Chapter Text
The workshop was humid, filled with the scent of wet stone and mineral dust.You liked it best this way—just after the marble had been cut, when the air still held the weight of transformation. A sigh escapes from your parted lips, mixing into the awkward athmosphere that was currently taking over your safe space.
It had been a long day.
Your fingers ached, but in a good way. The kind of ache that came with creation, with pulling something beautiful from the earth itself. The half-finished sculpture in front of you was truly taking shape now—the delicate folds of its faux translucent robes almost ready for the gruelling detail work. The anticipation hummed beneath your skin, sparking in the way it always did when you could see it before it was truly there.
This large project has been your hyperfixation for quite some time now.
And then, Lord Estienne Cresseau spoke again.
"You do not understand, my dear," he said smoothly, folding his gloved hands as if this were a simple business arrangement.
Your focus snagged, the momentum of your thoughts cut mid-motion as your nose scrunched up in disgust. You knew this tone.
Lord Estienne Cresseau had begun his usual monologue of expectations, laying out an unrealistic timeframe with the certainty of a man who had never carved so much as a sliver of stone in his life.
You had tried to focus. Truly, you had.
But the moment he started talking about accelerating the process with unpredictable machinery, your mind had drifted to something far more interesting.
The way the late afternoon sun streamed through the high windows, catching on the untouched marble block that had consumed your thoughts for weeks.
The way the veins of the stone turned gold beneath Fontaine’s setting light, as if it already knew it was meant to be something breathtaking.
The way your hands itched to shape it.
This wasn’t just another commission.
This was a statue ordered by the Chief of Justice himself—and if there was anyone in Fontaine who deserved a masterpiece, it was him.
You had admired Neuvillette from afar for years, ever since you arrived in Fontaine he had been an enigma to you.
Perhaps admiration wasn’t even the right word. It was something softer, something unreachable, something you had never dared to speak aloud.
He was the closest thing Fontaine had to divinity in your eyes, and yet, he carried himself without the arrogance you had come to expect from powerful men. You knew it was just a silly unreachable crush, you weren’t nearly important enough to be able to request even an audience with the man.
And yet, he had chosen you for this.
Out of every sculptor, out of every artisan in Fontaine, he had entrusted this important work to you.
You wanted—needed—to make it perfect.
Cresseau’s voice finally registered again, snapping you back to the present, or rather, to his unwelcome presence.
"Are you even listening to me?"
You blinked, the warmth of your thoughts fading as your current predicament settled in once more.
He had been coming by nearly every day now under the guise of business. Always lingering too long. Always speaking in a tone that barely masked his gross intentions.
And you—despite your patience, despite your polite refusals—were running out of ways to avoid what you already knew he wanted.
Taking your time, you quietly place down your tools as you step down from the ladder. Dust clung to your fingertips, your apron smudged from an afternoon of work. You wiped your hands against the fabric, buying yourself a moment before meeting his gaze from below your eyelashes.
"I heard enough," you said, tone even, before darting your gaze back towards your sculpture. "And the answer is still the same."
Cresseau exhaled, an almost exaggerated sigh, as if your refusal was a childish inconvenience rather than a firm decision.
"You should reconsider."
A strange twitch involuntarily pulls at your fingers and travels all the way down towards your spine. The cringing sensation falters your resolve as your expression sours. "Lord Cresseau—"
"Estienne."
You ignored the correction.
"The project you’re suggesting—"
"Is an opportunity," he interrupted smoothly, stepping closer, voice dipping into something silkier, more persuasive. "One that would elevate your career, open doors you didn’t even know existed. It would be foolish to turn it down simply because you’re… distracted with other work. Multitasking is an important skill."
Your fingers twitched at your sides.
You hated the way he spoke—as if he knew your priorities better than you did, as if his wealth alone was enough to dictate what you should value.
And you hated, most of all, that he was beginning to push.
Harder than before.
His visits had started with harmless discussions—commissions, sponsorships, praise for your talent that had once felt flattering.
But then the comments had begun.
Little things. Small implications woven between business matters.
You must be lonely in such a large workshop.
A woman with your beauty should be more careful with whom she refuses.
I could ensure you never have to struggle again.
At first, you had laughed them off, unwilling to assume the worst. Now, you could feel it. The weight of his expectations. The quiet pressure of a man who was no longer simply offering but demanding.
"I appreciate your interest in my work," you said carefully, keeping your voice level, "but I already have more than enough commissions—"
"Ah, yes." He smirked, tone taking on a mocking edge. "Your beloved Chief of Justice. How lucky you are, to have caught his attention."
Your stomach twisted. It was not what he said, but how he said it—something dismissive, something sharp. As if Neuvillette’s request had not come from recognition of your skill, but from something else. As if Cresseau believed there was another reason entirely.
