hi 🧸 anon here !! loved your lohen fic so much that it motivated me to make a request lol!! so i'm not sure if this aligns w your req rules (i did read them before so im pretty sure im good? but specifying just in case) but could you write an aftercare scenario with tartaglia? mostly fluff but slightly suggestive eheh <33 another tartaglia request i just love him so so much !! thanks <33 🧸🧸
ᝰ.ᐟ hold me close I tartaglia
a/n. i love this aaaa and omg of course your so free to request that<3 its been a good while since i wrote so i hope this is good :> (had to go over it again as i left it be overnight. ill get better with the suggestive stuff i promiseee)
themes: slight suggestiveness ahead
it was around noon, and the shared bathroom was warm from the steam that had been lingering there. the mirror was fogged up, even though you'd tried to get some fresh air by opening the window.
you plonked yourself down on the side of the bed with a towel in your hands, absentmindedly rubbing your damp hair into it. at least the sheets were changed too, childe was very particular about it after intimacy. he would make sure the bed was spotless, like always.
“you’ve missed one spot babe”
you blinked, snapping back and looking at the doorway where childe was leaned against it, some loose grey sweatpants and a towel around his shoulders. his own ginger hair was still a bit damp, with a few strands clinging to his forehead. you had to admit he looked quite cute. with the same cheekiness you reply, “hm did i now?”
“mm oh definitely,” he replied to you confidently. he stood up straight and walked over to you, leaned down slightly and tapped the tip of your nose, laughing. “right here babe~”. you let out such a deep sigh that it had him grin even more, and he planted a little kiss on your nose before quickly moving away. he knew your hands were fast, he in fact did not want to risk a smack.
“have you ever been told you're a bit of a handful?”, you said crossing your arms and staring up into his beautiful blue eyes. if he weren't up to such teasing you would definitely have complimented him. maaaybe later.
before you could even react, he pushed you down onto the bed, his hair falling over his face a bit as he stared at you. his hands were surprisingly gentle, his long slender fingers combing through your hair and down your body until he stopped at your waist. and archons the way he had your knees give in with that look in his eyes. it was unbelievable that he affected you so fucking much. "oh? is my beautiful getting turned on again? you know i totally have some stamina left!"
smack
"absolutely not! we just showered and..i feel sore okay?!", you said, hiding your face in embarassement, already regretting saying that out loud. childe let out a soft laugh, gently moving your hands down and pressing soft kisses along your jaw. "don't be so shy about it now babe! you know i'll take care of you, in fact..how about a nice meal?"
bless this man to keep up with you. he knew you like the back of your hand that you could never hide anything from his sight. despite the jokes and light jabbing, his aftercare for you was top priority. no matter if he was going hard or soft in bed, keeping you clean, hydrated and fed was a must. his job wouldn't be done right then, his beloved deserved all care.
a light blush covered your cheeks as you cupped his face and nuzzled against it. "or are you just trying to bribe me to eat so i have more stamina to ride you huh?"
"oh babe come on! im not like that you know"
"mm totally", you snorted and pecked his lips, both giggling into it as he wrapped his arms tighter around you. you really wouldn't ever trade this away. such moments were a blessing especially whenever he would be gone for awhile with his duties as a harbinger.
after awhile when he had made some warm tea and pancakes for the both of you, settling together at the table and just enjoying each others presence. your small house filled with love and warmth.
"you know what? im starting to think that another round might not be such a bad idea"
"archons, you are really needy when you come back"
laughter soon filled the room as you both finished and washed up the dishes together, his hands finding your waist as he traced patterns around, squeezing lightly to gain your reactions. his soft warm lips pressed against your shoulder as his body moved closer to yours. he couldn't control himself much longer, the way you smelled so good, your skin so smooth and how he just wanted to hear you cry out again for him.
childe lifted you up bridal style, that glint back in his eyes as he carried you to the bed once more. and he was going to take his sweet time to devour your body again.
childe x reader
summary: with a job like yours, it was easy living. after all, it wasn't as if writing letters got you involved with the fatui... or would it?
notes: fluff, 2.5k
masterlist
The sign above your table says LETTERS WRITTEN, ALL LANGUAGES, FAIR RATES, and beneath it, smaller, added after your first month in Liyue Harbor taught you what the work actually was: DISCRETION INCLUDED.
Sailors, mostly. Men who never learned their characters or learned them in some northern script the harbor has no patience for. Dockworkers sending mora home with a line or two of proof they're alive. Once, memorably, a Millelith sergeant dictating a love poem so bad you charged him half price out of pity. You write what people say. You do not improve it unless asked. You have learned that the errors are usually the point — that a wife in Qingce reading the food here is grate hears her husband's voice in the misspelling, and would not thank you for correcting him out of the letter.
He arrives on a Tuesday in the ninth month, when the harbor smells like rain that hasn't decided yet. Two fingers of his right hand splinted together, the wrapping clean and professional, the kind of clean that means Bubu Pharmacy and money. Fatui greatcoat, worn open. Ginger hair, and a face that has decided in advance to be pleasant.
"You write letters," he says.
"The sign is fairly honest."
"Snezhnayan?"
"Among others."
He sits down across from you without being invited, which you will come to understand is simply how he enters spaces, and lays his splinted hand flat on your table like a passport.
"Occupational thing," he says. "Should be a few weeks. I write my family every week and my handwriting with the left looks like a chicken died on the page. Can you do today?"
You take out paper. You uncap the ink. Around you the harbor goes on shouting at itself, cargo and gulls and someone's argument about salt fish, and he watches your hands settle into position with an attention that feels less like curiosity and more like assessment, like he's checking your grip the way you'd check a stranger's knife.
"Whenever you're ready," you say.
He starts talking.
The first letter is to a brother. Teucer. Aged somewhere in the single digits, going by content, which concerns a toy salesman, a promise about a whale, and an extended lie about how boring the work is here. Nothing happens all day, he dictates, cheerful, one boot hooked around the leg of his chair. I sit at a desk and stamp papers. Yesterday I stamped forty papers. Pray for me.
