i. Jump City was beautiful in the same way those dystopian urban areas in the video games Beast Boy and Cyborg liked to play were.
Had Terra been a sculptor, that would've been her magnum opus. From the overturned cars to the half-crumpled buildings to the deep gashes in the asphalt - she crafted it all with her own two hands. She was always good at art.
ii. It's when Terra dreams of them that she wakes up in a cold sweat with her pillows strewn about on the floor, blanket half-on and half-off.
It's something different every time, but she'd picked up on a few recurring images: the sole fang that poked out of Beast Boy's mouth, the glaring red of Raven’s four eyes, the crinkle in Robin's mask where his brows ought to have been.
There was also a common theme to the questions she'd ask herself: was she imploding? Was she caving in?
Cave ins, cave ins - Terra had caused so many. In Markovia, in Gotham, in Metropolis. A mudslide in Kansas that killed seventeen people and left twenty-eight injured. An avalanche in Nevada where a four year old girl died.
(Terra had to save little kids all the time when she was a Titan. She could never look any of them in the eyes, though - not without seeing a limp hand sticking out beneath mounds of dirt and rocks.)
iii. I’m never going to be an adult. I’ll be fifteen forever, but that’s okay, right? Because this is all my fault in the first place.
Is it suicide if I’m saving the city? Is it saving the city if I’m doing it for them?
iv. For once in her life, Tara belongs somewhere. Sort of.
Amber and Dionne get smoothies with her everyday after class. A pretty girl in World History passes her notes with cutesy little doodles in them. Her teachers know her name and greet her in the hallways when they pass her by.
Otherwise, she was invisible. Unremarkable. Just another skinny rich girl at a private school, another girl that could be pretty if it weren’t for the hollow of her cheeks and the blank look on her face.
When Beast Boy found her, she was equal parts relieved and angry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. But above all, she wanted to reach for his hand when he said, "come with me".
Instead, Tara ripped a hole into his chest and tore out his heart (again) and stomped it into the ground (again).
It was for the best.
She had a 3.6 GPA. Not great, not bad. Just like her. She was offered a spot on the track team, but she declined. She was tired of running. She kissed the girl in her history class. They did more at some senior party and then never again. Amber and Dionne invited her to spend weekends with them at their beach houses, but she thought of the scars on her chest and said no every time.
v. She visits the pier after graduation. The water still stinks. The dock's still too rickety to stand on. The Ferris wheel she sunk into the ground is still half-buried where she last remembered it.
When she skips a stone, it flashes yellow and skips once more than it should have. She stares at her hand, resigned.
The imperial ballroom teems with life, a reflection of ten thousand years past. Patrons of varying degrees from varying corners of Teyvat dance and mingle and laugh with one another. Eighteen year old Keqing barely manages to navigate the venue without bumping into this socialite or that diplomat. Just a moment ago, she’d narrowly avoided reuniting with one extremely persistent Inazuman suitor.
A royal marriage between two nations should be reason enough to celebrate, and so earlier that evening, she'd smothered every instinct in her screaming that there is more to be done, that amidst the global threat issued by the Abyss Order, it’s foolish for thousands to gather together in one location unguarded.
After her maids’ insistence that yes, her eyeliner was even, Keqing shed her training gear and exchanged her sword for a flimsy folding fan. One hastily fashioned bun later and she’s donned the only dress remaining in her closet (the others, she explained to her mother, had “shrunk in the wash”). It’s flamboyant in color and design, and the corset accentuates her hips a little too much, but otherwise, it's only mildly intolerable. All she needs to do is pick up her feet.
Unfortunately, the edges of her skirt insist on skimming the floor, even three hours later. She disposes of her fan to better gather the dress’ fabric, raising it a hairsbreadth as she begins her fourth round around the room.
A nod, a smile, a simple hello to those she recognizes and those she doesn’t. She should dance at one point, she supposes, but her Liyuen entourage is nowhere to be seen, lost among the crowd or perhaps having escaped the pretentious atmosphere to loiter elsewhere. She itches to join them. It’d been quite some time since they’d all properly caught up with one another. Noya’s face would light up, Mai and Yi would scramble to cover up whatever it is they’re up to (because surely they are up to something, as always), and even Jia might smile, though she’s still …behaving oddly — not quite herself.
She catches a flash of white in her periphery.
