Reader who has a real job and actual bills. Reader who prioritizes her own peace over his feelings. Reader who has hobbies that don’t revolve around a man. Reader who actually has a life outside of him. Reader who says “no” and means it. Reader who isn't easily impressed. Reader who’s petty. Reader who has trust issues. Reader who chooses her girls every single time. Reader who has a body count and isn't ashamed of it. Reader who is exhausted by male fragility. Reader who holds grudges. Reader who’s a mess. Reader who’s mentally ill. Reader who makes mistakes. Reader who’s manipulative. Reader who’s selfish. Reader who’s morally gray. Reader who’s awful. Reader who genuinely doesn’t give a fuck.
come set sail in this pirate au across teyvat! (and maybe fall in love along the way...)
♡ featuring......... ♡
your captain: pirate!tartaglia | civilian captive: gn!reader
◇ current word ct: 19k
♧ summary: somewhere out there is a dragon that thinks you stole its treasure. who better to help you return it than a pirate captain with an adrenaline addiction?
☆ tags: themes of morality and greed, flirting, banter, fluff, comfort, yearning, slow burn, enemies to allies to lovers, sexual tension, romantic tension, romantic denial, pining, suggestive language, suggestive themes, implied masturbation, mild dirty talk, possibly explicit nsfw content in later chapters, blood, fight scenes, violence, profanity, lore accurate tartaglia (silly pookie that murders for fun), archon war!morax (chinese fuzenglong inspired), game accurate geography, SLOW TO UPDATE, TAGS WILL BE UPDATED AS SERIES CONTINUES
《 chapter index 》 OR 《 read it on ao3 》
part 1
part 2
part 3
part 4
part 4.5
~
part 5 coming soon...!
♤ a/n: theres simply not enough pirate aus out there, so however long this takes me im gonna finish it goddammit!! ive got a lot more in store for this so i decided to make my own masterlist post to group everything together
masterlist | previous chapter | current chapter | next chapter
pirate!tartaglia x gn!reader
words: 3.2k
warnings: mentions of nausea/vomit, suggestive themes, mild dirty talk, implied masturbation, mentions of blood, cursing
general summary: somewhere out there is a dragon that thinks you stole its treasure. who better to help you return it than a pirate captain with an addiction to adrenaline?
a/n: soooooo I was half way thru writing what I THOUGHT was going to be chapter 5, but after reviewing everything I realized the first half of "chapter 5" I wrote reeeeeaaaallllllyyyy should've been in chapter 4. so im gonna put it here for now and prob reformat stuff later
on ANOTHER NOTE I did some more thinking on the rest of the storyline and I think I figured out how to end it 😌 I THINK I COOKED GUYS I CANT WAIT TO SHARE IT W UUUUUU
i still have like another week until school starts back up for me so my goal is to get the next chapter up before then!! tysm to everyone who's been reading, ur all part of my pirate crew now 💓 💗 ✨️ 💛
“That's it, you're doing so good.”
You shook your head vehemently. “I can't.”
“Yes, you can, c'mon,” he assured, voice low from how close you were to him.
Inhale, exhale. You set your hands in place again. Felt the nausea creep up your throat. And whipped around to double over.
“Oh god, I might throw up.”
He just snickered at you. Tartaglia knew you weren't super squeamish about blood— even if you were, there was no way you could be by the end of this journey. But you weren't quite on the same page with bones sticking out or limbs facing the wrong way. Tartaglia probably figured the perfect payback for breaking his nose was to make you fix it himself. Though his teaching methods were… questionable.
“This is your mess. Come clean it up.”
“Please stop saying shit like that,” you begged, head hung low as you returned to face him.
“What? I'm just talking you through it.” Bastard. He chuckled. “C'mon, there's not a doctor around. My swelling’s gone down enough, now’s the time to do it. Hands on the bridge like I showed you.”
Inhale. You repositioned your hands, fingers gingerly resting on his cheeks. His skin was warm and slick with sweat. If you stared long enough, maybe you could convince yourself that his freckles were paint splatters on a vibrant, purple canvas. At the top of your field of vision, his lashes blurred orange with every flutter. Exhale. You knew he was staring, waiting for you to get out of your own head.
He took shaky breaths through his mouth, which ghosted against the base of your palms. A shiver threatened to tickle your spine and your fingers twitched out of reflex. The sudden pressure made him wince, hissing through his teeth.
“Sorry, sorry,” you muttered, but your focus remained fixed on his nose. Inhale.
Crack! Tartaglia stumbled back, hands flying up to his face with a strained curse.
“Oh my god, I’m so— bleagh— sorry, did I just make it worse? Bleugh, Fuck—” you rushed while forcing back a dry-heave.
“No, no!” he reassured through a laugh, but he stuck a hand out to keep you at a distance. Turning to the side, he plugged one nostril at a time and huffed, clearing his airways of leftover blood and phlegm.
You cringed and stuck your tongue out in disgust. “Gross. Are you even supposed to do that?”
He waved it off, still leaning over. “Trust me, not my first broken nose.” Well, that you didn’t doubt.
“Alright,” He straightened back up, clearing his throat and rubbing the no-longer-dislocated bridge. “Much better. Why don’t you go ahead and get a fire started, comrade? This isn’t a bad place to camp for the night. I'll be back.”
Before you could veto the idea, Tartaglia marched off past the treeline, leaving you to fend for yourself.
Whatever. It wasn’t like you wanted to watch him take a piss anyway. He’d probably be back before you were even finished gathering wood.
The longer he was gone, though, the more it seemed like he wasn’t just taking a piss. You tore at your already-ruined cuticles and looked at the treeline where he had vanished. The meager fire you built crackled in front of the rock you sat on, a little ways off from the main path you took from Port Oromos. Maybe his stomach was bothering him? You’d much rather he have diarrhea than be dead.
You didn’t want to think about him being dead. But there was no way he was dead. No. He was a renowned pirate captain– he could handle going off into the woods by himself.
You sighed and reached for the treasure compass, eager for a distraction. If he was going to be gone for a while, you may as well do something useful with your time.
The compass was small, fitting nicely in the palm of your hand. The case was a pleasant green enamel, gilded with gold embellishments and metalwork. For a knockoff, the craftsmanship was beautiful. You flipped open the cover to reveal the glass cover over the needle. Unlike a regular compass, there were no markings of the cardinal directions etched into the plate underneath; only a gold tree: the crest of the Dendro Goddess. The needle itself was a striking red, and hovered steadily south in the direction of Port Oromos.
You frowned. Turned it on its back— no instructions. You stood from your rock and turned slightly.
The needle stayed trained on the port.
You closed the compass and opened it again. Closed your eyes and opened them. Nothing.
Huffing, you left your campsite and walked back in the direction of the port. Every now and then, you’d stop to swat at the mosquitoes buzzing your ankles. You couldn’t decide if you were comforted by the idea that mosquitoes would follow you no matter which nation you were in. Five minutes later, a flicker caught your eye.
Behind a shrub you had ignored on your run out of the city, was a small wooden chest, the moonlight reflecting off of the metal bracing. Your eyebrows raised.
You stepped off the path to open the chest, finding a small pouch of mora, an unimpressive short sword, and a few other knick knacks inside– probably from another traveler that had forgotten where they hid their stuff. You hoped they didn’t live nearby; the mora and blade would be coming with you. Wherever they were, they weren’t here now.
A giddy feeling erupted in your chest, almost forcing a giggle out of you. Luck seemed to be on your side, for once. You couldn’t wait to tell Tartaglia the good news. Now you just needed to set the course to the Geo Lord.
You stared at the compass. How you did that, you didn’t know. Were you supposed to wish upon a star or something?
At this point, it couldn’t hurt to try. You closed your eyes and thought of Liyue. Actually— you set down your sword to reach into your pocket and pull out the gnosis. It hummed with assurance in your hand, dispelling any feelings of insecurity about how stupid you probably looked right now.
You closed your eyes again. Flashes of images you’d seen in your visions along with new ones came to your mind now: the golden mountains of mora, towering pillars displaying artifacts, stalactites supporting intricate chandeliers. It seemed the Father of Wealth knew a thing or two about interior decorating.
