INASSOUVI

Besides, it’s not as if the Acting Grand Master hadn’t imbibed before in her youth. Never regularly and somewhat embarrassingly, she’d nearly choked herself to death in front of Kaeya, but this was perhaps a touch more than rebellion these days. It was a search for a closure, for catharsis, something to lessen the constant gnawing ache of continuing to keep too many plates spinning all at once. Anyone else might have dared to take a holiday, to step back from a workload that wasn’t entirely of her own making and put her own needs before those of a nation - yet alas, the blonde didn’t have such a luxury. She was shackled to her position in much the same way Rosaria had found herself bound to the church. 

 ❝It’s not my first rodeo. ❞ The knight hums back, deftly plucking the offered smoke from her companion’s fingers and toying with the match as if deciding whether she wanted to go through with it. It was hardly a criminal offence. Neither loaded with a sudden commitment to continue smoking for the rest of her life, or to choke the very air that Barbatos had blessed her with. Yet it felt more symbolic than anything else. Like falling from grace, to do the exact thing she had warned others of time and time again, as if some grand consequence would suddenly leap from the ether and smite her. 

It’s oddly refreshing to be treated with such indifference; to be spoken to as if she were a child and not the the acting leader of the very nation that had given the burgundy haired nun a place to call home. The demonstration alone warrants the faintest flicker of a laugh, a mirrored action imitating that of Rosaria until plumes of tobacco laced toxicity swirl into the air. She wants to pretend she’s dignified, when she takes that first drag. Wants to maintain the illusion of composure and decorum, only to be left coughing, spluttering as if every fibre of her being is rejecting the decision to dare to pollute the temple of an otherwise anemo blessed body. 

Scarlet bleeds into her cheeks as the humiliation sets in, yet at least it silences the nagging noises in her head for the time being, an unexpected reprieve really, while avoiding both her sister, father and the chokehold of responsibility. ❝How do you even do this regularly?❞ Jean finds herself asking, as if gleaning this one little scrap of information will somehow lessen the sting of the fact she knows so very little about a woman that is so inextricably tied to so many important people in her life. 

but vices are vices. smoke a thousand times and it's still a cigarette. rosaria doesn't try to glorify it, not that it would've worked, but she also knows better than to put any meaning behind it.

out of the two of them, it's the knight who has the saviour complex, not the nun. the nun doesn't even embrace the notion of patriotism, let alone perform reverence to its leaders — to her, mondstadt is the land under her feet and the people living in it, not an abstract concept. politics that function on the idea of nations-as-entities have no bearing to her values.

“ the same way you do your work. ” because that's all it is, isn't it? routines are routines. the first thing you reach for when you wake up in the morning. the first thought on your mind. there's no effort required for a habit like that. she reaches for the pack of cigarette again and, after another moment of considering, hands it over. “ it helps take off the edge, but that requires you to at least allow yourself a smoke break every now and then. ”

❝  windblume  ❞ the  name  gentle  rolling  off  of  the  moonchanters  tongue  ,  ❝  it  sounds  enticing  from  the  name  alone  ❞.  A  soft  smile  ,  Lauma  liked  the  idea  of  each  nation  having  their  own  celebrations  ,  never  having  thought  that  perhaps  if  she  were  to  travel  ,  she  could  experience  them  too.  Lauma  however  was  not  planning  on  travelling  ,  she  couldn't  leave  Nod  Krai  ,  she  never  had.  The  moonchanter  couldn't  help  the  feeling  that  she  was  not  permitted  to  do  such  a  thing  ,  she  had  a  role  here  ,  abandoning  her  post  surely  wasn't  allowed.

But  who  made  those  rules  anyway  ? 

It  was  too  much  to  ponder  ,  at  least  for  right  now  ,  ❝  tell  me  about  it  ,  perhaps  if  you  have  the  time  ?  ❞ not  wanting  to  keep  the  other  longer  than  she  wished  to  be  there. 

and yet, she stands there, silent. what is there to say about windblume? she is the farthest existence from it. a moment later, she decides to channel the spirit of their walking talking humanoid encyclopedia and fake it through.

“ windblume, where should i begin? ” with her head tilting at an angle, two fingers rest on her chin. this is how their chief alchemist poses when he is deep in thought. “ mondstadt has spent year after year attempting to settle on one flower as the windblume. eventually, they agreed that windblume means different things to different people. ”

she cants her head to the other side. more ponder-posing.

She doesn’t know it yet, but he compares her to honey. Sweet, compelling, and something he was capable of getting stuck in. He’d slowly sink to the bottom, resigning himself to his fate and giving up his fight, no caution for how they both behave a little strangely. Does she have any idea how much he wants her? Would she wield that power, or would she turn his desire into a knife and impale him with it? He likes to think she would be kind to him. But he finds that he doesn’t care regardless.

