Twice within heartbeats, Wei Ying has failed his attempts, and Lan Wangji blinks away stupor, when sight returns to him, when they have tumbled and rolled and he has been conquered like a siege-stormed fortress, then released to trap Wei Ying, writhing beneath again — and there's ice that trails soft and melting against his temple, marbled sheet of it in whimsy degrees of translucence.
And Wei Ying, plastered like bandage over the wound Lan Wangji grits his teeth against, to contain the high-calling sting of its pulse, battered. He bleeds long, qi migrating from where it would exert to warm the tips of his fingers and guide his balance, to instead replenish what exposure to wrenching wind and soiled waters would fester. He aches. Wei Ying close enough to be named known and safe and guarded — and murderous, for he still has cloth in hand — Lan Wangji lets himself taste the flavours of his ache, dull and bruise and spreading like ink stain. He breathes.
Then, he draws out Bichen, and unceremoniously impales her into the slanted, slim and trembled line of youthful pink between a layer of the dragon's scales, where it is less guarded. For all her might, Bichen is yet slim. The creature undulates and screams like clouds crowding to answer storm's summons, like snapped lightning — but forgets the inconvenience of this prickling thing when witches assault it once more at balconies. One of the garments becomes noble sacrifice, twisted and bound each way around the sword's hilt, one end offered to Wei Ying, the other for Lan Wangji's keeping. Cloth might rip, but this will serve them as the closest approximation to an anchor, to fasten them down so they might weather the dragon's next quake.
But they cannot linger. Not two men worn, one injured, the second prey to the elements. Both shamefully bare, against their dignities, for all Lan Wangji blankets Wei Ying like a scavenging bird.
"Look at me. Tame your tongue." No lies, not when their gazes cross, when Lan Wangji's sharpens, limpid, like the ice groaning in hard splinters that litter the moat beneath. They are too close here for falsehood, too united. "If we plunge into cold waters, will you bear it? Will you suit battle, after?"
They could, it strikes him. They well could, easily. Gravity is a friend in this hour's need, and the height off ground lessens at times, when the dragon creeps low, teasing its own descend. They could jump, then swim the distance to re-enter the tower.
no subject
Twice within heartbeats, Wei Ying has failed his attempts, and Lan Wangji blinks away stupor, when sight returns to him, when they have tumbled and rolled and he has been conquered like a siege-stormed fortress, then released to trap Wei Ying, writhing beneath again — and there's ice that trails soft and melting against his temple, marbled sheet of it in whimsy degrees of translucence.
And Wei Ying, plastered like bandage over the wound Lan Wangji grits his teeth against, to contain the high-calling sting of its pulse, battered. He bleeds long, qi migrating from where it would exert to warm the tips of his fingers and guide his balance, to instead replenish what exposure to wrenching wind and soiled waters would fester. He aches. Wei Ying close enough to be named known and safe and guarded — and murderous, for he still has cloth in hand — Lan Wangji lets himself taste the flavours of his ache, dull and bruise and spreading like ink stain. He breathes.
Then, he draws out Bichen, and unceremoniously impales her into the slanted, slim and trembled line of youthful pink between a layer of the dragon's scales, where it is less guarded. For all her might, Bichen is yet slim. The creature undulates and screams like clouds crowding to answer storm's summons, like snapped lightning — but forgets the inconvenience of this prickling thing when witches assault it once more at balconies. One of the garments becomes noble sacrifice, twisted and bound each way around the sword's hilt, one end offered to Wei Ying, the other for Lan Wangji's keeping. Cloth might rip, but this will serve them as the closest approximation to an anchor, to fasten them down so they might weather the dragon's next quake.
But they cannot linger. Not two men worn, one injured, the second prey to the elements. Both shamefully bare, against their dignities, for all Lan Wangji blankets Wei Ying like a scavenging bird.
"Look at me. Tame your tongue." No lies, not when their gazes cross, when Lan Wangji's sharpens, limpid, like the ice groaning in hard splinters that litter the moat beneath. They are too close here for falsehood, too united. "If we plunge into cold waters, will you bear it? Will you suit battle, after?"
They could, it strikes him. They well could, easily. Gravity is a friend in this hour's need, and the height off ground lessens at times, when the dragon creeps low, teasing its own descend. They could jump, then swim the distance to re-enter the tower.