In your right hand, the compass buzzed softly. Your eyes flew open to see the needle spinning rapidly on its axis. You waited with bated breath for it to stop.
It spun.
And spun.
And spun…
You didn’t think it was going to stop spinning.
You glared at the compass, irritation building the longer it prolonged its decision. In a last ditch attempt to make any sort of progress towards your goal, you put the gnosis back in your pocket, snatched the sword back from the grass, and relied on your thoughts alone to power it.
The needle slowed, but not by much. Finally, you cleared your mind of Liyue altogether:
South.
The goddamn compass didn't work.
Here you were, post-morality crisis after robbing someone for the first time, and you had just managed to convince yourself that if anything, the crime produced a working solution to your problem. Only for it to not be a working solution.
With every stomp you took back towards camp, the forest seemed to hush. The locusts knew they were no match for your sour mood.
As you neared, the calls of your name grew louder. Tartaglia had returned from his excursion, his silhouette dancing around the fire. Good. You needed to let off some steam.
He heard you approaching, but you weren’t trying to be quiet. The relief on his face was obvious when he saw you, barely paying any attention to the new weapon in your hand.
“Hey,” he breathed. “Where’d you go? I didn’t—”
“You said you would train me, right?” you interrupted.
He paused, but answered steadily. “I did.”
“Great,” you shoved the sword in his arms, trying to force positivity into your cadence, “let’s start now.”
He quirked a brow and gave you a once over. “Oh? Everything… alright?”
“Yup. Weights on or off?”
The dubious crease between Tartaglia’s eyebrows told you, as he cleared a patch of grass of twigs and large pebbles for your sparring, that he did not believe you. But he mentioned nothing, lining the miniature arena with rocks, setting aside your sword, and picking two sturdier sticks from your pile of unused kindling.
“No weights for now. Here’s your weapon,” he ordered, handing you a stick.
You took the stick, albeit a little disappointed. You were kind of looking forward to testing out your new sword, but you weren’t stupid. You knew how that would end.
“Okay.” You looked up from your stick. Tartaglia was positioned in the small area he’d carved, looking at you expectantly. “Try to hit me. And try not to get hit,” he instructed.
The second part concerned you a bit. “Try not to—?”
Bark smacked into the bare skin of your arm before you could finish. You yelped, clutching the stinging area with your opposite hand. “Wait—!”
“Nope!” Smack! On your other arm. The next blow landed on the back of your neck as you scuttled away, curled in of yourself. You desperately waved your stick at him, half-hoping it would land, half-hoping it would be enough to keep him away.
“This isn’t—!” you ducked again, narrowly avoiding a swing that would’ve taken off your head were it a real blade— “training, this is a—” a strike at your shoulder— “abuse!”
He cackled. Of course, the bastard was having fun. “I need to see where you are, comrade! Everyone knows you have to start by meeting your students at their level.”
You don’t even know what he did or when he did it, but you felt his foot hook under your ankle and suddenly, you were on your ass. Tartaglia crouched to meet your stupefied gaze, his own alight with arrogance and mirth. “And now I know where to start.”
As if to provoke you further, he tapped your nose with his stick. You swatted it away, but took the hand he offered to get back to your feet. “You could’ve at least given me a heads up,” you grumbled. The whole reason you suggested starting training was because you wanted to hit something, not because you wanted to get hit. You weren’t even angry anymore; you were just embarrassed.
Tartaglia’s hands on your face snapped you out of your sulking. His thumbs tugged at the corners of your lips, forcing them into a crude imitation of a smile. Your eyes darted up to meet his before smacking his hands away, flustered by the sudden attention.
“Cheer up, comrade. We’re not done yet,” he said, pulling the training stick from your grip and tossing it back into the arms of nature. The red jewel in his earring glittered in the firelight, complementing the flush of his cheeks from the exertion of your spar.
Spar. You’re sparring. Let’s focus on that.
Tartaglia shuffled back into a relaxed stance opposite you. “So, your instinct is to run away still. Let's work on standing your ground instead. I’ll turn you into a master of defense in no time!” he proclaimed.
At least he had faith in you.
“You stay there,” he ordered, pointing a finger at you, “And don’t move. But also—” he held up his stick once again— “don’t get hit,” he ended with a knowing smile.
You bit back your complaint this time.
Tartaglia took your silence as acceptance. “Make it five minutes unscathed and we’ll move on. If I hit you, the time resets. You take a step, time resets. Got it?”
You nodded. “Ready,” you said.
Somehow, Tartaglia seemed a lot faster when you weren’t allowed to move. After the first few iterations of the exercise, you knew you were going to wake up with red scratches all over you. You ducked, bobbed, weaved, but you could only do so much without shuffling your feet. And with every “Again” that he barked out, you felt yourself getting slower with exhaustion. It had been a long day, and an even longer week from staying up avoiding your nightly terrors.
“Better. Again.”
Sweat freely rolled down your chest and dripped into your eyes. The jungle was already hot enough, but with the fire and added movement, you were nearly burning up.
You could tell Tartaglia was, too. Sweat had plastered bits of his fringe to his forehead, and if his shirt wasn’t linen, you were sure the red would be more of a maroon by now.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his chest rising with every pant. You had never seen him more focused than when he was in a fight, his blue eyes locked onto every twitch of your muscles. He lunged forward, extending an arm to plant the stick into your side.
Sparring! You’re sparring! You just barely managed to twist away from the attack. Leaned over to your left, you were able to clearly see the leg he had swinging upwards, ready to land a blow to your chest and knock you off your feet. Your hands moved without thinking; they latched onto his knee and pulled.
Your gamble kind of paid off. Tartaglia lurched backward, but sank his weight into his remaining leg which left you merely standing, cradling his calf in your arms.
You locked eyes. He smirked. And pulled the leg you held back to him.
You stumbled forward, head bouldering directly into his torso from the force he used. A hand immediately settled on the center of your back, steadying you and pulling you into him at the same time. You almost would’ve rather faceplanted and ate dirt.
But you were learning. You recovered your wits before they could stray away from you as they had been too often within the past hour, and wriggled out of his grasp. Brushing imaginary debris from your clothes, you chanced a look.
He stood, hands laced behind his back innocently, and assessed you. The playful smile he wore seemed to be his default expression— it was hard to tell what he was thinking behind it. What he saw in you.
You watched as he lightly scanned over your form. Neither of you spoke. You were afraid if you did your voice would come out as a croak instead of something intelligible, and you weren’t sure what to make of whatever charge that was in the air.
He broke the silence first. “That was offense. Not the point of the exercise.”
Aaaand there it was. “Oh, come on. I almost got you!” you retaliated.
“Well, turn that ‘almost’ into an ‘actually’ next time and maybe I’ll actually count it,” he quipped. You were starting to think he just enjoyed getting a rise out of you now.
“But good job,” he added, swinging his arms to link together in front of him now. The tension in your body melted a little, your defensive attitude receding. “You learn fast. I told you you were resourceful.”
“Okay, okay, thank you,” you rushed, unsure what to do with the sudden praise.
Tartaglia laughed and reached up to scratch the back of his neck. He jutted a thumb in the direction of the treeline once again. “Well, I’m gonna go… relieve myself. We’ll do some training with the weights in the morning.”
You felt your eyebrows knit together. “Are you okay?”
He paused. “Yeah?”
“Well, it's just…” you didn’t know why you were bringing this up, “You were gone for a while earlier. I thought you had ‘relieved yourself’ then. Unless, I mean—” Tartaglia’s eyes were wide with panic, face half a shade paler than usual— “spicy food doesn’t… agree with you?”
The panic melted away, replaced by what you could only describe as resignation. “... Yes,” he answered a beat later. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.
You grimaced in sympathy. “Have fun,” you joked weakly.
It was dark, yes, but you could’ve sworn his face was now half a shade redder than usual. He nodded stiffly. “Uh, you should get some sleep,” he replied instead.
You wished it was that easy. Falling asleep was the easy part— several nights of three hour naps was enough to knock you out fast this time. It was what met you when you fell asleep that made it difficult.
