inhumanheresy - Tumblr blog

[inhumanheresy]

Ajax takes the opportunity of Zhongli mulling over what he’s said and asking new questions in return to wrangle more noodles and cucumbers. The dish blunts the edge of his hunger, but he knows better than to gorge himself all at once. Yet another lesson he’d learned from the Abyss, like so many others.

It didn’t even take his master to teach him; a bounty of meat and a pool of ‘water’ that turned out to be more rancid than usual did that on their own separate occasions.

“Sasha— ah, Aleksandr, my oldest brother — tried the hardest of the three. He’s the one that would play swords with me when I was little-little, and I think he might have felt responsible in some way.” His brows pinch and furrow, lips thinning. “He snuck out after one uneventful day to follow me, both wanting to make sure I wasn’t killing the neighbors’ livestock and to see if there was something he could do that might work where all else hadn’t.

“When he caught up after following my trail, there was…” One chopstick scrapes along the edge of his bowl in the quiet. “...there was a lot of blood and viscera. Me with a rusted, bloodied shortsword stuck into the snow, gore up to my elbows and splattered across my front, blood dripping down my chin. One wolf dead with its ribcage pried open and another bled out not too far away.”

He nudges his noodles around with his chopsticks, then spears a thin cucumber straight through. “For context, riftwolves are relatively common in the Abyss. They taste like burning tar, but they can be sustenance.” Crunch goes the cucumber. “Anything that’s even a semblance of ‘living’ can. And the only way to find something close to untainted water is to extract the core of a creature with a strong hydro alignment, then consume it.

“Sometimes, when I felt like I wasn’t getting something that I needed, I… fell back on knowledge and patterns that I’d learned. It didn’t work, not in such an entirely different place, but at the time, I… I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t think of what else to do.

“Sasha never wanted to speak to me again after that night. I can’t blame him either. I can well imagine the sight I made when his lantern-light fell across me.”

Zhongli has so far listened with redoubtable resolve. This doesn’t stop Ajax from watching him either straight on or out the corner of his eye for every flinch, every change in expression that could indicate his feelings and whether they lean towards pity or abhorrence, especially when he drags to light such brutal, inhumane memories.

He still watches even when he can answer a question that sloughs off his skin rather than cuts like a knife wedged between his plating. 

“It is! Well, in a manner of speaking.” Ajax smiles, tone fond and amused but still carrying that tinge of sadness in its wake. “My parents were at their wits’ end when it came to how to deal with me. No discipline that had worked on me beforehand even gave me a moment’s pause and nothing new they tried did either. 

“Chores couldn’t make a dent in my endurance since I knew what real exhaustion was. What friends I’d had when I was little had already distanced themselves from me by that point. Take away a favourite belonging? I’m a middle child, I’m used to sharing, and if something was really important, I could simply steal it back under the cover of night. I’d never needed to be spanked before I fell, so a switch to my backside for the first time was laughably ineffective.

“One day, I got into a fight that escalated. Badly. I nearly killed two adults and a handful of older teens. At that point, something needed to be done about me, or who knows how dire the next ‘incident’ would be.” Ajax shrugs. “With all other options exhausted, my father brought me to a Fatui recruitment event. I think he hoped that they’d beat the snot out of me and after the fights I’d slink back home humbled.”

His smile is all bright pride though the hint of sorrow in his expression still remains. “None of them expected me to lay out an entire squad with ease. Soldiers home for a reprieve, too, not some day-watch guards with nothing better to do.

“That caught the eye of the recruiter — a Harbinger, so it happened. Pulcinella was all too happy to snap me up from the coast edge of the ass end of nowhere, and then he tossed me into the bottom ranks of the Fatui with the rest of the recruits and conscripts. From there— well, you know how military training and life goes. Even though that option wasn’t what my father or the rest of my family really wanted for me, it turned out to be the best thing they could’ve done.”

though ajax does not stop eating simply to flash him a grin, his expression does not go amiss, his lips curling slightly as he downs another slice of cucumber. and morax pointedly huffs a laugh of his own, leaning back slightly, chin raised— utterly proud of himself.

" i will surprise you when you are properly awake. " he replies, playfully eyeing the man. " but to try and rouse you from your slumber with the unfamiliar would entirely defeat the purpose. "

and that had been the purpose of his choice, indeed... familiarity meant as a small comfort. that he had chosen lapsang— a tea that they had shared and discussed many times over— had not been simply some fortuitous accident.

the silence between them is markedly comfortable, easy, outlined only by the periodic clinking of a teacup or the tapping of ajax's chopsticks. and when, at last, their conversation begins anew, the atmosphere mostly remains so, blessedly.

and morax will not take these moments for granted.

" chase down wolves? my word... " he breathes, quietly interjects. of course, the man he'd come to know so far, so well— first as childe and then tartaglia proper— had ever made a point to seem perfectly in control, fearless. and so, though it's not necessarily surprising, it is quite the image his words leave to the imagination. and it makes him wonder about something else...

" i imagine your elder siblings tried— and failed— to put a stop to that. "

of course, he would never claim to fully understand the inner workings of a family unit, his own experiences, however similar, still falling far outside of any human norm. still, he is familiar with how close ajax holds his own younger siblings. and so, he's left to wonder, silent: did they, perhaps, carry any regret, feel any guilt, for not guarding him so closely as well?

then again, there comes a pause, hardly uncomfortable. and they each hold their teacups close, thoughtful between sips. the confession that follows requires only a single, swift comment. he needs no further explanation; he understands fully.

" a difference of perspective rather than personage, then. "

and ajax continues, the words seeming to come with relative ease until another, far darker confession passes his lips. and morax patiently listens, quietly wondering if this is, perhaps, the first time he's admitted such a thing to anyone, allowed those words to leave him... those words and their accompanying inferences.

out of respect, he remains still and silent, occasionally sipping his tea, until it is clear that ajax's thoughts— for the moment— are finished. and his reply is purposely simple, given with a gentle shake of his head.

" in truth? it... does not, actually. "

still, to him, that ajax even survived at all remains a testament to his strength of will, any tendencies toward violence aside.

" and that... is how you came into the service of her majesty, then? " he asks gently, though he believes he already knows the answer. after all, it made perfect sense. to anyone ill-equipped to satiate such a burning need to move as he still carries, an army's rigorousness and discipline would most certainly seem a godsend.

[inhumanheresy]

Morax feels delighted that the meal he made is well-received, Ajax can tell. The sentiment shines in his eyes and subtle smile, in the comfortable attention during the silences when he takes a mouthful of noodles. Such a short preparation time means that this little dish is hardly up to the standards Zhongli adheres to when he truly wants to cook, but this departure only serves to highlight the care that went into it in both thought and deed.

He barks a genuine chuckle at ‘I should think it wise to adjust your expectations’, caught between the warmth permeating throughout the room and the kernel of disbelief that remains lodged deep in his heart despite all the evidence that should rightly dispel it.

Ajax’s lips twitch into a smile overtop a pinch of cucumber. “Each tea in the morning another surprise? I’ll have to stay on my toes to make sure I’m not lax in my identification.”

Even at this moment, when part of him still cannot believe that this is real, he believes Zhongli; he knows that next time he shows up on the threshold to take tea and conversation and relax in Zhongli’s presence, he will wake the next morning with the aroma of tea to greet him.

‘I wonder what it was like for you, the abyss itself and your time there. Was it…difficult once you found your way back?’

The latter question has the most straightforward answer. Even so, silence extends between them as Ajax thinks of how to respond. His chopsticks tink against the bowl’s rim as, after an extended moment of a lost gaze and wading into old, familiar memories, he sets them aside to take up a fresh cup of tea.

“Normal fourteen-year-olds don’t pick or cause fights wherever they go. Every day, news would come back to my family of me getting into one scrap or another. If it didn’t, then they quickly became accustomed on those days to me showing up on the doorstep with blood all over me. Of course, normal fourteen-year-olds don’t wander into the forest to chase down wolves, either.”

As he sips, the scent of the tea fills his nose with the aroma of smoke and his soul with the ache of home. “I didn’t feel like a different person. Like I’d always simply been me, now just changed a little.

“I’d been a shy, hesitant kid before I fell, and came back to them with resilience, confidence. ‘Fear’ had taken on an entirely new meaning. I still craved the thrill of adventure that I always got when I listened to my father’s stories, but I also craved—” …he has seen you he has known you he did not balk at the sight of you, what did you just say about fear

“—I craved blood on my hands, and the exhilaration of a fight, the likes of which I’d never shown a tendency for beforehand.”

Curls of steam rise through his vision as he takes another sip to wet his throat. Morax’s eyes look like a sunset when he meets them, gold above and fresh-spilled blood below. “Down in the Abyss, I uncovered that desire well before any changing of my form. Maybe it’s something that place instilled in me. Maybe it’s a part of me that was there all along. Either way, such a violent drive is not a normal human tendency.

