)👀 Describe your OC through the eyes of another person! (bonus + specify who) Lin Ming through the eyes of both xiao xingchen and song lan
25 OC questions!
Xiao Xingchen -
He knows her so well, every bit of her. The way she breathes, quiet and steady, when she’s at a peace, like she is now, leaning against him. He knows her well enough to build a picture in his mind; soft except for her sharp elbows that sometimes dig into his side at night, unruly hair that always seems to escape into fly-aways no matter how he tries to style it.
Xiao Xingchen touches her hair and she turns, the straight bridge of her nose pressing into his shoulder. She’s smiling, he can tell, as he traces a finger over her full, high cheek.
“What is it?” he asks, holding out his hand for an answer.
You’re smiling, she traces into his palm.
“I am.” He takes her hand in his. The expression goes ‘as well as the back of your hand’ and Xiao Xingchen thinks it means something he knows her hands better than his own; palms wide and rough in places, fingers steady, her nails kept short and blunt though uneven. “Can you guess what I’m thinking about?”
Her laugh was barely more than a huff, affectionate, and he can tell that as well. She shakes her head before kissing his cheek, thin mouth soft, still pulled into a smile.
“You’re right,” he says.
Song Lan -
Summers were hot at Jinghai, even at the foot of the mountains. Song Lan had never been a fan of summer; too sticky, too hard to keep to clean. It was not his season. It was, however, Lin Ming’s season.
Her long, black hair is pulled into a messy bun, and sometimes she stopped to push a stray piece back, not caring that her hands were dirty. The sweat makes her tan skin seem to glow, freckles dotted across her face now that her days are spent in the sun.
“Lin Ming.”
She looks up, squinting at him, and Song Lan takes a step to the side, his shadow falling across her. A smile crosses her face, eyes soft, a dark brown that reminds him of old wood. He’s seen how hard and suspicious her eyes can be but there’s none of that now.
“It’s dinner,” he says, holding out his hand.
Her mouth is still crooked in a smile - it’s always crooked in one way or another, as if she’s incapable of a neutral expression - as she takes his hand. He pulls her to her feet and even standing she has to lean back to look at him. Taking his sleeve, he wipes a smudge of dirt from her round chin.
Thank you, she signs.
“Of course.” He places his hand on her waist. “Let’s go.”