Keqing’s breath hitches. Only a few feet away, just barely blocked by a circle of gathered civilians, stands a tall, inconceivably attractive youth — a glass of dandelion wine at hand, head dipped low, listening to a young girl enthusiastically relay a story. A lock of white hair curls against the sharp line of their jaw. Their formal ensemble leaves much to be desired, if one could even consider it “formal” to begin with … though in a way, she found the dark leather waistcoat and distressed trousers charming in a “diamond in the rough” manner.
It hardly occurs to her how long she’s been staring … that is, until the young girl beside them gestures in her direction with a wave. The youth turns to look over their shoulder, eyes widening marginally when their gazes meet.
It takes every ounce of dignified strength to refrain from squeaking and fleeing, and to instead, force a smile upon her face. Keqing returns the wave with one of her own as she (reluctantly) makes her way towards them.
When they’re all standing face-to-face, she clasps her hands low before her, offering them both a bow.
“How are you enjoying the festivities?”
The young girl grins, dimples adorning her cheeks. “Everything’s great! Me and my friends were dancing earlier, but we’re taking a small break.”
“I’ve only arrived a bit ago,” the taller youth claims, glancing at her. Their answering smile to an outsider would appear poised and warm, diplomatic to the fullest, but Keqing believes she knows them — the kind of person they truly are — almost as if she’s witnessed them with their head thrown back, shoulders shaking with laughter. She feels that she could catalogue the curve of their smile while differentiating it from the look they are currently giving her. Her throat closes as she acknowledges their statement with a nod. When a waitress passes them by cradling a platter of drinks, she snags a cup for herself.
The young girl – she hadn’t thought to ask her name, and by now it’s too late, isn’t it – continues on with a story about traveling out of Natlan for the first time in her lifetime, and how her friends and she reacted to Liyue’s majestic mountain ranges and emerald green grass fields. It’s exactly the sort of story she loves, but the warmth of her taller companion at her side is far too much.
A few minutes later, the young girl waves off into the crowd. “There’s my sister! It was an honor to speak to you both.” And then, she’s off and it’s just the two of them, standing in the middle of the chattering crowd, separate hands clenching lukewarm glasses with a strength just shy of shattering them.
But Keqing is a diplomat, above all else.
(Actually, she is her father’s “daughter”, above all else … someone with trembling hands and a softening heart that wants to wax poetics about the line of this stranger’s shoulders and the soft of their hair.)
She clears her throat. “Keqing.”
“Yves.” They glance down at their glass, swirling the liquid. “Has anyone ever mentioned that this drink is … repulsive?”
“No, not that I’m aware of.”
To her astonishment, they chuckle. “It seems that I’m the outlier, then.”
Her lips twitch into another smile — a more relaxed one. “It’s apparently a treasured specialty of Mondstadt's. And here I thought I was the only one here who isn’t fond of it.”
“That makes two outliers then. Lucky us.” Yves’ eyes crinkle at the ends. Their smile softens, and Keqing notices a hint of fangs jutting out in between their lips. Her hand sweats around the stem of her glass.
“Yes, well…” She falters, an urgent tingling in her chest. The smile she’d worn so gracefully suddenly falls slack. “I should — I should get going. My friends … they’re waiting for me someplace else.” Keqing stumbles as she steps away from the other, her heels caught on the ends of her too-long, too-extravagant dress. “I hope you continue to enjoy yourself.”
There’s a glimmer of something in their eyes, but they’re quick to mask it. They nod, and she nods back, coercing her expression into something cordial.
She then turns to leave, careful to avoid losing her sense of balance (again), when Yves says, “Keqing?”
She pauses, looking over her shoulder. “Yes?”
They smile. This time, the expression borders unfamiliar, tinged with a hint of emotion she has definitely felt, but can’t put a name to. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
@spirestar: 'you’re always so right. it must be such a burden.'
"oh, than. you flatter me." megaera steadies herself on a giant pillar, impatiently awaiting the liquid death of the styx to drip drip drip off her body. reeling from a sword to her chest was becoming too rehearsed of a sensation. at this point, it's a perpetual stain on her robes, and worse yet, her fury namesake.
"not that it would take a proverb in one of athena's books to come to that conclusion, anyway." she flexes her hands upward to redo her ponytail. "the both of us are more than aware of how persistent zagreus can be. he's practically rashlike. i can barely stomach it at times."
@finalyaksha: What does the loud kid mean when he says I need to "have my face flattened?"
inwardly, she's berating heizou for being the worst person to ever set foot on this planet. she's killing him dead over and over again - with a gun, with a bat...hell, with a fork. what right did he have to taint her boyfriend's innocence? that's her job!
still, the dark blush spilling over her features regales a different story.