“It should come as no surprise to you that my actions and attitude after I returned made me… difficult to handle.”

it is entirely cultural, he knows, the immediate formality he feels behind any verbal display of gratitude, however intimate or casual. yet, his time with this man has changed him in many ways, it would seem, endearing him to such things, perhaps particularly the unnecessary ones. and so it is that he intentionally returns the gesture with a half-grin, half-smile.

" you're welcome. "

as morax takes his seat and his own cup of tea, he makes to busy himself as he speaks to keep from staring too obviously as the man eats. even so, he cannot manage to fully contain his delight at the outcome of his labor. the happy hums do not go unnoticed. and his eyes are somehow even brighter as he continues, gentle laughter in his voice, genuine amusement as well.

" well then— from now on, i should think it wise to adjust your expectations. " he proclaims, teasing happily before letting out a quiet laugh and taking another sip of his tea. at least here, at least with him, ajax would want for nothing. it is the least that he can do, give that silent promise.

ajax— yes, that's his name. morax knows it now, in full. still, it is almost surreal, the feeling that settles over him then, noting how much has changed since their last conversation. yet, the two of them sit there just as they have so many times before, over tea or a meal.

he listens as intently as ever as the answer to his first, gentle question comes. 'usually' implied that such a transformation was not uncommon... or at least that it was common enough to warrant a routine of some sort. intrigued, morax gives a firm nod to the pointed display of his chopstick use, a touch of humor at the edges of his eyes thanks to the memory of much less practiced days still vivid in his mind.

again, he takes a sip of his tea, still listening, watching as ajax stretches before his attention shifts back toward the food. and morax continues to note with no small amount of amusement how well he uses those chopsticks now. he really has improved.

" goodness no. " he replies, a huff of a laugh trailing his words as he gently lowers his chin and shakes his head. there is much, of course, that he's still curious about. however, he is still him... and there is no need to rush. and in truth, he isn't quite sure where to start.

don't think; do— it is a human mantra... and one the he finds himself clinging to now. his teacup lowers, hands settling in his lap as he considers, pausing for a long moment before his eyes flick back up to meet those taunting chopsticks. he smiles softly, then.

" for starters, i... i wonder what it was like for you, the abyss itself and your time there. was it... difficult once you found your way back? "

did he see it in the darkness? in nightmares on night when he couldn't find sleep? or did it haunt him as something far-less tangible, silent and creeping, ever-present out of the corner of his eye? there and then gone upon blinking?

[inhumanheresy]

“Oh? Well, I may be justifiably called arrogant, but never of the kind to think that I’m privy to all of Her Majesty’s relationships, whether they’re with other Archons or not,” he shrugs at Furina’s scoff of indignant outrage, though he takes note of the former Archon’s assertion that she and the Tsaritsa are on familiar terms, tucking it away to perhaps ask Her Majesty about when next he speaks with Her. But for now, and for him, whether the two of them truly are friends or not is irrelevant.

The wind picks up for a moment, rising from the gentlest breeze to a strong gust that whips up both snow and the ends of their coats and sends scarves all down the street flapping. Mentally mapping out the places closest to the Adventurer’s Guild where they might easily sit down and have their talk, Childe glances over his shoulder to make sure that Furina caught his gesture to start following him before he strides off into the whirling snowflakes.

“You’re welcome. Lucky for you, I’m not particularly busy right now, so why not seize the opportunity we find at hand? There’s no time like the present, after all.”

Their walk is not long; the Guild building resides on a well-established road with many other shops, cafés, and businesses, the line of streetlamps casting a warm glow across their façades. Snezhnaya does not have the Indemnitium or Arkhe that Fontaine utilizes, but their technology can hardly be found lacking in comparison. I doubt she expected to find that out when she planned her trip north!

Harbinger though he is, Childe spends far more time out and interacting with ‘normal’ people than his peers, so as the two of them step into the tiny café, his eminently recognizable greatcoat with its black wolf fur and prominent Fatui blazon on full display, the shopkeep behind the counter only inclines their head and greets them as if they were any other patrons.

“Tea, if you would. With lemons, sugar, and blackcurrant jam along with it.” He looks down to Furina, snowflakes melting on her coat and leggings. “Have you had tea in the Snezhnayan style since you’ve arrived here? Feel free to get yourself something from the pastry and chocolate selection, my treat.

"There’s a table open over by the window; meet me there when you’re done, and we can narrow down what you’re looking for into specifics.”

( 💧 ) ❛ WE USED TO be friends, ❜ the words come out of her mouth before she could really stop them, especially in the tone she voiced it with. she sounded, as she realized, offended. although it had been quite some time since she had Her audience . . the way she felt toward celestia was all but clear. besides, why else would the fatui be chasing after gnosis's LEFT AND RIGHT.

archon's don't think about her right now. she was in the lion's den, for lack of better metaphor, as it was enough already. tartaglia's reputation, as it was, would do short work with her -- hence her enthusiasm and request. at this point she'd surprised she landed HERSELF THIS FAR.

( truthfully she expected to be laughed out of the conversation but at the very least the harbinger was humoring her )

❛ YES YES . . as you so kindly notioned earlier, my status may not protect me from whatever ill will you may harbour. not like it saved me when i was in fontaine either. ❜ a minor dig at the fourth harbinger perhaps, behind her back no less, but she wasn't here to cause her skin to crawl so she took what LITTLE SHE COULD.

HETEROCHROMATIC BLUES LOOK up at him and retain contact as he further explains what she would learn, some of which she found rather interesting to actually learn. for what, she wasn't entirely sure ( for the sake of defense and potential offence, it wasn't such a bad idea ) but it was a stepping stone FOR FURTHER THOUGHT.

❛ CONSTRUCTS in an offence air would be . . a portion of what i would be interesting in learning. ❜ using hydro in a total aggressive and offensive manner had never been something on her mind until . . recently. she was a mortal human being, with a life so easily snuffed out that she's come to realise that she would like to keep it as long as possible. and that required skills to actually be able to do such.

IT ISN'T MUCH a surprise that she now has to properly think of just what she intends to get out of this. what she wants. she wants to be able to protect herself, that she knows immediately, her constructs that she can create so far are . . not at all perfect. they do not last for long enough for it to matter. to be helpful to herself IN ANY SITUATION.

GLOVED FINGERS BRUSH through her hair, nodding once as she silently confirmed that she did, in fact, have the time. she had an abundance of it these days, and the ballet she had come to see ( as an additional reason for coming to snezhnaya ) wouldn't be UNTIL TOMORROW EVENING..

❛ MERCI . . for the time when your schedule may not allow for it, ❜ if the harbinger was in his homeland for work or just vacation ( was it medical leave ? ) she wasn't interested in knowing but . .

SHE'D BE RELIEVED if she wasn't going to inconvenience him.

[inhumanheresy]

Food is a form of love.

This, Ajax has known for a long, long time. It can be found in the time spent kneading bread as stories told in the kitchen paint lofty adventures or cautionary tales or little romantic memories. It weaves through comfortable silence at the dinner table as much as it does raucous laughter. It shows in the knife cuts and fastidiously stirred sauces, the chill when bringing back a brace of rabbit and the old, familiar arguments about which herbs and spices should go in pickling brine.

It is found in the warmth of unexpected tea.

Ajax sees the almost-chuckle as Zhongli’s eyes crinkle at the outer corners, and he takes a long, savoring sip of his own tea as the god, rather than manifesting food right before them, sweeps off towards a kitchen that hadn’t been there before. He takes the opportunity of the quiet to simply drink his tea and watch as Zhongli takes the unnecessary time to make food for him.

He clears his throat and sets his cup down when the man returns, bringing along with him the scent of chili and sesame. “Thank you for the tea, by the way. I can’t say that I was expecting anything when I woke up, but if I was, hot lapsang at my bedside wouldn’t be on the list.”

This time, as Ajax picks up the bowl and chopsticks, his stomach does rumble. He pointedly ignores it in favor of getting his first mouthful of noodles, and oh is that good. He hums a happy tone of appreciation both for the taste and for Zhongli.

Morax watches from beside him, having seating himself with just as much elegance as his near-floating walk to the kitchen, and Ajax’s chopsticks pause to click against the bowl as he answers the question.

“Yeah. Usually I just sleep for a few hours more, pick up a heartier breakfast than normal before getting on with what needs done, add a fair amount to the other meals of the day. And the ache still hasn’t left by then, even if it only lingers.

“The aftereffects of transformation, that technique, shows differently than if I’d channeled my Delusion overlong.” Holding up his hand with the chopsticks, he tap-taps the wooden ends against each other with a measure of skill not only passable, but even decent. “If that were the case instead, I’d be asking for a fork.

“But not today. Right now there’s…” He pauses for a moment, and in the silence flexes his hand, tilts his neck, rolls his shoulders before meeting Zhongli’s eyes once more. “…the echo of an ache, but that’s all. It’s only ever just the pain, but even pain alone, without injury, can incapacitate the body by overwhelming the senses and mind.”

