#weiying

I draw Wei Ying from Mo Dao Zu Shi. :)

Mo Dao Zu Shi belongs to Mo Xiang Tong Xiu. :)

I only own the artwork. :)

Lan Wangji never thought he would be trekking that particular hill that night because he told himself a long time ago that he would only visit the place if Wei Wuxian is with him. Both of them have been to that hill too many times before and that old kiosk, adorned with a cherry blossom tree, was one of their favorite sanctuaries in Cloud Recesses. But then, there he was, touching the kiosk and the tree while earnestly watching the bright full moon alone. Lan Zhan was alone. And Wei Wuxian was somewhere far away from him.

"Wei Ying..." he whispered.

The moon was staring back at Lan Wangji like it was waiting for him to utter once again. The faint and soft humming of the birds can be heard somewhere while the mighty water splashes that the falls created steal the quietness of the night.

"Come home, Wei Ying..."🌖

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian Characters: Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji Additional Tags: Modern Era, College, Slow Burn, Angst, Happy Ending?, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Love At First Sight But He Doesn't Know It Yet Summary:

Bound by a past severed by ill-fated tragedy, reincarnation reunites two wandering souls to grant them a fragile second chance.

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Excerpt:

There is just something about this boy that’s weirdly intriguing, which he can’t seem to put a finger on, but Wuxian hasn’t stopped smiling from ear to ear since the start of their conversation. It’s unfathomable, because why would this short exchange with an otherwise complete stranger emanate a feeling of saudade nostalgia?

“I’m Wei Wuxian, by the way.”

The Untamed, episode 20

I'm happy to share with you, the gorgeous

ChengXian/XianCheng Zine!!!

Everyone worked so hard and I know you'll love it! You can download de Zine here:

Also! I want to share with you these arts I made for @twilightarc-gm 's beautiful story, Catching Tails. I know you're gonna love it as much as I do! 💖

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61192501?view_adult=true

Thanks to @domjiangcheng for all they hard work organizing the event and putting everything together and to everyone who participated.

I hope you enjoy the art and stories we made for our lovely boys, and for you!

The world outside was hushed under a thick blanket of white, the snowfall muffling sound, softening the edges of everything beyond the window panes. Delicate flakes drifted down like scattered petals, slow and aimless, painting the courtyard in quiet stillness. The Jingshi had always been a sanctuary, but in winter, it seemed to hold its breath even more—suspended in serene timelessness.

Inside, the brazier crackled gently, casting a slow, amber warmth through the room.

Lan Wangji moved in silence, as he always did, his robes flowing with practiced grace as he set the table. The teapot was already warm, steam curling lazily from the spout. A modest meal—congee, preserved vegetables, and the little sesame buns Wei Ying liked more than Wangji—sat neatly arranged on the low table, everything in its proper place.

His movements were precise but unhurried. There was a kind of ritual in it now. A quiet joy. Every morning, whether Wei Ying rose early or slept in until noon, Lan Wangji prepared breakfast the same way. Not out of habit, but because it grounded him. Because it reminded him that this life—their life—was no longer a fleeting dream.

He turned toward the bedroom and paused. The silken curtains had been pulled slightly aside by the restless shifting of the one still buried in their bed. A tuft of dark, tousled hair peeked out from beneath the thick layers of quilt. Wei Ying had curled in on himself, cocooned in warmth, one arm flung carelessly over the pillow where Lan Wangji had once lain. His face was mostly hidden, but his mouth was relaxed, lips slightly parted in the softness of sleep.

Lan Wangji allowed himself a rare, lingering glance.

Wei Ying slept without defenses. Without the mask of laughter or mischief or teasing bravado. There was something achingly tender in the way his brow was smooth, untroubled, in how his lashes brushed against his cheeks, in the way his breathing was slow and even—safe. Peaceful.

The sight never failed to stir something deep in Lan Wangji’s chest, a quiet warmth that bloomed slowly and settled there like the snow outside—gentle, certain, unmoving.

He turned back toward the table and poured the tea.

Wei Ying would grumble when he finally woke up, no doubt. He always did, especially when Lan Wangji rose before him and slipped away. “Why didn’t you stay?” he’d ask, voice scratchy with sleep, half-accusing, half-pleading. “It’s freezing without you. Don’t you know I’ll freeze to death without my Lan Zhan’s warmth?”

Lan Wangji would never say it, but that was exactly why he woke earlier on cold mornings like this. He would rather Wei Ying stay nestled under the covers, hoarding warmth like a dragon curled over its hoard, instead of padding barefoot across the icy floors. He would rather endure the slight ache of absence than disturb that rare look of perfect, undisturbed rest.

Outside, a sudden gust stirred the wind chimes in the corridor. The faint melody danced through the room, delicate and fleeting.

Behind him, the sound of sheets shifting. A groggy groan. Then: “Lan Zhan?”

Lan Wangji turned, and sure enough, Wei Ying was blinking blearily from the bed, hair an unholy mess, a line pressed into his cheek from the pillow. He looked every bit like someone who had fought valiantly to sleep through the morning and lost.

“You’re awake,” Lan Wangji said softly.

Wei Ying squinted. “It’s still snowing?”

Lan Wangji nodded once. “Heavily.”

Wei Ying flopped onto his back and groaned. “Ugh. I was dreaming of warm things. You were there. And so were sesame buns.”

Lan Wangji’s lips curved, barely. “Coincidence. Both are here.”

Wei Ying perked up slightly at that, but then frowned as he looked to the empty space beside him. He patted the sheets with an exaggerated pout. “You left me. I was all alone. Cold. Abandoned.”

Lan Wangji walked over, kneeling beside the bed, hand reaching to brush a lock of hair from Wei Ying’s face. His fingers lingered there, just a moment longer than necessary. “You were warm,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Wei Ying leaned into the touch with a soft hum, eyes fluttering shut again for a moment before he cracked one open. “But I like it best when I wake up to you. Warmth’s better when it’s shared, Lan Zhan.”

A beat passed in silence, before Lan Wangji quietly replied, “Next time, I’ll stay.”

Wei Ying smiled. Sleep still clung to him, but the smile was real—soft, content, a little lopsided. He sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall from his shoulders, and reached out, catching Lan Wangji’s hand.

Their fingers threaded together without thought.

“I’m glad I woke up to this,” he murmured, glancing at the table. “Snow outside, tea ready, you kneeling beside me like something out of a dream.”

Lan Wangji shook his head lightly. “Not a dream. Reality.”

Wei Ying’s smile widened.

“Even better.”

They stayed like that for a few moments—hand in hand, snow falling in slow silence, the warmth between them more than just physical.

Then Wei Ying leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Did you make two extra sesame buns? Because I had a dream I ate four, and I’m pretty sure that counts as prophetic.”

Lan Wangji gave him a look. Wei Ying grinned.

“Fine, fine,” he laughed, throwing off the blanket and crawling to the edge of the bed. “But only because you looked unfairly good kneeling beside me just now. You know I can’t say no to that.”

Lan Wangji helped him up with a quiet patience, guiding him to the table, where the tea had cooled just enough to drink.

Outside, the snow continued to fall. But inside, time slowed. There was only this moment, this warmth, this shared quiet. And in that stillness, love spoke its truest language—not in grand declarations, but in the gentle way one waited, and the other woke.

............

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