You woke up for the third time to a hand on your shoulder. The fire had sputtered out while you fitfully rested, nothing more now than a pile of twigs and ash, old embers fighting to stay alive under all the rubble. If you had to guess, the sun would begin rising in an hour. You could practically feel the beginnings of dawn inching its way over the horizon, but it was the stillness of the forest that gave it away. Even locusts had to sleep at some point.
Tartaglia knelt next to you. Your mind relaxed a bit knowing he was there, but the erratic beating of your heart still pumping with adrenaline from your vision kept you from fully calming down. You felt tainted and unclean, and the grime plastered onto your clothes, tendrils of smoke woven into your hair, and ever-persistent voyeur weren’t helping. Suddenly, a bit of bile crept up your throat. You bolted up, frantically swallowing down your sick. Tartaglia’s hand moved to your back, rubbing over your shirt in comforting circles.
Not a sound was there to be heard, save for your heaving breath and the faint rustling of leaves. You stayed like that for a bit, focusing on the motions of his hand. Soon, your heart rate lowered, and you felt stable enough to lie back down. He followed your lead, resting his head on his pack. You hadn’t noticed it earlier, but he must have dragged it over from his previous spot on the opposite side of the fire before you woke up.
Tartaglia didn’t look at you. Just closed his eyes and drifted back off to whatever dreams someone like him had. But you looked.
Under the dim lighting of the cloud-filtered moon, you noticed the sleep crusted in the corner of his eyes, the dirt that masqueraded as freckles on his forehead. The bruise on his nose had darkened, too, making it look worse than it probably was. You would have to find a doctor in the next village to properly dress it. His eyelids fluttered occasionally, reacting to whatever dream his mind was occupying him with. Were dreams even interesting to someone who had experienced as much adventure and danger as much as he had?
Studying him proved to be a powerful sedative; your eyes grew heavier with every new piece of information you catalogued.
“Tartaglia,” you whispered, voice dropping out on the second syllable.
“Mmf.” There was a good chance he wasn’t actually conscious, but you soldiered on before you could forget your thought.
“The compass doesn’t work.”
“Shhhhhhh,” the arm closest to you lazily swung over you, finger unceremoniously poking your chin, then clumsily repositioning over your mouth.
A small laugh puffed through your nose. You gingerly grabbed a hold of his wrist and moved his arm back into his territory.
The compass didn’t work, no. But you weren’t worried about it anymore. Tartaglia promised he would get you to where you needed to go, and you believed him.
It's good and cool to give your characters a single simple, straightforward, non-urgent, super-achievable goal that shouldn't really cost anything or hurt anyone, make that the driving factor for most of their decisions, and then have the Plot do everything in its power to stop them.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" You glared at him. You could take his apathy, his indifference, shove it somewhere deep inside and convince yourself that you felt the same.
"Like what?" His eyes burned into yours.
"Like you're jealous or something."
"What if I am?"
synopsis: you weren't looking for a boyfriend - one just found you anyway. but things start looking a little more complicated when the roommate you thought you hated starts cutting himself a bigger slice of your life than you ever meant to let him have.
relationships: Choso x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Gojo x Reader (multiple endings)
content: MDNI !! angst and fluff and smut !! roommates-to-lovers, reader sleeps around, piv sex, fingering, oral (m! + f! receiving), shower + period sex, office sex, semi-public sex, spanking, arguments, breakups/makeups, heavy flirting/tension, threesome, mating press, blindfolds, whipped cream, jealousy, slice of life, domestic fluff, tension and teasing, messy relationships and complicated feelings
oh my god i have been reading this over the past like week or so and it is genuinely one of the best things i have ever read???? I cant organize my thought rn I might have to come back and give a review but HOLY FUCK that was good????? I took the gojo route no regrarts
masterlist | previous chapter | current chapter | next chapter
pirate!tartaglia x gn!reader
words: 6.1k
warnings: cursing, blood, suggestive language, mentions of death
general summary: somewhere out there is a dragon that thinks you stole its treasure. who better to help you return it than a pirate captain with an addiction to adrenaline?
a/n: hey again!! im pretty proud of how this turned out atm but its also 2 am so i may go back and fix stuff later lololol
thank you guys for bearing with me and coming along for the ride even though its a long one! i decided to go back to school, so im a little busy with coursework again. also my cousin got married and my friend is getting engaged soon, so crazy stuff is happening. i dont plan on giving up on this work, even though i dont play genshin anymore -- ive got some cool stuff planned for the story and im having fun writing it :) hope you all enjoy and see ya for chap 5!
How Tartaglia still had energy to lead the way and hold a conversation after these past few days was beyond you, but you would be damned if he used his endless supply of stamina to start a fight with an innocent civilian.
The stranger knelt beside a brightly colored flower, sketching its likeness into a leather-bound journal. An ornate bow was strapped to their back, deep teal hair cut blunt at the shoulder shielding their face from your view. Pouches hung from a utility belt around their waist, probably carrying various herb samples, scientific equipment, and supporting a quiver of arrows.
What was most noticeable, though, were the two large, probing ears you usually only saw on felines and some dogs. They sprouted from the top of their head, swiveling and twitching at every minute noise the jungle provided. It was hard to tell for sure, but you were fairly certain the stranger had yet to notice the two of you crouching behind a bush, not 30 feet away.
You eyed Tartaglia with, what you felt was, a healthy amount of suspicion. Traveling with him had revealed to you a negative correlation between your survival instincts: while you had them, he did not.
It was something you had noticed starting from the battle on the Abyss. Wherever the opportunity arose for him to get his daggers a little dirty, to spike that adrenaline, to put the skills he’d probably spent his whole life honing to the test, those opaque blue eyes seemed to catch a glint to them.
To his credit, he never started any of the fights— it just so happened that everything you had encountered on your way to Pardis Dhyai was hostile. And while you always ran away at the first sign of danger, he always stayed to finish the job. Nonetheless, you watched for that little glint to come back, worried that his bloodthirst would motivate him to pick a fight he didn’t need to.
He caught you looking and cocked his head to the side, raising an eyebrow.
Heat rushed to your face. You incline your head to the stranger, shooting him a questioning look.
His eyebrows furrow. What? he mouths.
Are we going to go? you ask.
He gives you a blank stare, then shakes his head, leaning closer so that you could repeat yourself at a whisper.
Then you shake your head and push him away, swiveling your hands above your head to mimic the stranger’s ears. You try again, this time, with added hand gestures. What are we doing?
He shrugs. I thought you wou– un— by now?
He speaks a little too fast.
What? you shoot back.
His head dropped down in defeat. You give him a light shove in his shoulder to get his attention. “I can’t—”
And though the whisper slipped out of you by accident, it was enough to give away your position.
With a fwhish of wind between your faces, a dusty green fills your vision.
You both recoil in surprise, coughing from the odd smoke that clouded you. Yet the more you cough, the more you move, the more you breathe. And the more you breathe, the harder it becomes to focus your eyes.
“Hey, woah…” you hear. It’s Tartaglia, but either he’s gotten further away very fast or you have cotton lodged in your ears.
The primal part of your brain that keeps you scared and alive is panicking. You feel your heartbeat picking up and a sick feeling bubbles in your stomach, but the rest of your senses won’t react and it’s getting harder to open your eyes again every time you blink.
You’re moving through mud, it feels like, but the air around you is clear. The sides of your visions are blurred and dark, leaving you with a small tunnel of vision to peek through. No matter how wide you open your eyes, the darkness won’t go away, which is bad because you’re running.
Something is chasing you and you’re running. You can’t look back because you’ll see them. Those eyes. You look back anyways because you can’t seem to control what your body does anymore and he’s behind you.
You know him and you don’t like him. You’re screaming at him so loud it burns your throat raw but it sounds quiet to your ears somehow. Just go away. Stop following me. Leave me alone. Leave me alone.
You’re not moving fast enough and you can’t do anything about it. Something whistles past your head and a golden spear hits home in a large boulder in front of you. The shaft wobbles from the force, rubble dribbling down into the new crevice the spear’s blade had carved.