You swallowed down the urge to snap at him, to tell him exactly what you thought of his thinly veiled jealousy.
Instead, you inhaled through your nose, counted the seconds before speaking.
"I was chosen for my work," you said simply.
"Of course," he drawled, unconvinced.
A pause. Then—
"You think he notices you?"
The words were so quiet, so measured, that for a moment, you weren’t sure you had heard them correctly.
You glanced up, but Cresseau’s expression was unreadable.
"Pardon?"
"The Chief Justice," he said, smiling slightly. "You think he sees you? Not just as an artist, but as something more?"
You blinked confusedly, an appalled expression adorning your face. "I’m not sure what you mean, this hardly seems appropriate." you said carefully.
He hummed. "Fontaine is not kind to women who think they are above their station," he said, voice as casual as if he were discussing the weather. "I would hate to see someone with your talent waste away waiting for a man who does not think of you at all."
Your fingers curled slightly and you cracked them as you imagined Cresseau’s neck in between them for a brief second. "I have never once thought—"
"Haven’t you?" he cut in smoothly, arching a brow.
A slow smirk pulled at his lips, and you hated it. Hated that he could see something you had never dared to name aloud. Because the truth was—Cresseau wasn’t entirely wrong. Neuvillette was a man you admired, someone who had never once looked at you unkindly, who treated all of Fontaine with the same distant yet unwavering fairness.
But he was not someone you knew.
Not in any real sense.
And yet, you had poured everything into this statue. You had wanted it to be more than perfect—not because it was expected of you, but because it meant something.
And somehow—Cresseau had seen that.
Not because he understood, but because he wanted to use it against you.
"You are beautiful," he said then, almost absentmindedly, as if it were an observation rather than a compliment. "Far more than you realize. It’s no surprise you draw attention, even from men who have no business looking."
Your jaw tightened.
"You assume too much."
"Perhaps," he allowed, then shrugged. "But I do not assume this—you need protection."
Your pulse stilled.
"I am quite capable of handling myself."
"Are you?" He tilted his head slightly. "Because from where I stand, you are alone in a workshop too large for one woman, turning away powerful men who could offer you stability. Security. A life without struggle. I could show you just how powerless you really are here."
The words felt heavier than before. This was no longer about business. This was a threat.
And suddenly, you realized why he had been coming here so often. Why he had not accepted your refusals. Why he was done waiting for you to give him an answer.
"I'll show you," he murmured, stepping closer.
Before you could answer, before you could decide whether to run or fight—
Something shifted in the air, a shift so subtle that it took your brain a second too long to process it.
Behind you.
"Now, now."
A voice—unexpected, amused, & entirely out of place.
"That’s no way to treat a pretty lady, is it?”
The voice slid into the conversation like it had always belonged there—too lighthearted for the tension in the room, too casual for a man who had not been invited.
Your breath caught. You turned, but the newcomer was already moving, stepping into the space as if he had been there all along, as if he thrived on the heavy atmosphere he had just disrupted.
He was absolutely beautiful. And he was smiling.
Not in the way men usually smiled at you—not like Cresseau, with his veiled arrogance, nor like the patrons who had always spoken of your art with admiration laced in entitlement and greed.
This was the kind of smile a man wore when he had already decided how things would unfold.
He was taller than you expected.
No—that wasn’t right. You hadn’t expected him at all.
Your brain caught up half a second too late, disoriented by the way he fit himself into the room so effortlessly, like a brushstroke that completed the painting when you had been convinced it was already finished the day prior.
His posture was loose, shoulders relaxed beneath a navy coat lined with deep reds—Snezhnayan, you easily remarked, tailored for movement rather than just presentation. His hands were tucked into his pockets, his stance lazy, almost careless, as if he had all the time in the world.
And his eyes.
Blue, the kind of blue that your mind latched onto instinctively, like it had already decided it was something to remember.
Not the blue of Fontaine’s waters, the kind that mirrored the sky, still and glasslike in the morning.
No, his was a blue with depth, with current.
Like water that moved.
Like a riptide.
"Who—"
"You, my fair lady, may know of me as Tartaglia," he said smoothly, his grin widening—not in amusement, but in something too close to anticipation.
There was no pause, no hesitation as he gave his name, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And yet, something about it felt deliberate. Like he had chosen which part of himself to hand over to you first.
Tartaglia.
The name settled in your mind like a slow-falling blade, dull at first—familiar, just out of reach. You had heard it before. Somewhere. Somewhere important.
Then, across from you, Cresseau stiffened.
You barely noticed the way his fingers twitched, the way his mask of aristocratic detachment faltered for the first time tonight, because—
Because in that instant, the puzzle clicked into place.
A Fatui Harbinger.
Your blood turned to ice.
The world around you shrank, pressing inward, the room suddenly too small, too suffocating, too much.
