#avaere

Luo Binghe's face is picturesque of disgust.

not for himself. not for Sunday. but for the grown man cowering pitifully in front of him, pressed up against the wall, hands over his head and shaking like a leaf in a tornado. if not for Sunday's good graces, this person would've already said a quick; 'good bye!' to their own head as Luo Binghe lopped it off. in fact, he'd just drawn out Xin Mo ( and was contemplating calling upon Zheng Yang too ) before a frail hand wrapped around his wrist and squeezed just light enough to convey it's intent. Sunday didn't need to speak a word for Luo Binghe to be able to interpret what he wanted, mercy, and Luo Binghe was loathe to give it, but give it he did. begrudgingly. for none among any in this universe could sway the Emperor of the Three Realms quite as easily as Sunday -- a feat that would've left Luo Binghe's old enemies in awe, were any of them still alive.

he may have transcended realms completely, his appearance may have changed and even some of his powers were different, but it didn't lessen the destruction Luo Binghe was capable of wreaking when provoked. if the world he first decimated upon his arrival had anything to say about it. that world was the whole reason there was a bounty on Luo Binghe's head -- as well as the numerous other murders for the sake of his own amusement. he killed indiscriminately when he wanted, where he wanted, and only one person aside from Sunday Oak was capable of reigning in the bloodthirst, but that person wasn't here right now. that person had also predicated that Luo Binghe would err on the edge of insanity in this world; it was written in his script. how, why, when, or even if the act would actually unfold remained nothing more than a blank space on the pages. now he knew the answers to the questions that plagued him.

with some margin of audible irritation, Luo Binghe withdrew Xin Mo from sight and allowed the demon sword to dissipate once more. by now the person in front of him had thoroughly soiled themselves and was encapsulated by fear, they couldn't find the strength ( or voice ) to beg for their own life. they simply wept and shivered and shook silently as they awaited a demise that wouldn't come for them.

" get. out. " Luo Binghe hissed between grit teeth. he didn't need to tell that person twice. the moment those words left his lips, they fled the scene in an instant, leaving the two to their own devices. as much as Luo Binghe wanted to chew Sunday out, when the foxian rounded on him, his expression was still sour, but significantly softer than before. he huffed not one -- but two heavy breaths and folded his arms across his chest. he was pouting.

how comical.

the demon lord turned foxian, the scourge of Cang Qiong Sect, the butcher of the three realms was throwing a silent tantrum like he were nothing more than a harmless fox cub. " you shouldn't have stopped me. " he grumbled.

by now you might be wondering... just why was Luo Binghe so angry?

you see... Luo Binghe has a problem. Luo Binghe is fiercely jealous when it comes to the things he's convinced belong to him, and among those many self-proclaimed possessions he's picked up during his travels, Sunday ranks number one. as it so happens... the man who pissed himself and sped off had the audacity to lay his hands on Sunday Oak, who belonged to Luo Binghe. naturally, the demon lord couldn't stand for that.

seth's hands on him always makes the proxy just a little bit curious, like discovering something new about himself. and probably in the best way. its silly to think about, the way seth's hands fit on his bulk, those curious fingers that sneakily dip beneath his shirt as wise tries to get dressed to go, the way they skim over his waist. it's ticklish, but even more so, it makes him grin, but he doesn't bother to stop the thiren. some boyish part of him thinks his boyfriend did it on purpose, just as enamored at the thought of touching, even if he doesn't fully realize it.

❝ ━ seth, are you trying to undress me? ❞ hazel eyes meet his boyfriend's gaze, a light grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. ❝ ━ if you wanted me to stay another night, all you had to do was say so. ❞ hands capture seth's wrists, fingers caressing over the inside where their pulse is before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to their nose, ❝ ━ don't worry, just tell me to stay, i don't mind being undressed by you~❞ okay, now he's just being cheeky.

You mean you're completely unmoved by my anger?

Outwardly, it would certainly seem so. Flins' expression hasn't shifted from its usual calm, almost serene default, his gaze soft and light, lips curved into that familiar faint smile that lingers almost eternally upon his face. His posture is relaxed, comfortable. As if this is just an everyday occurrence, something to – yes – make light of.

