( He felt that. Nervous energies exuding off him like the aftermath of earth, quaking. Ripples and ripples and waves of tension, of nervous magic, crackling. Qi clinging to the air like an angry cat clawing fresh drapes. He feels — unmoored, stirred without being permitted the satisfaction of sating his bloodlust. Awakened to no purpose.
He pulls back, forcing himself to stillness, to obedience, to listening and recovering and remembering himself. To calming, just as the chicken dares to breathe beside him and huffs, throwing Lan Wangji savage, affronted glances.
Around them, the violent twists and turns and coils of Wei Ying's wards force peace and quiescence. He finds himself at ease, more for the pleasure of his husband's company, reinforced through his qi, than any delusion of danger truly extirpated. A mountain with hot springs, Wei Ying says wistfully, and Lan Wangji all at once understands that he is not a man to fail his husband so completely that he forgets the pangs of chills Wei Ying endures, absent the hold of a core.
Taking the knee, he whispers awake a fire talisman with a generous injection of his strength, watching flame burst, then transporting it to visit each of the strange little cell's five braziers. A little kindling, some residual coal, even incense. The cell, he suspects, was not recently fitted for guests.
He sits on the bedside, as warmth starts to quiver and bloom and the chicken, fastidiously woken, deigns to retreat back in its corner where it's staked humble territorial gains. It... will be an interesting night's cohabitation, to be sure. )
If it roosts, you deserve it. ( This to Wei Ying, who has hereby earned every last one of the chicken's tortures for befriending it in the kitchens. ) Likely, the... women pertained to the monastery. Cursed nuns. To speak to them of their... nocturnal occupation may grieve them.
( Surely, one of the many vows they break at night is chastity, after all. )
no subject
( He felt that. Nervous energies exuding off him like the aftermath of earth, quaking. Ripples and ripples and waves of tension, of nervous magic, crackling. Qi clinging to the air like an angry cat clawing fresh drapes. He feels — unmoored, stirred without being permitted the satisfaction of sating his bloodlust. Awakened to no purpose.
He pulls back, forcing himself to stillness, to obedience, to listening and recovering and remembering himself. To calming, just as the chicken dares to breathe beside him and huffs, throwing Lan Wangji savage, affronted glances.
Around them, the violent twists and turns and coils of Wei Ying's wards force peace and quiescence. He finds himself at ease, more for the pleasure of his husband's company, reinforced through his qi, than any delusion of danger truly extirpated. A mountain with hot springs, Wei Ying says wistfully, and Lan Wangji all at once understands that he is not a man to fail his husband so completely that he forgets the pangs of chills Wei Ying endures, absent the hold of a core.
Taking the knee, he whispers awake a fire talisman with a generous injection of his strength, watching flame burst, then transporting it to visit each of the strange little cell's five braziers. A little kindling, some residual coal, even incense. The cell, he suspects, was not recently fitted for guests.
He sits on the bedside, as warmth starts to quiver and bloom and the chicken, fastidiously woken, deigns to retreat back in its corner where it's staked humble territorial gains. It... will be an interesting night's cohabitation, to be sure. )
If it roosts, you deserve it. ( This to Wei Ying, who has hereby earned every last one of the chicken's tortures for befriending it in the kitchens. ) Likely, the... women pertained to the monastery. Cursed nuns. To speak to them of their... nocturnal occupation may grieve them.
( Surely, one of the many vows they break at night is chastity, after all. )