Fatui, and not just any agent.
A Harbinger.
The Fatui were dangerous, but the Harbingers?
They were something else entirely.
Something inhuman, cold, and bloodthirsty.
Something like Dottore.
The memory slammed into you too fast, unbidden, unwelcomed—the sterility of a too-white room, the way the scent of antiseptic had burned your nose, the cold, clinical indifference of a man who had held your mother’s fate between his gloved fingers. The weight of a child’s helplessness, of something so much bigger than you ever being within your control.
Your fingers curled involuntarily, as if your body had remembered something before your mind had caught up, before the flash of blue and sterile white crashed through you like a memory breaking free from its restraints.
Metal glinting under cold laboratory lights.
The sharp smell of something acrid, clinging to the air like rot.
A voice, clinical, curious, murmuring about how difficult it was to find specimens with such striking features.
Your stomach twisted violently, bile rising in your throat, but you did not move. You could not move. Was he here for that? Did he know about your connection with his colleague, all those years ago..?
The fear did not feel like it belonged to you anymore. It was something foreign, something unearthed from the marrow of your bones, something that had been buried so deep in your mind that you had convinced yourself it had died there. And yet, as you stood in the center of your own workshop, your own space, the scent of wet stone and dust heavy in the air, it crept back like an old scar suddenly torn open.
The way the world had been reduced to bright lights above you and the shadow of a man whose face you could barely recall—only the shape of it, the way his gaze had felt like being placed under a lens. A test subject. An anomaly. A curiosity to be dissected.
You had been eight years old when they took your mother and you from your home in Snezhnaya. Too small to fight, too naive to understand what he had been looking for. Too young to stop him from deciding that you were worth keeping.
Your mother had tried.
Her screams had filled that room, the kind that left something raw in your chest even now, so many years later. A scream that had not been for herself, but for you. A scream that had ended abruptly.
You could not remember the moment when her body hit the floor.
You had been too busy drowning.
Not in grief, not in sorrow, but in water that had not been there a second before. A surge that had filled the room, crashing against metal and glass, hands pulling you out, away, away, away—
The Hydro Archon had given you a chance.
A chance to run.
A chance to survive.
A chance that had settled itself into your chest, into the trembling hands of a child forced to hold onto something bigger than herself, a Vision born not from ambition, but from terror.
And now another Fatui Harbinger stood before you.
Different, yet somehow eerily similar in his gaze.
Not filled with hunger, nor with expectation. With that same unnerving interest.
The same kind that had marked you as a child, when cold, gloved hands had gripped your chin and tilted your face into the light—when you had been studied, not as a girl, but as an anomaly.
A curiosity.
Something to be tested.
You barely registered that you were trembling.
Tartaglia’s gaze had not left you, his expression relaxed, almost curious, as if he knew more than he let on. As if he could see something in you that no one else could.
"Pleasure to finally meet you, missy."
His voice was smooth, too smooth, like the quiet hum of the sea before a storm.
You barely heard him.
Your pulse was roaring in your ears, hammering so hard that you felt it in your throat. Your breathing had gone shallow, your body reacting before your mind could catch up, trying to make itself smaller, trying to disappear.
Because he was looking at you the way you looked at marble.
Like something unfinished. Like something that could be shaped. As if he had already decided what he would carve from you.
You forced yourself to swallow, forced your voice to work even as your tongue felt heavy in your mouth.
"Uhm, yes—pleasure to meet you… Why are you here?"
It sounded weak. Tartaglia tilted his head, feigning surprise, but you saw it—the flicker of amusement in his expression, the way he was enjoying this.
"Should I not be?" He gestured lazily toward the open workshop door. "Then since I’m already here, and you’re free, a walk-in appointment seems fine, no?"
A simple answer. A casual tone. But it felt like a warning, and your stomach clenched.
And then he turned, as if only now acknowledging Cresseau. The subtle shift in Cresseau’s body language was immediate—the slight curl of his fingers against the table, the tension that had gathered at his jaw.
Cresseau had spent years securing his place in Fontaine’s upper circles, learning the game, controlling it.
But in the presence of Tartaglia, he was reconsidering everything.
"She’s not free, actually," Cresseau said at last, his voice measured, but not as steady as before. "As you can see, you’re interrupting our appointment."
You felt your breath still in your chest.
The Harbinger exhaled lightly through his nose—a small, entertained sound, something that barely passed for a laugh.
"Interrupting?" he echoed, rolling the word on his tongue like he was testing its weight.
Then he took a step forward.
Not toward Cresseau—
Toward you.
"Didn’t seem like much of an appointment," he mused, gaze flicking briefly over the untouched tea on the tray before settling on you once more.
"If anything, it looked like you were trying to find an exit."
