#*vriothesley

[vriothesley]

you, diluc, and the language of flowers in the city of mondstadt.

pairing | diluc / gn! reader genre | fluff, slice of life word count | 3.1k+ notes | also an old fic reposted from my old blog. i’ve only done minimal changes to this, and it’s basically my take (kind of?) of the mondstadt flowers’ language / meaning :)

You almost miss it—the hushed word that rolls off his tongue as you pass by Flora’s display of flowers.

“Beautiful,” he says to no one in particular. You wonder if he really intends to say it out loud, or at all, eyes bright and glancing over to each potted plant, lingering for a moment longer on the arrangement of Cecilias.

It is but a fleeting moment, and maybe it was just a trick your senses had chosen to play with you because before you could even begin to think about what he means, he takes a step forward and continues his walk; neither confident nor modest, not standing too proudly but not hunching either.

He walks as if he’s thinking of nothing else but the way the pavement beneath his feet carries him as he strides across the Mondstadt streets.

He exudes what you would expect Diluc Ragnvindr to exude: a presence that would make the second of awe he had of the flower blooms dancing with the wind seem like it was only a figment of your imagination.

Diluc stops in his tracks, slowly turns on the balls of his feet and raises his brows at you—not of authority but of just genuine curiosity.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you only realize that you’ve been standing in the same spot for a time now. You feel the heat creep up your face.

“Yes,” you cough. It’s unsure, embarrassed. You hurriedly catch up to him, jogging a few steps before repeating, “yes.”

Diluc nods, and you try not to think about it again.

“Is this fine?” you ask, cautious and patient as you squat down and pat the grass at the edge of the lake. You watch Diluc as his steps stutter for a moment only before nodding and settling down beside you.

Diluc accompanies you to your travels after the little encounter at Floral Whisper, and he remains silent for most of the time. Unfortunately, you did think about it. His quiet whisper of beautiful and the even quieter wonder his eyes had shown. You did think about the possibility of seeing that Diluc once more, childlike and bright, for maybe a second longer next time.

Your gaze wanders across the lake, then to the small bed of rock where a waypoint stood, glimmering shyly in blue. There are frogs jumping around and lizards crawling everywhere.

“Are you afraid of them?” you wonder aloud before you could even bite your tongue.

Ah, you think, oh no.

After adventuring all morning to purge nearby hillichurl camps and jump around collecting crystalflies, Diluc had suggested finding a place to rest. A quick dip in cool water has always been pleasant, so you led him to Springvale. The chatter of the hunters in the town just behind you and the swishing waters of the waterfalls seem to be enough white noise between you and Diluc. You’re both tired as well, so of course Diluc wouldn’t interest himself in such idle chit-chats.

Diluc shakes off his boots and rolls his pant legs up, sits on the edge, and dips his feet in. It seems methodical but you wonder how much of this is his routine. He is a renowned adventurer, after all. He says not a single word and you don’t really mind. Maybe you could just pretend that you never asked the question at all, as embarrassing as that is. This is Diluc and you know him, not interested in small talks and whatnot.

But he hums, and it’s quiet, before he snorts, “No.” The small smile playing on his lips stupefies you and it is the second time that you doubt your senses—did he just laugh? Was that even a laugh? Or did he just find my attempt at a conversation pathetic and he thinks I’m ridiculous and– “I’m not afraid of them, but they are bothersome.”

It feels as if the weight has been released off your chest. So it was a laugh, huh. Who knew.

You soon follow suit, submerging your feet in the cold waters of the lake, watching as the surface ripples and distorts the reflection of his bright red glory. You lean back, not being able to stop the sigh of relief that escapes your mouth. The silence covers you like a blanket and it feels delightful. There is nothing but the waters washing away the soreness of your feet, and the fiery red man sitting beside you, and the beds of Calla Lily flowers behind you, and the boar across the lake.

(You wonder if Kaeya were here and would agree on making an ice bridge just to catch the boar and get a few pieces of raw meat because you assume that none of you would want to swim.)

(Oh, speaking of Kaeya.)

Your hand reaches to pluck a Calla Lily out of the grass and you bring it close to your face, fingers delicately twisting and eyes scanning the flower as if you’re trying to pry its secrets apart. You’re not, and the flower probably holds no secrets anyway. You’re just thinking about how the Calla Lily is actually more known as the chubby lotus of Mondstadt and you want to giggle even more because — “Isn’t the Calla Lily Kaeya’s favorite flower?”

Diluc stops swinging his feet to turn to you, and he snorts. It’s a laugh, and you’re sure this time.

“What a silly thing to ask me,” he says.

“I had a feeling you’d know what his favorite is.”

Diluc nods, and he props his arm against the grass bed to lean back, watch the afternoon clouds. You don’t know if the nod is an affirmation of the Calla Lilies being his brother’s favorite flower, or of the fact that he knows. Maybe both.

The blanket returns and the silence stretches until the sun starts to set. You wonder if you should ask Diluc to go back to the city now, or to wait for him to ask instead. You watch the side of his face and gauge the next words to say, but nothing comes.

Diluc notices this, probably, because he breaks the silence instead. “Do you like them?”

You furrow your brows instead of giving him a proper answer so he clarifies, with a shade of pink tinting his cheeks.

“The Calla Lilies, I mean.” Diluc clears his throat and looks away, the water splashing when he kicks and you wonder if this is another glimpse of the childlike Diluc you saw from befote, in front of the flower shop inside Mondstadt’s gates.

“They’re okay,” you answer meekly. “They’re pretty, but I don’t like the way they taste.”

You continue to describe how the taste of the chubby lotuses feels absolutely repulsive on your tongue and how you were forced to drink Calla Lily medicine when you were a kid, when you get sick. They work, but that doesn’t take away the fact that these cute, orange flowers are better off to be admired than to be consumed. Diluc listens intently and the sun is now nowhere to be seen. The night has fallen and the Calla Lilies around the lake of Springvale bow as if to nap, and the story-telling of how you have a love-hate relationship with the flower has come to an end.

“Yeah,” Diluc breathes, maybe as an affirmation to everything you’ve said; an assurance to say that he did listen to every word, so he repeats, “yeah. I think so too.”

Diluc had told you that he doesn’t get the appeal of Dandelions. They’re just bulbs of tiny seeds, he says, and he doesn’t think that they’re on par with the beauty of the rest of Mondstadt’s flowers.

Maybe he just doesn’t know how the Dandelion seeds spread their wings.

The moment you both had the opportunity to wander around, no commissions or duties whatsoever, you grab his wrist and pull him outside the city walls—Diluc’s well-kept and upheld image and presence be damned. The winds sing of freedom and the Dandelions sway to its tune.

“Dandelions,” you start, letting Diluc’s wrist go to allow you to crouch in front of a stem of one, “ride on the wind. Even without its feathered wings, it still holds the hope from afar within.”

You glance at Diluc, his presence still alluring as ever, and you wait for any sign of agreement or, at the very least, acknowledgment from him. He sways on the balls of his feet, brows knitted, before adding, “In a sense, the Dandelion represents the romantic spirit of love and freedom.” There is a hint of mischief in the corners of his mouth. “Right?”