You write it exactly. You do not look up. There is a bruise coming through at his collar, older than the fingers, yellow-green, and you write I sit at a desk in your best hand and let it lie there on the page being untrue.
"You didn't ask," he says, when you're blotting it.
"Ask what?"
"Anything." He's tipped back on the chair's rear legs now, balancing, testing. "Most people ask. Fatui walks up, everyone's got a question. You just wrote it down."
"You paid for a letter. Questions cost extra."
He laughs — a real one, short, surprised out of him — and pays for the letter, and overpays, and is gone into the crowd before you can make change.
He comes back the next Tuesday. And the next.
The letters map a family the way a coastline maps a country: edges first. Tonia, who is owed a dress from Fontaine and reminds him of it, apparently, in every letter she sends. Anthon, who broke something and blamed the dog, and the dog, whose innocence Ajax argues for at dictation length. His mother, to whom the letters are shorter and gentler and never once contain the word cold, though it's October now and you know what his home country is in October. His father gets a single line most weeks, and the line is always sturdy, weight-bearing, the way you'd speak across a fence to a man you respect and cannot talk to.
He never says the word Fatui in a letter. You never write it. The work stays offstage, a scuffed boot, a new cut across the knuckles of the good hand, a week where he shows up with his voice sanded down to something quieter and dictates three sentences and stares at the water while you write them.
You learn him the way you learn anyone whose mail you carry — sideways, in negative space, from what gets left out. You know a dozen men on this dock who lie to their families. His lies are better made. He builds his mother a version of her son who is safe and bored, builds it fresh every week, plank by plank, and pays you to hold the boards straight while he nails them.
"You want to know what I actually did this week?" he asks once, catching you catching the bandage on his forearm.
"No," you say.
"Liar."
"Discretion included. It's on the sign."
He looks at the sign. Then at you, longer.
"Everyone in this city wants to sell me something," he says, almost to himself. "You won't even sell me your curiosity."
In November he starts asking your opinion.
Small things at first. Whether miss you reads better at the top of a letter or the bottom. Whether Teucer will notice that the harbor festival he described happened, in reality, to be four months ago. Whether his mother can tell, in someone else's handwriting, when he's lying.
"She can tell in your handwriting?" you ask.
"She can tell in my breathing. From across an ocean." He says it with the helpless pride of a man describing a natural disaster he happens to love. "But letters, yeah. She says my loops go tight when I'm hiding something. Started ignoring anything I wrote below a certain size."
"And in mine?"
"In yours, everything comes out even." He watches you square the page. "You'd have made a good forger."
"I'd have made a rich forger."
"So why letters?"
You could give him the practiced answer, the one about steady work and honest coin. Instead — and later you will not be able to say why, except that the rain had finally decided and was coming down soft on the awning, and the harbor had gone quiet the way it only does under rain — you tell him something true. That you like being the room where other people's tenderness happens. That most people are braver on paper than anywhere else, and you get to sit in the blast radius of it all day, and it ruins you a little, and that the ruination, their trueness is something you've decided to keep.
He doesn't say anything for a while. The rain works on the awning.
"Blast radius," he repeats, finally, like he's turning it over for flaws and not finding one. "Yeah. All right."
He pays for the letter. He doesn't overpay this time, which somehow feels like a greater intimacy which unnerves you — as if the transaction has stopped being a performance and become just the ordinary cost of a thing he needs.
The splints come off sometime in late November. You know this because you notice everything about his hands by now, which is your own confession, though you try and keep it under discretion. The two fingers move stiff for a week, then less stiff, and by the first snow that doesn't stick he is flexing them absently while he talks, cracking the knuckles, drumming the table, a hand entirely returned to service.
He keeps coming.
You say nothing for three Tuesdays. On the fourth, watching him spin the pen you have never once seen him need across the back of those healed fingers, coin-trick smooth, you set down a blank page and don't pick up your own pen at all.
"Your hand's fine," you say.
The pen stops.
"It's been fine for a month. You've been paying me to transcribe letters you could write yourself." You keep your voice level, fair rates, all languages. "I don't mind the money. But I improve errors when asked, and this looks like an error."
He looks at you across the table. Behind the pleasantness there's a rapid analysis going on — you can see it, you've watched him do sums on people all autumn — and then, remarkably, you watch him decide to stop doing it. The pleasantness doesn't drop so much as it opens, a door left unlocked from the inside.
"She writes back more," he says.
You wait.
"My mother. Since it's been your hand. Longer letters, more of them." He turns the pen over once, sets it down. "Took me a while to work out why. Then I got it. My handwriting, she reads on guard. Looking for the tight loops. Waiting for the lie. Yours, she just — reads. Believes the boring desk. Sleeps at night." He shrugs with one shoulder, a gesture that wants to be light and isn't. "Turns out the best thing I ever did for my mother's peace of mind was break two fingers."
The rain awning drips. Somewhere down the pier, a bell.
"So no," he says. "The hand's fine. The letters aren't. They're better here."
There are perhaps four things you could say to that, and you consider all of them, and what comes out instead is:
"You could just tell her the truth."
"I could," he agrees, easy, terrible. "She'd carry it the rest of her life. She'd carry it into her sleep and her cooking and her other kids." His eyes come up to yours, and there's no pleasantness in them at all now, only the accounting, turned inward this time. "I'm not buying handwriting. I'm buying her a son who stamps papers. That's the whole product. You're just the only vendor."
You pick up your pen.
"Same time next week," you say, and something in his shoulders comes down half an inch, and you pretend not to have seen it, and he pretends not to know you're pretending, and this, you understand later, is the exact moment the ground shifted, though at the time it only felt like Tuesday.
Winter arrives at Liyue Harbor the way a rumor does, secondhand and diluted, nothing like the real thing. He tells you about the real thing. Not in letters — between them, after them, in the ten and then twenty and then forty minutes that have attached themselves to the transaction like barnacles. Snow that erases fences. Silence you can stand inside. A porch with amber lights his mother has kept lit so long the whole family navigates home by them without thinking of it as navigation.