…He was right. Was he simply just.. helping you out here? You had been looking for a way out long before the ginger had arrived.
Cresseau had pressed too hard. His admiration had always come with a price. You had grown accustomed to the looks, the words laced with possession, the way men admired you as if you were something to be displayed, your name alone drove the prices up of your works. "This is not your concern," Cresseau said, a little sharper now, grasping for control.
Tartaglia hummed as his gaze drifted across the room, taking in everything—your tools, the half-finished sculptures, the faint dust that clung to your hands.
His fingers traced absently along your worktable, grazing the smooth surface of a newly polished sculpture—
He tapped it.
Light. Just once.
Your stomach twisted as it wobbled back into place, finding it's centering once more.
He didn’t push it. Didn’t knock it over. Didn’t break it. But he could have. And you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the action had been deliberate to put you on edge continuously.
"See, the thing is," Tartaglia murmured, finally looking at Cresseau properly, "I don’t really like the way you were talking to her."
…Huh?
Cresseau narrowed his eyes and scoffed. "If this is some misguided attempt at interference—"
"Misguided?" Tartaglia let out a short, quiet laugh.
"Now, that’s an interesting word for it."
Then, with absolute ease, he turned back to you.
And this time, when he looked at you, something crawled beneath your skin and stayed there.
"You’re quite the popular topic, you know?"
You cleared your throat awkwardly as you took the previously untouched lukewarm tea in your hand to take a sip.
"A sculptor with talent, beauty, and enough of Fontaine’s nobility trying to buy her time that they don’t even realize they’re competing for it."
His voice dipped, a shade lower, pleased.
"And yet," he continued, "some men in this city seem to think she’s a thing yet to be claimed. Quite hilarious if you ask me."
Your pulse stuttered. You could almost say he was flirting. But there was something else in his words.
Something intentional.
Like he was weaving something around you—something you had not yet noticed.
And then, before you could fully understand what was happening, his voice dropped, just slightly—
"But you’re not from Fontaine, are you?"
You froze.
"No," he continued, as if thinking aloud, "I don’t think you are."
What does he know?
"Your work is too different from Fontaine’s distinct style. Too.. what's the word.. Flowy? It reminds me of my hometown. It doesn’t quite fit."
Tartaglia tilted his head, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze. Sharp. Knowing.
"But you already know that, don’t you?"
Your breath came too shallow, a betraying tell in a room where control was a currency you did not currently hold. He was guessing. He had to be.
Yet, the way he spoke—the certainty behind his words, the way his amusement felt too well-placed, too well-timed—sent unease curling at the base of your spine.
The silence between you stretched, taut with something unspoken.
A sharp exhale snapped it in half.
Cresseau.
His patience had splintered into something dangerous.
"Enough of this nonsense." His voice cut the air, thick with disdain, as if he were only now realizing how deeply he had lost control of this conversation.
His grip found your wrist. Not painful. Not yet. But firm. Demanding.
"We’re leaving."
The air in the room went cold.
Tartaglia didn’t move. Didn’t react. Instead, he simply watched. His gaze flicked lazily to where Cresseau’s fingers encircled your wrist, lingering for a beat too long before trailing back up to his face.
And then, slowly, he smiled.
"Hate to break it to you, but I don’t think she’s going anywhere with you. Are you forgetting this is her workshop? A bit strange to take her away without a reason, no?”
Cresseau stiffened, grip tightening ever so slightly, just enough to remind you that he could. You had the sudden realization that you had never seen him truly angry before.
Irritated? Certainly. Annoyed? Often.
But this?
This was humiliation.
Tartaglia had stripped him bare without lifting a finger, had turned him from a man of wealth and power into a fool in his own city. And he knew it.
"She might belong to someone, but that for sure isn't you.”
Tartaglia’s voice was still so easy, like he was making idle conversation rather than pulling the rug out from under Fontaine’s most insistent noble.
"But I can’t help but notice you seem to think otherwise."
Another small pause.
Then, deliberately, he stepped closer.
Not by much.
Just enough.
Enough for Cresseau to feel it. To feel the sudden inevitability of the situation.
The nobleman’s grip loosened, barely, as he glanced at Tartaglia with something almost hesitant—an instinctive recognition of the mistake he had just made.
"You should leave." Tartaglia’s tone never wavered from that careless, half-amused drawl, but there was a finality to it, a quiet, unshakable certainty.
A suggestion wrapped in an order.
Cresseau hesitated.
A beat.
Then another.
His fingers twitched against your wrist—once, twice—as if debating whether or not to tighten again.
And then, with a sharp scoff, he let go.
"This is not over," he spat, more to you than to Tartaglia.
Because Cresseau could swallow losing. But losing to another man? To a Harbinger?
His retreat was stiff, full of unspoken threats, his boots hitting the floor too hard as he stalked toward the open door. But Tartaglia, who had won without even truly trying, didn’t watch him go.