Right. You could only roll your eyes at the red-haired man before turning your attention back to the Dandelion once again. You scoff at him—at the very obvious fact that of course he knows that. “Someone has the Mondstadt library archive entries memorized,” you tease.

Diluc imitates your position with his legs squatted and elbows rested on his thighs, except he’s an arms-length away from you and the Dandelion so you don’t really consider that as making a ton of progress.

You carefully pull the stem of the Dandelion and take a few steps toward where Diluc is, still crouching and all. He watches you move closer and there is evident confusion in his expression, but he does not dare to move.

“I learned about Dandelions because they’re used in winemaking,” he retorts to your earlier jab that, to be quite honest, you’ve already forgotten.

You raise the bulb of Dandelion to his face, between you and him. You sway it carefully, only letting a few of its seeds fly away. Diluc remains confused, and he does not even try to hide it.

“I used to make wishes on Dandelions,” you beam, voice just as bright. “I believe that they could carry my desires to Celestia when they fly with the wind.”

The presence that Diluc Ragnvindr carries falters for a second when it sinks in that your words are not a story, but a suggestion. You should try it, you mean to say. Make a wish.

A sudden gust of wind blows, and a number of dandelion seeds fly—to you, to your left, towards the water, to the bridge, and to–

Oh no.

The presence that Diluc Ragnvindr carries falters—completely now—when his nose crinkles and he sniffs and sniffs and he tries to rub away the itch in his nose but… well, he sneezes and it blows the rest of the seeds on the Dandelion bulb away.

With eyes wide, you watch as his cheeks and ears turn bright red. You would joke about how you almost don’t know where his fiery red hair starts and ends if you aren’t so shocked with it either.

“I…” he trails, then he sneezes again. “I made a wish before it all flew away.”

This time, your mouth drops. That’s… unexpected, isn’t it? I made a wish before it all flew away. Perhaps this is another glance at the childlike and bright Diluc you’ve been wanting to see again since.

Diluc smiles sheepishly. “I like Dandelions, but they make my nose itch.”

The laugh you’ve been trying to hold back now comes in full force. It starts with a chuckle, and then it turns into small chortles, then it’s now just good, good laughs. Diluc, without a hint of the authority he always embodies, laughs with you.

Visible winds are what the citizens of Mondstadt call the plant that adores the wind—the Windwheel Asters. In Stormterror’s Lair, its petals spin and spin and you remember that Vind once told you that Windwheel Asters cannot grow in places with no wind nor plagued by strong storms. The orange flowers find rhythm in winds of gentle and nourishing give.

“It’s unbelievable, almost,” you tell Diluc with the raise of your fingers, a gesture to exaggerate your disbelief. “These asters seem out of place in Stormterror’s Lair.”

“Yes,” he affirms, then bends down and picks a flower by his feet. Its petals still spin in all its beauty and the contrast of its vibrance against the backdrop of the ruins, dark and alone, emphasizes the very purpose of it. Visible winds.

Diluc walks forward to hand you the aster, then he trudges back to pluck himself another one. He continues, “But they only grow where there are tender winds. It only means that the lair is not as desolate as the citizens believe it to be.”

You know what Diluc means. That Stormterror is still Dvalin; that he is still one of the Four Winds, the entities that the Anemo Archon entrusted the safety of Mondstadt to.

You know what it means. You know– that there are still protectors of Mondstadt even if they are nowhere to be seen, impalpable but still ever-present, like–

Wind. This is, after all, the nation of wind.

Diluc probably does not mean refer to himself with his words at all, but...

You fiddle with the Windwheel Aster in your hand and you watch its petals make the presence of the gentle winds known. An invisible force that guides the city of Mondstadt. Then you recall the gloved hand that holds the heavy claymore, the red hair that slashes through the breeze. Each move in a battle, calculated and done with grace.

You remember the legend of the Darknight Hero and how Diluc doesn’t want the people to know his name. You remember Diluc and you believe that there are still protectors of Mondstadt even if they are nowhere to be seen.

At late noon, the surrounding areas of Wolvendom become clear of any threat of hillichurls and Ruin Guards.

Diluc looks as if he isn’t tired at all, the sweat trickling down the side of his face seeming like a mere ornament. The sun is starting to set and the oncoming night paints the road up the territory of the Wolf of the North. The fiery-haired man props his claymore on the ground, steadying before he leans against it. You’re spread out on the grass, not even bothering for shame and modesty anymore.

“Unfair,” you scoff, narrowing your eyes at Diluc. “How are you not exhausted after all that?”

Diluc gives you a small laugh, and he looks at the row of Small Lamp Grasses across. “It has become routine to me.”

You follow his trail of sight, propping your elbows against the ground to sit up slightly. The wildflowers sit in silence and you almost hear crickets deep in the woods of Wolvendom, empty in the slowly unfolding night.

“We don’t have anything else for today, right?” you ask, the question lingering on your tongue. Diluc hums. “Then…”

“Then?”

“Would it be alright if we stay here until nighttime? Just until the lamp grasses light up.” There is heat growing on your ears, so you supply almost immediately with, “It’s alright if you don’t want to! I just want–”

“It’s fine,” Diluc cuts you off. He settles his claymore down and sits at a safe distance beside you. “They don’t show their wonder until night, after all. I want to see them light up, too.”

Diluc walks as if he’s thinking of nothing else but the way the ground beneath his feet carries him as he strides across Mondstadt.

He exudes what you would expect Diluc Ragnvindr to exude: a presence that definitely would make the second of awe he had of the flower blooms dancing with the wind seem like it was only a figment of your imagination.

You know this. You’ve seen it for so many times and it still twists something in you. Something deep inside you. The thing is, though—the childlike and bright Diluc Ragnvindr is not a figment of your imagination, after all.

At the base of the Starsnatch Cliff, a lone Cecilia sways with the breeze. You think there is nothing special about it, for there are probably several more of the flowers on the way up. Diluc thinks otherwise.

Diluc asked you to come along with him somewhere. That somewhere, you find out now, is Starsnatch Cliff. The lone Cecilia comes into his view and he wastes no time to stride towards it. He crouches, removes his glove, then traces the petals of it with a nimble finger.

This is Diluc, still. You know this. You’ve seen it for so many times and it still twists something in you. This is not a figment of your imagination.

Mirth swirls in his fiery red eyes and somehow, he looks younger. Boyish, and unlike how he usually is. He turns to you and ushers you to come closer, so you do. This is the Diluc who stood in awe in front of Floral Whisper that day.

“Cecilias are my favorite,” he begins this time. “I don’t know why, but I’m just so drawn into them. They’re beautiful.”

Beautiful, the whisper and wonder of it all fit Diluc Ragnvindr in his entirety.

Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe you shouldn’t have done this. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? You’ve knocked on the large wooden door of the Dawn Winery manor and you’ve heard the footsteps of the young master growing louder at each second. Maybe–

The door opens and it reveals the embodiment of beautiful and you’re speechless. Maybe this is a mistake, but maybe you don’t mind making this mistake.

