When you aren’t feeling well…. Hoyoverse puppy line (Phainon & Varka) x GN!Reader
Shoutout to @cxffeinatedangel for the suggestion 🩵
Short-Short fic set, ~1k total, no warnings.
"Guess the grape vine was right—heard you'd be around here somewhere."
Water from the baths lingers in your hair and keeps your skin clammy. Phainon pauses beside you and brushes it away and off of your shoulders, ignoring your grumble in protest. "The pillows, the pillows, I know—I'll wash their cases once you've risen."
There's something heavy in the breeze, more of a scent than feeling. Rustic, almost, like bread, and for an instant of revival, your mouth nearly waters. Phainon's palm lingers for a moment, then retreats, then advances again, skin unnaturally warm. You ask him something, or try to, and he chuckles, freeing your face from your hair so you can glimpse him. "Old trick in the family—hold a warm drink when you need to warm someone up, or a cold one when you need to cool someone down. Inner heat."
He's got the cup in his other hand, half protected from its blazing warmth by his glove, and he holds it with a familiarity and love so deep it threatens to make your eyes well up—and not just from the steam.
There's a puckish look to his eye, and you narrow your own at him, but he pats your back in what you've come to learn means follow along.
He breathes it in, and you do too, racing through the clouds that have taken up residence in your chest and the crushing drum of rain in your head.
And exhale. Phainon's breath sends steam dancing across your skin like a fair trade wind, and you press towards the warmth. "Tea's almost ready. It's not much, but it has cracked barley in it, just the way I remember from before I left home—I've gotten good at telling if it's going to be too hot. I won't let it burn you." He moves the cup farther away from you as he toes off his boots, even though he tips not a drop over the edge; his brow stays furrowed in concentration, and you swear you catch a glimpse of the tip of his tongue as he disarms. "Company?"
You grumble something, reaching for him about the waist. His metal adornments are cold; they make your nose scrunch up, even as your hands fist in the night sky of his tunic.
"I'll take that as a yes." Phainon hovers his burdened arm away from the futon as he slots in behind you and pulls you up against his chest; you catch wind of the faintest little splash as his grip tilts for the first time. Well, at least there will be a story to tell about the tea-stained tile. For now, though, you are content, tucked in tight against Phainon and sheltered in his cloak. "Get some rest."
The summons to midday prayer filter through the curtains; both of your ears prick, but Phainon recovers first, tilting up your chin to press kisses to both of your cheeks. "Don't worry about the tea unless you're feeling ready. If it goes cold, I'll brew you some more."
Once more, you find yourself tied between laughing and tossing a pillow somewhere in Varka's general direction and rolling back over to sleep. He's only just taken it upon himself to look after you—the first chance he's gotten to, since you let him into your life—and you can already tell that it will be a whirlwind. "I can putter around and keep myself occupied, no problem."
Only a few coats tumble when he hangs his beside your lighter ones, gloves stuffed halfway into one of the pockets in his haste. If he were a few decades younger, you might even deem him overeager.
"Still seem unconvinced." He takes a seat at your side; mattress dips and all the items on your bed start to slide towards Varka. They will hit you before they reach him—you can see them coming, but lack the motivation to move.
When did you close your eyes? Were you worried, or perhaps tired? Varka blocks the avalanche of furs and blankets from smothering you with a contented huff, holding the whole lot back with a single arm. "Guess you have your choice of the pillows."
You do. But none of them are as invitingly warm and friendly as your lover's thighs. A few inches to go, and that's all; it'll be a monumental effort, but the payoff immeasurable. "Whoa—hey, hey! Stay—"
With an inchworm and an almighty flop, you tuck yourself in close. The satisfaction is immediate. "Hey there." When Varka speaks, it rumbles through him, even in the quietness of times like these—you press even closer, just to feel the way it shakes your skin, proves that he is alive and you too are alive to love him. "Sorry that I've been gone."
Varka sighs. "It's not. Not just today. Most days."
You crack one eye open and catch half a glimpse of him smiling down at you before you shut it again. "Smooth talker."
"It is true, though. Think I can start doing some of the menial paperwork, at least, from home."
"That'd be nice." Indeed it would. Varka, stalwart and devoted and kind, smelling of whetting-oil and the stomach-turning richness of fresh ink—not the fragrance you'd pick, perhaps, but him, so undeniably him, that it has you smiling against the hint of softness that proper care has brought.
"You seem pretty pleased." From anyone else, it would seem a judgement—from Varka, merely an observation, like recounting the Knights' barrel-drills or their current tally of hunting hawks.
"Lucky me!" He's grinning even broader now—you can feel it in the way every muscle turns with mirth, the affection behind how he tossles your hair, gets his knuckles stuck and has to tease away each one.
"Nah, lucky me. No place I'd rather be."