Your hands wrap around the shaft before you can think about it and you begin to tug. It shouldn’t be this hard. Is the man behind you that strong or are you that weak? The weights on your arms and ankles should’ve fixed that by now. Where are they? You can’t see them, but you can’t see much of anything.
Behind the boulder a snake— no, lizard… Dragon. A Dragon stalks you, pitiful you. It’s massive, yet when its hulking feet carry it towards you, its talons the length of your arm eroding the soil as it moves, it doesn’t make any sound. Nothing does. Not the flames flickering in its golden mane, not the steps of the man behind you, not your own breath. Your heart trips over itself from trying to keep up with its own pace as the claustrophobia sets in.
Your uncoordinated body stumbles as you try to scramble away, but the Lord of Geo persists. He closes the distance between you too fast, he’s too fast and you’re too goddamn slow and it's almost laughable how easy it is for him to lift a foot of his and press it against you, pinning you into the dirt.
The pressure from the added weight makes it hard for you to breathe. You can’t get a full breath in anymore and it's frustrating that your lungs can’t just burst out of your chest to get the air they need. Heat seeps into your skin and you think I guess dragons are reptiles after all. Heat blows across your face as he finds your eyes and keeps them and you think Leave me alone.
All you can see is the center of his face through that persistent darkness, but his eyes glow so bright they seem to register to you right behind your eyes instead of in front of them.
The voice of the Geo Lord hums through your ribcage, vibrates your teeth, and causes your fingers to twitch and curl in on themselves.
I wonder if you’ll run from me as well.
—
The blue you were greeted with was too deep to be the sky.
As you blinked and the fog from your mind cleared, you noticed the hand on your cheek, an urgent voice slowly replacing the cacophony of alarm bells that remained in your head, and the horror paired with a touch of panic in the gaze that studied you.
A relieved sigh tickled your nose, the stimulus kickstarting your survival reflexes. You waved your arms in front of you and weakly pawed at the ground, desperate for some space in your disorientation.
It wasn’t until Tartaglia moved from your vision that you saw the vast net of the jungle’s canopy, sunlight peeking through the leaves to dapple the ground. You were lying down, nestled on soft Sumerian grass, though you’d argue that naps were better in Natlan’s savannahs, where the stiff blades folded together into their own woven mattress when you laid down. It was an odd time to think of home.
A hand hesitantly reached for your arm, startling you back into reality.
“Sorry, how are you feeling?”
You glanced at Tartaglia, who looked at you in his own kind of stupor. “What?” you rasped.
“Over here,” the voice responded, though off to your side instead of from Tartaglia’s mouth where you were expecting it to come from.
You turned, flinching as a light flashed in your eyes.
“Sorry, but try to keep them open, please. Eyes forward.”
Blinking away the spots that floated in your vision, you complied with the request.
Behind the small torch that they passed swayed side to side, a pair of teal eyes watched you. Rather than make awkward eye contact, you took to staring at strands of light-green fringe that settled across their forehead.
“Alright,” they conceded after a few more passes of the torch, “No head trauma from what I can tell. Sorry, again. That’s normally not supposed to happen.”
You blinked a few more times, shaking away the last dredges of bleariness clinging to your mind. “You apologize a lot,” you mumbled.
“Well, I feel bad,” they sheepishly shrugged, dark bob bouncing with the movement. Atop their head, sat the same ears you and Tartaglia had been observing from your bush. “Those spores are only from a mild hallucinogen. No one’s ever collapsed and showed symptoms similar to a seizure before. Though, in my defense, stalking me from behind a shrub didn’t make you seem entirely innocent.”
You glanced back at Tartaglia to find his jaw set and eyes alert. Was this what fear looked like on him? “What happened?” you asked him. He turned to speak to the stranger instead.
“No hard feelings. Could you point us to Port Oromos?” The stranger nodded, beginning to explain the route to your companion, but you couldn’t help but feel something was off.
You had come to see many sides of Tartaglia in your short time with him: the everyday, playful guy; the deceptive, charismatic swindler; the battle-crazed pirate; the unpredictable, ruthless captain — and even the concerned travel-partner. You had never seen him like this.
His face was blank as he nodded along to the stranger’s directions. He spoke minimally, and when he did it was to the point. And what worried you the most was that the two of you did not need directions. Tartaglia had known where he was taking you before the Abyss even sunk.
He was hiding something from you.
You kept your mouth shut. When the conversation was over, Tartaglia stood from his crouch and offered you his hand, which you took. He thanked the stranger for the help, apologizing again for the misunderstanding, and bid the stranger goodbye.
He glanced at you, ears flicking in curiosity, and extended an invitation to the two of you for a meal in his village, in exchange for interviewing you about your medical history and the hallucination you experienced. Tartaglia declined for you. You were in a hurry.
An hour of walking in silence later ensured you were no longer within earshot of the stranger. “What happened?” you tried again.
His eyes flicked over to you, then he turned to glance back the way you came. When he didn’t find whatever he was looking for, he halted his steps and faced towards you, finally looking you in the eyes again.
“Did you have a vision again?” he asked, though it sounded as though he already knew the answer.
You nodded. “It—”
“I saw a dragon in your eyes,” he said.
Your heart dropped.
He swallowed and elaborated. “You were pretty much dead to the world. I almost thought you were dead, but you were breathing. I pulled up your eyelids to, I don’t know, see if they were still there, I guess?” he huffed a sardonic laugh. “And… I saw a dragon.”
“How—”
“I don’t know, but it was there. Like how you see reflections in other people’s eyes when they look at things. I saw what you were seeing…” he trailed off, grasping for words.
“... in my head,” you finished.
He nodded, mouth set in a grim line.
You paused. “Describe it.”
Tartaglia threw you an affronted look. “Here I am finally admitting that you were right this entire time and you want me to prove it?”
Your eye twitched. “I want to make sure you’re not fucking with me.”
He rolled his eyes, but complied. “Yellow eyes, another-color something else, kind of looked like it had fire for hair, and it was a dragon.”
You chewed on your bottom lip. He was telling the truth. “Is this the first time you’ve seen this?”
“Well, the rest of the visions you’ve had have been normal, so no.”
“Okay, Mr. Snark, I get it.” You sighed and set back on the trail. It wouldn’t do you well to stop and dwell on anything, but surely it would be okay if you dwelled and walked. Tartaglia trotted up to walk beside you, the quiet resuming now that the tension had been aired out.
The two of you continued for a few more days. You began offering to keep watch at night, dreading the next vision that would come to you. Was the last one you had so vivid because of the hallucinogen you inhaled, or were they bound to get worse anyway? If you limited the amount of time you were asleep, maybe that would curb how much time the god had to torment you. There was too much you didn’t know about your condition, your situation, your world.
You felt a bit useless as a travel-buddy. Tartaglia was the only one who knew where to go. He was the only one who knew how to talk to the locals, the only one who knew how to deal with new flora and fauna— at least, enough to keep you from accidentally ingesting something poisonous. All of this was new to you, and it wasn’t how you envisioned traveling abroad for the first time.
So to keep you from falling asleep standing up and distract yourself from what little you brought to the table, you started keeping a mental list of everything you learned about your journey.
So far you learned the bugs sounded different than at home. The air was thicker from the dense canopy of the trees and made you sweat so much you almost didn’t feel the heat anymore. And Sumeru was a nation of architects.
Every shed, temple, house, tower seemed to be intricately planned and ordained with some sort of colorful decoration. Flowers were a common motif in stained glass, which made sense for the land of Dendro, and most buildings worked with the land, not against it.
Port Oromos was a bit overwhelming in that aspect.
It wasn’t that it was overly busy. There were plenty of ships and dinghies docked, and the vendor stalls weren’t empty, but you and Tartaglia weren’t bumping shoulders with strangers or weaving between crowds to get to where you needed to be.
No, you were starstruck with the port itself. Despite having been able to see the trees that supported the port from the edge of the Sumeru Desert, you still didn’t expect them to be so big. You were struggling to grasp how old they were, who even came up with the idea to create a port out of them?