But he is not unmoved. The spike of emotion left unrestrained in Illuga's voice, the bite of that fury he knows is born not of true anger, but of concern, of worry – of fear – is not something he is immune to. Not when it comes to Illuga. Not when he knows what prompts this reaction, when he stands now as another potential loss to a soul who has already suffered too much of it. That he is confident he will survive this means nothing here. Illuga is not confident in that reality, and that uncertainty is only evidence of the care in the human's heart. That he does care so much as to fear his loss… how could anyone be unmoved by that?

But this is precisely why he makes light of this situation, why he continues to be the composed (infuriating, Illuga might call him) pillar of calm he has always been. Where his beloved friend falters, he must be there to steady him.

Come by the lighthouse sometime, he responds, as warm and inviting as ever, because he knows there will be a time, soon enough, when they can put this incident behind them. We'll catch ourselves a few fish, have a little barbecue, play some cards and bask in the sun. A visual he will hold onto in the fight to come – something to fight for.

He can see something pass over Illuga's face, can see him fighting against something he is perhaps not ready to bring to the surface. And he sees the moment of… not quite defeat, but more… yielding. He waits, patiently, because he suspects – no, he knows – that Illuga is not finished with this topic, that he still has more he wants to say, more he will say once he has the words together in his mind.

Lean in a little, Flins.

Lips curve wider into a smile tinged with amusement, hands coming to fold neatly at his back as he begins to bend, slowly, at the waist – quite literally leaning in. Oh, but… ah, a misunderstanding. Illuga simply wishes for a little more privacy, a quieter spot to set free whatever is troubling him so. Flins has his… suspicions, but he will let him speak his mind. Truthfully, if it is indeed what he suspects, he is surprised it has taken this long for the subject to be broached. Perhaps Illuga was merely respecting his privacy?

You're not human, are you?

There's no accusation to the tone, no challenge beyond the question it poses. And if he's not mistaken, there is a kind of knowing to it – Illuga is not asking but rather confirming what he already knows. He has always been a perceptive one. And despite the care with which Flins usually takes to conceal his identity from the common people, has he perhaps let things slip in the comfort of Illuga's company? Has he allowed more of himself to bleed through, allowed Illuga to see him, because if there is anyone he can trust with his otherness, it is the man stood frowning at him as if readying to scold him yet again for his careless disregard of his own life?

Illuga knows; Flins doesn't need to tell him.

We'll revisit this once it's all over.

Yes, he'll have questions. Questions he will answer, honestly and directly – none of his usual avoidance, his clever flattery, his cryptic smiles and easy jokes – because it is time. Because he sees the way Illuga looks at him, sees that furrow in his brow, the complicated mix of emotion in eyes he has found himself so captivated in, and he recognises that his flame burns brighter now because of him. Because he has found in him something he has been without for so very many years.

Companionship. Belonging. Home.

… Just promise me you'll come back in one piece, alright?

And oh, how such a simple request can tug at his heart. How many comrades has Illuga seen torn to pieces before his eyes, how many has he been forced to leave behind, how many have come back so changed and damaged by their experiences that they will never be the same again?

He can see the clenched fists at Illuga's sides, nails no doubt digging so deep into the flesh of his palm that they will leave reddened welts in their wake. Is this to keep himself under control, to keep those raw, powerful emotions at bay? Or is it to quell the urge to reach for him, to clutch at the lapels of his coat, to hold him tight so that he might not leave? That he would restrain himself in either way settles an ache within the fae's chest. He should not need to feel so afraid, should not need to hold himself back from what he wants. He deserves even this small amount of comfort.

Illuga does not reach for him, so Flins must do it in his place.

Hands, gentle in their certainty, grasp at those strong shoulders, ground him in this moment, guide him in just that little bit closer. One shifts to cradle the side of his neck, gloved thumb sweeping lightly along the line of his jaw; the other tucks beneath his chin, tilts his face up even as Illuga's head jerks up in surprise. He spies the parting of those lips, ready to voice the question that swims now in his gaze, but for now he wants no more words.

