) After we reunite them.
( This isn't justice, though it is mystery, though it is person struggling with themselves in isolation, wishing to be just so, more than enough, and losing track of what that really means along the way. He's not worried about her in a deep sense, only worried she'll make things harder for herself, but congratulations! People do that all the time. If they're clever enough, they learn better. If they're sly enough, they learn worse. )
Will you whisper in her ear to stand strong and proud and bared before her spouse? Seen for every unlovely part of herself, along with the beloved?
( These words to breathe between them, steady as the beating of twin hearts matched in purpose. Thin veneer of it, and he's not a careless man, but he is a care worn one, and he plucks his husband's ribbon, shifts back, idly runs the back of his other hand across his abused nose, blinking in mild startled recollection of it's painful sufferance. )
The injustice isn't in the running. It's in the costs everyone else paid, ah? So why did it feel necessary, why the trying again and again for something perfect, when life isn't perfect, it's glorious and lived in each flawed, vibrant moment?
( Wrapping that ribbon around his arm, and bracing, a man readied and prepared for certain kinds of interpersonal war.
He speaks of the lady spouses. Doesn't he? He speaks of himself and Lan Zhan also. Doesn't he? )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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? )
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Burning up for you, left alone and unquenched, thrown on the mercy of a doctor who'll laugh at the both of us...
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( That moment when you know far too well you are being toyed with. )
Will you speak these hurts to Wen Qing?
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( 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!!! )
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( .................irrespective of their cause. )
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( 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. )
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( 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. )
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( 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. )
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( 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. )
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( The tidal pull of Lan Zhan's step back is what draws Wei Wuxian along even still, arms a slow slide from his husband's neck to slide momentary and deliberate down the front of his near immaculate robes. He ever means to rule little beyond himself and command the safety, the unhunted happiness, of those he calls his own, but the call down from the hills in this pursuit is one where his husband denies himself as much out of petulance for outside interruptions as it is simplicity of responding with you cannot take what isn't there to give to a world that remains unmoved.
He watches, dark eyes hawk-sharp and softening only as Lan Zhan's hands slide along silk, as the ribbon is coaxed free of its home tangled into the weave of Lan Zhan's hair. The fall and catch of his breath in as Lan Zhan's ribbon slides free, and he tugs at his husband's waistband, forward, onward, where are you fleeing to now? )
And his husband.
( To the gasp of the same voice, the scandal, hushed by another older woman's strident tones, hardly can be if they're married, Edith as their voices rise and fall, white noise to his enduring preoccupation.
He is a parched landscape; he is Yiling, dormant but living in its duress; he is the shrieking need beneath the limitations of his flesh; he is the spark, and tinder, and kinder than the easy conflagration he might otherwise command. What he wants is not to kneel before the unconcerned whims of the world. If he kneels, let it be willing. Let it be before no man other than the one before him now, or let it be a different prostration, before those he holds as family, were he to beg a forgiveness that stirs no heat within, only heartbreak. )
If he's willing.
( Challenge laid out, wrist raised, for the binding: he goes not easy or simply into the morning's stretching hours, beckoning for his wants, his wishes, and his husband's frustrated sharing, the tide creeping back in around their feet. Too ready, to easy, to be swept away. )
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( Cornered, like a hunted thing, entrapped. To look upon Wei Ying, skin and bones and cartilage, threadbare and crumbled — he might appear the lesser between them, the likely victim of Lan Wangji's pursuit. But then he drags his hand over his husband's waistband, voice sibilant. He entreats. He conquers.
And the world is only Wei Ying's to own, after all.
The women, coo or croak or simply fill out the negative spaces between them with sound, so that nothing will presume to part them. This is too private a moment for spectators — beyond the subject of intimacy, the velvety, heavy weight of Wangji's own tenuous rejection. )
He is willing. ( Conciliatory, calm. His brother's voice, woefully repurposed. Zewu-Jun would not approve. Zewu-Jun need never learn that Lan Wangji's diplomatic debut safeguards his chastity. ) But, stand with justice. No regrets.
( The pledge of a lifetime passed, haunting the halls of their frustrations. The man Wei Ying became bled out for the principles of the boy who created him. )
We cannot gladden, while two young spouses are parted. ( For all that Firo and Prassenze are both strange and strangers, ephemeral silhouettes who would not have spared a thought for Lan Wangji or Wei Ying, a few days prior. He knows this much: that Wei Ying's righteousness is shared by few. ) After we reunite them.
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( This isn't justice, though it is mystery, though it is person struggling with themselves in isolation, wishing to be just so, more than enough, and losing track of what that really means along the way. He's not worried about her in a deep sense, only worried she'll make things harder for herself, but congratulations! People do that all the time. If they're clever enough, they learn better. If they're sly enough, they learn worse. )
Will you whisper in her ear to stand strong and proud and bared before her spouse? Seen for every unlovely part of herself, along with the beloved?
( These words to breathe between them, steady as the beating of twin hearts matched in purpose. Thin veneer of it, and he's not a careless man, but he is a care worn one, and he plucks his husband's ribbon, shifts back, idly runs the back of his other hand across his abused nose, blinking in mild startled recollection of it's painful sufferance. )
The injustice isn't in the running. It's in the costs everyone else paid, ah? So why did it feel necessary, why the trying again and again for something perfect, when life isn't perfect, it's glorious and lived in each flawed, vibrant moment?
( Wrapping that ribbon around his arm, and bracing, a man readied and prepared for certain kinds of interpersonal war.
He speaks of the lady spouses. Doesn't he? He speaks of himself and Lan Zhan also. Doesn't he? )
No more running, ah?
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