“Sorry,” you apologize as soon as you come to your senses. Diluc looks down at the bouquet in your hand, an arrangement of Mondstadt flowers with Cecilias at its center. The embarrassment washes into you now and words immediately escape your mouth, “Are these flowers okay? I’m sorry if it’s an overkill. You don’t have to accept it. I know Cecilias are your favorite so I asked Flora to make them like this. Ah, I should’ve asked if you wanted something like this at all. I’m sorry–”

Diluc propels to you, taking the bouquet from your hand and setting it aside. He pulls you closer, holds you by your shoulders then decides to hold your face between his warm hands instead. It sets your skin on fire but it doesn’t hurt, because Diluc protects and never intends to hurt anyone in any way.

This isn’t a mistake, because Diluc Ragnvindr will never be a mistake.

He puts his lips to use in the absence of words, planting a kiss against your forehead, childlike and bright; beauty and all.

[st6rly]

JUMPED when i saw this because (with you) there is nothing i'd rather do by @vriothesley deserves so so so much more attention

OMG OMG HELP thank you sm for recommending this to me!! my favourite line was definitely:

"This unspoken thing, in the space between, under the street lights down the path—I love you, it says. I love this."

it was so kdjfhkjdhfkhfdjkh chemicals in brain being reworked fr. hehe enjoyed this read a lot. highly recommend people to go check out this fic, especially if you're in the mood for some fluffy, slice of life with thoma

[cloudford]

LIBRARY CATALOGUE.

general tag: #*cloudreads

chai. she/her. 20+ | reader and writer. @vriothesley.

reading account and archive. (stray kids, genshin impact, honkai star rail, etc.)

-16 / ageless and blank blogs, do not interact.

[vriothesley]

the four places thoma asks you to dance with him.

pairing | thoma / gn! reader genre | fluff, slice of life romance, word count | 6.0k+ notes | an old fic i reworked. this holds a very special place in my heart ♡ huge thank you to @yakshahs for helping me with this one, as always. you’re the best.

loving you, loving me — a playlist.

UNDER THE STREETLIGHTS OF INAZUMA CITY, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT...

The streets of Inazuma City are quiet. Shoes against the pavement, you hear his feet kicking stones and you walk past post after post, seeing the way your shadows—yours and his—rise and fall under the dim lights. Together. In sync.

This silence is okay. Everything about this is okay. Thoma is here, and in silence, there is love between you and him.

Under the night sky, your hand brushes with his as they slightly swing. You don’t pull away when it happens, and neither does he. It’s a quiet declaration of something simple, something divine. This unspoken thing, in the space between, under the street lights down the path—I love you, it says. I love this.

You feel his eyes on you, but you don’t mind it at all. You continue walking down the city streets, and you wonder if he’ll stare at you until you have to part ways at the end of this road. That seems like something Thoma would do. I love you, it says. I love this. You hide a smile under his gaze before turning to look at him back, ever-so-slightly stepping closer to him. It’s subtle, and you hope he doesn’t notice. It feels warmer now. The warmth he has, the warmth he radiates, the warmth he is, comforting on such a cold night. You step closer once more.

“What’s on your mind?” You nudge his arm with yours, offering him a lopsided smile. His eyes never leave yours when he shakes his head. The stars that reflect in the deeper greens of his eyes move.

When your hands touch again, he holds it this time. He takes it in his and keeps it there.

“Not much,” he hums. “You look lovely.”

You could not hold back the small laugh bubbling in your throat at his words. I love this, it says. “Do you not ever get tired of showering me with your sugarcoated words?”

His steps cease, and yours stop with it. He tugs you to face him, pulls you into his space, nuzzles his nose on your temple. “They are not sugarcoated! It is the truth, I would never get tired of telling the truth,” he huffs. He wraps an arm around your waist, another holds your hand up. “Dance with me.”

It comes suddenly. It comes from nowhere. Dance with me, he asks. “Now?”

“Yes,” he simply replies. Thoma is an equally balanced man of thoughtful and spontaneous. “There is music playing somewhere, do you hear it?”

When you strain your ears to listen, Thoma starts moving. Slow, careful. How would you two look if someone were to see you here, in the middle of the night?

“Come on,” he giggles. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t dance, Thoma. I cannot compare to your grace,” you mumble, and albeit hesitant, you sway with him. “And I cannot even hear the music.”

When Thoma hums—whether as affirmation or dismissal, you don’t even know; you don’t bother knowing—he steps to his left. It was not any exaggeration when you told him you don’t dance, because you trip on his feet when you step to your right. The failed coordination is something only you, Thoma, and the street light above you bear witness to. He does not laugh, though. Neither did the street light. And the stars remain in their place in the sky.

The music seems louder now. You hear it. Perhaps the world turned quieter. Perhaps the world is now holding its breath, watching this unfold. Is the universe finding entertainment in this? In the ungraceful, uncoordinated slow dance you and Thoma share? Imperfect and clumsy. Awkward and inelegant. Perhaps it is the very essence of it all—the sheer love from a silly slow dance, in the middle of the night under the street lights of Inazuma City.

Thoma rests his forehead on yours, and you find yourself closing your eyes. It’s been seconds, or maybe minutes, or maybe even hours, but you kept dancing, and dancing, and dancing. There are trips and falls. There are moments of small laughter when you miss a glide or you step on his foot. Thoma puffs his cheeks out and pulls you closer to him. He stops moving to tap his feet onto the pavement, left then right. You could only pull away from him slightly, enough to let him see the silent question written in your face.

Thoma grins, “Go prop yourself on my feet so you can follow my lead.”

His response isn’t very much of a help. You stare at him, eyes wide. “Why?” your brows furrow, “Wouldn’t that hurt?”

“Maybe. But I don’t really mind. You seem uneasy with all the misses we had, and I don’t quite want this to end yet,” he shrugs, but you don’t miss the slight tint on his cheek. It’s a little harder to see in the harsh, dim yellow of the street light, but it’s there. You don’t miss the subtle quietness of his last few words either.

You nod at him, carefully settling your feet on top of his, wary not to hurt him. Moving your hands from the back of his neck to his shoulder instead, you grasp onto him for support. He holds you carefully, tenderly, not letting you fall.

(But that’s funny, isn’t it? You’ve fallen for him so, so long ago. And you would fall for him again, and again, and again. He would be there to catch you. He would be there to hold you by the waist and dance with you.)

Thoma steps to his sides, left and right. You step with him, a look of concern etched on your expression for the mere fact that you are practically standing on his feet. He dismisses your silent inquisitions with a soft kiss to your nose. “I’m alright, (Name). I promise.”

The music does not stop—and you wonder where the music is, actually. Who is playing? What is this tune? For all you know it might be a lullaby for a child, or a song for a loving mother, or a piece for two old lovers.

You’re perfectly content with being in Thoma’s arms.