He dips low, seals those lips shut with his own, swallowing the question and Illuga's breath in one.

Illuga's lips are warm, surprisingly soft against him. He tastes of… mint, interestingly enough, distinct and intense enough that even he can pick out its flavour upon his tongue. But there is something beneath that, something subtle, something… human. Something the fae knows, now that he's tasted it, will be hard to go without.

At last, he feels fingers curl into his coat, grip tight, feels Illuga stir beneath him as he almost instinctively presses in closer, as his lips move against his with a kind of… desperation, like this could be their only chance. Maybe it is. All the more reason, then, to savour it. He moves, also instinctively, crowding Illuga against the wall nearby, near trapping him in place. He surrounds the man with warmth, with the gentle, inviting heat of his flames as his kiss all but devours him, swallows the near-breathless gasp that escapes Illuga's lips when his back hits the wall.

It would be all too easy to get lost in him, to drown in that intoxicating taste – if only they had the time. It requires him to summon every ounce of his restraint, every thread of his composure, in order to retreat, to part from him before he forsakes his duty in favour of slaking a thirst that he wasn't fully aware he had.

There is a hunger to the yellowed gaze that lingers upon kiss-bruised lips, a fleeting glimpse of the fae beneath the human visage, before it retreats back into himself and is replaced, instead, by a far more familiar affection. He skims his thumb across Illuga's bottom lip, tilts his head with an easy, casual smile.

The day was inevitable.

When the Het Caelus was told to fuck right off.

Into the Void.

The Realms Beyond.

🌟 : someone who always motivates you to write more !

okay i gotta throw this one at @imbricare because vee is such a fantastic writer and she really inspires me to up my game in such an effortless way? throwing ideas around in dms and building a living, breathing universe of characters ( such as what we've done with our mass effect verse, something we've worked on for years at this point and brings me so much joy ) feels so easy to do with her, and vee is also extremely talented at that art of "yes and" when it comes to her replies. she's not afraid to throw in ideas or move the plot forward when our threads require it, and that kind of momentum makes writing with her feel exciting and dynamic. she really is a gem both as a friend and a writing partner.

@avaere sent: Among the many papers sprawled onto the grandmaster's desk, there'd come a gentle breeze and soon enough a presence seating itself right amongst it all, with a hand reaching out to trace a finger down Varka's cheek. Subtle, sweet, and simply a passing gesture of a curious wisp who had passed the open window and found himself nosy as to why the grandmaster was up.

"Had you told me you were planning to stay up this late, I would have come around earlier to drag you along to the tavern, Varka," Venti hummed, another caress offered as he'd glance down to the map before the other. "Is it possible that the brave, brilliant grandmaster of the knights are facing unwilling, aching bones? Do they not wish to embark on the journey to Nod-Krai? Understandably so..."

Touch withdraw and legs crossed, finger directing itself to the map with a few direct pointers; " ... there is one tavern in the entire area, and as much as even I enjoy a good kick, there is something almost rusty in the firewater they serve there – nothing like that sweet wine you seemingly have stashed somewhere ... Tell me, my Knight, what do you truly wish to find in Nod-Krai? Archon to man, not bard to drunk."

Only one being could invite a breeze so gentle that it manages to bring relief to the poor Grandmaster suffering inside his stuffy office while never disturbing a single sheet of paper on his desk. The distraction, recognized for what it is – a lover's visit, an accidental jailbreak – is both welcome and highly inconvenient, if Varka is being honest. There's only so far a knight can run before the most gruesome of his tasks comes to haunt him eventually: the paperwork he's neglected for months. Still, a smile forms on Varka's lips as he looks up to find the bard's eyes and leans into the gentle touch to his cheek as long as it lasts.