"nothing! it means nothing!" keqing runs both hands down her cheeks so to help their beetness subside (it didn't - not in the slightest). "don't worry about it, okay?"
It leaks onto the ground from — he isn’t sure where, exactly, other than it’s from him, from his broken body, his battered body. Everything aches. Everything bleeds. He is skin and bones and blood.
His eyes squint at the pool of blood he’s been stewing in. The color is dark, almost black. But he knows it’s blood — recognizes it even when he can’t recall his name.
He remembers that Teyvat is vastly unexplored still. That much is apparent as he marvels at the untrimmed grass, the silence that hangs limp in the air. Consider a landscape painting — unblemished, untainted by humanity. It’s as if he had been rendered into one as an afterthought, or perhaps as a mistake.
He remembers that there currently exists three major nations — one of contracts, one of freedom, one of eternity. The boundaries are roughly definable. They’re further classified by element — geo, anemo, and electro respectively. Relations amongst them all are civil. Somewhat.
He remembers that density and altitude have an inverse relationship. The atmosphere thins — falters — the higher up you are, barely held together by gravity and its whims. He remembers the sensation of soaring, then of falling, even when he has yet to take flight. He remembers the connection, the way he felt bound to them, but he can’t remember his name, can’t remember where he’s from, can’t remember what he’s done to deserve lying on the ground he suddenly hated, bleeding.
II. SIX HUNDRED YEARS LATER, AND HIS HANDS ARE STILL BLOOD STAINED.
At first, he washes them almost obsessively. But whenever he looks down, he sees the blood under his nails, sees drops crusted on his fingers. No matter how hard he scrubs, the blood stays, the blood stays.
He invests in a pair of gloves — handmakes them, actually. They’re dark and sensible, and they do not reek of blood. And while he’s a creature of habit, he is also a fast learner … he’s careful never to go about his day without them on. In combat, in between snacks, in the midst of his meditation regimen, he tugs at the cuffs so that they cover his lower arms.
III. THERE ALWAYS SEEMED TO BE A WOMAN LOITERING AT THE ENTRANCE OF WANGSHU INN.
Hair in an updo, bold eye makeup. A mile-long black dress, a nice one, an expensive one. He tells himself, she’s probably the companion of someone who lives here. He tells himself, this has nothing to do with me. He tells himself, stop looking.
But the woman in the black dress is familiar in all the ways he knows she shouldn’t be. The woman in the black dress is familiar in all the ways he can’t put a name to, not yet.
He prays they never meet, or at least not in her lifetime.
IV. “I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME — WITH MY BRAIN.”
Zhongli stares at him. His eyes are large, dark. There are no bags under them, not like a human’s. Xiao's memories are hazy but he attests to bags weighing most of their eyes down like ink.
Wanmin Restaurant hums with quiet conversation. He clutches the roll of bread in his hand a little too tightly. It crumples into bits on his plate.
“I can … I can only remember some things,” he continues. “And even those things leave much to be desired.” He stares down at his ungloved hands — at the red skin around his nails, the blood he swears is still there. “May I ask you to heal me?” His gaze then shoots up, half hopeful.
“It is beyond my power to fix memories, especially in this body.” Zhongli retrieves his cup of osmanthus tea, the steam curling in the air. He dips his head to take a sip, eyes never leaving his. “Of course, I can check if there are any lingering injuries from…what happened to you. I can also pay the pharmacy a visit to see if there is any remedy there worth trying.” He pauses, perhaps for a beat too long. “But unfortunately, I don’t think it will amount to much. It’s most likely trauma.”
“Trauma affects the brain. If you heal my brain, you fix the trauma … right?”
Whatever hope had gleaned his eyes disappeared when Zhongli hesitated a second time. This time he doesn’t look up from his hands, not wishing to check if there is any change to the archon’s expression. Pity from him would be worse than any lasting brain damage.
V. THE WOMAN IN THE BLACK DRESS WAVES HIM OVER TODAY.
He has to wonder how she’s able to see him from his rooftop perch, let alone acknowledge him. Bile rises in his throat as he descends onto the balcony below him. He balls both of his hands, fingers clenching a fistful of his gloves.
As he’s drawing away from the balcony, he sees her again … only closer this time.
Now, the woman is within earshot. Within reach.
His stomach drops. His throat dries.
Yet his fingers burn with an urgency. While he is unmoving, they are scheming and simmering — bent on shedding that damned fabric he’d clung onto like a lifeline.