You tell him things back. You're not sure when that started either. The village you came from and won't return to. The three languages you dream in, unevenly. The Millelith sergeant's poem, recited from memory, which does to him what it did to you and leaves him wheezing against the table with his forehead on his sleeve.
He starts bringing tea. Two cups, from the place near Feiyun Slope, always the same order for you, which means at some point he watched you order and kept it.
You are not a fool. You write love letters for a living; you know the genre; you can read the tropes at a distance in any of several languages. You know what it is when a man memorizes your tea. You also know who employs him and what the coat means and that men like him are a lease, not a purchase — the Tsaritsa's first, the mission's second, the family's third, and whatever's left over after that wouldn't fill a teacup. You have done this arithmetic. You do it again every Tuesday. The number never improves and you keep, every week, arriving anyway, setting out the good paper anyway, learning his order back.
The last Tuesday in the twelfth month, he sits down and doesn't start talking.
This is new. He always knows the first line before the chair takes his weight — you've teased him about it, said he must draft on the walk over, and he'd grinned and not denied it. Today he sits with his elbows on your table and his healed hands folded and looks at them like a man about to bet more than he brought.
"Letter to my mother," he says.
You get out the good paper. You uncap the ink.
"Ready."
He starts slow. Mama. The weather here doesn't know how to be winter, you'd laugh at it. The usual bones — Teucer's whale, Tonia's dress, the desk, the papers, forty of them, pray for him. Your pen goes along, even and believed. And then, without any change in his voice at all, without so much as a breath's worth of warning:
"There's someone I should tell you about."
Your pen writes it. Your pen is more professional than you are.
"She writes letters for a living," he goes on, eyes on the middle distance, voice at dictation pace, level, unhurried, as if this were the salt-fish argument and not — "here in the harbor. It's her handwriting you've been reading since autumn, you've probably noticed, your eyes are better than mine. I broke my fingers in September, which was the second luckiest thing that ever happened to me."
The pen keeps going. It has to. That's the work — you write what people say, you don't improve it, the errors are the point, and this letter is arriving through your own wrist one clause at a time, in your own even hand, on your own good paper, and you have to keep your loops from tightening.
"She knows what I do. Not the details — she's never once asked, which you'd like about her, she's discreet the way you're discreet, it's on her sign but it's also just true. She lets me be the boring man at the desk. Every week she helps me build him. I don't think she knows" — and here he pauses, the first pause, and you feel him look at you and do not look up, cannot, the ink would betray you — "that he's the man I'd rather be. That an hour at her table is the only hour all week I'm anything like him."
The harbor makes its sounds. The bell down the pier. Your pen at the bottom of the page, waiting.
"You can stop writing," he says quietly. "That part wasn't for her."
You set the pen down. You look up.
He's watching you with everything unlocked, no accounting, no product, just Ajax — the name from the top of the letters, the one the world hasn't gotten to yet — and his hands flat on your table like that first Tuesday, a passport, offered.
"I'll finish it left-handed," he says. "Chicken and all. She should read that part on guard."
You look at the page. At your own even hand carrying his voice, all the way down to the last honest line of it.
"No," you hear yourself say, and pick the pen back up. "I'll write it. She'll believe it in mine."
And it lands the way the rain did that day in November, soft, decided, both of you in the same small dry space while outside the harbor goes on shouting — his laugh coming out low and stunned and real, his hand crossing the table, and your pen already moving, even, believed, writing you both down.
self indulgent childe x reader!! i wrote the first 2k words of this back in january, finished it in honor of him getting re-announced with snezhnaya! if any of it's wonky, no it's not
Notes: Snezhnayan!Reader, Fatui!Reader, Childe calls reader “starshine” cause I think it’s cute. no warnings!! just cute fluffy fluff
You’re barely a passing thought to most people around you. You work diligently in the palace—menial office work, nothing special—and you keep your head down. It pays for a quiet little place on the outskirts of the city where you indulge in your artistic urges. No one sees them, and no one sees you.
That’s fine by you.
So when the ginger Eleventh Harbinger comes flying into your little space, sending papers flying to the ground, you’re a little baffled. You’ve heard rumors of the Eleventh—bright, energetic, eager, naive, bloodthirsty—and you can’t say you’re thrilled he’s standing over you like he knows who you are.
“Hello, starshine,” he greets breezily, like this is something he always does. You’ve never seen him in person before this, much less do anything to be called starshine. “How are you?”
“…Can I help you, Lord Tartaglia?” you ask quietly, leaning back in your seat. His face is too close to your own, even with the added distance. You could’ve sworn he was in Liyue.
“No need to be so formal!” Tartaglia sits down on your desk like he belongs there. “I saw you help patch up recruits earlier today. You have very sure hands.”
“…Can I help you, Lord Tartaglia?” you repeat, not really wanting to acknowledge whatever can of worms he’d just handed you. You don’t want anything to do with a Harbinger.
“I’d like to walk you home—surely you’ve done enough for today?”
You blink, then blink again. You’re unsure you even heard him. “Excuse me?”
He gives you puppy-dog eyes that you can’t bring yourself to refuse. You know his innocence is false, that much is clear by the way his smile seems sharper as you accept his offer, but it’s just convincing enough to have you dropping your guard. Just a little.
Just enough that he’s holding your hand, walking you down the same unsafe, unlit path you walk every night. He chatters the whole time about anything that comes to mind, until eventually it loops back to you.
“You know, it’s crazy that I never noticed you,” he comments, squeezing your hand, “you’re so beautiful, obviously skilled. It’s rare someone doing office work has hands steady enough to help out on the training field. That, in and of itself, is impressive. Worthy of attention.”
“I’m just doing my job,” you answer, trying to shrug off the praise he’s so easily giving you. “I’m nothing special, really.”
He shakes his head, stopping under a flickering lamp and lifting your hands. He holds them gently, thumbs tracing your knuckles. “Any hand that can stitch up a wound is special.”
The kiss he places to your knuckles makes you shy away, and he willingly lets your hands slip from his grip. “Thank you, but… I really need to be getting home. It would be undue to let you into my home so late. I can make it from here.”
To your surprise, he lets you walk the short distance remaining alone. When you look back, you don’t even see footprints in the snow.