The music comes to much more mellow harmony, fitting for the coolness of the night. It seems that it’s about to end, but the night is still young and Thoma looks like he’s having the time of his life like this. He looks absolutely beautiful here. He looks absolutely beautiful everywhere. In your arms, he just looks a lot more handsome, almost celestial.

When the music ends, Thoma slowly stops with it. You carefully get off him, planting your feet firmly on the ground, standing on your tiptoes to stretch for good measure. The feeling of the pavement seems foreign now. How long have you been dancing?

The only sounds were the light exhales that leave Thoma’s lips. He remains in his place, his arms around you and his forehead on yours. There is a moment of silence, and the stars breathe. Thoma whispers, breathless, “Thank you.”

You lightly squeeze his shoulders. “For what? For crushing your feet?”

“No,” he laughs. The stars laugh with him, it seems. “For dancing with me. For being here with me.”

The dim yellow of the light above shines a kind of spotlight on you. It makes Thoma look ethereal. He looks godly here. You’re sure you look just as breathtaking. With Thoma, everything is beautiful, even in silence.

AROUND THE KITCHEN, WITH ONLY THE CANDLELIGHT ON…

This is your first home together.

Thoma would most probably say something cheesy, like, “Home is wherever we’re together,” but to finally, really have your first home together feels exhilarating and almost surreal.

The moment you stepped into the house for the first time, you knew this was it. You knew that this is the home you would share. You remember seeing how the sun entered through the windows. You remember how Thoma walked around the small, empty house. Scanning the rooms, pointing at which walls you’d redo and which floorings you’d keep. Telling you how he thinks the bed should be by the windows, so you’d wake up with the morning view of Inazuma. Blinking excitedly when he asked for your input, smiling fondly when you agreed. 

You remember how the sunlight bathed Thoma into a kind of golden glow; how everything dull in the room turned into something otherworldly, unearthly. No empty wood, no blank wall. Just the sunlight, in your new home, with Thoma’s magic.

There is not much to see yet. There is nothing but cardboard boxes and dusty chairs all around. There aren’t even lights in the rooms except the kitchen. Granted, the only light in the kitchen comes from a single lit candle, but there is light nonetheless. There is still sunlight seeping through the open windows, which helps too.

Thoma insists that this is important to do first: to set the kitchen up.

(“We can go to sleep without fancy beds or work in the day without lights, but we cannot function with an empty stomach,” Thoma says, like an elderly man teaching children about the do’s and dont’s of life. Like a man of wisdom, one who has seen more in his life than most people have.)

Another thing he believes to be of priority is the small player in the corner of the common room. It plays some funky music that neither of you know the title of, and it has been on repeat since the day started. Thoma tells you that it’s to liven up the house while you unpack, but you’ve been moving boxes and sweeping floors with him and nothing seems alive but him.

Thoma walks through the entryway of the kitchen, and your gaze follows him from your place in the middle of the floor. You offer him a bored look, and he returns it with a slightly stern stare. It elicits a small groan out of you that Thoma chuckles at. You have no choice but to continue going through box after box, moving each item in place. You don’t comment when Thoma sets the sweeper on the counter and leaves the room.

When every box has been emptied, you move from your seat and twist sideways. Left, right. The stretch soothes the aches in your body from sitting for so long. You eye the array of things you laid out on the floor, and feel a rush of motivation to get moving. Thoma isn’t lazing around, so why are you?

You bend to pick up the nearest thing to your feet, empty salt and pepper shakers. On the first overhead shelf, to the left. Your steps are drowned out by the music from the other room, and you find the next thing to put in place after walking back. Two pans. On the hooks by the second shelf, to the right. Just above the stoves. Dish rack. Just beside the sink. Utensils. In the drawer below the sink, with the organizer Thoma handmade. A small potted plant. Why is there a small potted plant?– In the middle of the kitchen counter. You hear the music stop.

A ladle. In the utensil holder, by the stove. A perforated spoon. In the utensil holder, by the stove. A turner. The music starts again. An upbeat song that you and Thoma listen to on sunny days. There are hurried footsteps from the other side of the room. A spatula. There is a holler, and you almost drop the cooking utensil in your hand in surprise

“Archons, Thoma, what–”

You swiftly turn, and there, by the entryway, Thoma is on his knees with a broom in his hands. He mouths the words of the song and strums his right hand hurriedly, as if playing (quite inaccurately) a larger version of the zither instrument you once saw in the nation of Liyue.

You are at a loss for words. You cannot find anything to say. But Thoma continues, his eyes closed as if he’s passionate about this– But he’s passionate about everything, intensity in every moment. It shouldn’t surprise you that it extends to something as silly as pretend instruments in an empty home. Brooms in hand and knees on the floor.

Thoma opens an eye to peek, then he nods at you. Come on, it says. Dance with me.

You skip across the floor and stand just in front of him, laughing to your heart’s content, preparing to join his shenanigans by pretending to clear your throat before bringing the spatula to your lips. Dance with me. A groove to your left, a sway to your right. Pretending that the spatula is your microphone, the kitchen becomes your stage. Your arm swings with your moves, a dance that looks absolutely horrifying to professional dancers—or to anyone, really—but you don’t shy away. Thoma stands and throws the broom to the side.

He jumps around the room, careful not to step on the remaining things on the floor. He kicks upward, then throws his hands with it. He seems to have a lot of energy to spare, and with all the sitting and sighing the whole day, you do too. You run around with him, singing along with the music.

The setting sun enters from the windows and suddenly, everything is alive. With Thoma, everything comes alive.

This is it. This is home.

Thoma. In the kitchen, dancing around. No perfected moves, zero choreography. Just golden light. Magic, otherworldly, unearthly.

When sunlight is no longer streaming in through the windows and the wind turns cold as the night makes itself known, Thoma rests by the entryway. The sun no longer bathes him, the music comes to a stop. There are only breathless lovers in the kitchen of an empty house.

Thoma wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand before turning to look at you with a boyish grin on his face. “Had fun?”

You take a time to breathe before nodding at him, returning the smile, “So much fun.”

He straightens up, a determined look finding its way to his face. You don’t question him when he walks away and out of the kitchen, and instead takes the time to catch your breath. The broom long forgotten, the sweeper silent on the counter, the rest of the kitchen items you didn’t manage to put into place left on the floor. (Blame Thoma for this. This is his fault.)

You sigh, though. There is a smile plastered on your face that you just couldn’t brush off. It remains there, and you almost throw a laugh remembering how the previous moments unfold—running around the room and dancing instead of doing chores, like children. Thoma still does not return, but soft music starts to fill the house.

You turn to the things laid out across the expanse of the empty kitchen and find a newfound motivation to finish your chores. You pick up the towels, walk towards one of the drawers to place it there. The cups, setting them one by one on the shelves. Plates. Bowls. You hear Thoma’s footsteps grow nearer to you with each passing beat of the music, and when you feel his presence just behind you, he coughs, lowering the timbre of his voice, “May I have this dance?”

Thoma holds your elbow and slowly turns you around. He eyes the bowl in your hand before grabbing it and reaching towards the shelf behind you, pinning you between him and the counter. What a tease, he is. Your hand hits his chest jokingly and he laughs at this before circling his arms around your waist and kissing you on the cheek.