His attention never left you.
The door slammed shut, hard enough to rattle the windows, but Tartaglia didn't even flinch.
Unbothered.
Unrushed.
He just exhaled, stretching his arms over his head, rolling out the tension like the last few minutes had been nothing more than a passing amusement.
Then, with a lazy tilt of his head, he grinned.
A slow, easy thing. Too charming for your brain to dilute it as a blush rushed across your cheeks.
"Now that that’s out of the way," he mused, voice dripping into something lower, smoother, teasing in a way that sent a strange heat curling in your stomach, "I’m rather thirsty."
His eyes lingered, scanning you as if sizing up his next move.
"Want to go for a drink?"
The question should have been harmless. Should have been.
But there was something in the way he said it—the way his body leaned ever so slightly forward, the way his lips pulled at the edges of that sharp, wolfish grin, the way he was already closing the space between you before you had a chance to answer.
Your pulse stuttered.
You weren’t sure if it was from lingering nerves or something else entirely.
His gaze flicked down, just briefly—just enough for you to notice.
Just enough for you to feel the heat crawl more prominent up your neck.
"What’s wrong?" His voice dipped, amusement curling at the edges of his words. "You look a little shaken."
His fingers brushed the hem of your apron, just barely.
Not touching, not pulling, just… lingering. You swallowed hard.
"I—" You cleared your throat, straightening your posture. "I think you should leave."
Tartaglia laughed. Soft. Amused. Unconcerned.
And then, he didn’t leave.
Instead, he leaned in.
Not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could feel the shift in the air—the sudden electricity sparking to life between you.
"That’s cute."
His voice was quiet now, low, the kind that made the space between words feel like a different kind of tension entirely.
"You think I’m just going to walk out of here?"
His gaze slid over you, shameless, unhurried—taking in the lingering dust on your hands, the faint smudge of marble powder at your cheek, the way your breath had changed.
"After all that effort?"
Your nose flared as your irritation mixed with your fear, dulling it down. "I don’t know what you mean. I never asked for your help"
“Oh oh ho~ Is that how it is~”
Tartaglia let out a slow hum. And then, without warning, he reached past you.
You barely had time to register the movement before he was tugging—lightly, but with purpose—at the strings of your apron.
Your breath caught as he smiled down at you lazily once more, the distance between the two of you far shorter than you'd like as you took a step back.
"Relax, sweetheart."
His voice was all silk and mischief, too smooth, too knowing, as he loosened the fabric, letting it fall just an inch before stepping back.
Not enough to cross a line.
But enough to let you know that he could.
And he would.
If you let him.
"You should be thanking me, you know."
His voice was low, smooth in a way that felt almost careless—almost. But his gaze told a different story. It flicked back up to yours, sharp, warm, too focused, like he was watching for something.
A reaction.
A tell.
"That guy?" He let out a short laugh, shaking his head, but there was no humor in it—just certainty, just knowing. "I saw the way he looked at you." His voice dipped slightly, something harder beneath the teasing lilt. "You should’ve seen the way he looked at me when I stepped in."
He took a step closer, and you didn’t move.
"You’re better off without him hovering around."
Your fingers twitched at your sides. He sounded so sure. Your lips parted before you could stop yourself.
"And you’re any better?"
Tartaglia stilled for a fraction of a second—like he had been expecting the question, but still enjoying the moment it fell from your lips.
Then, just like that, the grin returned, lazy, infuriating, utterly self-assured.
"You wound me."
He pressed a hand to his chest, mock-offended, but the glint in his eyes—that flicker of something knowing, something deliberate—made it clear he wasn’t selling the act. He was enjoying this.
"I just saved you from an absolutely miserable time with that pompous ass, and instead of gratitude, you’re throwing accusations?"
His voice dipped, just slightly—just enough to make you notice.
And you did.
"Saved?" You let out a breathy, incredulous laugh. "You mean you humiliated him and made things worse for me in the long run."
Tartaglia shrugged, entirely unconcerned. "Trust me, sweetheart, you’d rather have a bruised noble’s pride against you than his hands on you."
Something about the way he said it sent something cold trickling down your spine.
You weren’t naïve. You knew men like Cresseau.
You had spent years maneuvering around them, sidestepping their expectations, politely dodging their advances until they moved on to easier prey.
But something in Tartaglia’s tone told you that he had seen how that story ended for people who weren’t careful. It didn’t sound like a warning. It sounded like a claim.
Like he was the one who had decided that wouldn’t happen to you.
And you didn’t know whether that terrified you more—or if the way your pulse skipped at the thought was the real problem.
"You’re awfully chatty for someone who just barged into my workshop uninvited," you said, grasping for the control he had effortlessly yanked away from you. "You got what you wanted, right? You put Cresseau in his place. So, what do you want now?"
