And would he? He has not thought himself a creature of whim, of fluidity, of vanity. Wei Ying complains, and it's a sign of feeble sickness, of discomfort, inconvenience, blisters and small bruises — not broken bones. He is silent when true ailing hits him, saps him of strength like waters bled of stalks.
...and he kicks, nudges and collides, the control over his flimsy fresh body imprecise. Lan Wangji bears the onslaught against his cheek with the northbound hike of his brow, before gently accepting the burden of his husband's small heft on his hand and drifting him up, held within gaze's stab. They watch one another for a heartbeat's silence that seems to stretch into cosmic dignity.
Then, with the sigh of the longest-suffering of men, lips already curdling from the inevitability of moist clammy skins, Lan Wangji drips his mouth over his husband's moss-wet head. There, young toad. Would he, indeed.
...more affection than grace to it. He does not shield his horror after, nose wrinkling with bone-deep resignation as he accepts Wei Ying's metamorphosis, his shift in temperature, his slippery, oily, clammy touch. Delightfully off-putting, yet a kinder fate than surviving qi-locked.
And because he is a man wedded, if not bedded, and because suffering is a calling and an art, Lan Wangji, hereby disdaining the many decisions that led to this moment, politely loosens the fold of his robes to slip the toad in the created pocket, by his breast.
"I assume you would not prefer four shichen in this shape." Correct him now, before he starts to look for... other toads to relieve the curse.
no subject
And would he? He has not thought himself a creature of whim, of fluidity, of vanity. Wei Ying complains, and it's a sign of feeble sickness, of discomfort, inconvenience, blisters and small bruises — not broken bones. He is silent when true ailing hits him, saps him of strength like waters bled of stalks.
...and he kicks, nudges and collides, the control over his flimsy fresh body imprecise. Lan Wangji bears the onslaught against his cheek with the northbound hike of his brow, before gently accepting the burden of his husband's small heft on his hand and drifting him up, held within gaze's stab. They watch one another for a heartbeat's silence that seems to stretch into cosmic dignity.
Then, with the sigh of the longest-suffering of men, lips already curdling from the inevitability of moist clammy skins, Lan Wangji drips his mouth over his husband's moss-wet head. There, young toad. Would he, indeed.
...more affection than grace to it. He does not shield his horror after, nose wrinkling with bone-deep resignation as he accepts Wei Ying's metamorphosis, his shift in temperature, his slippery, oily, clammy touch. Delightfully off-putting, yet a kinder fate than surviving qi-locked.
And because he is a man wedded, if not bedded, and because suffering is a calling and an art, Lan Wangji, hereby disdaining the many decisions that led to this moment, politely loosens the fold of his robes to slip the toad in the created pocket, by his breast.
"I assume you would not prefer four shichen in this shape." Correct him now, before he starts to look for... other toads to relieve the curse.