On your way to the local tavern for food, you glanced at the trunks to see that they were hollowed out. And as your head craned up, you realized that both trees were carved hollow, now cradling wooden spiral staircases and elevators within. At the top near the larger branches, a bridge joined the two trees, allowing foot traffic to flow from both sides of the river.
“You should see Sumeru City,” Tartaglia commented.
You tore your eyes away from the gargantuan plants. “The capital?” you clarified.
He nodded, lips pulled into a smug smile. Probably from watching you gawk around the city like a little kid. “Just one tree, but,” he whistled, letting you fill in the rest.
“Wow,” you remarked, turning back to the bridge again. He playfully nudged your shoulder and dragged you away from the viewpoint.
“Come on, comrade, let’s grab somethin’ to eat. Lunch is on me,” he added, winking.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight your smile. All the money you had at this point was communal.
It wasn’t a stale day. The breeze coming in from the sea made the heat bearable enough to claim a table on the tavern’s patio.
After you ordered (well, you let him order— you didn’t know what anything was on the menu), Tartaglia pulled out his latest wooden carving and a dagger.
He had apparently been looking for another good piece of wood this entire time. The perfect block ended up being from a newly fallen adhigama branch. You learned that was a very common tree in the Sumeru jungle, and was prized among woodcarvers and architects alike. If you had to wager, you’d bet the bench you were sitting on across from him was made from the same material.
“So,” Tartaglia started, focus turned to his work, “from what I’ve heard, the original treasure compass is protected by the Adventurer’s Guild.”
Right. You’d almost forgot you weren’t here to sightsee.
“Thing is, the Guild only has one hub per nation— stupid, if you ask me, I mean, do you expect all adventurers to take the same route? Anyway, the hub for Sumeru isn’t here.”
“Sumeru City?”
“Yup. And with our little situation—” he used his dagger to gesture loosely in your direction— “we don’t have that kind of time.”
You sighed and dropped your head in your hands, elbows propped on the table. “Why didn’t we go to Sumeru City if that’s where the compass is?”
He barked out a laugh, like the logic was unheard of, brushing off a wood shaving that landed on the back of his hand. His carving was almost done. “I’m not getting involved with the Adventurer’s Guild without a crew. They train their representatives to be creepy clones of each other; who knows what else they’re up to? Plus, I said the original is in Sumeru City. We don’t need the original, just a working dupe.”
“And by ‘working’ you mean to imply there’s dupes that… don’t work.”
“Unfortunately.”
“So how do we know if we’re getting a dupe that will actually work?”
He wore a satisfied smile, eyes twinkling like a predator watching its prey fall into its trap. “I know someone.”
A server came by with your food and coffee, but not even the heavenly smell of your meat skewers could lift your spirits at this point. “You better,” you frowned. A tiny yawn slipped out of you, prompting you to reach for the caffeinated drink.
Tartaglia set aside his completed toy— now revealed to be a robotic lizard figurine— and dagger to dig into his fish roll. “You have any special talents?”
“No.” Your frown only worsened.
He shook his head, cheeks stretched with food. “No wuwwiesf.”
Your face involuntarily twisted up in disgust. “Ugh, didn’t your mom ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?”
He looked at you and slowed his chewing. Tartaglia threw you a small, half-smile. When he spoke next, it was after swallowing. “You need to eat, too, if you plan on challenging a god at the end of this.”
He had a point. You picked a meat skewer off your plate and took a bite. Your eyes nearly rolled to the back of your head with how tender it was.
Tartaglia smirked. “Good, right?”
You nodded enthusiastically, a renewed hunger replacing the dread you felt previously. After swallowing, you added, “I’d rather not go head-to-head with the Geo Lord, though. I was kind of hoping to just… drop it off.”
He snorted and took a sip of the coffee that came with the meal. “With how bad your visions have been, I think we’re well past the point of ‘dropping it off,’” he remarked, fingers coming up to make air quotes around the utensils still in his hands.
“Still.”
“How are you doing with those?” he pointed to the weight still sitting on your right wrist.
You glanced down at it. It had been a couple days since he strapped them on you, but with all the walking and climbing you’d been doing, you had to admit you sometimes forgot they were on. “Better. I’ll definitely have some weird tan lines after this.”
He hummed in approval. “Go ahead and take ‘em off for the rest of the day. We’ll switch to mornings only from now on to give your body a break.”
You perked up at this. “Really?”
The chuckle he responded with made you deflate a little. “Don’t get too excited. I want to at least make sure you can do a push-up.”
Heat flared in your face. “I can do a push-up!” you argued.
His mouth opened to probably push your buttons some more, when a voice popped up from below your table. “Excuse me, mister?”
Tartaglia turned to his right, looking down to the side. “Yes, sir, how can I help you?” he replied without missing a beat.
You leaned over a bit while unwrapping your weights to see who had joined your conversation. Standing no taller than your hip’s height was a young boy— around seven years old, if you had to guess. Light freckles littered his pale skin, a bit sunburned in some places, blue eyes light with curiosity. From under an odd hat that seemed to have flaps on the sides meant to warm your ears, shocking ginger hair framed his face.
You glanced back at Tartaglia, watching him interact with the boy.
“What’s that?” the boy asked, pointing to where the wooden figurine sat on the table.
Tartaglia looked to where he pointed, then back at him. He crossed his arms and schooled his face with mock-skepticism. “Hmm… Depends. Who’s asking?”
“Me!” he responded.
“Ha!” Tartaglia laughed, grinning at the boy’s naivete. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Teucer,” the boy proudly stated.
Tartaglia’s grin receded into a wistful smile. “Teucer. That’s a very powerful name, you know that?” Teucer shook his head. “When I was young, I always heard stories about a legendary archer who fought in a great war between nations alongside his big brother. He ended up becoming the king of his own city.” Tartaglia leaned down to speak conspiratorially to the boy. “Am I speaking to a legendary archer right now?”
Teucer giggled, clearly loving Tartaglia’s praise. “Nooooo, I’m just Teucer.”
Tartaglia sighed dramatically and leaned back to sit up again. “If you say so. Well, to answer your question from earlier, this—” he picked up the figurine to give Teucer a closer look— “is a tiny ruin drake. In fact, I just finished it.”
Teucer reached his tiny hands into his pockets, pulling out a handful of mora. “Can I have it for…” he suddenly went quiet as he counted how much money he had in his hands. Tartaglia glanced back at you, sending you an amused smile. You returned it a bit late, lost in thought. His eyebrows drew together, then, “47 mora?” Teucer finally finished, as if he hadn’t spent so long recounting his wealth.
Tartaglia went quiet, pretending to think it over. “I don’t know… I’m used to dealing with pretty high class warriors…” you couldn’t stop the face you made. “But, for someone with a name like Teucer… ” he snapped his fingers like an idea had just popped into his head. “Tell you what— if you can beat me in a fight, you can have it for free.”
The only part Teucer must have heard was the word “free,” because he was nodding his head along without hesitation.
Tartaglia stood up, his fish roll half-finished, and led the boy over to the side of the table. He took a loose fighting stance, waiting for Teucer to mirror him. When they were both in position, he looked at you. “Mind counting us off, comrade?”
You turned in your seat to face them. “3… 2… 1… Fight!” And they were off.
Tartaglia threw the fight like you knew he would, but you didn’t watch them for entertainment purposes. You watched because you couldn’t look away.
Teucer was practically the spitting image of him. It wasn’t a question of if they were related, but how. Son? Brother? Nephew? Even the way they smiled was the same. Most differences you saw were purely lived experience: the battle scars on Tartaglia’s body, the faint tan on his skin, the dimness in his eyes. Tartaglia was Teucer after being dealt a shitty hand in life.
The sight of them walking next to each other back to the table stirred something in your heart. Tartaglia plucked the wooden ruin drake off your table and gingerly placed it in Teucer’s waiting hands. His face lit up with the gift. “Thank you, mister… What’s your name?”
He ruffled Teucer’s hair, shifting his hat askew. “Don’t worry about me. Go find your mom, or whoever you’re—” Teucer took off before he could finish.
The two of you watched as he ran at breakneck speed, nearly losing his hat to the wind several times. He barreled into the legs of a woman, who quickly embraced him. She fussed at his lopsided hat, scolded him for probably running away, all with an endearing smile. At her side were two other children. They turned together and walked off.