“Didn’t you just scold me for lazing off this morning?” you joke to him.

His nose scrunches at your words. “No, I didn’t.”

Thoma walks you to the spacious part of the room. He looks you in the eye before he starts swaying to the music. You roll your eyes at him, but you dance with him nonetheless, arms around him. The sun is no longer there, but the candlelight creates a silhouette of you and him dancing. The room catches your shadows, entangled in each other’s limbs. No empty wood, no blank wall.

“Not verbally.”

Thoma puffs his cheeks at this, and you tease him with a knowing smile. He pulls you closer. “We can finish this tomorrow,” he resigns. “Just dance with me, now.”

IN THE RAIN, JUST BEFORE NOON…

“I told you it would rain,” you snicker.

Thoma clicks his tongue in disappointment, shaking off his legs, wet from being in the rain. You carefully hold his jacket above both of your heads, leaning closer to him to get better coverage—a feeble attempt to shield off the rainfall.

You’re not exactly drenched, but you’re not quite dry. Not at all. Thoma has it far worse, what with letting you take up most of the space under the small cover as you run towards a small camp just at the outskirts of Chinju Forest. It seems to have not been used for a long time, its tent dilapidated and falling apart, not much of help than Thoma’s jacket.

He sighs. You squat down deeply to rest, closing your eyes as you feel Thoma’s sulking presence just beside you. He sighs again, turning to look up the skies with narrowed eyes, as if he could stop the rain that way. As if he could control the weather. He clicks his tongue when it fails.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, nudging you gently. His gaze falls to his feet and you could not even fathom why he is apologizing for something like this. Thoma continues, “We’re supposed to have a fun date today. Even with the rain we could be–ugh, if only I didn’t forget an umbrella. If only it didn’t rain– Archons–”

With furrowed brows, you grab his arms and carefully turned him to face you. His expression sports dejection, and on any other day you would have laughed and swooned, teasing the undeniable similarity of his pout and Taroumarou’s. On any other day you would have kissed his frown away.

But the kiss would come later.

“Hey,” you click your tongue. His face now rests on the palms of your hands, and you gently squeeze as some form of comfort. “I’m having fun, Thoma. It would’ve been much better if we’re both dry, sure, but that doesn’t mean our day is ruined.”

Your thumbs rub the apples of his cheeks, and you watch in wonder as it turns into a shade of red under your touch. The coolness of the winds and the rains does not help with the blush on the tip of his nose, too.

“You’re only saying that to make me feel better…”

With a light but steady hold, you lift his face up so he would look at you directly. Ah, there it is. Such eyes like Thoma’s could really rival Taroumarou if Thoma tries. It distracts you for a moment.

“I’m not only saying this to make you feel better. I am genuinely very happy. I’m happy that you went out of your way to ask me out today, despite how busy you are at the Kamisato Estate. I’m happy that you planned out a whole day for us two! Though it may not have gone as planned, I’m just happy that I get to be with you,” you chuckle at the way he tries to look away, but you keep your hold firm. There is shyness in his stance, embarrassment in his eyes. You took this as an opportunity to finally tease him, “And I’m very happy, because you’re being very adorable right now.”

Thoma grabs your wrists, eyes wide. He pushes your hands away, gentle enough to not hurt you but still enough to keep your hands away from him. You laugh at his clumsy resistance against your fondness. Still, you managed to hold him and kiss him tenderly. In your arms, he relaxes. It’s a split second yet it feels like an eternity.

When both pull away, you gently nudge him to follow you as you step out of the tent. “Come on,” you tell him, voice excited but still delicate. He could only respond with the furrow of his brows.

“Where?” he tilts his head ever so slightly. “In the rain?”

“Yes.” The answer comes without a hint of hesitation. Thoma just lets himself be pulled by you to wherever. “We’re already drenched, anyway. Come.”

Thoma does not protest, his jacket long forgotten, left on the muddy ground in the abandoned camp you took temporary shelter in. He would scold you for it usually, but he does not now. You run into the middle of the road, arms spread as you turn and turn and turn until you’re almost dizzy and the silhouette of your lover turns blurry. Thoma becomes more puzzled than ever, but only mirth leaves your lips.

You don’t know how it happened. One minute, you’re laughing and letting the rain soak your through. The next, Thoma pulls you into his arms, the warmth of his body on yours. He holds you close enough that you don’t even know where you and him starts and ends.

“What’s with you today? Hm?” Thoma jests. You respond with a laugh, leaning the weight of your whole body onto his arms. He places a small kiss on the tip of your nose before holding the back of your head close against his chest. “You have an odd way of dates.”

He laughs, and it has been laughter ever since you stepped out of shelter. You hear it echo in your ears and you feel his chest shifting with it. You decide to squeeze your arms around his torso instead.

Voice muffled against his drenched clothing, you retort, “Says you, Mr. I-forgot-to-bring-an-umbrella!”

“I thought you said you’re having fun, regardless?”

Such banter between you and him seems unfitting under the weather. If the gods are watching, you would curse them for the unpleasant day. Plans are ruined, paths are cold, skies are dark. But Thoma suddenly pulls you away from the warmth of his body and holds you by your elbows, arms straight, only to spin both of you around. Water sputters everywhere, and your shoes are beyond saving at this point. Nothing is unfitting about this. Everything is perfect.

(Maybe not the shoes beyond saving part, but Thoma is to blame for that.)

All the spinning and running leave you both out of breath, and the raindrops jump against the grass. If you listen carefully, maybe it’s even playing a rhythm with its pelting against the trees and the roofs of the houses in a nearby village.

“The rain doesn’t seem to be letting up,” Thoma says, breathless. “We should change our clothes into something warm, else we risk getting sick. The Kamisato Estate is just up the path, we can–”

“Oh, no,” you immediately reject his idea, hands in defense. “No, no, no! Thoma, that’s–”

“What’s wrong?”

“We can’t– I can’t possible impose– No, I can’t!” Your head shakes rapidly. “That would be so impolite, Thoma!”

“Ayato and Ayaka treat you as their friend, you know? You don’t have to be so prim with them,” he soothes you, rubbing your arms with both his hands. “We could have tea there to warm up. They have great tea, I should know! And they both have been wanting to see you again, since it’s been so long. I think they’re both at the estate right now–”

You grimace at the thought. “That’s even worse. I just–” A sigh escapes your lips, and Thoma waits for you to speak. He remains calm and composed, coaxing you gently and keeping you comfortable. That is just how he is, loving as he will ever be. “In the state we are right now, all wet and muddy, I don’t feel that it is appropriate.”

Thoma purses his lips, as if he’s thinking, then he nods, “Okay.” He wraps his arms around your waist, holding you in an embrace. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

A quiet smile finds its way to your lips, and you lift your arms to brush through his wet blonde hair. “It’s alright. I know you had good intentions.” You hear Thoma hums, and you are satisfied with it. You rest your head on his shoulder, continuing to play with the hair on the back of his neck. “We could go home now, if you want. So we can change out of our clothes and wash up. Would you like that?”