He doesn’t give up on you entirely, though. From then on, it becomes a routine—he crashes into your little office space, offers to walk you home, and talks about whatever comes to his mind on the way there. Inevitably, he asks you questions about yourself, but he never pushes when you give him vague, cautious answers.
A month exactly from the first time he came barreling in, he comes in with quiet footsteps and tired eyes. Instead of his brash, cheerful demeanor lighting up the room, he’s dull.
“Lord Tartaglia?” you ask, already clearing the space he usually takes up on your desk. Instead of taking the spot, he comes behind you and presses his face into the crook of your neck.
“Hello, starshine,” he mumbles, lips warm and chapped against your skin. You squeak, attempting to jolt forward away from him. You only succeed in banging your knee into your desk, cursing loudly at the pain radiating through your knee.
“My Lord, this isn’t appropriate,” you manage through gritted teeth. He’s undeterred by your complaints, nuzzling against your neck and pressing his face into your hair.
“You smell good,” he tells you after several moments, ignoring your squirming. “Fruity.”
“My perfume,” you answer, trying to push his head away. “This isn’t appropriate, my Lord.”
He hums, lifting his head at your prompting. When he looks at you, his eyes seem tired, unfocused. “Let me walk you home.”
For once, you can’t help thinking that’s a terrible idea. He’s different today—more vulnerable, maybe?—and you can barely handle him on a normal day.
So you’re not entirely certain how you end up at your front door, Tartaglia holding your hands. He hadn’t spoken much on the way here.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, pulling you closer. “Talented, skilled. I can’t understand why you hate to hear that so much.”
You go to pull your hands away, but he doesn’t let them go this time. He kisses your knuckles, a smattering of them in quick succession. “Why won’t you let me compliment you? You’ve earned it.”
“I’m not doing anything special,” you say for what feels like the thousandth time. You’re still not sure why he pays you so much attention.
He hums like he doesn’t believe you, lashes fluttering. “You’re kind to me. That’s pretty special,” he mumbles, head dropping to your knuckles. “You listen to me ramble on about things that aren’t work. About my family. You give good advice.”
“You’re my superior, you’re asking,” you stutter, looking down at him. You’ve always had to look up, and for some reason the difference makes you squirm. “I can’t refuse.”
“You could,” he refutes easily, “this isn’t work.”
The silence lingers between you, snow gathering on your coat and your hair the longer you stand there. After a while, you start to wonder if he’s even going to move.
“Goodnight, starshine,” he finally says, righting himself and giving you a tired smile. With one last kiss to your knuckles, he leaves you there by your door.
—
After that night, things return to normal. Well, normal by Tartaglia standards. He comes into your office, all energy and cheer, and spends the rest of the evening chattering ceaselessly.
You hate to admit it, but you even start to like it. He fills the silence with easy, affectionate stories about his family, about the kids in Liyue. It’s comforting in a way. So much so that, after a while, you don’t notice how close you’ve gotten to him.
“Hey, starshine,” he greets, cheerful as ever. He sits on the spot on your desk you reserve for him, lanky legs knocking into your chair and your knees. You don’t mind so much, looking up from your work.
“You’re in a good mood, my Lord,” you comment, fingers curling around his calf to stop him from kicking you. “A good day on the field?”
“Very,” he agrees emphatically, “I got off early. You were helping the medics again today.”
“They need a bit of extra help sometimes.” Like always, you brush off his comments. “They taught me the basics. It’s no big deal.”
“It is a big deal,” he retorts. “Your hands heal! That’s a big deal!”
You start to turn away from the attention, like you always do, but he grabs your wrist. Before you can protest, he’s pulling you up out of your chair and between his legs.
“No, no, don’t run,” he coos, brushing his fingers against your cheek. “You deserve to hear it, starshine. You matter, you’re important. I see how hard you work, how much care you show others.”
Now you really pull against him, trying to step away from him. For the first time, he doesn’t let you. The arm holding your wrist instead loops around your waist, pulling you in. His other hand doesn’t leave your cheek, keeping your face turned toward him.
“Tartaglia, this isn’t—I’m just doing my job,” you stutter, avoiding his gaze.
“Yeah?” he asks, a challenge you should not give into. You nod anyway. “Then you should be able to accept a compliment. You work hard.”
“I work… normal,” you mumble. “I work and then I go home.”
“Alone?” he asks, dipping his head to speak into your ear. “That doesn’t sound like a good life to me, personally. Work hard, go home to nothing? No recognition for anything you do. That’s not fair.”
You’re really squirming, now. His breath is warm where it touches your skin, his hand is burning your skin through your clothes, and he’s paying you far too much attention.
“Let me take you home, starshine.”
They’re the same words he says every night. Tonight, they’re different. Charged.
You aren’t sure why you say yes. You aren’t sure why you let him into your home, or why you close the door behind him. You expect him to immediately press you into the door, kiss you stupid, let his hands roam all over you.
Instead, he takes your hands, kisses your knuckles, and drops to his knees. He looks up at you, lashes batting at you and a small smile on his face. “Whatever you want, yeah?”
You sputter, unsure of what exactly you’re supposed to do. You have a Harbinger on his knees in front of you. Not exactly a position you ever thought you’d find yourself in.
“I-I… what?”
“What do you want from me? You’ve more than earned whatever you please,” he says simply, calmly. His hands hold yours reverently.
“I don’t—“
“You do.” He tilts his head, trying to put the puzzle pieces together. “You can’t live without wanting anything.”
Your silence drags, but he waits patiently. He looks up at you, rubs your knuckles with his thumbs, and waits on knees that are surely getting sore on the wooden floor. That alone makes you want to run away from him, from whatever he’s offering. You only get as far as letting your back hit the door.
“You,” you finally whisper. He looks surprised, and he’s about to get up when you clarify. “Not… not like that. Not yet.”
He blinks, then settles back on his knees. Your stomach churns at the sight of it. The Eleventh, yours to command—at least right now. You hate it.
“Not like… this, either,” you clarify, kneeling down with him. You pull your hands away, only to settle them on his thighs. “I just want you to be with me.”