The smile on her face does little to coax the twitch in his fingers. He blinks his eyes closed for one second, two seconds … his nails dig into the palms of his hands. At six seconds, he can feel a growing sharpness graze his skin.
With bated breath, he forces his eyes back open.
He looks up.
The woman in the black dress is gone.
He looks back down.
There, in the palm of his hand — a rip spanning the fabric of his glove.
There, pooling at the rip and marring the exposed skin — a ripe red, a free flowing red,
@heartinhands: ‘ throwing the battle? looks to me like you just plain old lost the battle. ’
if raven had learned anything about dante, it was this: what he lacked in brain cells, he made up for in audacity. this revelation made her blood boil, but she couldn't afford to lash out at him. giving into any volatile emotions for even a second would only serve to worsen their current circumstances and, subsequently, prolong their time together.
neither of them were particularly keen on this prospect becoming a reality.
raven instead looses a scoff, effectively expelling the string of insults burning the tip of her tongue. “you know, if you'd just kept your mouth shut, that minotaur wouldn't have charged at us to begin with." and by proxy, she wants to add, it also wouldn't have brought down several layers of limestone on top of them, stalactites and all.
she kicks a meandering piece of rubble in his direction. it unfortunately does not nick him in the head nor assist in clearing out the cavern's passageway. "besides, picking fights with pissed off interdimensional beings is part of your job description, not mine."
mello practically leaps a mile into the air. it isn’t in character for him to startle easily, yet given the circumstances, it would have actually been more surprising if he didn’t.
after all, he could barely remember the last time he heard a voice that wasn’t his inner monologue.
a sharp pain shoots through mello’s hand the instant he recomposes himself – because of fucking course it did. he studies the gash slathered across his palm before refocusing on the smears of blood splayed atop some of the generator’s loose gears.
wait. not only is he a coward, but now, he’s clumsy, too? suddenly, losing a fifth consecutive game of chess to near didn’t sound so bad in comparison.
after lamenting yet another ego death (and more importantly, the lack of bandages on his person), mello’s gaze settles on the final subject requiring his attention: some uniform-clad pretty boy sporting the most basic cut-and-color hair combo he’d ever seen.
“fuck off with your ‘greetings and salutations’,” mello hisses. “cut this –“ he gestures to a fistful of frayed wires hanging out of the generator’s inlet box. “– or i’ll cut you.”
@heartinhands: ❛ I’m a truth-teller. Some people can’t handle it. ❜
so it would once again appear that maura is going green for more than just her environmental engineering club.
she’d sooner burn to a crisp than admit that, though. instead, she narrows her eyes at the smug blond standing beside her. “first of all, sharkie’s not even my type. as if. not even when pigs fly!” her final exclamation is made so loudly that it earns her several odd looks from her surrounding peers. she takes their reactions in stride, leaning against her booth with both arms crossed over her chest.
“and secondly –” she prattles on, pretending like ed had asked her to. “– i couldn’t care less about what or who he does.” maura straightens her posture and resumes distributing infographics to passersby. “it’s his prerogative if he wants to associate with a girl more shallow than the kiddie pool at max’s party.”
sure, that remark was pretty damn misogynistic, especially for the maura mendiola – feminist fatale and egalitarian extraordinaire – but who’s keeping track? not her. and definitely not ed.
maura slumps into the chair behind her booth with a huff too audible to mean nothing. she is quiet for a record five seconds before clearing her throat – also way too conspicuously for comfort - and asking,
Keqing had her first and only kiss when she was fourteen.
Picture this: it was a Tuesday night. Her father was out, meeting with Snezhnayan financiers to take shots and talk business. Her mother was two rooms over, gossiping with the wife of another businessman hailing from another prestigious Liyuean family. Based on previous findings — all garnered by way of prompting and eavesdropping — this family was successful, second only to her own flesh and blood. It was likely that her parents wished to forge some sort of partnership with them, hence their rapidly increasing visitations. But for once in her life, Keqing couldn’t care less about that.
What she cared about was soft, sincere — blue-eyed and brown-skinned, ringlets of blonde hair enshrouding her like a waterfall … or perhaps a halo. She couldn’t help but stare every time they were in each other’s company. It didn’t matter what they were doing, either. Whether it be folding clothes or spinning fabric or destemming flower bouquets, the focal point of Keqing’s attention remained there and true.