He breathes softly, then fishes up another clump of noodles and slurps them up while keeping the tail ends from flipping up into his face with the chopsticks — an essential skill that he’d picked up after nearly getting chili oil flicked in his eyes during his early time in Liyue. There’s chili oil here too, and the sesame he’d smelled, bright vinegar, and a hint of those tingly little peppercorns. Though thin, the sauce that coats the noodles lights his mouth up with a paradoxical chill-heat and sour-savory taste that feels positively divine.

While much of that thought probably comes direct from his empty stomach, the humor of it is not lost on him.

“Well, given that you’ve spent almost two days with this new knowledge, that question on how long I sleep after can’t be the foremost in your mind.” The slices of cucumber prove less slippery than he’d thought, perhaps thanks to their amusingly uneven cut, and he crunches down a crisp mouthful after very little wrangling from his chopsticks. As he finishes the bite, he aims the upper stick’s point at the man seated right next to him and eyes Zhongli with a little more of his typical attitude present than he'd had before the food arrived.

“If I don’t want to answer, I simply won’t, and you know it, so.” The chopsticks wiggle, goading him in. “Ask me.”

zhongli watches— silently pleased and perfectly relaxed— as ajax's gaze finally finds the small, clay rabbit he'd set to guard the tray while the man slept. and though he's already had at least one cup of his own, he still pauses and corrects himself without hesitation, offering a mouthful to the creature before— at last— handing a cup to zhongli, waiting politely and wearing a soft smile as the creature takes its first taste.

it is, of course, an appreciated gesture if an entirely unnecessary one. after all, such customs were likely entirely unknown to him before leaving snezhnaya. and though he would hardly take offense at the small bit of clay going ignored, he does find it particularly endearing. and he would remember to reciprocate— perhaps leave out a bit of bread out for his family's domovoy— if ever given the chance.

and as ajax winces at his suggestion of a proper meal, zhongli manages to hide most of his amusement, tucked just behind his teacup's lip. he still huffs a quiet laugh, though, as he replies—

" ah, i thought you might say that. "

and as soon as the words leave him, zhongli takes another, quick sip of his tea before setting the cup aside and rising from his seat with all of the usual, ethereal grace that suits him here, within his personal domain. ultimately, it would be easy-enough to simply imagine a meal to ajax's liking, the space itself bending to his will.

today, however— perhaps invigorated by his earlier light reading— such simplicity does not suit him. and so, instead, he sets about preparing something, his domain subtly adjusting to provide a proper cooking space, one still in earshot and in view via the wide door separating it from the main, open room.

he glances back at ajax as he steadily, delicately gathers what he needs from various drawers and cabinets, the man still nursing his teacup— and very clearly famished judging by the look of his tensed jaw and periodically vacant expression. " this won't take long. " he reassures him. and for once, the words seem less like a wish and more of an actual promise. and so, his focus shifts entirely to his task, the silence that follows pointedly comfortable, perfectly ordinary as though nothing at all had changed over the last day and a half.

as advertised, the dish he's chosen does not take him over-long. and he manages to catch ajax's pointed gesturing to.... well, all of himself as he carries a tray across the room. this one is set far-less ornately, only home to the dish itself— a heaping bowl of cold noodles, covered with intentionally-haphazardly-sliced cucumbers— and the necessary utensils.

" hmm... well, if you find this unsatisfactory, i am certain that could be arranged. " he comments as he sets gently scoots the tea tray toward his side of the table and sets the new one down in front of him. he returns to his seat with just as much elegance as he'd left it.

curious, he then decides to test the waters with a question, gentle and already half-answered. and this time, he nurses his tea cup as his bright, golden eyes follow his companion. " a day and a half is long, then? "

[inhumanheresy]

what does your heart look like?

a compass that doesn't waver

You are someone who is certain of what you want. Maybe you always have been, or maybe you made a discovery that you haven’t been able to tear your eyes away from. Your heart is set and certain. You fight endlessly for your goals. Above all else, you know who you are and what you are trying to achieve. Just be careful not to tear yourself or others apart in pursuit of your ideals.

Tagged by: @fatesweave! thank you Light! Tagging: @visionhcld (Albedo); @poswiecenia (Lumine); and anyone who hasn't done it yet for a muse of your choosing!

[inhumanheresy]

“What, you won’t just take my word for it? I think that one in particular should be an easy promise to accept. I sure don’t want to get hurt…” He heaves an exaggerated, smiling sigh, shoulders and all, before crooking his finger around Teucer’s pinky. “Only if you can promise to not only take but follow my advice, okay? Practice hard. Listen to Mama and Papa. And yes, even eat your greens.”

He gives Teucer a Big Brother’s Very Serious Look, making sure that Teucer meets his promise in return before nodding and pulsing a light squeeze with his little finger to seal the deal. Teucer’s tears have mostly dried, though little salt tracks still glitter like frost on his face, and the red blotchiness has started to clear up. Good. Good.

But after a very cute nose scrunch and the promise he wanted to hear sealed, Teucer gets back onto the subject of his fight. It really is a pity that he can’t just handwave away the issue as him fighting a whale — Teucer knows he can beat a whale — and the opportunity has already passed to explain it away as a simple otherworldly creature.

“If you want to know the answer to that…” He leans in, boops his brother’s nose with a fingertip, and smiles mischievously. “…then you can ask them if you ever happen to meet. Though I hope you never do; you’d worry your big brother something awful if you ran into anyone that could stand toe to toe with me in a fair fight.

“But put me here—” Ajax scoffs, all the restraint he hasn’t needed to bring to bear while recuperating now surging to the forefront to keep his own ego from outing him in front of his littlest brother. He breathes after cutting himself off — in, out, smile, nothing out of the ordinary. “Hah, hahaha, on my end of things, it was nothing, really. I get myself into scuffles all the time; it’s just the danger of being out on the road. This one simply got the better of me, that’s all.”

Not a single lie to be had, save maybe that it was nothing, but really, a one-on-one fight was almost always ‘nothing’ to a populace as a whole, so that particular dismissiveness definitely wasn’t out of place. Good job, me.

“I’ll be up and about in no time, just you wait. And, I’ll make sure that I get a few days off to come visit so I can deliver the souvenirs I find in person, what do you think of that?”

( 🎠 ) BEING SEEN LIKE this was okay when it was his big brother. he was gentler when getting him to stop crying or calm down ; unlike papa who was a little more forceful. nonetheless it was a relief to know that ajax was okay and that he would promise to be more careful. he knows his next request is childish but he cannot help himself ;

❛ PINKIE PROMISE ? YOU gotta swear it --- ! or it isn't real. ❜ he looks serious ( yet quite adorable in all his attire to remain warm even within the walls of the palace ) as he raises a hand and shows off his glove covered pinkie. don't disappoint him , he'll be sad.

HE'S A LITTLE confused over what on teyvat his big brother would be dodging when it came to selling toys but he never questioned it -- it was ajax's job and he knew more about it than he did so . . it must be normal. what else could it mean than dodging competitors that made his big brother's work harder than it should be ? besides --- oh ew !

❛ . . BUT GREENS TASTE funny . . ❜

SKY BLUES LOOK up when nudged , blinking but listening nonetheless as he usually did when his big brother deposited information that was important. his nose scrunches up at the thought of admitting someone else was better than him but if his big brother said that it wasn't good to blame his opponent ( even if they were being mean in the first place ) that they won and he lost.

HE HAD TO be stronger. had to learn from his losses or his mistakes. and ajax's wise words told him that . . he can't grow if he doesn't get better or learn. ajax was strong 'cuz he learned from his mistakes right ? yeah ! whatever put him here in the hospital no doubt would be a learning experience for his big brother.

❛ . . I UNDERSTAND . . YOU learned from w - whoever put you here right ? why um . . why did they wanna fight you ? did you sell too many toys or sell the wrong thing ? ❜ he wants to understand why it happened. if it wasn't because his big brothers ' opponent ' was mean then . . why ? he didn't understand.

[inhumanheresy]

The space of a moment weighs like an eon as Morax’s eyes slip away from his, as his coaxing pull is not met with an immediate rise to his feet, and Ajax’s heart thumps heavily, his breath stilling. 

He releases it all in a laugh at the mischievous sparkle in Morax’s eyes when the god’s gaze returns and brings with it a smile and the luxurious show of pink tongue against those soft, familiar lips, quite likely a retaliation from when he watched Tartaglia lick up the blood he’d drawn. Ah, to see his pupils blow wide and hear that almost wondering breath from his lips… I’ll have to see what else affects you so.

Morax rises to his full adeptal-form height with all the unstated power of a king from his throne, all the elegance and poise of a tea master from his table, and gods he wants him he wants him he wants to peel apart that composure see him flushed and undone see that pretty mouth tremble—

‘How will you have me,’ Morax says, and as if the low purr and the question’s echo of his own damned words both don’t send his cock twitching against the confines of his trousers already, that pull towards him — assured, desirous, testing — brings their thighs gently bumping together and has Tartaglia biting the inside of his lip to keep from shoving Morax right back into that chair and hiking his legs up over his shoulders to take him right then and there.