He hesitates, then he shakes his head slowly. “That would be selfish of me.”
“Maybe I want you to be selfish.” You’re pretty sure you don’t want him to be. You’re pretty certain that whatever he wants from you, you can’t take it.
He takes your hesitant permission as truth, though, hands settling at your waist before lifting you up. Before you can protest, he’s got your legs wrapped around his waist and your head pressed into the crook of your neck. Again, you really expect him to do something. Again, the something he does is far from what you expect.
He carries into your room, looking around curiously at the decorations, at the sketchbook on your desk. He doesn’t linger long, favoring instead to plop you unceremoniously on your bed. You don’t get two words of annoyance out before he’s on his knees again, head buried in your lap.
“This okay?” he asks, like he hasn’t just transported you against your will and claimed a spot on your body as his resting place. For some reason, you can’t find yourself to be bothered by that part anymore—he looks so soft like this that you can’t deny him.
“You… can’t be comfortable down there,” you murmur, hand hovering over his head. You don’t want to overstep.
He takes that as permission, nuzzling into your thighs. “You like me down here.”
“I don’t,” you correct immediately. It’s not quite the truth. You do enjoy his head nestled in your lap, his hands gently curled around your calves. “I mean, I do, but I don’t. I like that you feel I’m safe enough to do this. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
He looks up again, shaking his head subtly. “You don’t need to worry. I’m happy right here.”
Looking down at him, you can't help sighing a little. Sure, he's pretty there, and you aren't really bothered by it. It wouldn't be a problem to let him stay there. Except… you're tired. You'd pushed yourself today, not to mention the emotional turmoil of Tartaglia actually making a move on you.
"Lord Tartaglia…" you pause, recognizing that that isn't appropriate for what's happening right now. You don't know how else to get his attention. "Tartaglia, you don't need to be on the floor."
He laughs, pressing closer so his chest is flush with your legs. "I thought I already said I was happy down here?"
You know how to get what you want from him—he'd made it clear earlier: just say so. You don't feel comfortable telling your superior what to do. Instead, you try to redirect his wants. "Would you be happy laying on the bed? Cuddling?"
"…Not as happy," he says, lifting his head from your lap with a pitiful pout. You feel guilty for interrupting his moment, despite having been speaking the whole time. "Do you really not like it?"
"No, that's not—" You hesitantly lift your hands over his head, caught between wanting to card your fingers through his hair and wanting to drag him onto the bed with you. "I'm just… 'm tired. If I were working or sitting and reading it would be fine, but I'm tired."
He hums, seeming to consider your words. After a moment, he nods, pushes himself up from the floor, and gestures you to get comfortable in bed. You shake your head, instead taking the chance to get away from his overwhelming presence to change into comfortable clothes. You throw your most oversized clothes at him—which, luckily, you have plenty of for the sake of comfort—and run off to the bathroom.
When you come back, he's sitting on the edge of the bed in clean, comfortable clothes that are… a tiny bit small on him. You stifle a laugh, trying to remind yourself that he is an intimidating, bloodthirsty warrior. He smiles freely, an infectious joy radiating off of him. He beckons you closer, fingers immediately curling into the fabric at your waist to pull you onto him.
In maybe 10 seconds, you're flipped onto your back and he's practically on top of you, face pressed into your chest. Like this, he's reminiscent of a big dog that doesn't realize it's not the size of a puppy anymore.
"This okay?" he prompts, fingers pressing into your waist and lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You aren't positive he'd move now even if you said it wasn't.
"…Yeah, it's okay." And, even though you'd said it because you didn't want to protest even more than you already have, you realize that it is okay with you. It's a natural progression from where you were before, from the casual touch he'd initiated before tonight. He's not asking for more than what he's already taking.
Just as you come to that conclusion, you feel a vibration against your chest. At first you think he's humming, but it becomes apparent that he's purring. He doesn't seem to notice, and if he does he doesn't think to comment on it. You can't draw your attention away from it.
"Are you purring?"
"Hm?" A pause, punctuated by a dreamy sigh. "Yeah. I do that."
"Because you're happy?" The dreaded thought hits you: what if you've upset Tartaglia?
He shakes his head, feeling blindly for one of your hands. Before you can ask why, he places it on top of his head. You take the hint, scratching gently at his scalp and playing with his hair. "Because I'm comfortable."
"Oh," you squeak, surprised but pleased by his correction. The purring continues, loud and vibrating through your body. "Good. That's good."
You fall into silence, playing with his hair and enjoying the weight of his body half-thrown over your own. Eventually, you doze off into a deep sleep.
You wake up to the sunlight filtering through your window, bright in spite of your efforts to keep the light out. You're late.
You're late.
Tartaglia is still draped over you, sleeping soundly. You hate to disturb his slumber—gods, he looks so gentle like this—but you push him off you anyway. He grumbles, dragging himself up just enough to look at you with annoyance, "What was that for?"
"I'm late," you tell him, running to your closet to get clothes. "I can't be late! I have work!"
"You've not taken a single day off since you started working," he says slowly, looking at you like you've lost your mind. "I'll approve your leave. Come back to bed."
"I can't just… not go into work. That's my livelihood."
"Did you hear me?" He drags himself out of bed, half asleep but purposeful. "I'll approve your leave. You got sick overnight, couldn't come in. It's fine."
You start to argue, but he cuts you off with an arm around your waist and a hand over your mouth. He shakes his head again, then presses his forehead to yours with a big yawn. "Starshine, just come back to bed. I promise it's okay. No one's losing their job for two sick days."
He tugs you along, back toward your warm, cozy bed where you're promised his warm body against yours and the tempting cocoon of sleep. You search for an argument—letting down coworkers, paperwork piling up, not wanting to get put on watch. They're good, valid arguments, mostly. They evaporate under the heat of his hands on you and his whispered reassurance.
"I didn't agree to two sick days," you finally manage, even though you hadn't even agreed to one before two seconds ago. He just laughs, rolling onto his side and pulling you against his chest.
"Really?" A kiss to your forehead, squeezing you against him. "I agreed to two sick days."
"…We'll discuss it later."