“No,” he says. “No, let’s stay like this for a moment. Let’s just make sure to wash up as soon as we get home.”

“Okay.”

If the gods are watching, you would curse them. Under the rain, one afternoon in Inazuma, you had found yourself into your lovers arms. If you get sick after this, you would curse the gods. But…

But you feel Thoma’s heart. It is beating against your chest, and it rings in your ears. It sings a song, and you think, maybe, this isn’t so bad. Thoma moves, and you move with him. The rain dances on your skin, the pitter-patter of the raindrops fall freely on the ground.

The world dances with you.

Right, a dance. What you have with Thoma is exactly that: a dance, carefully done, graceful, wonderful, beautiful. Fluid.

A choreography may have its set steps, but each dancer makes it their own. With every new stage comes a new story.

This is your own dance. Your own story. A pas de deux.

IN MONDSTADT, ON A WARM, LIVELY DAY…

Perhaps you just don’t quite get it. Perhaps you would just never know what it feels like to have half of your being hundreds of miles away, because you have always been whole in one place and never more.

Thoma was not always the Thoma you now know.

He was not always Thoma, the well-known “fixer” of Inazuma. He was not always Thoma, the housekeeper of the Kamisato Clan. He was not always Thoma, Kamisato Ayato’s most loyal. Thoma, Kamisato Ayaka’s most trusted. Thoma, your most loved.

There was a time when he was just… Thoma, in Mondstadt.

Just Thoma, cooking hash browns for his Mondstadtian mother early in the morning. Just Thoma, strolling along the Mondstadt streets leisurely content. Just Thoma, spending his free days in the Favonius Library. Just Thoma, running around the fields in the outskirts of town with certain blue-haired and red-haired boys. Just Thoma.

“Is that them?”

Thoma pauses his small conversation with the fruit stall owner, excusing himself before turning to you. “Hm? Who?”

“The gentlemen you said you grew up with,” you recall, pointing subtly towards the center fountain of the Mondstadt city plaza where a red-haired man adorned with black clothing walks and greets every person they pass by and a blue-haired man with an eyepatch following suit. They both seem to be moving towards your direction.

“It is,” Thoma grins. You feel him move forward, excitement coursing through his body with every step he takes before he waves and the two men wave back.

You follow Thoma, staying behind so as to not overwhelm yourself and to let them bask in the joy of their reunion first. Your lover is as happy as one could be — in glee, in the way you had never seen of him back in Inazuma. Something about this joy, this Thoma, that melts your heart. It’s something so new, yet still so familiar. Because this is Thoma.

“It has been way too long, Thoma,” the blue-haired gentleman says in lieu of a greeting before pulling Thoma into a warm embrace. He pats his back a few times, and you hear Thoma laugh softly.

“It has,” Thoma replies. “I’m glad to see you again, Kaeya.”

You watch as they pull away in all smiles, then as Thoma faces the red-haired man with a subtle mischief to his grin. He gestures for a hug, which the man returns, though less touchy but still visibly affectionate.

“You’ve grown taller, Master Diluc,” Thoma teases.

The man, Diluc, snorts in brief amusement, “Well, I sure am excited you are back to make fun of my height. You and Kaeya loved that when we were kids.”

The three men burst into a quiet laughter, one filled with nostalgia and childlikeness. You see this with your own two eyes and you think that seeing the half of Thoma that you had never known feels so fulfilling. You are seeing him now, and you start seeing him whole. This is Thoma. Just as he is Thoma of Inazuma, Thoma of Mondstadt. Thoma in the Kamisato Estate, Thoma in the Ritou streets, Thoma in the Mondstadt Plaza, Thoma in the Windrise fields.

Your Thoma.

“The dance is about to start,” Kaeya starts once their laughter died down. “You still know how to hold the rhythm, Thoma?”

“Ehh, I’ve done some practice,” Thoma boasts. He turns to you after, flashing you a sweet smile. “Would you like to join? It’ll be fun! But I don’t want to overwhelm you, either, so we can just sit and watch if you want.”

You open your mouth to respond, but before words could even form on your tongue, Kaeya interrupts. “Oh Barbatos, how rude of us! I didn’t know you’d bring someone with you, Thoma!” he happily croons, “Spouse?”

A rush of heat and panic courses through your fingertips. “Oh, oh no–”

“Yes,” Thoma nods fervently, interrupting you before you could even defend yourself. His hand finds its place in yours, intertwining your fingers as it has always done before pulling you closer to him. You look up at him abashed, and he turns to you with a look that he knows. He knows. He knows. And he is not regretting anything, nor is he taking anything back. “Diluc, Kaeya. This is my spouse.”

“Goodness!” Kaeya exclaims, clapping twice. “Then I’ll be the first to ask, would you like to dance?” He puts his hand towards you, gesturing you to take it. He senses your hesitation so he continues. “Don’t worry, I can teach you, and you’ll be better than Thoma in no time. And we have quite!”

You glance at Thoma worriedly, and he gives you a reassuring smile. “Go on, (Name)!” Then he glares at Kaeya, “No funny business, okay?”

“Oh, don’t worry! I won’t speak about the time you were running home because you really needed to go to the toilet but you didn’t even get past your front door before your pants were soi–”

“Archons, would it kill you to shut up for a seco–”

Kaeya gently grabs your wrist, pulling you to the center of the plaza and away from Diluc and Thoma. The red-haired man waves and Thoma just shrugs.

Lively music starts to play, and a few people started joining in. There is not an order to the dancing in the plaza, since everybody seems to be taking their time to practice first. Kaeya taps your forearm twice, catching your attention.

“Sorry about that,” Kaeya sheepishly apologizes, “and sorry about grabbing you. I hope it’s fine.”

“It is, don’t worry,” you reassure. “Though, uhh… I don’t really know how to do this.”

Kaeya laughs, shooting relief down your spine. “Honestly? Me neither! But here’s what I know.”

The blue-haired man in front of you grabs both your hands, gentle in touch. You feel the calluses on his fingertips. He guides you to move, left and right. “Kick out your left foot, then your right. Alternate them in steps forward…” He instructs, one by one, as he moves in unison with you. “...Aaaaand, turn!” Kaeya turns you around, holding you steady with an arm to your elbow when you stumble slightly.

You feel your heartbeat grow quicker with the excitement and nerves, and Kaeya smiles at you with a look that says, that was great! You’re doing great! You glance behind him, locking eyes with Thoma and he raises a high thumbs up to you, easing the tension you didn’t know you had stuck in your body.

“That’s all there is to it, actually,” Kaeya explains. “It’s just a series of repetitions. Kick, left and right. Step, left and right, then turn! You already got the hang of it.”

The music continues and both you and Kaeya move to it. The sun is at its perfect place in the sky, and the city is starting to find its rhythm. Everyone dancing begins to neatly follow their parts in the plaza, and you’re glad that you haven’t stumbled once since you last did when Kaeya was teaching you.