On that day, they were seated beside one another facing a too-big desk in Keqing’s too-big bedroom. Cradled in each of their arms was a book detailing Liyue’s social customs, namely the Flower Ball. Both sets of parents had suggested they study its contents together. “After all, it’s befitting for a proper woman to be versed in social etiquette,” Keqing’s mother had perked up, much to her chagrin. She would much rather be reading about Roald the Adventurer, or perhaps about the ruins scattered across their country … something more becoming than the proper way to smile and wave before casting a glorified paper weight off a cliff.
So, naturally, Keqing had untrained her eyes from the book and, instead, kept them trained on the subject of her care. It was strangely calming to observe her leaf through page after page, forehead crinkling in concentration as she attempted to make sense of every word.
She pursed her lips. Keqing made note of how plump they were.
“Jia.” Despite the intensity of her stare, she addressed the other girl plainly. And although it took a moment, Jia eventually acknowledged her companion, closing her book and gingerly placing it on the desk.
“Hey, thanks for that,” she chirped. Her plump lips fixed themselves into a smile. Something tightened in Keqing’s chest. It was the same way a clenched fist felt but somehow … different. Somehow … better.
“Did you lose track of time again?” Keqing moved to discard of her own book. She then extended both of her arms upward in a lazy stretch. “You tend to do that … not that there’s anything wrong with it. Diligence is a good trait to have.”
Jia let out a laugh. “Okay, okay! If you say so!” She mimicked Keqing’s pose, allowing her legs to go slack, as well. “I liked what was in that book, though. I felt all grown-up reading about what it means to be a lady.”
“Is that so?” Keqing lowered her arms, opting to fold them over her chest. “I guess I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
Another laugh. That tight sensation seized Keqing’s chest again. “Hehe! It’s okay. I can give you notes! That way, you don’t get in trouble with your parents.”
At that point, Keqing swore her heart would explode. Aside from just looking nice, Jia also always did nice things for her: drawing her pictures, picking flowers for her, and of course, handwriting study notes for her. She couldn’t help but wonder what drove Jia to act in such a way and so constantly at that. Was this behavior reminiscent of something relayed to them in that book? Or perhaps the other books she refused to touch?
“No, it’s alright,” Keqing dismissed with a wave of her hand. “But thank you. I really appreciate it.”
Jia nodded, adjusting her posture so that her heels were planted on the seat of her chair, her lean brown arms hugging her legs to her chest. A few beats of silence swept over both girls. Truth be told, Keqing imagined that the other would revert to continue reading her book, seeing as she enjoyed it so much…
…Until —
“Keqing, how do you feel about love?”
Had she actually obeyed her parents and done her share of reading, the question wouldn’t have jostled her as much as it did, but alas … there Keqing sat in stupefied ignorance, chills coursing down her spine and chest tormented with the prospect of a heart palpitation.
“Like —” Jia continued. Looks like Keqing had been unresponsive for too long. “ — What are your thoughts on kissing?” She rocked back and forth all the while, forearms flushing a pale red thanks to the friction of her movements. Keqing found herself wanting to run her fingers through those very spots — to gently quell the reddening flesh.
“I don’t know. I’ve never thought much of it,” she finally chose to answer, if to just distract her wayfaring mind. Violet eyes dropped to behold the suddenly interesting marble tile of her floor. She then pretended to be captivated by her own hands, twiddling her thumbs in vain. “How about you?”
Ever oblivious, Jia giggled. “I guess I’m the same way … but you know what my mommy said? She said that you only kiss someone you really like …” Keqing considered that, mid-thumb twiddle. “ …And the book said that, too! When the bride and groom make their vows and swear to live happily ever after, they seal the deal by smooching!”
Keqing considered that, too, humming in thought. On the other hand, her parents had taught her that marriages were but a strategic maneuver — orchestrated like some grand scheme for the sake of maintaining power and financial prosperity. They were transactional arrangements, not arrangements founded in an intimate respect and understanding of each other.
So, naturally, Keqing was speechless. And she remained that way — quiet, contemplative — for a moment before she at last dared her eyes to glaze over and meet Jia’s.
“Well … ” she simpered. “Isn’t that nice?”
The pair then spent the next half hour or so in an amiable silence, simply enjoying each other’s company. Jia unsurprisingly continued to read her book. Keqing, on the other hand, was thinking up a storm.
As their time bordered an hour, they transitioned from sitting casually a few inches from each other, to Jia scooting her chair closer to Keqing’s, to Jia laying her head on Keqing’s lap, to a beet red Keqing resting her legs on Jia’s lap. They stayed like that for … archons know how long. It was a miracle that it hadn’t been time for Jia and her family to leave yet.