Who are you kidding? You can't deny him another day of simple comfort. You might not have been lonely, but you appreciate the company regardless.
okok so i actually wrote a whole chaeya chatfic about this that WILL get posted eventually but i needed to add to the brainrot so im doing a smau too ig T-T love them
just straight porn i'll be honest w you. MDNI obviously. tw: knifeplay, blood drinking. there is aftercare. very minimal and not focused on at all.
a/n: y'all they're such freaks. I need them to be freaks together. i know he's out but i haven't played his story quest so sorry if he's ooc? idk like ik a little about his backstory but it's honestly not important to me. let him be a freak that's what I think. let kaeya be into him being a freak that's what i think. lmk what you think ig
It all started years before Crepus died, when Kaeya was just a scrawny, quiet kid hiding in his brother's shadow. At that time, it was easy to get away with it. He was hanging out with a 'friend', trying to be more social.
No one cared that the 'friend' he was making was in Lohen. They were just glad he was talking to people that weren't his brother's friends. And Lohen, a year younger than him and kind of insane, was eager to get away from the more mundane aspects of his life. He was happy to run off with Kaeya and never mention the details to anyone.
At first, it was just sparring. Sparring is never just sparring with Lohen, though. Kaeya would find himself thrown into the grass, struggling to breathe with Lohen holding him down. Normal, if a little intense by way of Lohen being Lohen. After that, it escalated. Cuts that Kaeya said were 'accidents' but certainly were not, bite marks that he had to go out of his way to hide followed by kitten licks to clean off the blood.
And then Crepus died, and Lohen found more interesting things to busy himself with, and Kaeya moved on. A really weird childhood fling, that's all it was.
—
He's panting with the exertion of a lengthy spar. Lohen's knee is on his chest, pressing him into cool cobblestone. Vaguely, he's aware that it hurts, that it's making it difficult to breathe. More importantly, Lohen looks very pretty above him, pressing his knife gently against his throat..
"Is it just me, or are you getting deja vu as well?" he says, not even bothering to try to move. His blade is too far away to reach if he tried, and he's not interested in trying.
Lohen laughs, high pitched and slightly maniacal. Kaeya hates to admit the sound goes straight to his head. "What, want me to bite you? Lick your blood?" The cold metal of the knife presses just enough to draw blood.
"I never asked you to do that." His voice is strained and breathy. "Not that I minded, Lohen."
Lips smash against his, rough and demanding. He tastes blood as Lohen bites down, wincing in pain. He feels rather than hears Lohen's laugh, his knee pressing more harshly into his chest. Kaeya's smart enough to know that he just wants another pained reaction. He gives it to him anyway, grabbing weakly at his shoulder and trying to push him away. As though in reward, the knife leaves his throat and Lohen's mouth replaces it, lips smearing blood on his skin.
"So easy, Kaeya," Lohen mocks. Kaeya wonders where he got the confidence—who he got the confidence with—but he doesn't manage to voice any of it. Lohen's already speaking again, "I swear you used to put up more of a fight."
"Fight you?" he asks, shaking his head. He can feel the way small rivulets of blood drip down his neck with the movement, only to be licked up by Lohen moments later. He'd laugh if he had enough oxygen getting to his head to recognize how crazy that is. "Why would I do that when letting you have your fun with me feels so good?"
His words reward him with another high-pitched laugh and the weight off his chest. Lohen drags him up to his feet before he can even get a full breath in, kissing him again. Kaeya gladly leans into it, ignoring his need for oxygen. An actual kiss from Lohen is rare enough that he's always indulged them. It doesn't last nearly long enough for his tastes.
He's so distracted, he doesn't even realize that he's being led behind the building until he's shoved against the wall. It's the middle of the night, and they're sneaking around like teenagers. He can't help laughing, head dropping back against the wall.
"What are you laughing at?" Lohen asks, words punctuated with a quick bite to his shoulder. It hurts. He laughs harder, pushing weakly at Lohen's shoulder. "Ridiculous."
His laughter is only broken when a thigh presses between his, the pressure against his dick making him choke on a moan. He knows Lohen's annoyed with him by the way the pleasure is immediately taken away from him, leaving his hips jerking forward helplessly. Tease.
"Ridiculous," he says weakly, "that we're sneaking around like teenagers?"
"Ridiculous that you're laughing when I'm right here," Lohen corrects, biting down on his collarbone. Kaeya swears he has to file his teeth with how easily he draws blood. He hates that the thought sends sparks up his spine and makes his head all fuzzy. "See? Now that was a pretty moan, Kaeya. Much better than laughter."
"I don't know, it's kind of funny," he argues, allowing Lohen to bite him and work at getting his shirt off. "We're not 15 anymore, Lohen. I have an apartment."
"Mm, more fun this way."
He's about to disagree when cool air hits his chest and the pressure returns between his thighs. In a concerted effort to keep quiet, he lets out a drawn out whine. He understands why Lohen doesn't want privacy, even if it's just because he enjoys the thought of his humiliation.
"Right," he pants, hips moving mindlessly against Lohen's thigh. "I sh-should've known."
The sharp press of a knife against his chest has him wheezing, stars flashing behind his eyes. It stings, but all he can focus on is the drip of blood down his chest and the familiar heat in his stomach. It's pathetic how quickly he's falling apart, but he's too caught up in the moment to care.
"So sensitive…" Lohen purrs, lips right against his ear. Kaeya shudders, wrapping his arms around Lohen's shoulders. "Did you spend the whole time I was gone waiting for me, Captain?"
"You'd like that, hm?" His voice drops off into soft noises he buries into Lohen's neck. He's vaguely aware of Lohen's own erection pressed into his hip, of lips dragging along the cut and gathering up blood. Freak.
"I like," he corrects, "that you're about to cum in your pants."
Kaeya opens his mouth to protest, to say that no, he was going to get out of this without the humiliation, but Lohen's teeth are dragging against his neck and his fingers drag over and pinch his nipples and all that comes out is a high, drawn-out moan. Lohen laughs, meanly applying more pressure to his dick. His vision goes white and his blood is on fire as he spills into his pants.