Soon it will be a memory, a little something to keep in his proverbial locket and look at during the long nights away from Mondstadt. If they're lucky, the expedition will only last a few months – but Varka knows that isn't likely. A year then, maybe two. Three at most, surely? A blink in the life of an archon but a substantial amount of time in the life of a mortal, particularly one who already crossed off a significant amount of life years on his calendar. Leaving his archon is not the sole reason for Varka's reluctance to leave.. actually, to describe himself as reluctant to leave is not quite right to begin with. He is eager to leave, eager to explore and discover and defeat; but none of that means that he won't miss his home and the people in it. And being without his archon is a sacrifice that tugs at his heart when he thinks of the journey ahead.

"Had I told you that I was planning to stay up late, I would have followed you to the tavern and rendered the entire point of staying up late useless." Varka sighs and picks up his quill to sign the paper that's been lying in front of him, then moves it to the painfully small pile of finished items next to Venti's thigh. "Believe it or not, I feel bad leaving Jean with all of this," he adds, gesturing to the papers scattered beneath Venti. "I figured I'd take care of the most important things before we head off to Nod-Krai." And regretted it almost immediately upon seeing the sheer amount of paperwork Jean considered important. "As much as I'd love to go for drinks with you, I'm afraid if I stop now, I'll forget how my system works and then I'll have to start over again.."

Venti's question hangs in their air between them, heavy like a raincloud. Dropping the quill, Varka leans back in his chair, his shoulders aching from being hunched over his desk for too long. Soon this ache will be replaced by that of swinging a weapon all day and sleeping on hard ground, and, admittedly, his heart beats faster at the prospect. He was not made to sit in an office all day. ---Is that what he seeks to find in Nod-Krai? An escape from this place and these tedious duties, a new perspective, glory in battle? Or perhaps some answers to questions he never dares speak out loud, a reminder of things he's afraid to forget, something to fill the hole in his chest that grows with every year despite his best attempts to soothe it away with drinks and good company..?

Jiyan / Zhezhi

     It had to be the first time he did something like this, which, looking back, made little sense. He had to give a speech to boost morale after the many losses they suffered in the Battle Beneath the Crescent. He had to stand before the council and the elders of the Capital and explain the great changes he wanted to make in the Midnight Rangers. Jiyan didn’t have to practice what he said before that. And yet, here he was, talking to the mirror and failing to find the words he wished to say.

     "This time, every argument I gave on why I needed to stay on the Norfall Barrens was countered.” Magistrate Jinhsi and Counselor Changli were an impenetrable fortress when they worked together. It also didn’t help that he passed out from stress before, in front of others. “I’ll be taking my leave for a week. They recommended I visit Mt. Firmament and enjoy its views, the food, and the Sagaci Springs. Have you been to Hongzhen before? If not, I heard that it has unique views, and I thought that…" Jiyan closed his eyes. This wasn’t what he wanted to say.

"I'm aware I may be overstepping with an request... invitation like this, but if your schedule allows it, would you like to go to Mt. Firmament with me?" Hearing himself, Jiyan could only groan and cover his face. "Please forget I said anything.”

Lupa / Brant

     “I was raised a ‘true Septimontian’, you know? If I had been in your shoes, I would’ve faced the Dragon of Dire head on… And died.” And that would’ve been the end of it, wouldn’t it? When she put it like that, it sounded… foolish. Cartethyia told her that sometimes it took more strength and bravery to live. Back then, her friend’s words and presence gave her the push she needed, even though she didn’t fully get it. Truth to be told, she still doesn’t fully get it. Weakness is punished in Septimont. Everywhere, really, crushing the weak isn't a novel concept. But strength and pride are the most important to Septimontians, gladiators are taught that it’s better to face death and die a warrior than to live with shame. Even though they say they're not being fanatics like the Ragunnessi, they aren’t that different in the end.

     “You must think me an idiot for only questioning if that’s the only way now.” Unlikely, Brant wouldn’t judge or pity her. Not everything is black and white as she was taught to believe. Brant, who extends a hand to those who need it and isn’t afraid of relying on others, who brings smiles and hope to the people and tells the tales of those who will never return. Even if the captain didn’t know how to wield a sword, she would still consider him one of the strongest warriors she had the pleasure to meet. “What I mean is… I was once told that, sometimes, the braver thing to do is to live. When I try to decipher what that means, I think of you.”