“As you are,” he breathes, releasing Morax’s wrist to reach up and stroke the curve of his jaw, fingers lingering his the cheek’s smooth, soft plane before dragging touch and gaze down the adeptus’ neck, fingers hooking into the jut of the collarbone as his eyes rove over the lines of muscle and tendon in his throat and the sweet, subtle motion of breath with a burgeoning hunger.

Further on down, strong, broad shoulders and a generous swell of pectoral muscle below new-leaf jade green silk. Morax is a long, svelte creature, especially in his adeptal form, this body of his not crafted to the wartime field general’s proportions that his Statues boast, but certainly not lacking in comparison.

Tartaglia can tell, despite the clothes. Even if he hadn’t run his knuckles down Morax’s torso just moments ago, the subtleties in how silk clings to or lays against the curve of his chest is very apparent when Tartaglia stands eye-level with the god’s nipples.

Approximately. They should be right about… He reluctantly abandons Morax’s collarbone in favor of teasing open the cross-collar a little further, down, down, then palming over to— there. Hah. Around the height of my hairline. The pad of his thumb finds the side of a nipple through the fabric, rubbing up and down, up and down, a firm swipe overtop through the silk, and he listens eagerly for whatever noise this draws out of Morax.

“As you are now.” He leans into Morax’s grasp on his shirt and levers onto his tiptoes to kiss the apex of his pectorals, only just able to reach the hollow of his collarbone since Morax is leaning over to whisper such tantalizing questions against his skin. “This body that feels right and natural to you. That you’ve made to be the epitome of your self.

“Another time, I want you as the human form you wore we met, in the form you’ve held when you ate with me, crossed blades with me, shared a night just watching the lanterns rise.

“Hells,” he breathes, word ghosting past his parted lips as he bumps his nose against Morax’s chest, “in that Exuvia form you left to crash to earth, if you want. Snout and mane and all. I’ll have you. 

“But right now, right here, as you are.” Sincerity and desire burn the air between them as he looks up to lock gazes with Morax once more, then reaches up and catches his nape to pull them together into a short, fierce kiss, his tongue even more forward and obscene than before. He breathes heavy when their mouths part. A firm pull at the woven belt he still has his fingers hooked into coaxes Morax to follow as he steps back towards the bed.

“Unless you’re talking about the mechanics of the actual act. In which case—”

Tartaglia swallows and his gaze wavers from present to distant for a moment. “—in which case, damn the chair, I want to fold you in half right where you were sitting, but that same thing can be done over here just the same, with a little more comfort, something more sturdy for you to hold onto, and more room to stretch out and explore. I— I still want to know you, even though I ache to have you right here and now.”

there is humor in those words, yes. but even more so, there is a desire almost tangible, the weight of it practically dripping off of each and every word, settling at the edges of the man's lips, quirking with a heavy sort of amusement. and at that playfulness, that pointed reassurance, morax's eyes widen as though faintly surprised, taken aback by the sheer simplicity of the sentiment... and the honesty in those darkened blue eyes, of the man behind it.

it is not as though morax does not know what is to follow now that each of them— in no uncertain terms— has given his consent. over his countless years, countless lives, that he has taken a number of lovers is likely unsurprising. however, that such encounters were all born out of some manner of simple curiosity, his desire more for understanding than some other, baser need, likely is—

though, perhaps it should not be given how much time it had taken for him to find not only the full depth of his emotions but his place among humanity along with them, walking the paper-thin line between staying purely set apart and too-perfectly blending in. even now, it would be easy enough to assume that this man— this harbinger entirely unafraid of the far-truer him he's come to know thus far— is merely another way to sate that same curiosity. it would be far-too shallow an analysis, however.

no— though he does mean to test his limits, this is not a thing altruistic. on the contrary— for perhaps the first time in his long years— it is a selfish indulgence that he now allows to consume him, the moments hereafter only concerning the two of them.

no human nor adeptal partner had ever come so terrifying close to seeing this much of him, entire. and it is thrilling, in truth— that taste of vulnerability if almost entirely foreign. that is why, despite what logic might have all-but demanded, he has pointedly not kept his distance from a man who is not only a harbinger in name but a very real herald of a great many things... to him yet unknown.

indeed— his threat is shallow, as shallow as the breath that leaves him upon seeing that singular blood drop so casually collected from the slow pool at the tip of his nail. it disappears in an instant and he notes, mouth barely parted, his eyes steadily locked with tartaglia's all the while.

he cannot argue, wouldn't even if he could. and he is forced to quiet the beginnings of yet another throaty, rumbling growl in order to form a reply. " you have the right of it. " he breathes, an simple admittance lost between them a moment later, devoured by their mouths.

this kiss is different, every bit as hungry as before yet somehow more controlled. and it makes morax ache, tensing beneath tartaglia's touch before he kisses back, exhaling a low moan into the other man's mouth. the hand that pulls on his clothes balls tighter. the other, at his throat, falls away to join the former in its clinging, the press of those knifepoint nails at last letting go.

had the possibility of this occurred to him, morax might have chosen differently when retiring for the evening, taken more care when perusing his wardrobe. for while the pale green most certainly suits him, undoubtedly fine, it is far-too delicate a choice for zhongli. the thought, though, evaporates like water. and as tartaglia's hands work their way down against that smooth silk, it is morax who begins to lean in, warmth spreading through him. and as though starving, he deepens the kiss.

then, tartaglia seems to find his mark. and he pulls at the knot at morax's waist, at last releasing the hold on his hair, releasing him. even so, he remains still, forcibly steady, eyes only flicking upward after the man has already straightened to find the weight of that gaze enough to shock an ordinary man to stillness, whether by fear or madness.

he is hardly ordinary, though, a point subtly— but well-made— by the barest bit of resistance he gives to match the pressure at his newly-captured wrist. to bed, tartaglia says. and morax's eyes, slow and heavy, take their time to glance past the man as though he truly needed to think for a moment, consider the request.

then, seemingly satisfied with his silent decision, his gaze returns, settling again on those darkened blue eyes, lightless but so alive, vivid. and he exhales, calmly, before again running his tongue over his lips.

" how thoughtful. "

grinning slightly, he complies... though seemingly not in any hurry. and despite the heat pooling in him, low, he rises from his favorite chair with all of his characteristic grace. he is notably taller than the harbinger here, in his adeptal abode. yet, he still manages to keep his eyes down, ever watchful and ever curious.

and then, as he shifts closer on his own— despite being led— a question falls from his lips, the words barely above a whisper, his breath warm against the man's cheek, his skin. the hand that still clings to tartaglia's shirt pulls gently toward him.

" how will you have me, then? "

[inhumanheresy]

Tartaglia can hear the authenticity in the warden’s chuckle. The man is genuine in his attitude — wary, which is smart, but not so removed or masked that he’s reluctant to reveal anything true, despite his profession. Oh, I’m going to like you, aren’t I?

But that has yet to be seen in truth. The battle will tell.

“Yep.” He nearly pops the p sound but stops just short, retaining some of that air of boyish innocence despite the battle-hunger creeping into the cracks of his expression. “Though from what I’ve heard, you’ve got just about everything covered, no niche required. People down here think you can do it all, whether they love or hate you for it.”

All leaders cultivate some kind of calculated presentation and reputation, himself included — whether that be earnest, untouchable, resolute, wise — and he’s not surprised that the inmates and occupants of Meropide respect and fear The Duke in varying measure. He wears the iron gauntlet and velvet glove with a precision to be expected of a man who socially restructured an entire community, even if the metal suits him most.

“I’m just interested in how you fight.” Tartaglia’s hands already sport wraps since he’d been down here punching things, but he re-adjusts them all the same, tightening up the fabric around his knuckles where it’d come loose from movement and impact. He bets that the black strips on Wriothesley’s forearms can be adjusted to work much the same. Prison or no, he appreciates that readiness to fight on a moment’s notice. 

“Short and clean. Heard.” He tests his re-wrap job with a solid clap followed by a full-range flex of his hands — no shifting, all fabric staying in place, good — and strides over to and up the Pankration Ring’s stairs after Wriothesley. 

“Ten rounds of three minutes max? All right, sounds fair. Roussimoff!” He leans over the railing as he calls for the Ring’s host, the only other person in the room with them looking up from the ledgers he’s poring over. Fatui money means nothing beneath the Terrestrial Sea, but all the extra coupons Tartaglia has earned from working overtime out of cabin fever and sheer boredom works wonders here for keeping the right people’s mouths shut. “Three minute timer! No ref!”

His hands flex as he stalks over to the center of the ring, testing the give of their bindings, before he lifts a fist to Wriothesley across the center circle within its square. “To a good match.”