Lohen's hands move to his hips, forcing him into overstimulation until he's whimpering pleas. There's a breathy laugh above his head, clearly taking pleasure in his struggle. Several minutes later, Lohen pulls away with a groan and cums, ropes of white ruining his clothes. Kaeya hadn't even noticed him pulling his dick out of his pants.
"You asshole," Kaeya says, shaking voice betraying his lack of anger. He leans heavily against the wall behind him, his legs shaking underneath his weight.
Lohen laughs, "You loved it."
"Didn't hate it," he says quietly. Lohen helps him to his feet, gently pushing him along to the back entrance of Knights of Favonius Headquarters. Thankfully, the walk through the hallway and up the stairs spares his dignity.
Lohen follows him into his room, starting the shower as Kaeya struggles to get his clothes off. Before long, they're both standing under warm water and washing each other clean. By the time they're finished, Kaeya can barely keep his eyes open. He collapses onto the bed without even drying or brushing his hair.
"I swear you used to be able to keep up with me," Lohen says casually, grabbing a hairbrush and starting on Kaeya's hair. He makes a noise of confusion, but doesn't bother pulling away or arguing.
"I used to sleep more than three hours a night," he mumbles, pressing his face into his pillow. The light's still on, annoying but not enough for him to get up and turn it off. "Besides, we were sparring."
"Nah, you've just lost your touch." A pause, long enough for Kaeya to start drifting off, and then, "Or maybe you wanted me to break you, hm?"
It's Kaeya's to huff out a laugh. "Please, do I seem broken to you? Barbatos forbid I think you're more fun when I let you have your way."
"Hm, I'll have to take advantage of that, then." The light flicks off—Kaeya hadn't noticed him getting up; maybe he has lost his touch—and the bed dips behind him. They're not touching, but Kaeya can feel his presence regardless. It draws him right into sleep.
✦ info: he's had a long, long week. but coming back home to you makes it better.
✦ warnings: probably an inconsistent writing style? (i started this in 2023), 1k+ words (1111 exactly, lmao. i think i can make a wish—)
✦ notes: hi so um. i know it's been a while sjsjkadkks posting this to test the waters after my long break? this is a slower-paced drabble that i wrote for my own comfort a while ago, but i hope it brings you the same warmth it brought me.
“i’m home.” kaeya murmurs into the warm-lit dark, dropping his satchel from his shoulder the second to the floor as he sets his foot past the main threshold.
his keys land with a quiet clink on the tray on the stand near the entrance to your shared home, right beside yours. the tray is chaotically arranged, from keychains and lip balms and spare earrings and barbatos knows what else, things you’d hastily shove in and out of your pockets by the door.
his lips quirk up into the beginnings of a quiet smile when he sees the little dodoco doll, barely taller than his finger, sitting snugly next to your keys.
clearly, klee’s gotten to you.
he steps past the entryway and a weary sigh escapes his lips. he leans on the wall, tipping his head back in an effort to ease the crick in his neck. archons above, he’d feel this magnified tomorrow, wouldn’t he?
his head was killing him.
regardless of how seasoned an adventurer and how much of a captain one may be, a week scouting in dragonspine mountain was bound to be draining, not to mention the pages of reports that he’d had to finish immediately after returning.
he pulls his hair free from his ponytail, and it cascades down his shoulders in a waterfall of azure and navy. he rakes his fingers through, shaking it out at the roots before moving to massage his throbbing forehead, thumbs resting on his temples. the hair tie that rests in his hands, the one that he pockets delicately, is a sparkly gold one that you’ve given him.
he slides to the floor to undo his boots, fumbling ungracefully with the gilded clasps and buckles adorning brown leather, taking far too long for what would ordinarily be a simple task.
despite his exhaustion, he smiles when he sees your shoes lined up neatly, and he arranges his boots next to yours, the sides of his left shoe touching the sides of your right.
it almost makes him forget his headache.
almost. he winces as another throb radiates the pain behind his brows.
a shower can wait, kaeya thinks, as he walks towards the bedroom. he’d much rather be cuddled up with you and rest till the morning comes.
his footsteps are quiet, and he walks as slowly and as softly as possible despite wanting to run to bed immediately. the last thing he wants is to wake you up.
he cracks open the door in the same measured manner, the soft light of the living room’s lamps permeating through as he does, and he sees his shadow magnified on the plush carpet you insisted on for the floor. as his eye adjusts, the first thing he sees is you sleeping, as peaceful as can be.
warmth blooms in his chest. it feels right, he thinks, to be able to come home to you after a long, hard week.
he moves through the space to kneel by your side, to press the softest of kisses on your forehead, carefully stroking your hair, unwilling to disturb your rest. as much as he’d adore hearing your voice after going a week without, he could wait till the morning.
he peels off all his clothes, layer by layer, dropping his eyepatch in the drawer before grabbing the first pair of clothes he touches in his closet.
he laughs quietly to himself in the dark, realizing he accidentally got ahold of one of your shirts.
pulling out the right article of clothing this time, he trudges onward to the bathroom, finding himself with just enough energy to brush his teeth. your toothbrush, identical to his, and your toothpaste sit in a glass next to his, and he fondly looks at the strip of satin ribbon you tied to the handle of your brush to mark it as yours.
it feels right, he thinks. to see your possessions next to his, to see traces of you everywhere he looks in his home. to be reminded of your presence by his side everyday.
he slides into bed, a grin finding its way onto his face as he spots a little bit of dried drool at the corner of your mouth. “hey,” he coos when you stir at the feeling of the mattress dipping with his weight. “it’s just me, no need to be alarmed.”
“kaeya?” you call sleepily. “you just got home?”
“mhm.” he settles himself next to you, the length of his body pressing comfortably against yours. your blanket-warmed skin on his draws a content sigh from his lips.
“what time is it?”
“something ungodly, i’m sure,” he stifles a yawn, his brows knitting together when his headache makes itself known again. “go back to sleep, darling.”
“headache?” you ask, blinking the sleep away. he hums.
“it’s nothing, don’t worry.”
