#asteracae

“    a  kite.    “    dubiously  repeated,    his  fingers  curling  around  the  little  spindle,    wrapping  one  thumb  through  the  tenuous  chord  that  holds  the  piece  to  the  earth.    it’s  a  work  of  art,    lovingly  crafted  and  hand-painted.    one  of  a  kind,    blanche  had  said.    “    i’ve  never  used  one  before.    “

it  is  a  shock    --    like  the  first  time  his  wings  had  failed  him  and  he  had  fallen  from  the  sky.    like  dunking  his  head  beneath  the  water  the  first  time,    or  how  it  had  felt  to  see  lumine  among  the  dim  of  the  nameless  god.    through  the  lens  of  his  own  awareness,    all  of  it  filtered  down  until  he  remembers  suddenly:    an,    oh,    quiet,    in  tune  with  the  thrumming  of  his  heart.    right,    yes.    i  have  a  body.    there  is  something  else  here.    it  had  been  more  forgivable  in  the  early  days,    when  it  was  still  new.    the  legs  and  the  muscles  and  the  bones,    of  course,    which  always  broke  far  too  easily,    even  then.    it  is  less  forgivable  now,    when  every  misstep  is  nearly  a  fall.

she  gives  just  one  tug,    and  he  goes  with,    unsuspecting,    flowing  with  the  movement,    and  then  her  arms  close  over  him  and  all  that  grace  goes  out  with  it.    it  takes  a  moment  of  just  his  hands  bent  in  the  air,    fingers  curled  in  on  themselves,    a  shocked  expression  that  only  the  wall  behind  her  gets  to  witness    (    thankfully    ).

when  had  been  the  last  time  anyone  had  hugged  him?    had  touched  him  and  not  left  behind  some  bruise,    some  cut,    some  immutable  scar?    he  can’t  remember.

reality  catches  up  just  about  the  time  it  starts  to  become  awkward  and  she  starts  to  move  away,    which    --    no,    he  doesn’t  that.    the  wind  in  mondstadt  always  has  a  faintly  pleasant  smell  to  it,    floral,    like  the  cecilias  high  up  on  starfell  are  drifting  down  into  the  valley  below,    and  it  clings  to  her,    too.    a  warm  scent.  

it  had  been  that  comfort  he  had  missed  so  desperately,    and  it’s  that  desperation  returning  the  gesture.    arms  tucked  beneath  hers,    fingers  digging  into  her  back    --    not  enough  to  hurt,    but  just  enough  to  give  him  away,    like  he’s  saying  please,    don’t  let  go.    not  yet,    just  a  moment  longer.    he  tucks  his  face  against  his  shoulder  and  lets  the  warmth  of  someone  else  seep  in  through  the  cracks.    embarrassingly,    he  can  feel  the  slight  burn  of  tears  against  his  eyes,    faint.

(    a  strange  feeling,    foreign  to  him.    he  hasn't  cried  in  this  body.    not  when  the  nightmares  had  dug  their  claws  in  all  oily    &    slick,    not  when  lumine  had  abandoned  him  the  first  time  or  the  second,    not  even  after  the  duel  that  had  left  the  taste  of  lightning  on  his  tongue  and  he  had  felt  the  first  fissures  of  divinity    ).

the  tears  don’t  fall,    but  they  solidify  in  his  chest,    crystals  to  catch    &    refract  the  light.    he  lets  her  go  and  steps  away,    his  cheeks  singed.    rubs  the  back  of  his  hand  nervously  against  his  chin.    it’s  some  sort  of  vulnerability  she’s  unearthed;    hands  carving  at  primordial  clay  to  find  something  alive  and  human  beneath  it  all,    all  terribly  red.    it  takes  a  moment  for  him  to  compose  himself.    the  grand  light  of  the  universe,    filtered  through  the  way  his  lashes  flutter,    the  way  golden  eyes  flit  nervously  around  the  room.

@asteracae sent :  What’s your greatest source of inspiration when it comes to role playing?

pretty much all forms of media!! movies, tv shows, books, comics, music--i cannot say the number of times i have come back from the movie theaters with a particular snippet of the movie i watched all revved up thinking about how cool it’d be to incorporate that detail into my writing/characters.

he  should.    she’s  no  use  to  him,    not  them,    not  really.    another  dandelion  on  the  wind,    as  it  were,    for  all  his  bad  jokes  and  theatrics.    tongue  touches  canine  in  consideration,    watching  knight  half-limp-half-run  through  trees.    he  should  turn  and  go,    maybe  at  the  most,    take  advantage  of  this  moment.    she’s  vulnerable.    she’s  a  pawn.

                too  bad  he’s  still  got  half  a  heart.    so  he  does  neither;    he  drops  from  the  tree  and  catches  up  with  ease.    she’s  still  angry.    yelling.    she  should  be.    he’s  a  harbinger;    a  no  good,    a  manipulator,    a  war  starter.    everything  and  more.    things  she  doesn’t  even  know. 

                he  doesn’t  give  a  damn  either  way.    he  just  hates  to  see  a  lion  cub  whimper.

                “    come  on,    acting  grand  captain.    i’m  not  here  on  business,    and  you  know  it.    at  least  let  me  look  at  it,    or  you’ll  drop  halfway  to  mondstadt  and  be  lucky  to  have  a  half-drunken  off-duty  knight  trip  over  you.    “

             her  pretty  face  is  a  little  pale.    she  might  be  some  fancy  anemo  healer,    but  even  vision  users  have  their  limits.    even  if  it's  out  of  pity,    tartaglia  hates  to  see  someone  die  out  of  sheer  stubborness.    if  you  don't  die  to  the  fight,    what's  the  point  in  dying  at  all  ?    and,    well,    even  if  this  wound  isn't  deep  enough  to  really  kill  her,    something  else  might.

❥     𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒    [   𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂    ]   .

@asteracae : pansy :   does your muse often reflect on their own actions ? do they ever think a lot about the past ,   and what they could have done differently ?

Pantalone is a methodical type of person. Every move he makes is carefully planned and deliberate. He's definitely the one who is playing 3D chess with himself when someone just asked if he could lend them a quarter, lol.

     🔥 kissing starters.

          there are a few things in life that one never truly forgets--for all the time he spent mastering it as a young boy, diluc picked up his pyro vision several years after abandoning it and took only a day or so to fall back into the rhythm of controlling the element. though he wields a claymore nowadays, a smaller blade still feels right at home in his hands. kissing jean, it would appear, is one of those things he’ll never forget, either; even though they haven’t been like this in years, he doesn’t even question it when the dandelion knight closes the distance between them in the midst of a conversation rife with reminiscence and nostalgia.

          the time, the distance, the entire vast rift between them closes in that moment, diluc’s eyes falling shut as his arms wind gently around jean’s waist, hoarding her almost possessively close. she’s warm, even against his constantly-heated skin, and she tastes like a summer breeze feels--comforting, refreshing, with the smallest hint of a chill that has goosebumps rising on his heavily scarred skin. but seemingly as soon as it had begun, it’s over; the acting grand master pulls away suddenly, as if caught doing something she shouldn’t be. when diluc blinks his eyes open again, ruby hues alight with a spark of curiosity, jean is still standing close to him with her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide in shock. ‘i kissed you,’ she says, a lilt of surprise in her tone, and diluc struggles to formulate a response.