And once their knuckles touch, he slips his mask down. And as soon as the bell rings, he throws the first punch.

again, the response he receives is practically dripping with feigned innocence, purposely only just overdone. yet even so, the two of them seem to come to an unspoken understanding in the moments after the display; the huff of a laugh that leaves wriothesley— one of genuine amusement— seems to become a bridge enough.

" well, nobody can do it all. " wriothesley notes, eyes narrowing as he meets the harbinger's gaze, the corners of his lips quirking in the faint beginnings of a grin. " we've all got our niche. " there is an unspoken question there, of course— what's yours??

as the words leave him, wriothesley seems to relax despite his arms remaining crossed over his chest. and as if entirely unimpressed by the performance, his gaze wanders back over toward the ring, surprisingly empty for this time of day. disappointing.

though he purposely doesn't look back right away, he huffs at what he hears next, his expression sharpening, amused— and dangerously curious— again. " good behavior?? is that what they're calling it these days?? " it isn't an insult; it's more of an admission. wriothesley likes keeping a healthy distance. he may have the final word, yes, but he takes great pride in the fact that— apart from the occasional detractor— meropide runs itself...

well, mostly.

the offer that follows is pointedly casual, almost unnervingly so for some reason. and yet, for how often he's greeted by awe or fear or a mixture of both, it's a nice change of pace, really. it's almost a pity that he will have to decline... unless—

" you know what?? why not. " he replies, huffing a breath. and already getting into the proper mindset, he lets his arms drop, rolls his shoulders, half-stretching.

it's not every day, after all, that he has a chance to size up a man not yet pinned down as either ally or enemy. and he's got more than enough of the latter, in truth, despite how insular meropide may seem. perhaps a little exercise is just what he needs— what they both need— to tip the invisible scales toward something a little more friendly.

guess we'll see—

and so, without wasting anymore time, he waves a hand and sets off toward the ring, prompting the man to follow him. he explains his rules over his shoulder, while walking. " i'm... kinda on a schedule, so let's keep it short— and clean. three minute rounds. no weapons. " and it goes without saying no visions. thankfully, the ring is blessedly emptier than normal. he's not interested in creating a spectacle. and while he's certainly confident in his skills, he doesn't quite know what he's facing, at least not wholly.

" if we go ten, we'll call it a draw. otherwise— " losing would required yielding.

[inhumanheresy]

The delight he feels at cracking Zhongli’s composure fills him with a sparking triumph that burns in his chest, twinges at his cock and spine, prickles through his nape. In the cool dark of night’s onset, the composed yet ever-audacious consultant reverts to a mountain’s stillness as the electric shock courses through his arm and tells his senses here now pain pleasure pay attention. 

The crackle breaks through the background noise. Sight, sound — those immediately capitulate in the face of the sensation that burns through veins and across skin.

“Only those bounds which we ourselves set.” A half-truth, but he invokes only the half that matters. “Were a Lord Harbinger to commit public indecency with a willing Liyuen citizen, do you really think that the Qixing would or could mete out any meaningful punishment? And even then, that is only if they find out.”

Beneath the warm leather binding their hands tighter than a wedding night, Tartaglia feels the edge of nails against skin, the points dragging across his palm in a dance with steps seemingly chosen on a whim, each prick of claw against skin an unexpected jolt easily felt through his calluses. He inhales, eyelids moving heavy as lead as he drags his tongue against his lower lip, exhales, and meets the tempting, roguish twinkle of Zhongli’s gaze with an accompanying laugh that sits in his chest as low as an avalanche.

“Ah, xiansheng, I think you know me all too well at this point…” Tartaglia leans in, the rough, cold-chapped texture of his lips an unusual texture against the shell of his lover’s ear despite the familiar plushness and pressure as he mouths gently at the upper curve and follows it down towards the crux of his jaw. “Because you know that of course I want your answer.”

The tips of Zhongli’s claws furrow deeper into his palm, and Tartaglia sucks in a breath as he reaches up to grasp his lover’s chin in the tender, sweet grip of supple deerskin leather, to hold and to angle this way and that as he watches the flare of colour he’d wrung forth from his skin fade away in the low light before any but he could possibly notice.

“But I will also wring the truth out of you whether you give it to me or not.”

The jingle of his coat’s chains are all but lost underneath the lilting opera song, but in the immediate vicinity, sharp ears no doubt hear their light, bright chime. Even so, the movement would be impossible to miss as he stands, the clasp of their hands beneath his glove awkward in the new angle, not forcing Zhongli to stand so much as dragging him to do so, but pulling him along nevertheless.

“Come.”

There are ways to slip out of the opera unnoticed — back entrances, the railing, finding a path past the most enamoured of opera-goers — but the Harbinger sweeps through the audience with the highly-esteemed consultant in tow much as he did upon his entrance, striding through the path that best gets him from where he is to where he wishes to go, all while ignoring the eyes upon him.

Let them watch.

Zhongli had set the tone for this night, after all; Tartaglia, in turn, is all too happy to match the unabashed, unhindered energy of the man he has returned to after so long a separation. 

Let them see.

The sounds of both the singers and their accompaniment fall off drastically with a few buffering walls of wood, though the now-distant echoes of the opera can still be heard as Tartaglia walks the two of them away from the venue and, after a few flights of stairs, tucks them into the closest alleyway at ground level. 

“Now,” his voice rumbles up from his chest as he slips Zhongli’s hand from the intimate touch tangled in his glove and crowds him up against the wall, the light of the main street’s lanterns still close enough to cast Zhongli’s face in sharp shadow-and-light, catching the dichotomy of chiseled stone and supple clay in the face of a single man. 

Beautiful. Powerful. Incandescent.

His.

“Let us find out what it takes to make you sing.”

the compliment he receives is, of course, pointedly teasing in its tone and is followed by an expected but still entirely genuine— if thinly-veiled— threat. the tsaritsa's finest, after all, were not known for their mercy, true. and the subtle wildness lacing the laughter that follows might have been enough on its own to send shivers down the spine of the mere funerary consultant were they not in public.

the demonstration the harbinger sees fit to bestow, however, does far more than that. and though he makes a decent effort to minimize any visible reaction, zhongli enjoys the display too much to remain fully settled. and they both know, both see it.

and so it goes, their back and forth only just subtle enough to escape the gaze of any casual onlooker and testing those limits more and more with each stroke of his fingertips, each pass of a sharpened nail, each passing second. he makes a point to keep the man guessing, never repeating the same motion, taking the same path twice... at least, given his confinement, as best he can.

a privilege, tartaglia says with a sneer when zhongli's slow, methodical ministrations slow and his attention seems to turn back toward the opera once again. the tips of his teeth are visible even in the low light as the words leave him. and coming from a harbinger, anyone else would feel understandable fear.

instead, zhongli merely hazards a careful glance to meet that piercing gaze... just in time to find his hand pulled up to brush along his own face, the touch of leather against his jaw as feather-light as it is suggestive. and he stills, silent despite his mouth parting.

he would have huffed a quiet laugh at the words, the sound likely lost amidst the steadily escalating background of the opera were he not forced to perfect stillness by a now-familiar scent cracking through the air.

he nearly jumps on instinct despite tartaglia's clear control and its shock being only a enough to raise the hairs at the back of his neck, a tingle, slight. yet, from his fingertips onward, he stiffens, frozen. and were anyone to have pulled their eyes away from the performance long enough, they might have noticed how he sat there without even breathing, inhumanly still despite the performance forcing so many to lean forward in their seats, enamored by it.

tartaglia, of course, ignores the ongoing opera entirely. and the tone of his whispers is no longer playfully or subtle. likewise, the second jolt is pointedly sharper, playing off the memory of his earlier victory. well done— in response, this time, he exhales, raising his chin, as though the shock brought him back to life.

tartaglia leans closer still. and suddenly renewed in his desire to at least prolong their contest despite its inevitable conclusion, zhongli turns his head to more properly catch that gaze now. and when he opens his mouth to reply, the tips of his teeth— inhumanly sharpened for the briefest moment— catch in the low-light.

" ah, to be an envoy of her majesty... who knew it came with no bounds? "

he's grinning, then, at his own words though his eyes remained narrowed and his breaths heavy... and that expression only sharpens at the quick prick of his nails forced against tartaglia's hand as he watches the man grow even closer, feels his breath at his neck. another prickle of electro comes. and this time, he does huff and allows a familiar warmth to begin settling through him, dripping from his chest. his nails dig a little deeper, then, a challenge. surely, he'll read the gesture for what it is.

" are you certain you want my answer? or do you intend to find out yourself regardless? "

[inhumanheresy]

Ajax smiles soft and wry as Teucer wipes at his tears and struggles to hold back the overflowing emotions. Sure, he doesn’t want to see his little brother crying, but it’s a natural reaction, and Teucer still only a child. Besides, a family member worrying, caring… it feels nice.