By this point, exactly one hour and fifty-five minutes had passed. Jia’s book now lay abandoned at the foot of her chair. She instead intertwined her fingers with Keqing’s, whose head was perched comfortably on the crook of her shoulder.
The physical contact was a pleasant surprise. Keqing acknowledged this by squeezing the other girl’s hand. It’s funny because, well, Keqing had never been the affectionate type, let alone really had a friend before. There had been her parents’ servants and the occasional child of business partners from abroad, otherwise Keqing had always been a pretty lonely kid.
That being said, she wasn’t particularly sure if the tightening that had been seizing and releasing the organ in her chest was from the contentment of having someone genuinely appreciate her … or if she was just severely allergic to intimacy.
Either way, when Jia turned slightly to look at her, probably to tell her some joke, Keqing moved up from her shoulder and pressed their lips together. Their teeth clinked and their noses mashed, which, well, ow … and Jia tasted like the giant fried shrimp balls they gorged on for dinner which wasn’t bad as a dish, but tasted a little funny coming from someone else’s mouth. Not that Keqing’s breath reeked of anything better …
… But all in all, no, that was … not good. That was far from the most romantic first kiss in existence. It couldn’t even be considered romantic, really. Keqing recoiled as if she had been scorched, her entire face lit aflame. She searched Jia’s doe eyes and was on the brink of mumbling out an apology when, in that instant, Jia seized her face between her hands, an unreadable expression contrasting that of Keqing’s.
Without further hesitation, Jia drew her closer for another kiss — one that was soft and sincere just like her.
It lasted for all of a couple of seconds. When Jia pulled back, it had been her face’s turn to heat up, its hue shy of scarlet.
Having lost all composure, Keqing dragged both hands through her once neatly plaited pigtails. “I apologize for, uh, attacking your face.”
Jia beamed, but not before flushing an even more telling shade of red … ah yes, now she was scarlet. “No, uh …” A girlish giggle leaked out from her awkward grin. “ … Don’t worry about it.” It then dawned on her that Keqing’s lips were still but a hairsbreadth from hers. Jia quickly uncupped Keqing’s face and sat on her hands.
“Sorry,” she mouthed.
Keqing tilted her head, picking at the nape of her neck in confusion. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one who kissed you first.”
And it was as if saying that word aloud is what made it real. Kissed. Keqing kissed Jia. Her friend. Her only friend.
She was tempted to completely shield her face with her hands, but she decided against it, in the off-chance that the gesture would traumatize Jia and inhibit her from ever talking to any guys (or girls …) ever again, let alone getting wed to one.
The once amiable silence between them had descended into something tiptoeing the fine line between “awkward” and “grave”. Fortune seemed to favor both girls that fateful night, however, and it only took another minute or so before Jia’s mom had swung the door open, calling for her to say her goodbyes and head home with her.
And here was the awkward part: should Keqing see her out? And bid her a proper goodbye at the front door?
Alas, her body settled on a decision before her mind could, coercing her legs into walking down, down, down the spiraling staircase alongside Jia. It was only when both girls stood face-to-face at the door that Keqing was able to wrestle herself out of autopilot.
Jia’s mom had already begun her trek down the path leading to their home. Jia, however, hadn’t made any effort to budge from her place. She continued to stand there with both hands clasped behind her back, her aura an interesting mix of stalwart and shy.
Keqing smiled slightly in spite of herself, her own gaze glued to the floor. Only then was when …
“Uh, good night!” Jia’s voice rung in the air an entire octave higher, causing Keqing’s eyes to lock onto hers like a magnet. The former flicked her fingers stiffly in a sort of cursory wave.
That wave. It was the wave that did it. Keqing inched forward and dipped her head to press a quick kiss to the corner of Jia’s mouth. She then guided her closer to the door, coaxing it further open.
“Good night,” she finally murmured in return, closing the door before Jia could muster a response. Oh, if only Keqing had stayed just a moment longer.
Because then, she would have caught the dopey look on Jia’s face. She would have seen Jia fondly graze her lips with the pads of her fingers.
Of course she's going to UNLOAD a flurry of kisses on her bestie's face!! They have no choice 💋💋💋
it's only when vy registers the faintest hint of citrus perfume that their form relaxes in the girl's hold. prior to that, they'd been stiff as a board - appalled at the sudden display of affection.
"goddammit, mar!" vy whines with a huff. "quit acting like i'm leaving for war or some shit!" nevertheless, they hug her in return - as if they could genuinely be pissed off over something this...wholesome.
dailybridgerton
ellievsbear
areudirty