Will watches, eyes following movement, and he hums as if in thought. He can perform as human on occasion– it’s the farce of his hesitation, all his momentary indecision. He doesn’t have any of that. He leans forward, his nose nudging into the crook of her neck, and inhales a little. She smells nice, something softer, something inviting. Not like the icy tundra she imagines. If he sunk his teeth right in, she’d run hot; this he knows. 

His fingertips trail up her thigh, dancing lightly as he pads his touch around her leg and hoists her closer to him, closing any space. Normally, he wouldn’t do this– at least, that’s what he justifies to himself. But she welcomes him, and he’s made it clear he’d only exist in the way she welcomed him. If she wanted him, she could have him. And he wants her. That much is clear. 

“ likewise, ” she mumbles and takes a deep breath. there's something distinctively him in his hair. “ how do you taste, will graham? ”

in this world of eat or be eaten, they have managed to find company in neither. they are on equal grounds in yearning and devourment, yet carefully avoiding the line of destruction. the curiosity is mutual — ever since their first meeting, she has been dying to find out where they stand on this playing field.

no more delays. she opens her mouth and invites him to a tasting session. one without utensils or manners; nothing but pure instinct as their guide. she kisses like an animal, hungry and desperate, both hands latched onto his skull just to anchor herself from this dizzying exchange. she tastes his lips, his teeth, his tongue; and she lets him taste hers, too, if not more.

Hunting birds swooped in for the kill when they saw the opportunity. This wasn’t that. Perhaps the awareness that they are two people circling one another, trying to figure the other out, causes a lot of the tension. Will has long since shed his facade and offered her a morsel of the truth. However strange, however perturbed– she didn’t read as prey to him, and for that, he is morbidly curious.

He waits, promptly teased when the spoon disappears behind her own set of teeth. Will’s eyes roll, and he leans back, chin falling into the palm of his hand, arm bent. With anyone else, he would have been reproachful about his pride. Begging was not a thing he typically did. Not a thing that brought him any amount of pleasure or desire to do so. Not so groveling to another’s imposing will. However, she was different too. Not prey but nothing stalking or hunting him either. She was much more like him than he cared to admit. And for that, he doesn’t mind the notion of it as much as he thought he might.

His tongue is heavy though because the words are not natural, not something he would be able to easily produce without significant effort on his part. Something clenches inside of him, and he swallows that bit of his hubris.

still, she doesn't expect him to cave. her appetite for conquest rarely comes through, but his hesitance — genuine and heavy and real like a rock in throat — is worth more than any sacrifice ever. prideful animals like them don't bend often; when they do, it must be dire.

“ you promise to swallow? ” the edge in her gaze softens into a whisper, fluffy and gentle like a cloud. if only what she says isn't laced with her brand of low humour. the spoon takes a third dive into the soup, and she contemplates which piece of vegetable would comfort him most. she settles with a piece of chinese yam, neutral and pale in colour with a starchy bite.

He watches her disappear to the kitchen and return, eyes following the movement across the room before she is sitting next to him, tray in hand. He wants to comment on it, the unnecessaryness of it, but that would be betraying the foundations of this. The ease with which she can come and go, how easily she invades his space and takes it over. Will doesn’t complain nor discourage her, shooing a few dogs from begging before his gaze falls back on her and then down to the offered soup. His lips quirk; it’s extremely uncharacteristic, as something akin to mischief passes through his imperceptible cloudy hues. She was his inevitable doom.

“Are you going to hand feed me?” It’s asked lightly, not as the probe that it is. Of course, it was something he could do himself. But for now, he was teasing her. Perhaps being a little selfish as well. She’s already gone through this much trouble, and Will honestly does feel like a burden, but that doesn’t stop him from milking the situation. Her attention was addicting, after all. And he genuinely was sick– two birds, one stone. 

“ aw, poor you. did the fever take out your arms? ” she pouts back at him, two creatures playing with their human suits. beautiful human suits, too. she reaches over to check his hands in jest, fingertips slightly warm from holding soup. whether will plays along or not, it doesn't matter. she has made up her mind the moment he blinked at her.

“ ask nicely, then maybe. ” picking up her spoon, she gathers a piece of carrot for herself. she doesn't even pretend to offer it to him. then, with her mouth full, she holds the second scoop of clear soup in mid-air, her other hand beneath the spoon to catch any stray drops.

you're too comfortable, she can hear the voice whisper in her head. if anything happens, the dogs are probably on his side. of course, she is in his space, surrounded by his pack of canines. if he wished her harm, the best she could do would be make it look ugly.