“Hah, I’ll do my best to keep from getting hurt, I can easily promise you that.” And he can; getting injured is never an intentional part of fighting — desperate tactics aside — whether he picks the battle himself for just happens upon one.

“Usually I’m better at dodging, or better at fighting in general, but this one in particular wore me out over a really long time. Even I get tired eventually, Teucer! Remember this for whenever you get better at combat yourself: a well-rested, well-fed opponent will often outmatch someone of similar skill level, and no one can fight exhaustion forever.”

His smile turns into a lopsided grin, voice taking on a more big-brotherly tone. “So remember to eat all your greens and go to bed when Mama says, okay? That’s one of the key parts of improving yourself, especially when you want to grow bigger and stronger, even if you don’t like it.”

As Teucer gazes down at the fur-lined gloves he’s fiddling with, Ajax reaches forward to rest one hand on his little brother’s shoulder and tip his face up to look at him, firm but not unkind. Deep, dark blue meets red-rimmed sky-bright eyes. “And if you ever start a fight and lose, or get hurt, don’t blame your opponent just because you don’t want to admit that they got the better of you, okay Teucer?

“Get mad, get better, but own up to the fact that they were good, or that you punched somebody that could hit back and they did. It’s not that they were mean or a bad person.”

( 🎠 ) THE YOUNGEST RYBAKOV did his best to stifle his crying and the tears that fell but he . . was having trouble. he continued to sniffle and palm at his eyes to stop them from coming but it was very hard. as he sits on the bed closer after the chair was all but forgotten he still held the minor guilt for having snuck in on his sleeve.

HE SETTLED DOWN a little as ajax expressed that he wasn't that much in trouble just yet ( he hadn't been seen or caught yet to begin with ) and his rustling of his hat managed to get a small smile out of him ; albeit a wet one as the youngest still worked on drying his tears. it was nice to know, as well, that if he was strong enough that his big brother would've let him have a go --- but he was still learning the knife . . he had a really big way to go before anything like what ajax seemed to run into was viable for him.

( IF EVER, REALLY . . )

❛ I KNOW BUT . . but its really scary to hear that you got hurt ! please be more careful when you go sell toys ! ❜ he isn't sure what picking a fight had to do with selling toys but . . he figured it might have something to do with a rival seller or something ? that'd make the most sense -- his big brother had to defend his title as being the best toyseller of teyvat after all . .

HE WANTED TO say yes just to say yes but he knew that it was wrong. if papa took him on a hunt for bears and . . the bear fought back because they were hunting it . . it would be fighting because it was scared. it was just an animal trying to remain alive . . teucer looked back up from the sheets of the bed to his big brother, shaking his head.

HE SIGHS , FIGITING with his gloves as he responds, ❛ NO . . TH' BEAR would be fighting back 'cos we were trying to kill it . . and it wouldn't be fair to be mad at it . . or call it mean just because it was doing its own thing -- right ? ❜

[inhumanheresy]

Tartaglia hadn't been lying when he'd said Snezhnaya was cold, but Freminet still had underestimated how much it would bite through to the skin, even through his new heavy jacket and pants. The fur around his face caught snowflakes as they fell, and his boots helped keep most of the snow off his feet, which he's thankful for. His nose is red, eyes dry, lips shivering. But he's more nervous than anything else.

"Do you think the Tsaritsa will like me?" he asks, which is weird because he's never cared before if someone likes him. But she isn't just Someone, she's Her, the Tsaritsa, told in stories by Father and Tartaglia. He wants her to like him because...he wants a place in her new world, with his siblings. As a son of the snow, maybe she'll let him?

His brow furrows against the cold, and he reaches a gloved hand for Tartaglia's. Maybe it's childish to want to hold someone's hand, but without Lyney or Lynette here to do it, he hopes Tartaglia won't mind. "Or that she'll be merciful to my siblings?"

“Well, I’d be a fool to claim to speak for Her Majesty on such a personal subject, but I think She’ll like you.” He looks down at the Fontainien, the lad’s skin ruddy from the biting cold, but his shivering not as bad as most foreigners’ when those with less constitution for the cold visit Snezhnaya. “She doesn’t start out disliking people, if that’s a worry of yours.

Tartaglia takes the young lad’s hand and squeezes it through the thick, fur-lined mittens, then reaches down to ruffle the hat over Freminet’s head, knocking pale hair askew but hopefully imparting a big-brotherly reassurance. “Be honest. Be true to your heart. You think of Lyney and Lynette so much; they’re always in your heart and in the future you envision, right? Let her see that love, and She’ll understand.

“Her Majesty loves very deeply. Think of all the love you’ve ever had — for anyone — your siblings, your family, those you’ve cared for and who’ve cared for you. How loving and being loved by them feels more warm than anything else can, but any hurt by them burns a thousand times worse. It’s complicated but straightforward at the same time, right?”

Another squeeze.

“Treat her with respect. Don’t shy away if she asks you something, but take all the time you need to respond. A glacier is the most patient thing that moves.”

@fatesweave

[inhumanheresy]

here we are, once again.

[inhumanheresy]

Morax makes no sudden movements, but not as if he’s tiptoeing around a volatile situation or person; no, this is just Morax as he always is — steady, sure, and once a judgement call is made then it is set in stone. Curiosity lights like a glimmer across honey when he meets Morax’s eyes, no different than any other instance. No hesitation or withdrawn reluctance.

There are holes in the back of Ajax’s shirt, damage avoided in his usual swift change, but now he can feel the light cross-breeze through them and registers it a shadow of his spars, like the crystalline protrusions are still there and twitching to display and betray his emotions.

He listens as Morax describes the tea set, the mention of Cloud Retainer a tiny nod back to the conversation they’d been having before the innocuous smiling and speaking pulled open the gash on his face and everything went to—

—was it ‘went to shit’ or not if none of the extreme reactions he’d been dreading in the pit of his heart came to pass?

A little rabbit of unglazed red clay stares back at him from the tea tray, dry from neglect since he’d downed his initial cups of tea without giving the inanimate little creature the first taste. Its ears are laid back but its head and nose perk upwards, inquisitive. Were it not stone, the rabbit’s whiskers might have twitched.

He pours a mouthful’s worth over the tea pet, the clay darkening as it greedily drinks up the offering, and then fills a second cup properly before handing it over to Zhongli. “Then ask them. But…”

A small wince. “Food? Gods yes.” His stomach refrains from rumbling, humorous as it might have been in that moment, but the fact remains that he is hungry. Not starving, he knows the beginnings of starving and this is hardly so grave. “Something to chew on, if you have it; I don’t need anything fancy. Sleep can only do so much to restore a man.”

Tea, too. As grateful as he is for the invigorating taste and aroma, tea alone cannot sustain him after the sheer energy drain of a transformation, much less two. The memory of roasted, salted marrow over dark bread momentarily overtakes his mind and his thumb bites into the lip of the teacup as Ajax has to physically swallow back the craving.

“A day and a half is a pretty extreme length for me to sleep. Wounds don’t usually keep me down for that long. My healing is… well, it’s not as good as yours, but it’s better than anyone else who isn’t...” He gestures up and down himself. “But a change is a lot of energy drawn directly from me. Stars, I could probably clean out half of Wanmin right now, given the opportunity.”

morax is a good two-thirds through a page when, at long last, a familiar form appears at the edges of his vision. and though he does not look up right away— instead choosing to finish the sentence he's on, at least— his lips do shift ever so slightly, quirking into a soft smile, teetering on being a grin.

it is a delicate process that follows, the careful placement of his bookmark. and by contrast, the delivery of his greeting is pointedly, delightfully simple. he does not move to set his book aside until tartaglia is already across the room, nearly seated and setting the tea tray gently before them both, the pot atop it still gently steaming.

and as he sits up, shifts his feet to make room, morax at last turns his gaze upon tartaglia, just as he settles himself, sighing. and though it is, in truth, entirely expected, his head still tilts at the statement that follows. he huffs a breath to himself, quiet in his amusement despite how endearing it may be, the way the man almost anxiously nurses his teacup.

" i do. " he answers plainly, honestly, giving the man a nod, his eyes wide and brilliantly alight. he makes a point to wait until he catches a glimpse of the man's gaze— an attempt to gauge both the state of his physical recovery and his mood— before he continues. " however, there will be time enough for those, i should think. more importantly— " he pauses then, shifting his gaze toward the tea tray and giving an indicative nod in its direction. " how is it? " the tea, he means. at his question, he glances back to tartaglia to flash the man a soft, narrow-eyed smile.

" as i am certain you surmised, this particular set is rather unique; it is designed to maintain a tea's ideal flavor and temperature. the selection is entirely mine, of course. but cloud retainer— ah, my apologies— mistress xianyun will be eager to hear that her handiwork was put to good use at long last."

he draws a breath then, creating a pause just long enough to shift his tone into something more serious though he is still, notably, relaxed. his head and gaze lower slightly and he, once again, glances toward the tea tray before searching for tartaglia's gaze as he looks back. " i... am afraid it is only good for tea, though. and it's been nearly a day and a half. surely, you are hungry... ? "

the man only needs to ask.