“don’t give me that, kaeya.” you wriggle closer to him, your fingers cradling his temples. your thumbs press gently, rubbing to ease the pressure. somehow, your touch helps.
he smiles, a soft puff of his breath hitting your wrists.
it feels right, he thinks, to feel you nestled against him, to hear your breathing even and content, to see your face calm and half buried in the embrace of sleep even as you clumsily attempt to soothe his aching head.
it feels right, he thinks, to have your things scattered next to his, your keys with his and his shoes next to yours in a household chaos so wonderfully familiar.
it feels right, he thinks, to see your life so intertwined with his that they’re almost one; where he cannot imagine his days without you.
he feels you stir, hands dropping back down to rest on his chest. “what are you thinking about?” you ask.
“you,” he says, brushing an eyelash off your cheek, completely sincere.
you huff, rolling your eyes. “sweet-talker. did you miss me that much?” you nudge him playfully.
“i did,” he admits, and your eyes soften in the face of his earnest response.
“i missed you too.” you sleepily press a kiss to the base of his neck, where his pulse lives. “it really isn’t the same without you.”
“now who’s the sweet-talker, hmm?”
“you’re ruining the moment we’re having, kaeya.” you poke him in the chest in faux annoyance, huffing lightly. “besides, pillows shouldn’t talk.”
he chuckles. “alright, alright.” he acquiesces, his voice mellow and fond. he kisses your forehead and pulls you closer, yawning. “i’ll quiet down and be your pillow. we’ll talk in the morning.”
“mhm,” you hum in response before a yawn leaves your mouth. “goodnight, my love.”
he nudges your head with his nose. “sweet dreams, my love.”
✦ ending notes: this doesn't flow as smoothly as i'd like it to, but i still adore this with all my heart. thanks for reading. :)
✦ taglist: @maopll @number-one-love-lover (send an ask to be removed!)
— the idea of sugawara kōshi being a freak with the kindest smile and a pierced cock haunts me ｡𖦹°‧ᥫ᭡
mdni!
sugawara sensei, you sweet coworker, kind, polite, he listens to his students concerns and actually cares. you've heard the advice he gives out when he thinks no one is watching, how encouraging he can be. he helps the old teachers with the stuff they can't no longer do, like running extra errands for them; he's specially sweet to the elderly teacher who is about to retire, hana-san, a sweet woman who lost his husband and sugawara always takes the time to walk to her car.
sweet sugawara sensei and the slight crush you might have been denying cause it's not worth pursuing it because you'll be switching schools soon enough anyway, sweet sugawara sensei whose kind eyes have been eyeing you all night as you and the rest of your coworkers take a few drinks at the local izakaya.
you can feel the heat of his gaze as he takes a long sip of his beer, his dark penetrating eyes not missing a bit of the way you absentmindedly lick the rim of your glass.
sweet sugawara sensei turning out to be not so sweet once he has you back in his apartment, tongue rough and harsh as he presses your back against the wall, fingers desperate and firm on their grip at the nape of your head, angling your face in the perfect way as he kisses you, he's rutting into you with the desperation of a hungry animal, drinking in the way you moan at the way his other hand has begun teasing your nipples.
his mouth is devoid of that sweet patience, now he is pure filth and an edge of dark intent. "how pretty".
his hands find the warmth of your pussy, and his eyes glint with the eager mischief of man who has been thinking about bending you over his lap since the day he first laid eyes on you.
his fingers are cold when they meet with the damp heat of your core. "you're already so wet for me, do you have any idea how much I've been wondering what kind of face you'd make when I finally got my hands on you?"
his thumb softly caresses your bud, a soft tentative touch that has your aching core throbbing and makes you arch into his touch, his eyes light up at the sight, utterly enjoying how sensitive you are.
when he takes his cock out of his pants you can't help the surprised gasp, he doesn't only have the prettiest cock you've ever seen, but it curves upwards in a delicious way and the thick vein at the underside throbs with excitement. but that's not what makes you gasp, is the shiny metal piece on the tip of his head, the prince albert kind if your little knowledge on the topic is not failing you.
sweet sugawara sensei who smiles at you so warmly, teasing your clit as he rubs the cold metal against your clit, fingers digging at the soft flesh of your waist for leverage as he completely savors the way you unravel at his pace, at his teasing. "do you like the way that feels? I had a feeling—" his voice, so driven and low against your ear halts, the friction of your wet folds tugging at the sensitive head of his cock making him lose his breath for a second, your hips are moving on their own, trying to match his pace and retrieve the lost friction, sugawara’s eyes darken and the small chuckle he lets out sounds like a threat; god, you are so hot.
"i can't wait to see what kind of face you'll make once I'm in deep inside you, you gonna be able to take it, right?"
you nod, too hazed out by the perfect stimulation and the perfect assault at your nipples by his calloused fingers.
sweet sugawara sensei who seems to not be so sweet anymore, his mouth is an obscene declaration of all his perversions and his tongue is salacious on his marking intent.
"i think you can beg" you hold onto his shoulders trying to find some leverage from the way he keeps rubbing against your aching clit, you look out for his face. your lips finding his again, unable to keep listening to his words without giving into his demands; you have the terrifying feeling he would be able to make good on his threats.
he lets you hide your moan on the wet kiss you're sharing, he doesn't mind waiting, he doesn't mind taking his time, actually, he is really looking forward to being able to take his sweet time with you, drive you to the point when you can no longer hide, when you'll be sobbing and begging from the stretch of his cockkmolding you around his cadence, around his size, until all you can see and think about is him.
“you’re going to look so pretty when i finally have you begging”.
childhood bestfriend sugawara that literally thinks he's got this one sided, unrequited crush on you (it's literally not, daichi and asahi have both given him pep talks in the locker room several times) that the first time you come to a match wearing his number he has to look away in order to hide the way his face flames with color
his hearts going a mile a minute, and now he's fucked because he can barely focus on the match. literally has to force his hands to cover his eyes like horse blinders so he doesn't accidentally peek again, even when hinata painfully (innocently) makes a comment about how you're watching from the stands, wearing his number, and looking so so so so so so happy
origamiaround
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areudirty
