#Child!Eclipse | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

chigirisprincess · 5 months ago

Text

— Ajax

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, gn!reader, sfw, mentions of wounds and medicine, one "good boy", nursing back to health, banter, secrets, and strange soup. ⊹ Run time. 3.4k ⊹ Note. Wah! I hope you enjoy this chapter friends!! Life has slowed down for me a bit so I'm finally able to focus on this baby once more <3

❝You get to know the strange man who was dumped on your doorstep as he awakens from his slumber.❞

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Confusion swims within the murky depths of the man’s eyes. He blearily blinked up at you, his body sluggishly reacting to the unfamiliarity that surrounded him. Snatching your hand away from his head, you press it into his shoulder, keeping his feeble figure pinned to the floor.

“Don’t move,” you lowly murmur, mustering up a strict tone, “You’re very badly injured.”

Cursing to yourself, you fight the urge to roll your eyes, as if that wasn’t obvious. Surely every pain receptor in his body was screaming out in agony, his jaw was tense and held stiffly in place, likely biting back a moan of pain. Your lips deepen into a frown, if he was awake, changing his bandages would be far more difficult. You could hardly stomach the sound of a crying baby, the thought of this stranger writhing around in pain beneath you made your stomach turn.

“Your comrades brought you here to heal.”

A shaky breath passes through his lips and his eyes fall shut for a moment. You watch, tendrils of your hair spilling over your shoulder as you lean over him. Slowly, he raises one hand to his lips, tapping his callous fingers against the cracked skin. Water, he probably wants water. Your legs tremble as you hoist yourself from the ground and scuttle around the kitchen. Half a pitcher sits in your ice box, you make a mental note of visiting the well soon. You’d need more to clean his wounds, his clothing, him.

There’s a chip in the first cup you grab and you hope he’s far too out of his mind to notice it. He peers up at you from the corner of his half lidded eyes. The corners of his mouth quirk up into a lazy smile when you round the sofa, cup in hand. He mouths a “Thank you,” eagerly tilting his head up to meet the lip of the cup. You have half a mind to chastise him for the strain but no words find your mouth. Some of the water dribbles down his chin and jaw, spilling into his hair. Now that it’s dried, the ends have begun to curl into a fluffy orange mess. The end of your shirt makes a fine handkerchief as you wipe up the water. His jaw is stubbly, skin warm and clammy.

Smoothing back a stray curl, you turn to dig through your wagon. Draff had piled it full of old clothing that was large enough to fit him, furs, and a few old quilts. Tossing a pale blue and yellow blanket over his mostly bare body, you sighed. His bandages would need to be changed, his wounds redressed soon but his lingering consciousness made you weary.

You’d used the last of your salves that were imported from Bubu Pharmacy on the nasty fissure that ate away at his abdomen. You could make do with the basket of wolfhook berries you were saving to make jam. You vaguely remember reading in some dusty tome at the library that wolfhook berries were used to soothe pain and had a hemostatic effect, whatever that meant. Surely, it’d be a good enough remedy. The mist flower corolla’s that kept your ice box chilled made a fine paste for sore muscles. You could apply it to the large bruises and lacerations that covered most of his body. It’d have to do until you could forage some more plants and get your hands on that herbalist book.

“Why don’t you try to get some rest,” you whisper to the man when you notice his eyes have cracked open once more, “Archons knows you need it, hm?”

The joints in your knees crackle to life when you rise from the floor, your hands pressed to the plush flesh of your hips. You mentally go down the list of household chores that were begging for your attention, the thought alone of how much work was needed made whatever satisfied peace within you deflate.

You settle on doing the washing, dragging inside the large metal basins filled with last night's rainwater. The cecilia soap you drop in the basin is delicately floral. If you shut your eyes for long enough, you could almost imagine yourself at the very top of Starsnatch Cliff with the wind rustling through your hair and dancing through your billowing shirt. You remember the last time you went, the details seared into your mind. Somehow, you managed to drag Kaeya, Diluc, and Jean to explore the Thousand Winds Temple in the midst of a summer heat wave. You wove crowns out of cecilia’s and stripped yourselves of your shoes and shocks to splash around in Starfell Lake.

It felt as though a million years had passed since then.

You supposed, a million years had passed.