Tartaglia let out a soft hum, pretending to consider the question.
"I already told you. A drink."
You blinked.
"Seriously?"
"Mm." He leaned in just slightly, his presence far too tangible, too warm, too there. "You owe me, don’t you?"
Your jaw nearly dropped. "I owe you?"
He grinned.
"For the rescue, obviously."
You exhaled sharply, pressing your fingers to your temples.
"Archons, you’re impossible."
"And yet," he mused, reaching out to pluck a stray speck of marble dust from your sleeve, "you’re still here talking to me instead of throwing me out."
You coughed, turning away from him quickly to drink some more tea. To desperately try to wash your nerves away. Because he was right. You could have physically shoved him toward the door. You've done so before with other clients. Could have ended this entire game before it even began.
But you hadn’t.
He could see the exact moment you realized it too.
"Fine." The word left your lips before you could rethink it.
Tartaglia’s brows raised, pleasantly surprised, but not at all shocked.
"That’s my girl."
Your stomach flipped.
He reached for your apron again—this time undoing the knot at your back completely, the pull of the fabric sharp, assertive.
The apron fell away, pooling at your feet.
Tartaglia smiled.
"Now you’re ready to go."
You stepped back quickly, pulse spiking, but his hands had already retreated, like he was simply straightening a collar or brushing dust from his coat.
"You’re enjoying this way too much," you muttered.
"Oh, I intend to enjoy it even more." His voice was smooth as silk, that dangerous, teasing lilt sending something unwelcome through your spine.
You huffed, turning toward the door. You desperately needed some air.
"Let’s just go, Tartaglia."
The shift was instant.
The air around you seemed to tighten, like something unseen had been pulled too taut.
You felt it before you even turned back to him.
Tartaglia had gone still.
Not stiff. Not tense.
Just—still.
Like a predator waiting.
"Childe."
The correction was soft, almost lazy—but it held a weight that pressed against your ribs.
Slowly, very slowly, you turned your head.
He was watching you with a different kind of interest now.
Something expectant.
"Call me Childe."
You swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
"Childe," you echoed, hesitating over the name, feeling the way it settled on your tongue like something unfamiliar but significant.
Tartaglia—Childe—smiled.
Not the wide, teasing grin from before. Not the effortless, boyish charm he had wielded like a weapon. This smile was smaller. Like he had just won something.
"Good girl."
It wasn’t mocking, not quite. But there was something in his voice, something heavy and deliberate, that made warmth coil in your stomach before you could shove it down.
You turned back toward the door, ignoring the way your pulse had stuttered.
"Let’s go," you muttered, pushing it open and stepping into the cool Fontaine air.
The streets were still alive, even at this hour.
Evening in Fontaine was a world of its own—lanterns reflecting off the water, music drifting from the open windows of upper-class parlors, the scent of fresh pastries mingling with the crisp bite of the riverside breeze.
You exhaled slowly, letting it ground you, trying to shake off the strange, lingering tension still clinging to your skin.
Childe walked beside you.
He didn’t hurry to keep up, didn’t linger too far behind—he simply matched your pace, effortlessly fitting himself into your space.
You shouldn’t have been so aware of him, of the way his hands slid into his pockets, of the lazy confidence in his stride, of the way he moved like he had nothing to fear, like the entire city belonged to him if he decided it should.
"So," he started, breaking the silence, "where are we headed?"
You frowned, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. "You’re the one who wanted a drink."
He let out a soft hum, tilting his head slightly, considering.
"True, true. But I’d rather go somewhere you like."
"You think I drink often?"
"You strike me as the type who knows where the good places are."
He shot you a look—something warm, something unreadable. "And the type who doesn’t go out with just anyone."
He wasn’t wrong.
Fontaine’s upper-class nightlife was lavish, loud, suffocating—a place where deals were struck over glasses of wine and where women like you were expected to be seen, admired, and nothing more.
But you didn’t indulge in that world.
When you drank, it was somewhere quieter. More private.
But… He was a Fatui Harbinger. A man you shouldn’t have been entertaining at all, let alone taking anywhere remotely personal.
But something about his presence—the way he had shifted your entire night into something you couldn’t predict—made you want to regain control wherever you could. So..
"Follow me."
You didn’t wait for him to answer before turning down a side street, leading him away from the bustling city center and toward something quieter.
Childe didn’t ask questions.
You wound through the narrow alleyways of Fontaine, away from the grand opera houses and extravagant casinos, until the sounds of the city dimmed into something softer—the faint murmur of conversation, the gentle clink of glasses, the hum of distant violin strings.
And then, finally, you stopped.
A small, unassuming bar tucked between two old stone buildings. No glowing signs, no extravagant displays—just a simple, dark entrance with a wooden plaque above the door.