You snuck a glance at Tartaglia; his face was unreadable as he observed the reunion. Without a word, he joined you again at the table and wolfed down the rest of his food.
“That was nice of you,” you admitted. You didn’t know if you wanted the rest of your skewers anymore.
He shrugged. “How much mora do we have left?”
Deflecting. “Maybe three thousand. Why?”
He frowned. You didn’t see him do that often. “We might need to get creative getting that compass.”
You realized how creative you were going to have to get when he led you to his “person’s” stall.
“Does that sign say fifty thousand, or am I adding too many zeroes,” you whispered from your spot several feet away from the vendor’s stall.
His face had been twisted in a permanent grimace since you had paid for your food and left the tavern. “It’s fifty.”
“What are we supposed to do?” It would be a lie to say you weren’t panicking at your only lead falling through as you spoke.
“I’m thinking.”
You eyed the vendor at the counter. She was probably the shortest adult you had ever seen. Or maybe she wasn’t an adult at all? It was hard to get a good look at her face behind the obnoxiously reflective spectacles perched on her nose.
“Do we have to… steal it?”
Tartaglia raised an eyebrow, mouth quirked up. “Stealing from a small business is something I’d rather avoid.”
You scowled. “Well, don’t say it like that. What kind of lunatic prices a treasure compass at fifty thousand anyways?”
“The original that they rent out at the Guild is actually the same.”
You blanched. “Just to rent?!”
“Life of crime doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?” he teased.
Maybe not.
Silence resumed over you as you let him think. “Stay here,” he instructed after a few moments.
He didn’t need to tell you twice. You weren’t exactly prized for your poker face back home.
Tartaglia pulled his shoulders back and strode up to the stall. It was almost comical how he towered over her. Even from where you were, you could see the wide frame of his shoulders, snaking down into a lean waist. And further down—
You pulled your eyes away before you could betray yourself anymore. It hadn’t been that long ago that you had any time to yourself, right? A little more than a week, maybe. But even so, it wasn’t wrong to look. You had eyes. His profession didn’t change the fact that he was objectively well-proportioned.
It was hard to tell if he was successful when he returned. There was a trot in his step, a neutral expression on his face; his hands were in his pockets. Did he…?
“We’re stealing it,” he confirmed.
—
“So, what happened to ‘I’d rather not steal from small businesses’?” you deadpanned.
Night had fallen a few hours ago, but the humidity persisted. The only difference was your sweat cooled before it dripped down your buttcrack. An hour of planning and reconnaissance, plus a few more spent killing time later led you to where you were now: perched atop the roof of a miscellaneous building, waiting for the vendor to leave.
“I forgot how much she irritated me,” Tartaglia replied flippantly, laying flat on his stomach watching the stall.
“Do you know each other?”
“Not well.”
You turned your attention back to the stall from your position next to him. The ball of slime in your stomach only got worse with the anticipation.
“Don’t feel bad.” Either your unease was written in your expression, or you had underestimated his people skills yet again. “She’s been in business a while. I'll bring her back a souvenir. She’ll probably up the price tenfold and make a fortune. At least, that’s what she’s done before,” he reasoned.
You bit back your concern. The lure of wealth was how you convinced Tartaglia to keep you alive in the first place, but with the amount of trouble that your relic, stolen by you or not, had caused, it made you worry that the same predicament would befall anyone else that profited from Tartaglia’s plunder. Especially Tartaglia.
Surely it wouldn’t be your fault if it did. Maybe your situation was so shitty because it was the gnosis, the source of the god’s power. A regular artifact would be fine.
That’s what you would keep telling yourself.
But what if it isn’t?
What if, what if, what if. If you had learned anything else from your time with Tartaglia, it was that it didn’t do any good to worry about things you couldn’t control. You don’t know how he didn’t suffer a mental breakdown after his ship imploded, but maybe it was because he knew it came with the job. Bad things probably happened to him all the time, so he may as well smile through it.
You snuck a glance at him from the corner of your eyes. Would you be okay if he was cursed by a relic you encouraged him to take?
“Can… I ask you a question?” you posed quietly.
Your voice drew his attention towards you. You continued. “How did you become a pirate?”
Tartaglia didn’t seem phased by the question. He drew in a deep breath and looked back to your target. You watched his profile as he spoke.
“I was kidnapped.”
You blinked. “Oh.”
He merely shrugged. “A lot of us have the same or similar stories. For me, I had just learned to ice-fish.” Snezhnaya or Dragonspine? “I was too young to be alone unsupervised, but I wanted to prove to my dad that I could do it myself, so I went out anyway. Ended up falling in, and someone came and found me. They nursed me back to health, but just… didn’t take me back home.
“I was half-way across the world by the time I escaped, so I started stealing to survive, and… here I am.” he ended his story with a light smile, anticipating that it would bring down the mood. Whatever mood there was.
You had more questions, but you had a feeling you knew the answers to most of them already. So you just asked, “Do you wish things were different?”
A beat. “You don’t get anywhere in piracy by wishing.”
A heron landed on the bank of the river, stalking for fish. The vendor was still there.
“I’m glad you didn’t die on the beach,” you admitted. “I wouldn’t have survived very long without you.”
He huffed a laugh at your compliment. “You would’ve been fine.” Then glanced your way and gave you a once over. “Maybe a little more bruised, but fine.”
You shook your head. “I don’t think—”
“You’re resourceful.” He nodded to himself, as if he was the one who needed convincing. “You would’ve figured something out.” A distant splash of water drew your attention in time to see the heron flutter away, a fish in its beak. “Like right now.”
“What?” you asked dumbly.
Tartaglia just pointed at where the vendor was skipping away from the stall, only the stall was empty. Fuck.
“Fuck.” She had taken her goods with her. Why hadn’t you thought of that?
Tartaglia sighed contentedly and pushed himself up out of his horizontal position to sit up. “Alright, comrade, now’s your time to shine.”
You stared at him, then cut your gaze to the vendor, who was getting further away the longer you sat there, and back to him. “You want me to go rob her?”
He grinned. “You should feel a lot faster without those weights now.”
“Oh my god, you—” You cut yourself off and leapt up to scamper down to the ground. You hadn’t thought she would take her goods with her, but he had. You felt like an idiot.
The minute you touched the ground you broke into a sprint. And of course, he was right. You had even noticed it when climbing up to the roof where he watched you from now. The weights hadn’t helped you gain muscle yet in the few days you’d had them on, but you sure as hell could run a little faster.
As you closed in on the vendor, she noticed you approaching. Pulling your last bit of energy (or was it adrenaline?), you sped up before she could turn around and see your face.
Your plan worked. You hadn’t known exactly what you were going to do when you left the roof, but suddenly you found yourself launching yourself into a tackle. The vendor was so small, that it genuinely did feel like tackling a child (as if tackling anyone isn’t just as bad?), but you didn’t let yourself dwell on that. Straddling her, you used one hand to pin her face away from you, and the other to rummage through her backpack. Quickly finding the compass, you shoved off of her. Her cries of indignation followed you as you took off out of the port altogether. Tartaglia would catch up to you.
And he did. About a mile and a half down the river, you allowed yourself to slow to a walk. There was no sign of anyone behind you— you checked.
It didn’t take long for the hand to clap your shoulder. Tartaglia pulled himself into your peripherals, pride radiating off him in waves. You didn’t know if you were relieved or pissed to see him so soon.
“That was—” Before you could stop yourself, your fist flew out and connected with his nose.
You were pissed.
“Never ask me to do anything like that again.”
Tartaglia stumbled back a step, leaning over and reaching a hand up to his nose. Blood trickled out, leaving a trail over his lips and chin, dripping from there into the grass. He straightened up, eyebrows raised. “You’re mad,” he observed unhelpfully.
“You forced me to rob an innocent person!” you seethed.
“I didn’t force you to do anything,” he stated.
“No. You knew I needed this compass to get myself out of whatever hellscape I’m in. You set me up.” A fog settled over your ears as your heart rate picked up. It was hard to keep yourself from raising your voice.