Everything was wrong when you returned home from Mondstadt. You weren’t much better off, a shell of your former self and a reclusive who hardly left the archaic cottage you called home.

“Is,” the man starts, coughing a bit before speaking again, “Is the washing difficult?”

You blink back to reality, a frown replacing the wistful expression that ate away at your visage, “I thought I told you to get some rest?” You question with a quirk of your brow.

Looking into the basin, you realised you’d begun to roughly clasp the bar of laundry soap in your hand. It crumbled beneath your nails and flaked off to the bottom of the tub.

“It’s not difficult, I just got lost in thought, that's all.”

Your face warms. There's an inexplicable urge that bubbles up your throat to defend your actions though there was no judgemental edge to his tone. Just curiosity.

He languidly blinks up at you. It’s difficult to discern what he may be thinking with the sluggish shadow that follows his movements. You think that he’s studying you, not that he’d have much luck. Surely, his mind was still rather addled with pain, and clouded by the mourning flower extract that you slipped under his tongue while he slept. The merchant who sold it to you claimed it relieved the mind and body of pain from sundown to sun up.

“Ajax,” he finally whispers, you almost missed it, “My name … is Ajax.”

Oh.

That’s right, the two Fatui henchmen never gave you a name. Just a set of instructions and him. It never occurred to you to ask. Your scattered brain had nearly lost its wits from the shear stress that ping ponged through your veins. Ajax. He had a nice name, the name of a hero. Your heart nearly split in two. He must have been like you, hopelessly entangled in the carelessly cruel traps laid by the Tsaritsa. You pondered what dreams he might have once possessed, if he’d have liked to live up to his namesake? Or, if he’d simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Surely whatever misfortunes that befell him were moulded by the treacherous hands of the Fatui. You couldn’t fathom how a trained soldier could have been injured to this extent, but a dreamy eyed young man? You walked a similar path. You were lucky that you came out the otherside as unscathed as you did.

Offering him your name, you soften your expression, “You have a pretty name,” you murmur, flexing your fingers in the frigid water to fight off the shiver that travels up your forearms.

“You stole my line,” he rasps, chuckling a bit to himself until a pang of pain interrupts him, “Shit…”

Water splashes over the lip of the tub when you jump to your feet, nearly tripping over the damn thing on your way to him. Your brows crease together in concern, wiping your hands dry on the back of your trousers, you reach for the quilt covering him.

“Can I check?”

He nods, his face scrunched up in a wince. Peeling back the blanket, you press your hands against his tensed abdomen. Nothing had seeped through the gauze, you let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding. A shiver wracks through Ajax’s body when you slide your frigid fingers along the length of his stomach. Mumbling a quick apology, you peel back, shuffling away from him.

“Try not to laugh or move too much,” you gently murmur, tucking the blanket back up to his chin, “I don’t want you tearing your stitches, they’re much more painful the second time around.”

Ajax nods again, “Aye aye captain,” he grins to mask the discomfort. His smile doesn’t fall in spite of the point look you give him, it only grows wider.

You wonder once more how he could have found himself in this predicament. It's while gazing in the depths of his hazy blue eyes that you decide him to be a mirror image of yourself. An unfortunate, wretched thing who stupidly sipped fire water all too readily and downed a second glass though the burn of the first never faded. A loan from the Northland Bank, perhaps to aid the pursuit of something that filled his soul with liquid sunlight. Or, maybe a favour that spiralled into a debt that could never be repaid. It didn’t matter much in retrospect when it landed him in the same precarious situation you struggled to survive in. A small thanks to Barbatos floats past your lips. Quite enough that he wouldn’t register the words as common tongue.

“What did I just say,” you scold, in the most authoritative tune you’re able to muster.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry.”

Brushing a few damp strands away from his eyes you sigh, “It’s not me you should be apologising to.”

He nods a bit to himself, averting his gaze to the wooden beams that span across your ceiling. A few potted plants hang from the rafters, their wilting green leaves swinging in the breeze. They were a hassle to water. The chains were too short. You’d need a ladder to reach them. Diluc had come by to fix a hole in your roof when you’d hung them, you had no tools of your own. Even after a year of returning home.

“Rest and when you awaken you can have something to eat,” he must be hungry, the travel to Mondstadt from anywhere past Liyue was long and arduous, “And, perhaps something to drink if you’re able to keep your food down.”