"Le Loup Solitaire?" Childe read aloud, the hint of amusement in his voice unmistakable.
"It means ‘The Lone Wolf,’" you muttered, stepping inside before he could comment further.
The bar was warm, dimly lit, the kind of place where no one asked questions, where people came to drink without expectation.
It smelled of aged whiskey, oakwood, and a faint trace of perfume—not the heavy kind worn by Fontaine’s elite. The bartender glanced up as you entered, recognizing you immediately, giving a brief nod before returning to polishing glasses.
"So," Childe murmured, following close behind, too close, "you do have good taste."
"Sit." You motioned to one of the booths tucked against the far wall. You weren’t going to let him wander this place like he owned it. He chuckled under his breath but complied, sliding into the seat.
You sat across from him, leveling him with a look that should have been more firm than it was.
The booth was small, the dim lighting casting deep shadows across Childe’s face, softening the sharp edges of him in a way that felt almost deceptive.
"What are you going to order?" you asked, making the conversation before it could settle into something more dangerous.
"Whatever you're having."
You shot him a dry look. "You're not the wine type."
His lips twitched, something like amusement flickering behind his eyes. "No, but I'm a you type."
He leaned forward, just slightly, enough that you could smell the faint trace of sea salt and something distinctly foreign to Fontaine lingering on his coat.
"So?" he pressed, voice dipping into something lower, smoother.
You shifted subtly on the seat before you turned your attention to the bartender, raising two fingers in a silent order.
Childe didn’t break eye contact as the bartender poured two shallow glasses of deep, darkened orange, whiskey, placing them between you with a quiet nod before stepping away.
"Strong choice."
"I don't take you for someone who backs down," you muttered, taking your glass.
Childe's smirk deepened, his fingers brushing against yours as he reached for his own.
A mistake—or not.
Either way, he didn’t pull away immediately.
"That makes two of us, missy."
You swallowed, feeling the weight of his words settle in your stomach, pressing down in a way that made the room feel smaller. He didn’t just mean the drink.
The push and pull. The game that had started long before either of you had stepped into this bar.
Childe took a slow sip of his whiskey, rolling the liquid on his tongue before swallowing. "You know," he mused, tapping a finger against the rim of his glass, "I was thinking."
"That’s dangerous."
Childe grinned. “It is, isn’t it?”
He set his drink down with a quiet clink, fingers resting idly against the rim as he leaned forward—not in an obvious way, but just enough to make you notice.
"Anyway," he mused, voice slipping into something thoughtful, almost absentminded, "I was going to suggest something reckless, but I figured I should at least get you a little tipsy first." Your brow arched. "Oh? And what exactly is reckless in your book? Not sure I'd like to entertain that thought."
His smirk deepened, fingers tapping against his glass. Then, smoothly—like it had only just occurred to him—
"Genius Invokation TCG?"
The words landed too casually between you. Your grip on the glass shifted. Not much. Just enough. Childe caught it immediately.
Because of course he did.
"What about it?" you asked, careful to keep your tone neutral.
"You play." Not a question. A statement.
You huffed, finally bringing the glass to your lips. "Most people in Fontaine do."
"Yeah, but not most people look like they’re already trying to figure out how to win the next match before it even starts, hmm?"
And there it was again—that damn grin, lazy and sharp at once, like he was watching something unfold exactly the way he wanted.
"Let’s make it fun, then." He sat back slightly, stretching his arms out along the back of the booth, owning the space like it was his all along.
"Drinking game. Every time you take damage, you drink. Every time you lose a round, you take a shot."
You scoffed. "Sounds like a great way to get hammered."
"That’s the point." His smirk widened. "Unless you’re scared?"
You stared at him, something bristling in your chest. He knew exactly what he was doing. And worse? It was working.
Your eyes narrowed.
"I'm not scared, but that hardly sounds like a wise decision.”
Childe hummed, tilting his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle he had almost figured out—one last missing piece just out of reach.
"I know a competitor when I see one."
The words landed softly, but the challenge in them was anything but.
Your jaw tightened before you could stop it.
His smirk widened.
"Thought so."
Childe walked towards the bar, and a beat later, the bartender returned—a small wooden box in hand, the unmistakable shuffle of cards against the table filling the space between you.
You looked down at it, then back up at Childe.
"What do I get when I win?" you challenged.
His smile widened, something positively wolfish about it.
" When ?"
Your fingers curled around the cards before you could stop yourself. "When."
Childe exhaled a quiet chuckle, leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, his whiskey untouched for now.
"Hmm," he murmured, "if you win, I'll do whatever you want me to do for a full day."
You should have walked away. But you didn’t.
"And you?"
"Same rules." He shrugged, then smirked. "Unless you’re worried about keeping up with me?"
That did it.