“You know,” Kaeya starts, kicking, left right, stepping, left right, turn. “He was the best behaved child among all of us in Mondstadt. Not even Diluc could compare, because our father would always tell us how good of a boy Thoma was, and we should be more like him.”

Kick, left and right. Step, left and right. Turn. Kaeya chuckles lowly. “Of course I never listened, and neither did Diluc.”

You nod in acknowledgement, gesturing him to continue and that you’re intently listening. You get to hear snippets of Thoma’s life long before you two ever met.

“He’s a great man. I’m sure you know that, too.”

Before you could even continue on with the conversation, a gloved hand gently nudges your elbow and you turn to look. Diluc stands before you two, looking at you with his fiery eyes. “May I?”

“Oh,” you glance at Kaeya, gaze asking. He nods, carefully pushing you into Diluc’s reach without missing a beat. “Of course!”

Kick, left and right. Step, left and right. Turn. Turn. Turn.

“How are you enjoying Mondstadt so far?”

“Uhh,” you try to speak, but not being used to dancing tires you too quickly if you try to speak, “It’s been great. Happy. To see Thoma’s childhood.”

Diluc rubs the back of your hands with his thumbs, apologetic in his actions. “Sorry, you don’t have to talk if you can’t. I’ll do the talking,” he coughs. Left, right, left, right, left, right. Turn. Left, right. “Although I’m not very good at talking either.”

“It’s fine, Diluc,” you grin at him reassuringly. “I’m just not very athletic and definitely not very good at dancing.”

“You’re doing great,” Diluc says.

More people started to join the dance, and everybody else not in the center claps to the lively music. A few people started bringing their instruments and adding to the bustling city their own flavors of music. Kick, left, right, left, right. Step, left, right, left, right. Turn. Turn. Turn.

“Thoma was a good boy,” Diluc wonders aloud, “and now he has grown into a great man.”

You nod in agreement, smiling at the parallel anecdotes from both Kaeya and Diluc. You decide to respond, “He has. He is a great man.”

“I see it. You are so lucky to have him,” Diluc nods, smiling to himself. “But I’m sure he’s just as lucky to have you as well.”

You find comfort in the warm words of Diluc, and you grin inwardly, looking down to try and hide it. He holds you and guides you with ease and grace, and the city of Mondstadt becomes a part of you as well.

It’s so fulfilling. To be able to see the half of Thoma, and to become a part of his whole.

Your eyes look around, searching for the blonde-haired boy, and you see him skipping towards you. He moves to the beat, moving closer inch by inch. He never misses, and you realize that he has danced his whole life. He has danced every part of who he is and he has asked you to dance with him.

Diluc offers your hand to Thoma, and he waves you a small goodbye before moving to the side. Thoma kisses your palm, never losing rhythm.

“Dance with me?”

TAGLIST: @yakshahs. . . my taglist is open! please fill up this form if you want to be added ♡

[vriothesley]

THE LIGHT BEYOND THE MOON. he’d rather you hold him like this, now and tomorrow, and the days and weeks and months after. the years, the decades.

pairing | albedo / gn! reader genre | fluff word count | 771 note | reposted from my old blog.

The autumn dew under the midnight moon sits idly outside the window. It watches you in silence—watches the tangled limbs and messy sheets and forgotten pillows. Albedo pulls you closer, runs his fingers up your back, then down. Up, down. Up. Until it settles on the curve of your waist. His hand hovers there, in a hold that’s tender; in a warmth that speaks.

“You look–” he stutters. He opens his mouth, only to close it again. It takes him a few seconds, but the seconds don’t even matter. “You look nice.”

“Nice?” You ask him. Autumn in Mondstadt, for that moment, becomes warmer. His face burns red, and he hurries to hide it in the crook of your neck. You respond with an even warmer laugh, to tease him. It’s an exhilarating thought—to know you have some sort of power over the chief alchemist, the Albedo, that he flusters. “Just nice?”

Albedo snuggles further into you. Where he starts and you end is nothing to be questioned anymore, for under the midnight moon, you are one.

He kisses your neck, once. He adds another kiss somewhere along the curve of your throat, then he leans back to kiss your jaw. He smiles against your skin with every touch of his lips.

“Beautiful, I mean,” he corrects. Albedo runs his fingers up your back again. Down. Up. Except his fingers, this time, speak more than just warmth. It says, carefully: let’s stay here, together. Revelling in the warmth of each other and forgetting all about the reds and oranges of leaves falling outside the room.

Autumn in Mondstadt, for that moment, means something else to you now. Autumn in Mondstadt now means fleeting kisses on your skin, fingers running up and down your spine. Autumn in Mondstadt now means “You look beautiful,” when the smiles are lazy and lethargy catches up with the way you and him look into each other’s eyes. Beautiful is a word he describes you, on one autumn in Mondstadt, when the night grows old and the world grows quiet.

But Albedo does not stop there. He kisses your cheek, and you feel his breath brushing against your skin. “You are beautiful in ways I have never seen.”

This is his revenge. This is his way of saying that he has as much power to fluster you as you have on him. This is a silly, little competition that you’d laugh at later in the morning. This brings heat that starts on the tips of your fingers up to the tips of your ears.

“Stop!” You whine, burying your face in your hands. Albedo laughs, and the moon laughs with him, you think. Let’s stay here, in each other arms. “Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true,” he says, earnest. His voice drips with such sincerity that it almost tears you up. He carefully removes your hands away, placing it on his jaw instead. He leans into it, like he’d rather you hold him like this until autumn ends and winter comes. Until winter dissipates into the bright of spring and spring turns into summer. He’d rather you hold him like this, now and tomorrow, and the days and weeks and months after. The years, the decades. He’d rather be here, with you.

He turns to kiss your palm. You let words build home in your chest before you ask Albedo to be home with you: “If you say things like that, I might just fall in love with you.”

Albedo smiles. “Didn’t you already?” He teases, then laughs at the light-hearted shake of your head. “Well, hurry up then.”

This is all you could ever ask for, really. To hold someone in your arms without fear of its warmth leaving you. To hold someone close as if this is the only place someone belongs. As if this is home. To hold Albedo, on one autumn in Mondstadt under the midnight moon, forgetting everyone and everything else but you and him.

You run your fingers through his hair, watching how his eyes close like a sun setting down the horizon. It’s beautiful. Everything is beautiful in the here and now.

“If I ask you to keep me in your arms for the rest of your life, would you?”

Of course. Why would you ever let go of something so beautiful?

“I would. Even after the rest of my life, if there is time beyond it. I would keep you in my heart.”

“Good,” he mumbles. Only you and him hear his words, like a secret. “Good. Your heart is my favorite place to be held.”

[vriothesley]

unholy is what you and kaeya are.

pairing | kaeya / gn! reader genre | angst, semi-nsfw, friends with benefits word count | 1.5k+ warnings | explicit language, kissing, suggestive content, implied smut, minors dni

This is the part where you run away.

Staying here would mean a lot of things, all of which you cannot begin to understand.

You distract yourself with your seatbelt, undoing it with shaky, nimble fingers. Kaeya stares ahead. He doesn’t look at you once, he doesn’t speak a word. Neither do you.