“So you made a bad choice to ensure your survival. I wonder where you learned that from?” he shot back.
“Don’t—”
“No, let’s talk about this. I told you I could get you through this, but not without your trust. You agreed. And now bad decisions are reserved for pirates only? People make bad decisions everyday, comrade, not just pirates.”
You remained quiet, forcing yourself to calm down a bit and focus on your breathing.
“I am okay with getting my hands a little dirty,” you began, measured. “But not at the cost of an innocent person. Teach me to fight and I will fight with you, but I won’t steal.”
Tartaglia eyed you, something different in his gaze. Respect, you hoped. His tongue darted out to wet his mouth, catching some of the blood that stained it. Your face heated. He cleared his throat, then held out his hand. “Deal. I’m sorry.”
You looked at him for any sign of ill will, found none, then grasped his hand for a firm shake. “Me too.” You hesitated. “Did I break your nose?”
A cheshire grin spread across his face, a rare twinkle in his eye. “Yes, you did.”
how come nobody told me that teucer and ajax are characters from a greek myth where they fight in the trojan war together as big tank big brother and archer behind the lines younger brother and then when ajax dies teucer protects his body from agamemnon so that he can be buried with honor and then teucer goes on to found and rule his own city after he's exiled from home??????
how come nobody told me that teucer and ajax are characters from a greek myth where they fight in the trojan war together as big tank big brother and archer behind the lines younger brother and then when ajax dies teucer protects his body from agamemnon so that he can be buried with honor and then teucer goes on to found and rule his own city after he's exiled from home??????
Zhongli normally isn’t one for PDA. But when people question his relationship with you, he can certainly adapt.
The day is pleasant and there are few responsibilities that require tending to, so it’s perfect for some leisure. Zhongli suggests taking you out to a lovely new sweets shop that’s opened up near your home, and thus the afternoon quietly saunters by at a cozy outdoor table while savoring some lovely almond jelly and dragon’s beard candy.
It should be uneventful, but Zhongli’s keen hearing picks up on something rather interesting from the table behind him. A perfunctory glance reveals two young people, perhaps tired adventurers guessing by their sun-kissed skin and frazzled appearances, here to recuperate.
“That Mr. Zhongli sure is handsome,” sighs one of them, all moony. “Even the way he eats is so dignified. The kind of man you’d proudly bring home to your parents.”
“Oh, I agree. I haven’t been in this city long, but I can say for sure everyone loves him. He’s super friendly, too!”
“That person sitting across from him—that a friend or a lover? You can be honest and it won’t hurt my feelings, I promise.”
“Oh, I don’t think you have to worry about them. It’d be a miracle for a man like Zhongli to be single, but it doesn’t look like they’re an item,” the other one comments. “They don’t seem to be doing stereotypical couple-y things, after all. I don’t see them, like, handsy with each other. Get what I mean? Seems like the kinda congeniality you’d show a coworker you’re being nice to for brownie points.”
“So you’re saying there’s a chance?” the former whispers excitedly. “D’you think I can ask Mr. Zhongli out when I catch him alone?”
Zhongli’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly. Why, he had never reason to believe anyone would view his relationship with you as platonic. But if they are basing it on a lack of customary outward gestures, then…
He gets up without a word and crosses to the other side of the table, seating himself directly beside you.
“Oh?” You stop mid-scoop of your jelly and gaze at him. “What’s up, Li?”
You think he’s about to tell you something serious, but his face only breaks into a smile. “Allow me,” he says warmly, taking the spoon from you. With practiced care, he digs into the supple jelly and holds the spoon out to your mouth.
You eat without question, but as you do, Zhongli pats your head and supplements it with a kiss to your forehead, his smile unwavering. “My darling.”
“H-huh?” Shyness creeps up your veins and you turn your face away, but Zhongli gently hooks a finger under your chin.
“Ah ah,” he chides softly, “let me see your cute face.”
Also, is it just you, or is he speaking a little louder than usual?
He feeds you several spoonfuls more of the stuff, all while you’re steeped in confusion and fluster. He pats your head after each bite, beaming all the while, and after a few minutes of—well, whatever has come over him, you ask, “Aren’t you going to have the jelly yourself? It’s almost gone…”
“Ah, but you see,” Zhongli says silkily, running his gloved thumb over your lower lip, “it shall taste sweetest from your mouth.”
He kisses you before you can say anything, a firm and divine little kiss that’s over in a second, but you could have sworn you heard the clatter of silverware somewhere nearby. No matter, you’re too dazed to think of anything else.
You blink dumbly at him, the god as composed as ever. “O-oh my…” At this, he merely chuckles and pinches your cheek.
After you two are finished eating, he stands up and holds his hand out to you. “Well then, my dearest gem, shall we stroll about the gardens for a bit? I do wish to show you the new blooms that have graced the green—though none shall compare to your own beauty, I believe.”
You’re still stunned, but you comply. As you two leave, you pass by a table where a poor adventurer seems to be sobbing into their plate of red bean buns.
tags: hint of slow burn, accidental voyeurism, solo (fem) masturbation, voice kink, bodyguard romance | 18+
a.note ! repost from my old blog. don’t mind me ><
Sleep doesn’t come - no matter how much you lay in bed with your eyes shut closed, waiting. The warmth of your blankets can’t keep the tremors away, nor the gentle silk fabric of your nightgown. The only remedy is touching yourself while thinking about him.
Little do you know, he’s here - on the other side of your door, sat in the hallway chair, sword resting across his lap.
The moment the familiar light of your lamp slips through the crack of your door, Aki’s steady gaze lowers, watching the thin band of amber go still. Something twists in his chest upon realising that you’re trying to sleep, but you still can’t.
You don’t know he’s here; and he doesn’t intend for you to, because he’s not supposed to be. The rules are clear. But if he leaves, something will trouble him all night - something restless and gnawing, whispering that you’ll wake alone and afraid. Or worse…
Yet, staying means crossing the line he drew the day he accepted the job.
Well… he’s staying.
He remembers how you looked when he found you - trembling, streaked with dirt and blood, your voice hoarse from screaming. He also remembers the thing that came for you; and how you winced at the sound of the thunder on your way home. He can’t leave.
He tilts his head back against the wall, exhaustion tugging at every muscle. Stray strands of black hair have slipped loose from the topknot at the back of his head, brushing against his temple. His blue eyes, usually clear and cutting, now look dull and clouded by sleeplessness.
Then, he hears it - a small sound, not quite a cry, but not a word either. More like a whimper erupting from a nightmare.
He straightens in his seat, his instinct snapping before any thoughts could follow.
And then - another sound. Slightly higher, slightly more intense. It stirs something inside him once it slips through the wall, overwhelming and alarming, causing him to rise on his feet.
Before he can realise, he’s standing there in the dark hallway, hand hovering near the door. He could knock, but that would mean admitting his presence, admitting that he’s been here all night…
Sighing, he lets his hand quietly drop at his side. However, before he steps back, it clenches into a fist. His brows draw together as his expression sharpens.
This isn’t the voice he’s used to hearing, it’s not the bright, confident one that fills his car between destinations when you’re teasing him about his silence; a little spoiled, with careless grace. It’s different - thinner yet… effusive. It catches at him in a way that it shouldn’t, as he feels like it belongs to a version of you that should be foreign to him.
Finally, the realisation washes over him - you’re not having a bad dream, you’re not crying… you’re moaning. You’re touching yourself. Sounds like these don’t originate from pain, they’re the kind that come in times of passion and sexual desire.
The more he listens to the way they multiply, the better he can tell your pleasure is magnifying by the second.
Aki catches the faint rustling of sheets, your voice breaking the brief silence - a shaky, elevating sound that makes his throat dry. He can almost see you, legs spread apart, restless feet dragging across the mattress, toes curling as your chest heaves excitedly beneath thin silk. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth but not long enough to control the inevitable reactions.
The fear that had you frozen earlier dissipating from the rhythm of your hand.
He can clearly see it if he focuses a little more - gentle, manicured fingers that once clutched his sleeve in fear now caressing the most intimate part of you, sliding into your warmth.