The challenge was obvious, the trap set with precision, and he saw the exact moment you took the bait. You knew it too. You were playing right into his hands and you couldn't even stop yourself.
"Deal."
Childe’s grin flashed sharp.
"I was hoping you’d say that."
At first, you played to win.
Your fingers moved with practiced ease, the cards shifting between your hands as you made calculated plays, every move deliberate, every counter well-timed.
You were good.
But Childe? Childe’s play style was infuriating. Not because he played by the rules, but because he played you. Every time you made a move, he made a better one—but just barely, just enough to make you think you had a chance as you had to take another sip.
And the way he watched you—not just your cards, but your reactions, the way your lips parted slightly when he caught you off guard, the way your fingers tightened around your drink when he called your bluff—
It was a game within a game.
And you were losing both.
"That’s another shot for you, sweetheart," Childe purred, resting his chin in his palm as you let out a slow exhale, knocking back the whiskey.
You were warm now. Absolutely flushed, and way too proud to acknowledge that.
His eyes flicked to the way your throat moved as you swallowed, how you set the empty glass down just a little too forcefully, your pride keeping you from hesitating.
"Getting tipsy?" he teased.
You scoffed. "Not even close."
His grin stretched, pleased.
"Good. I’d hate for the fun to end too soon."
And Archons, that shouldn’t have made your stomach flip.
The alcohol was settling in, making your limbs looser, your judgment a little less sharp, your focus a little more on him rather than the game.
And that was exactly what he wanted. Because every time you took a drink, he edged closer. Every time you lost a round, he let his fingers brush yours just a fraction longer.
Until suddenly—
You weren’t entirely sure what game you were playing anymore.
The whiskey burned less now. Or maybe you were just getting used to it. Or maybe—and more likely—you were too far gone to care.
The cards in your hand blurred slightly, shifting in and out of focus as you squinted down at them, trying to think, trying to focus—but it was hard, so hard, because Childe was right there. Archons, he really was handsome, wasn't he. And so close.
Much closer than he had been when the game started.
At some point, he had stopped keeping a respectful distance across the booth. His arm was casually slung over the backrest, his knee brushing against yours beneath the table, the heat of him an oppressive thing you were too slow to shy away from.
And worse—he was still watching you.
Not your cards.
"You’re taking a while, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low, dipped in amusement, but gentle enough to be coaxing. "Need help picking your next move?"
Your eyes snapped up to his, hazy but still burning with defiance.
"Don’t patronize me."
His grin widened. Pleased. Relentless.
"Wouldn’t dream of it."
Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to ignore it, to shove the warmth creeping up your neck aside, to focus on the match in front of you.
You could still win. You had to. Because the stakes were high. Because you had agreed, in a haze of competitive pride and whiskey, that the loser of this game would be at the mercy of the winner for an entire day. And at the time—cocky, bold, still in control of your faculties—you had been so sure that loser wouldn’t be you.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you placed your next support card down, and Childe—predator that he was—saw it.
He took his turn swiftly.
Effortlessly.
And when he set his final card down—the one that sealed your fate—he did it with a wolfish, knowing grin.
"Well, well," he exhaled, mock surprise laced in every syllable, "would you look at that?"
The realization hit you a second too late.
Your cards.
Your deck.
Your utter failure of a strategy.
You’d lost.
You had actually, honestly, lost.
You blinked slowly, trying to process, but the whiskey had dulled your thoughts, dragging them through a fog of warmth and dizziness that made it hard to care. Childe, however, cared a lot.
Since the moment he walked into your workshop, since he saw the way you finally looked at him—unwilling, but aware. Since he decided he wanted you, a long, long time ago.
"Guess that means you're mine tomorrow, huh?" he murmured, voice smooth as silk, smug as sin. Your brows furrowed, trying to recall why that mattered. Why he sounded so self-satisfied.
But your mind was too slow, too soaked in alcohol and the heat of his proximity to untangle it. And Childe saw that, too.
His fingers traced the rim of his glass before reaching for yours, nudging it toward you. "One last drink," he suggested, voice dipping into something softer, something smoother, "as a toast to your loss?"
You hesitated, blinking at him, trying to decide if this was a bad idea.
But then—his fingers brushed against your wrist again, deliberate, coaxing, and your lips parted just slightly before you reached for the glass. His smirk deepened.
You drank.
Your thoughts blurred, edges softening into something warm, something unsteady.
Until suddenly—
Childe was closer. The dip of the boothseat registering before anything else. His arm was behind you, heat radiating from his body as he shifted just so, his breath near your ear.
"You really didn’t stand a chance, y’know," he murmured, and you felt the words more than you heard them. Something stirred deep in your stomach, something you should have fought against, but the alcohol made it so easy to lean into it instead.
To lean into him.
And that was exactly what he wanted.