[inhumanheresy]

“It’s good that you left a note for Mama, but that won’t stop her from worrying. Remember what I told you the last time you came down to Liyue by yourself? That it was very dangerous, and you made a promise to not do it again? No matter how happy I am to see you, Teucer, I still worry too.”

Uncrossing his arms, Childe kneels to better look Teucer in the eye, to better impress upon him what he’s about to say.

“Papa and I… we disagree on some things. People who love each other very much can still disagree, malysh, and the difference between the way that Papa and I view some things pains him. And the deeper he loves me, the more he hurts. I don’t want that for him. I don’t want that for any of you. That’s why he cut me loose, see?

“I’m grown and can support myself, enough so that I can even send back things like money and medicine and all sorts of gifts. I don’t have to rely on Papa’s and everyone else’s help.

“Papa has to think of and care for the whole family, but especially you and Tonia and Anton and Mama. He loves you, Teucer, and you won’t convince him that he’s made the wrong decision by leaving to come find me.”

Childe’s heart wrenches as Teucer’s tearful eyes begin to overflow. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother, not ever, but Teucer already knows their father’s decision, so all he can do now is soften the blow while still trying to convince him to return.

“What you’re trying to do now is exactly what you thought was a bad choice when you heard that Papa decided to disown me — abandoning family. You’re not that kind of boy, Teucer. You’re not that kind of brother or son.”

Childe sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“I can’t take care of you here, Teucer. My work sends me all over the place, far and wide, and you wouldn’t be able to come along with me on those trips. I’d have to send you right back home anyway.”

( 🎠 ) HE'S STILL TALKING about toys and how he could help when he lets out a surprised sound as his big brother ceases moving altogether without warning. bright blues blink, looking up at his brother in confusion and inquiring with just a look why he stopped. it's only when he says his name, especially in such a way that makes him sound like papa, his brow begins to furrow.

❝ I LEFT A note, i promise. i didn't just leave without saying anything, mama --- ❞ he breaks off, coming up short as ajax himself cuts him off to continue ; letting go of his hand to cross his arms. the action alone makes him feel like he was being lectured for breaking something important. ajax didn't do this very often and . . well . .

HIS SMILE CRUMBLES to dust as words no child wants to hear from someone they admire processes through him. he's a little lost at why -- papa being mean over not wanting his big brother anymore wasn't something he ever understood and he came back to liyue to where he knew his big brother was because . . he was upset. he was upset that he wasn't getting a straight answer, upset that mama didn't say anything --- but now he's more upset that ajax ISN'T AS HAPPY as he is.

THAT, AND SOMEONE being disappointed in him felt like he fell through the ice at home ( not that he ever had but by what he heard people explain it as . . pins and needles and a deep seeded chill running through him. ). he didn't like it.

❝ I -- UM . . YEAH. if papa doesn't want you 'n can't give me a good reason then . . then yeah ! ❞ no, not really. if ajax says that he technically cannot make himself be disowned then he isn't right ? he can still write to his bigger siblings and tell them to come visit . .

FAT TEARS BEGIN to well up as the disappointment from his big brother hits him harder than he expected it too - and he hadn't been expecting ajax to be upset with his decision at all to begin with !

HE SNIFFLES, RUBBING his eyes as the youngest sibling cracks, starting to cry as his entire expectation falls apart. ❝ IT ISN'T F - FAIR if you get cut out for d - doing nothing wrong ! i - i don't understand why papa gets so weird about you, he's being so mean . . ! ❞

[inhumanheresy]

@visionhcld

Ajax wakes slowly.

This in and of itself is unusual. Life in the rank-and-file Fatui barracks would ‘cure’ anyone of deep sleeping, especially a boy with his first patchy whiskers growing in, but Ajax had already learned the folly of deep sleep from both the Abyss and his master. Little else teaches the body quicker than waking up midair while getting tossed into a pack of rifthound whelps.

Now, he wakes to a warm bed, the gentle sound of wind weaving through the trees outside, and the scent of tea. Black tea. Smoky. Lapsang. A memory stirs in the unfamiliar fog of gentle waking.

An all-too-familiar ache permeates his body, but even that lingering pain bites less than it normally does after transforming a second time far too soon after another. He slept a long time, then — long enough for his bones to ease, his flesh to remember what it is to be human. …Human-ish.

It takes a moment to orientate himself as he folds back the covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed, but not long. Good. A deep breath, turning his attention inward and consciously feeling every inch of his body. Sensations. Proportions. Reaction time. All right.

When he levers himself up and walks to the dresser where the tea tray sits, his movement is as steady and assured as usual, no tilt in his balance or tremble to his hands as he pours the tea and tosses back the whole cup with no thought to its heat. Luckily, it’s somehow the perfect temperature, and not at all oversteeped.

Ajax breathes deep, eyes closing, as he once again just stands there and feels. The tea burns not unpleasantly down his throat, warming his chest and belly. The little hairs all over his body stand up and tingle at the sudden change in core temperature compared to the outside air, minute though it is, and he downs a second cup of tea, every second making him more assured of whowhatwhere he is.

And giving his mind time to drag forth the memories of what happened before he passed out.

The little round teacup provides a comforting weight and resistance as his hand tightens around its smooth curve.

He sets it back down on the tea tray and leans his hands against the edge of the dresser. Breathes. Breathes.

Then, he straightens, takes the tea tray, and makes his way out into the main room of the house in Morax’s personal domain. The god himself reclines on a leisure couch, reading, as if nothing out of the ordinary occurred here… however long ago it was. However long he’s been asleep.

Ajax makes his way over, setting the tea tray down on the low table near them before sitting back at Morax’s feet with a great sigh, reaching forward to take his teacup and run his thumb across its lip.

“You probably have more questions.”

[inhumanheresy]

Their first time was always bound to happen like this. Not this particular place or time, not because Morax’s hair needed brushing or because Tartaglia’s curiosity about those antlers led him to touch, but in this manner of a spur-of-the-moment shift between them. Anything could have been the final push; in the end, the only result could be this sudden, unstoppable tip from chaste intimacy into sex.

Morax keeps him close by an iron grip at his neck and in his shirt - fingertips teasing his nape as that threatening claw beneath his chin threatens to draw more blood, red cotton pulled taut between leather straps and the adeptus’ iron grip. Both of those hands are warm against him, on skin and through cloth, Morax’s breathing irritatingly steady even as the two of them part and that golden gaze drops to linger on his mouth.

Zhongli’s deep, soft chuckle is maddeningly attractive. The sound is a near-familiar one, but here, like this, Tartaglia can hear the desire canting warm and sensual beneath the humor, and he’s struck with the need to wrench out the full range of that voice tonight. 

The peek of pink tongue skating across the beautiful, pliant swell of Zhongli’s upper lip certainly doesn’t dissuade him from that course of action.

“Wisdom is one thing no one’s ever accused me of having.” It’s half a joke, but really, he can imagine Signora or Pantalone bursting out in laughter if they ever heard such a sentiment spoken. One can only have so many virtues without discluding others by their very nature, and his tend to lie at the opposite end of the spectrum. “‘Damn bold fool’, more like. But here I stand in the dragon’s den, my challenge made loud, clear, and without regret.

“Besides, one could ask the same of you. A creature like me, a Harbinger…?” Layers upon layers, each facet of the whole you see making me more and more inadvisable to involve yourself with. You’re not exactly enriched with common sense yourself. 

“Yet here you are, neither running away nor chasing me past the last marked tree and stone of your territory. Hah, unwise to the extreme. A threat as shallow as this—” Tartaglia crooks his fingers to draw away the blood he can feel beading up below his jaw against Morax’s smooth, dark nail, catching the drop on his index. Then, he holds the man’s gaze with hooded eyes as he licks it off. “—is hardly enough to frighten me into fleeing.”

He swallows just before his lips catch Zhongli’s and he shoves his tongue past them — if there’s any traces of his corrupted blood left in his mouth, hopefully all the adeptus feels is a mild sting.

Tartaglia kisses with less teeth this time, but just as much fervor as before. The way Morax looks at him is exhilarating; his skin tingles with the mere anticipation of getting his hands on the form beneath those robes, of dragging sounds from this man that he’s never heard before, of Morax’s sure touch—

Ajax cannot remember the last time he wanted someone as much as he wants him.

By touch alone, he finds the edge of Zhongli’s outer collar as he parts enough for a breath before diving back into the kiss. The cool, pale jade silk slips into his hand as easily as water and feels just as smooth against his calluses as he drags his knuckles between Morax’s inner and outer garments all the way down the cross-collar, down to the golden cord belt at his waist, the tassels and moss-green jade ornaments weighing down the ends as Tartaglia hooks his fingers around the knot.