What was one to say, anyway?

“Thanks,” maybe. So you say it. “For driving me.”

Kaeya clears his throat, but it barely does anything. “I’ve always driven you home, every time we meet,” he retorts. It sounds harsher than usual, but you notice his shoulders twitching slightly, taking it as a sign of his grimace, so you don’t take his tone personally.

“Right,” you nod. And then it becomes silent.

You hear the ringing in your ears. You could almost hear your skin tearing apart where your nails have picked on your hands. You could almost hear the pleasure and pain, if both of those have any sound at all. And you wonder what it would sound like when it does.

A scream? A groan? A cry? What would you hear? Whose voice would it be?

Kaeya’s?

It feels heavy, and it feels heavy for an infinite amount of time. Like the beginning of this silence started long before you were even alive, and it stretches until a million years have passed. And maybe it would go for millions more, until the weight becomes so crushing that time would end.

“I’ll go now,” you say, and the millions of years left in the sands of time shatters. Your hand fiddles with the handle, waiting for a response, a nod, a look. You don’t expect one and you would not mind not getting one, but you waited anyway.

The door opens.

Call me, you should say. Or I’ll call you. You would always tell him that before he leaves. Text me when you need anything, you would suggest. He always knows what you mean. He texts you a week after. Come by tomorrow. I might have plans the week after. I’ll see you again.

Your mouth instead forms words that feel to you like, “Thanks, again.” You’re not quite sure of it. There is a numbness in your voice that it does not feel real anymore.

This is the part where you run away.

It takes one step out before Kaeya startles you with his voice. He grabs onto your elbow gently, but it freezes you in place. “Wait,” he rushes, “wait.”

He steadies his hand, holding onto your arm as he pulls you back to your seat. You let him. He could push you and pull you and drag you for all you cared. It has always been this war, the push-and-pull, an unfilled space between that no matter how strong you hold onto the rope, you stay miles apart.

It has always been so hard to understand what you have. You and Kaeya have had each other at an arm’s length, but never in each other’s arms.

“We need to talk, first,” Kaeya starts. His hold remains on your arm. His skin on your skin burns, like it always does. It seethes of something that you know is akin to sin. Some levels of hell, loveless pits.

Is it really the pit of empty romance? When he touches you, time and time again, you have never felt such a rush in your spine and it kills you that only he could do it to you. Only he knows your body. Only he knows you.

“Talk?” you question him, voice quiet but words sharp. “About what?”

“You know what.”

This war.

“I don’t.”

“Stop lying.”

The push-and-pull.

“I’m not lying,” you snap. “I’m not lying. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Kaeya flinches, but it’s so small a move that you bet you would not even notice if it isn’t you.

But it is. You, who knows his body well. You, who knows him well.

(You do not know him well enough to understand what you are to him, and what he is to you. You do not know him outside of burning flesh and the pits of hell.)

“We have to talk,” he grits his teeth, and you hear it in his words. His hand has slowly looped around your arm that you have to shift your body and turn to him. You face him and he faces you, eyes staring each other down.

“And I asked you, about what?”

“Stop being so goddamn dense, (Name)!”

An unfilled space between.

“Stop being so fucking vague then, Kaeya!” you cry. A finger pointing to him. To his chest. “Tell me right now, what should we talk about? Our bodies? Because that’s all we know about each other.”

“No.”

“How this sick thing we do is just a repeating series of– of whatever bullshit this is?”

Kaeya tightens his lips together. He seems to have something to say, but he keeps it. He stares forward, mapping out the points of your face.

You suppose that is fair, you have never seen each other up this close. You and him always had your eyes closed, afraid to see what secrets are under your skin. The sense of touch does not help you know where the devil is playing. The sense of touch deceives you into the wicked pleasures of the devil until you dance with it.

But you suppose it is too late. Because the devil lets you feel what you are aching to repress.

Sex is intimacy. Without it, sex is just a shameless cycle of self-sabotage.

One wrong step and you fall, again and again–and again, into the bottomless pit. Pleasure and pain.

“Kiss me,” you whisper. You don’t have to tell him, and you know that. He is already a hair’s breadth close when you tell him this, and you don’t waste any time.

It all crashes.

You collapse into each other and it feels so right. The devil is somewhere letting the smolders form the fire that melts your bodies together. It feels heavy, and it feels heavy for an infinite amount of time. But you don’t mind the weight, not right now. Not when it’s this.

“(Name),” he hums against your lips. You silence him with yours, moving across the plushness of his skin. He retaliates with his tongue teasing into your own mouth.

So fucking unholy, yet unholy is what you and Kaeya are.

His hand slides down your body, teasing what little skin gets exposed with your shirt riding up. He rubs his thumb on it, and he could be etching his name onto your hip but you do not care. He could mark you and you would let him because you’re his. His. His.

“Mine,” he sighs. “All mine.”

Your hand rests on his thigh, trying to find some sort of ground with your hold.

His hand slowly slides up, up, until he finds your waist under your shirt. It feels too much and altogether, not enough. You needed more. You ask for more.

You pull at each other until you don’t know when you start and he ends. It’s all coming together, in the front seats of his godforsaken car and it’s coming together now.

“Fuck,” he clicks his tongue when you find yourself pulling away to breathe, “Come here.”

He guides you into his lap as you feel his seat slowly moving back. You move with the rush of a being so hungry, so starved and he lets you settle on top of him. Both your palms rest against his chest and you look at him, in this single moment of clarity you both have.

“What now?” you ask him. His stare is so blown that it almost scares you, because it feels like a dangerous mistake. “What now, Kaeya?”

He grabs both your hands and brings it around the back of his neck. Kaeya steadies you there before reaching to your face, letting his thumb pull your bottom lip. He stares so intensely that you could not help but indulge him a bit, teasing it with the tip of your tongue. There is a sharp inhale that slices through the heavy tension.

“What now?” he repeats, brows raising when he tries to put more of his thumb into your mouth and you welcome it willingly. “I’m going to do what I do best.”

You smile against his fingers, knowing what he means and knowing how this would end tonight.

“I’m going to make you feel good,” he says lowly, inching closer before removing his thumb from your lips then giving it a taste of his own. God. Fuck. “Isn’t that right?”

He does not give you any time to respond before pressing his lips onto yours again. Harsher. Stronger. Fiercer. A push-and-pull.

You take the words out of each other’s mouths and fill it with unrelenting sighs and the utterance of each other’s name. Kaeya, your lips mutter. Kaeya. Kaeya. Kaeya. Please, Kaeya.

Kaeya’s grip on your hips is firm enough to keep you in place. As if you’re ever moving away from here. He pulls you, and pulls you, and you push yourself down, down, down to him and down to hell. Time doesn’t stop, not even under the suffocating fog of pleasure and pain in the air. Not even when everything is shed away and all that’s left is you and him, bare. With only skin as the barrier for the secrets of your insatiable souls.

This is the part where you run away. But you don’t.

[vriothesley]

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[vriothesley]

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