“Alright, I’ll try.”

Ajax keeps his eyes shut only until your back is turned. You face away from him while you do the washing and hum an old Mondstadt lullaby beneath your breath. The heat of his gaze slowly simmers as slumber welcomes him back into its welcoming embrace. You release a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding. Dunking your arms into the cold, soapy basin, you hold them there until the chill is too much for you to bear and then, move on, ridding your water closet of the blood stained nightgown that you left on the floor.

The sight of it makes your stomach churn with disgust. The crimson colour turned a ruddy brown but the sharp metallic scent still lingers. You wish you could use it to fuel the hearth but the chill of winter had not yet left the long spring nights in Mondstadt. You needed the warmth if you were to care for this man. The hours you spend scrubbing leave the white flannel stained and tinged an unappealing pinky hue. Your hands tremble, skin stinging from where you’ve rubbed yourself raw from your fervent scrubbing. You hang your clothing to dry with a sigh, mechanically shuffling through your cottage to clean your things before hunkering down in the kitchen to cook some warming broth for Ajax.

He stirs once more long after the sun has been laid to rest. The smell of frying vegetables and fragrant herbs tickling his senses.

You feel his eyes on you before he even thinks of speaking. In the hours that passed you changed his bandages twice and kept a damp rag against his forehead to chase away the fever. The clear broth that bubbled and boiled at your hearth should burn the rest of the infection from him. The medley of dried herbs and whopperflower nectar you mixed together were supposed to be an effective remedy according to the sparse notes you’d taken on the herbalist book you read months ago. You weren’t brave enough to try it, the fluorescent yellow of the nectar made the broths colour an unusual shade. A slice of fisherman's toast for the third day in a row suddenly seems far more appealing than it did an hour ago.

A shiver slices through your spine and an unwelcome heat tinges the apples of your cheeks. It strikes you that the scene splayed out across your cottage is strangely intimate. You’ve never cooked for another, let alone a man who lay half bare in your abode. Though the situation was forced, you couldn’t help but feel strangely.

“I haven’t had a home cooked meal in quite some time,” Ajax murmurs when you scoop a ladle full of broth into a bowl to cool.

Your skin seems to burn even hotter.

“Not to get your hopes up but, I’m not much of a cook,” you pronounce, bringing over the food on a small wooden tray to where he rests, “And I think this is more medicine than it is a meal.”

Your hands tremble when you help him sit up, his back resting against the sofa. His skin is still warm to the touch but less clammy. The firm muscles that make up his abdomen rippled beneath your touch and you flinched away.

“Any meal is a good meal.”

Slowly stirring the broth, you gently blow into it. The steam dissipates for but a moment before it swirls over top of the bowl again, “Did your mother teach you that?” You ask while scooping some of the soup up for him, “Or, are all Snezhnayan men this philosophical.”

You spoon the broth into his mouth before he can answer, hoping your question caught him off guard enough that he swallows on instinct before the bitter taste seeps into his tongue. His brows knit together in clear discomfort. Still, he swallows it down without complaint.

“Good boy,” you murmur, spooning another scoop into his mouth.

His face reddens considerably darker. You pay it no mind, ignoring your own searing flush of awkwardness that eats at the apples of your cheeks. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, catching the few bits of broth that dribbled out from the corners of his mouth. You use your sleeve to dab what he misses, taking note of how stubbly his jaw is. He might like to shave but you had no razors and no money to spend for such a luxury. Ajax leans slightly into your touch before seeming to remember himself, pulling away until you hold another spoonful up to his mouth.

“It’s not so bad,” he murmurs between bites, “A bit bitter.”

You hum in agreement, “Whopperflower nectar is unexpectedly bitter.”

Ajax eats in silence until the bowl is finished, without complaint.The slice of fisherman's toast that's gone cold next to you feels strangely unappealing, but you still bring it to your mouth and nibble on the crust, avoiding Ajax’s surprisingly intense gaze.

“How did you know I was from Snezhnaya?”

“Your name,” you hum, your tongue flicking out to lap up the crumbs of toast on your lips, “And your accent, you speak Mondstadtian well but some of your pronunciation indicates that its not your native tongue.”