Another moan, pleading and drawn out. The kind that crawls out of your throat when the rush heightens to the point your body starts quivering; when you can’t do anything except move faster and stronger.
Aki runs a hand over his face, barely realising he’s doing it, and forces himself to look away from the door. With every next sound, needy and trembling, the shame coils tighter in his chest.
He shouldn’t be here and he shouldn’t be listening to this - he’s intruding something so intimate and private. This is your time to leave, a warning voice whispers in his head. Instead, he leans back against the wall, the wound in his shoulder throbbing dully with each breath - not enough to overpower the shame that settles inside him, though.
His brows furrow as your moans continue tumbling from your lips; he feels disgusted with himself as he concentrates, welcoming every little sound that reaches him. He notices you’re getting louder, more desperate than you were a moment ago.
If he presses an ear to your door he might catch the lewd noise of your palm smacking against your slick folds, breaking through the on-going moans emitting from your throat.
He gulps, then licks his lips, every muscle inside him tensing as his cock thickens from the warmth rising beneath his skin.
His mind starts screaming at him to move, to walk to the other end of the hallway and give you the privacy you deserve. Go to the kitchen and pour a glass of water. Anything. But his feet won’t obey.
The only thing he manages to do is set his sword carefully on the glass table, and sink back into the chair, exhaling as you appear in fragments playing out behind his closed eyes. Even with all the guilt he feels, he can’t stop the scenes from unfolding, more and more erotically with every pass.
You’re flushed, neck glistening with sweat as you shift against the pillow, voice crying out towards the ceiling; your small hand barely keeping up with the pressure bubbling inside you, fingers not skilled nor long enough to reach the spot you so desperately need.
More warmth settles under his leather belt as he imagines your pretty face scrunching in frustration, the euphoria forcing your mouth into an constant oh. And though he knows he should be better than this, more sensible and professional… he palms his erection, gaining a small yet intense thrill he’s never felt before.
He can almost feel the heat, the lust filling your room as your breathy voice rings throughout the walls that separate you from each other; it slips through, making the air feel hot and solid around him.
It’s absurd, Aki tells himself. He should be thinking about threats and contingency plans. But the image of you that doesn’t belong in his mind persists, perverted and disarming, stopping him from getting a hold of any reasonable thought.
Soon, your self control teeters at the edges and you come undone. You cry out, loud, voice slightly rougher which only makes it even more alluring. Aki exhales deeply through his nose, jaw tight as his bruised hand adjusts his manhood with a tighter grip.
When silence finally settles over your room, the thin line of light beneath the door fades away. For a moment his eyes stay fixed on the floor, waiting. When the glow doesn’t return, he draws in a slow breath and lets it out through his teeth, looking away.
His training kicks back in - the practiced act of pushing emotions down until all that’s left is the still feeling of alertness.
He straightens in the chair, gaze drifting to the window across the room. The rain still runs in easy silver lines down the glass.
Like that, the tight ribbon of pressure inside his chest slowly untangles, turning into something manageable. Meanwhile, you, on the other side of the wall, finally surrender to sleep.
Do love the concept of yan blade coming back from planarcadia so warm and affectionate and human in ways you never experienced before and now—even tho you’ve been basically held captive as a comfort doll for when he was in the throes of mara—you’re starting to really fall for him bc those glimpses of someone who truly cares for you are no longer just glimpses…
When Blade returns to your shared bedroom from whatever errand he’d been sent on, his first words to you are: “Have you eaten?”
The question is almost stilted. It tumbles from his lips uncertain, hesitant, but his hands are warm and steady as they cup your face, rough thumbs brushing softly against the apples of your cheeks.
You’re at a loss. It’s been weeks since his sudden and inexplicable—or, at least, not explained to you—change of heart, but after years of routine it still feels horribly new.
(When Kafka had dragged you from your shared bedroom to greet him, you’d braced for the same song and dance as every other time he’d returned from a mission. But instead of tossing you over his shoulder and heading for the bedroom, he’d greeted you sweetly—a cradled face, a tender look, a kiss to your brow. Not freedom, not a change of heart, but… something so close to devotion it made your heart ache.)
Today, when you shake your head no, rather than throwing you onto the bed ass-up, he quietly reaches for your hand and turns for the door. You follow him dutifully through the dim corridor of the current safe house until it opens up into the main room, a comfortable shared space where Kafka and Silver Wolf are occupying two sides of a wide, plush sofa—Blade does not spare them a passing glance, but a helpless look from you on the way past only gets you an impish grin from Kafka and a waggle of Silver Wolf’s fingers.
You’ve long given up hope for help from them. Blade’s companions have only ever been too eager to throw you at him, a bone to a particularly vicious hound. They only seem to intervene when his gnawing risks breaking you for good.
But right now his fingers around your wrist are hardly bruising as he guides you into the kitchen. His hands remain gentle when they find your waist to lift you and place you on the counter; they linger, trailing down your thighs when he pulls away and turns to the fridge, one squeezing the meat of your calf just enough to make you twitch before his touch is gone.
The fruit that he pulls out is vibrant purple and alien. Whatever it is, he knows exactly how to handle it, setting about peeling its wrinkled skin with a paring knife, standing so close his elbow nearly brushes against your knee with each movement.
You don’t often get the chance to explore the rest of the safe house. Blade typically only slips out of the room when you’re too fucked out to follow, assured that you’ll remain exactly where he’s left you when he returns. Fingers curling over the edge of the counter, you recall the first night—when you’d dragged your exhausted body out of that much-too-small bed and to the adjoining bathroom for some semblance of tidying yourself up, only to be caught by a savage arm around the waist and manic eyes like smoldering embers in the dark.
The eyes that regard you now glow just the same yet feel anything but, heavy-lidded and aged, curtained by strands of hair that seem greyer than they were when he’d left.
Without thinking, you reach out to brush them away, the pads of your fingers grazing his forehead. His lashes flutter as he leans into your touch.
“You’re different,” you say boldly. It earns you a quirk of a brow, an expression horribly endearing for a man who once stole you from your bed in obsessive madness. “You’ve changed since you came back from Planarcadia.”
“Much happened while we were away,” is the cryptic response you receive. He pinches a slice of that fruit with thumb and forefinger, holding it out to you. Your mouth opens instinctively. Its taste is bright, the flesh nearly melting upon your tongue, and when his hand pulls away you’re left with the sweet juice upon your lips.
“And I won’t get an elaboration on that?”
“A weapon dulls and must be reforged. The craftsman and tool are tempered together, born anew as one, transformed through a thousand shatterings.”
“Right. Whatever that means.” You lift a leg to tuck your knee beneath your chin. “And does this reforged weapon no longer feel the temptation of flesh?”
The movement of Blade’s finger stills. He goes rigid, tensing in an instant, taut as a strung bow—but his eyes, quite pointedly, do not meet yours.
A complaint sits on the tip of your tongue. You will not voice your desires, not in these circumstances; you refuse to beg your captor to touch you. And yet, if he won’t let you go…
“The least you could do is satisfy me,” you sneer. “You haven’t so much as touched me in—”
He fills your open mouth with another slice of exotic fruit. It tastes tarter now, messier, the nectar spilling over your lips and down your chin as you let out a squeak of surprise. Blade closes the distance between you before you can blink, and even as you swallow the mangled flesh around his fingers they lag within your mouth, the rough pads of his index and thumb dragging along the soft plane of your tongue. You close your teeth in pitiful protest, grazing the skin of his knuckles and pretending not to notice how his eyes spark with heat.
Still, when that thumb drops to wipe the sticky juice that glistens on your chin, your mouth feels dry. He brings it to his own lips, which part to let his tongue find it, throat bobbing with a swallow. Your breath hitches, and his eyes jump to meet yours.
Then he surges forward. You nearly slam your head into the upper cabinet behind you, so startled by the sudden movement, but catch yourself with an elbow. He has you cornered now, broad chest and ashen hair crowding your vision, thick arms at either side, and there is nothing to do as his head drops and he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You can feel his breath there, hot against your skin.
And his lips, brushing just barely at your neck as he speaks, “this blade can never satisfy its hunger.”