The other hand releases Morax’s hair, instead clasping the god’s wrist between them. A thin string of saliva breaks as they part, and Tartaglia’s eyes rove with bare hunger over Morax’s face as he straightens, exerting a firm pressure on belt and wrist to coax him to follow.

“Come — to bed, Morax, unless you want to risk your favorite chair.”

good, because it does please me—

there is something in those words that— while they, of course, serve to affirm his very apparent, building desire— is strangely reminiscent of countless moments shared between them both in public and in private, honest yet far more restrained than the seconds before.

in turn, tartaglia's gestures suddenly become gentler too, almost leisurely in their pacing. and it is once again as though they are simply the two of them in comfortable quiet before his vanity, he in his favorite rosewood chair. and though he is still strung quite tightly— tense even from just the careful, downward tracing of those two fingertips— morax does visibly relax, too consumed in the myriad of sensation to be concerned about whether or not his being soothed is pointedly intentional... which, of course, it is.

a low growl, a pleased sound, rumbles upward from his chest and settles in his throat. and for the briefest moment, he finds himself leaning into more than one rake of those fingers through his hair, eyes even daring to close.

it is, of course, a show of both great restraint and even greater trust on his part. for though he is beginning to relax against this newly-relinquished method of control, he is ever the predator. and tartaglia's careful gathering, winding of his hair once again does not escape him entirely.

even so, he does not attempt to brace himself. after all, ever since their first meeting, this man has been steadily drawing him more and more toward the thrill of the unknown. and a hiss, half-moan, escapes him freely as he is pulled into a manner of submission. it is good, he thinks, that he'd maintained his grip. and though the tips of his claws break through the man's skin, he is too pinned— by both hands and teeth— to retract them even if he'd wished it.

but of course, he does not. in fact, that hand, those claws, only cling more tightly as tartaglia pulls him forward, holding him steady by the stinging at his scalp as he steals another round of hurried, biting kisses from morax's mouth. his other hand, meanwhile, searches for purchase among tartaglia's clothes.

were they not forced to stop to breathe, it is entirely possible that they might have simply devoured one another then and there. still, when they break, morax manages to wear an almost regal air. he growls low in the interim, mouth parting as his tongue runs over his lips. and his breathing is pointedly, perfectly even... in sharp contrast to tartaglia's heavy exhale.

and so it is that he waits, markedly patient despite still being held. his eyes, unblinking and brilliant, burning gold, follow the shapes of each of his names on tartaglia's lips... though morax said a second time causes his eyes to narrow, gaze to sharpen as well as bring the barest flicker of a sharp-toothed grin.

that grin fades quickly though as, again, they find themselves face-to-face, that creeping unknown once again settling in. it is, in no uncertain terms, exhilarating to be so genuinely challenged like this. this man is truly a wonder to behold, as fearless as he is ruthless.

their lips brush leaving behind the ghost of warm, of feeling. and it takes no small effort to quiet the growl that threatens to leave him then, to try and contain the heat pooling, dripping ever lower in both his groin and his chest.

" it would please me to see you try. "

indeed, yes—

he shifts suddenly then, lunging toward him. and though still held by the taut grip of his hair, he hisses only a little as he catches the man's lips again. he is just as careful as before with the sharpness of his teeth; however, this time, he does not break merely to breathe but to huff a quiet laugh between them.

" i wonder... " he muses, once again running his tongue over his lips, eyes alight as his gaze settles directly on tartaglia's worried lips. " do you think it wise to take a dragon? or do you simply wish to survive long enough to see me play my hand? "

[inhumanheresy]

He’d always wondered what kind of fighter Zhongli would be, noted the way he moves and the faint shadow of Millelith training in the way he holds himself — though in truth, he’d had teacher and student backwards in how he’d estimated that relationship. Looking back, it’s no wonder that he’d gleaned hints of martial experience from the ‘funeral consultant’ he’d spent so much time with.

Zhongli at least honored his word to fight true rather than fair, his promise given during that tense encounter when Tartaglia scruffed him by the collar and first called him Morax, and yes, while the Harbinger had never expected that the God of Contracts would renege on an oath, the fact that the old god didn’t restrain his martial prowess for this mortal’s sake further dissipates any remaining grudge Tartaglia still holds for his personal snub on the night of Osial’s release.

Tartaglia is not one to hold grudges overlong. It’s one of the many reasons that his peers deem him ‘simple’, but the man himself holds the opinion that once you deal with a problem, it is dealt with. If it comes back to bite you, then it simply wasn’t dealt with thoroughly enough.

“Confession? Hah! I hardly need you to confess to enjoying this fight,” Tartaglia crows as his face shines with obvious, fierce glee, “not when I only just fought you, and that alone tells me what I need to know, even if you never say it aloud. ‘Confession’, ‘consolation prize’, what use do I get from those? I’ve had my prize from you, Morax, and judging by the way you spoke with your spearpoint, I’ll be claiming that prize again and again and again whenever I can.”

Tartaglia breathes deep after that gloating — defeat notwithstanding — letting his eyes close and head tilt back as he spreads his aching arms to collect the midday sun, the leather of his gloves flexing under the heat and sweat of long exertion. Yes. Morax has paid his debt.

“Otherwise impeccable, I guess I should say.” With a roguish smirk, he sends a wink Morax’s way as he cants his head back down to meet those autumn-gleam eyes. “It stopped every attack I threw at it, save for being unable to block my riptide. I don’t know about you, but a shield that’s able to survive an assault from a Harbinger is worthy of praise indeed. One that holds up against the kind of beating that I put yours through today?”

His expression gentles somewhat, losing a measure of the teasing bite and flair, though his smile still  remains. “I call it like I see it, xiansheng.

“Though you’re probably used to such praises from an eon of worship.” He waves his hand dismissively and as quickly as it appears, that softness to the corners of his eyes and mouth is gone, subsumed back into the smug triumph of his earlier expression. “The Shield of Liyue, the Vortex Vanquisher, the God of War—"

That title he snorts at, the appellation an obviously silly one given Murata’s mere existence, though even his Snezhnaya accentuates their Archon’s importance in the overall scheme of the world. Even so, it beggars his personal belief that an Archon so devoted to defense and only attacking in the form of retribution is one that a population could even attempt to elevate to such a pedestal.

‘God of War’, my ass.

“—I can see where your people are drawing from, but make no mistake — I’ll get through. To bypass that shield, to break it…?” If light could shine in his eyes, it is in this moment that it would. His hand curls in the air as if clawing through a shield of stone instead of nothingness. “I’ll have you. One day, I’ll have you. Once that shield has shattered, you’re done.”

where most might have found such laughter in the face of so one-sided a battle and stinging a defeat unusual if not downright strange, morax knows better, understands the sentiment well. and even if he did not, watching him now, it would be easy enough to see— it was never truly about winning at all.

no, and the emotion that show of amusement carries reads true, light even. and it occurs to him in the moments between tartaglia's laughter and his words that this is, perhaps, the closet he's been to the man he'd come to know before the height of battle of liyue harbor, that'd he lost for weeks, maybe months.

and he is temporarily lost in that realization, only coming back to a proper sort of awareness as tartaglia's hands move toward him, pass through the disintegrating remnants of his well-tended shield as it returns to entropy, to dust. he blinks then and watches, still and quiet, patient as the man paces, thoughtful in his steps as opposed to simply licking his wounds.

of course, it would be a lie to deny that he does not understand what it means, how it feels, to be pushed to one's limit— and then somehow beyond it— even if it has been far, far too long since he's last been truly pressed. he is more comfortable still, certainly. but the exhilaration there, the thrill of battle even for sport...

how could he ever forget?

then, he sees the man's grin grow wide, eyes suddenly lacking any of their prior exhaustion, alive if not exactly alight. but, it is only after his own sentiment is relayed back to him that he understands the reason for it. he's assumed without realizing it— correctly, fortunately— that there would be a next time.

for the briefest moment, there is a twinge of worry that moves through him at having to face the idea that this might very well have been the end of their partnership. and again, he is somewhat taken aback by the depth of his own investment. for despite— or perhaps because of— his penchant for violence, tartaglia is... refreshingly genuine.

he would not leap so readily for another chance to spar if it did not interest him or release morax from his sworn obligation if he did not mean it.

and so, he huffs a quiet laugh, seemingly relaxing. and he dips his head in acknowledgement, a casual bow in honor of the contract now-fulfilled. " fair enough. " he replies, wearing the beginnings of a grin. but as tartaglia's smile darkens and he makes his play, morax meets his eyes with an equal intensity... before those two fingers draw a pointed " hmph! " from him, a surprise response to poking him straight in the chest.

he recovers quickly, eyes narrowing and fixing on tartaglia's as he instinctively crosses his arms over his chest. " oh? is my confession what you wish as a consolation prize? " he asks, playfully waving a hand. he pretends to consider the request for a brief moment, making a show of bringing a finger to his lips.

" very well. i am curious... but impeccable? yes, i did notice the compliment. "