Tossing your mostly untouched toast aside, you lean back and peer at Ajax. He watches you in return, the air perfumed with scrutiny. The tendons in his hands and arms flex as he absentmindedly racks his fingers through your rug. The hearth across your room gently crackles with dying embers, it fills the space your silence has carved out.

With a tilt of his head, Ajax juts his chin at you, “So are you native to Mondstadt?” He questions, furrowing his brows, “I happened to think my Mondstadtian is quite good.”

“It is, it’d be enough to fool and outlander,” you muse, “But, not quite good enough for someone who was born and raised in the city of wind.”

Ajax looks at you for a moment with what you think is confusion. He must be wondering how you’ve become entangled with the Fatui, perhaps unaware of their enteral, oppressive presence that looms over the region and the eyes that watch from their bunker at Goth Grand Hotel. Frustration eats away at you, and eats away at the skin you pick off of your cuticles soothe your frayed nerves. The knights were useless, allowing spiders to weave webs all over Mondstadt– Grand Master Varka too busy galavanting across Teyvat and sparing Harbingers for fun to protect the city as he was supposed to. In spite of her station, Jean Gunnhildr could to little without the express permission of Varka, allowing the Fatui to darken Mondstadt’s doorstep each passing day.

“Do you like it here?” He asks, almost hesitantly.

As a child you did.

When you reached adolescence you wished to fly far away from Barbatos’ reach. Anywhere but Mondstadt is what your heart longed for.

While life here was rather monotonous, lacking any excitement outside of the local festivals, you supposed you did enjoy your life here. Sure, you might have liked to be free of the debt that weighed heavily upon your brow, but Mondstadt was home. Even after all the mistakes you made, the cruelties you spewed, and the bridges you seared with your rage, it would always welcome you into its warm embrace. Thank Barbatos, those here were far kinder than you would ever be.

Shrugging your shoulders you sigh, “It's home,” is all you say, “There is no place like it.”

“That’s oddly evasive.”

“You’ve just woken up after being unconscious for how long?” You roll your eyes, “What do you know about being evasive?”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, “All I’m saying is that you didn’t answer my question.”

“Do you like it back in Snezhnaya?”

You bite back a snippy comment about their icy climate. It sits on your tongue like a devilish impulse, misplaced amongst all your hatred for the Fatui. Surely the region wasn’t so bad. Master Diluc had little contempt for the people and fell victim to Fire Water like any other traveller, but aside from the venomous, vile puppeteers of the nation, he hadn’t a bad word to say about his time there.

“It’s home.”

His voice wavers, he’s far more unconvincing.

“Haha, very funny,” rising from the floor you dusty off your trousers, “Shall I say you’re being the evasive one?”

Ajax offers you a weak smile, watching as you pick up your dishes and bring them into your kitchen. He doesn’t project his voice, instead whispering quietly, “I have reason to be.”

You suppose he didn’t think you heard him.

You’d let him believe it so.

“I’ll be there in a moment, you must rest now, okay?” You call, your back turned to him as you set your plates upon the countertops.

“Worry not, I feel sleep coming over me.”

He’s laid himself flat against the floor by the time you’ve approached him once more. His chest rises and falls evenly, sleep having been swift and kind to take him so quickly. It isn’t so kind to you. You spend the hours after you’ve finished tidying with a racing mind and swirling stomach, tossing and turning about your lumpy mattress. Your freshly pressed and starched nightgown itches against your skin, begging you to peel it from your body. The smell of blood lingers beneath the fragrant cecelia’s. Throwing yourself out of bed, you pad over to your bedroom door and peer into the depths of your home. In the dim candle light, Ajax is nothing more than a lump on the ground.

You stare at him until the corners of your eyes sting, stepping closer and closer until you’re able to hear his heavy breath and slight mumbles. You stand over him until the sun peeks over the horizon, the stress of the day weighing heavily upon your back. A prayer to Barbatos stuck to your lips as slumber took you, one for guidance and luck to assuage your fears. Of Ajax, of the Fatui, of whatever it is he meant by those few words, and the secrets that laid behind them.

networks: @houseofsolisoccasum @interstellar-inn

#tartaglia x reader #childe x reader #ajax x reader #genshin x reader #gi x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #tartaglia x you #childe x you #half moonshine; full eclipse

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