CookingWithLottie

"Hi! I'm Charlotte/Lottie, a daughter of Hestia, pacifist and a huge huge fan of cooking♡"

[clovisq]

→ ★ WHERE DO THEY KISS YOU ?

(flins, neuvillette, varka) — a/n : apologies if it’s a bit ooc

flins

- one of his favorite spots to kiss you is definitely the back of your hand

- he likes doing it to fluster you, and you can feel him smiling against your skin

- he does make sure to time it carefully and sparingly, so that it’s always a little surprise for you

- when he’s not kissing the back of your hand, he’s kissing you… basically everywhere else

- he thinks everything about you is wonderful and deserves appreciation, and what better way to show appreciation than to smother you in his kisses?

“how many more kisses do you need to give me?” you groaned with each time his lips pressed against your skin.

flins had made sure every inch of your exposed skin was kissed, from your collarbones to even your wrists.

but it seems even with the number of kisses he had given you so far, he wasn’t satisfied quite yet.

there was an adoring look in his eyes, and your words only served to amuse him. a chuckle escaped his lips, “mm… what a difficult question you’re posing, my light…”

he pretends to think about it, a contemplative expression on his features. you knew him well enough to know he already had an answer.

“is it such a crime to express how utterly enchanting you are?” he tilts his head, lowering his voice as he leaned in just a bit closer. his gaze turned sultry, and you could feel yourself growing hot from the way he stared at you.

“flins!”

“haha, i apologize. how about this… one more kiss to the lips? i promise to be content with merely one more.”

neuvillette

- he also enjoys kissing the back of your hand, usually as a greeting or farewell

- his favorite would definitely be cheek kisses though

- he prefers keeping kisses short and chaste, in case the melusines were nearby

- he is quite reserved, so anything more than that would take more persuasion from you

- but if you’re alone, he may be willing to indulge

“please? one kiss on the lips?”

you were trying to hard to convince neuvillette to give you more than just a simple peck on the cheek. you had even pulled out the best puppy eyes you knew how to do, giving him your best pleading and pitiful face.

“dearest, i…” he swallowed, and you could see the way his cheeks tinted pink. he averts his gaze, going silent for a few moments.

it was a quiet night. a night the two of you had to yourselves.

he supposes it should be okay then, to abandon the idea of being proper and polite.

without saying another word, he leans in to press a gentle kiss to your lips.

no matter how much he pretended to not want it as much as you did, in the end he seemed to want this even more than you did.

and so you allowed him to kiss your lips once more.

“tell me if it’s too much for you to handle, dearest.” he whispers in your ear, and though you appreciated how much he cared about your every feeling, you were so frustrated from your desperation.

“i know i know! just keep kissing me! …please?”

“…of course. it’d be rude of me to deny you now.”

varka

- just like flins, he loves kissing you all over

- but especially your face

- if he wants to tease you, he’ll place kisses on your nape and behind your ears while sneaking up behind you

- loves to pepper your jawline and cheeks with kisses if he’s feeling particularly affectionate that day

- it gets 10x worse if he gets drunk… you won’t be escaping him for a while

“awwhhh… where are you *hic* going?” varka had a sulking look on his face as you attempted to escape his firm hold on you.

“we’re going home, varka. you’ve had too much to drink tonight.” you sighed at his current state, looking around to see if anyone else had noticed his clinginess.

“we’re having such a *hic* good time though, aren’t we?” he mumbles, trying to lean in for another kiss, only to be stopped by your palm covering his lips. “thought you.. mmh… liked my kisses..”

“not around other people, at least! and definitely not when your breath reeks of alcohol!” you groaned, an embarrassed look in your eyes.

“alright alright, we can head *hic* home.”

you thought that meant peace at last, a relieved exhale leaving you as he leaned on you for support.

“…because it’s the perfect *hic* place to give you more kisses.”

at first you were reluctant to be too loud in a public setting, but now all the other people around you could hear was your fierce scolding and his sheepish laughs.

[meowdei]

DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME ──── FT. VARKA

synopsis ✿ for the longest time, varka’s dreams have always been just that—dreams. he returns to mondstadt and faces the possibility that maybe they can be more

✿ BEFORE YOU READ ── female reader ; mutual pining for years ; friends to lovers ; written pre varka release — contains spoilers of his lore from his animated short “another prologue” ; made up mondstadt folklore by me lol ; drunk varka + mentions of alcohol and drinking ; varka returns to mondstadt!! ; slight angst BUT it’s happy in the end okay?? ; getting together ; making out by the statue of barbatos rip barbatos pls forgive this behavior ; not proof read oops

꒰ word count ꒱ 5.5k words — me when this was supposed to be a drabble </3

꒰ commentary ꒱ good luck to varka wanters!! i will not be joining you but may you all be varka havers

Varka has dreams. Vivid, merciless things that visit him in the quiet hours of the night.

He dreams of a dragon tearing across Mondstadt’s sky—of twin greatwords in his hands and wind at his back as he faces such a beast. He dreams of victory. Of returning home triumphant. He sees the city gates thrown open, hears the thunder of clapping hands and cheering voices, and the unmistakable relief on the faces of his knights as their grand master comes back to them at last. He dreams of a statue carved in his likeness. Of his glass never empty, always filled with his favorite dandelion wine, poured in honor of a hero.

He dreams of what-ifs. Of could-have-beens. Of a distant past that could have been his to look back on fondly.

But he has long since folded those dreams away and set them aside. He has made peace with the life he chose instead—with becoming a hero in quieter ways, in a foreign land as he leads an expedition that keeps calamity far from Mondstadt’s borders.

He does not regret it. Not really. Some things are just the way they are. 

And yet, Varka has never stopped dreaming of you. He doesn’t think he ever will.

Whether in sleep or in waking, you find him all the same. His mind renders you with cruel, unforgiving precision: the exact curve of your smile, the softness in your eyes, the way your lips press together when you’re trying not to laugh. He remembers it all. He remembers you in ways that feel less like memory and more like an aching sense of longing.

Some dreams fade with time. You never seem to give him that luxury.

—

“Did you know people believe that during ancient times, when wine was brewed from dandelions, it had a symbolic meaning?” You hum, tracing a finger over Varka’s nose. His head rests comfortably on your lap, enjoying the gentle breeze of Windrise while he has the opportunity. 

Varka rarely has a day off—being the grand master of an order of knights makes for free days to be a difficult thing to come by. The work schedule of someone like him just does not allow such luxuries. But Deputy Master Jean is a good friend of yours, and she’s a kind friend above all. She takes matters into her own hands without being asked—insists that headquarters and the whole of Mondstadt will stay orderly for an entire day without Varka there to see over things. 

Reluctantly, your boyfriend agrees. You are not ignorant of his dilemma—his mind tells him that abandoning work is not the sort of thing someone with his duties should do, but his heart is just the same as every man who yearns. His heart aches for the sort of freedom that grants him one day with you. Just a day filled with you and nothing else. 

And so, his heart wins. After all, this is Mondstadt. The nation of freedom. 

“Oh yeah?” He chuckles fondly, cracking an eye open to look at you, “Well, there’s something you don’t hear every day. And just what did it symbolize?”

“Well,” you murmur, brushing hair from his forehead. He catches your wrist, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss against your palm as you speak, “There are many theories. It’s all folklore, after all. Who’s to say what’s truly the accurate version?”

“And what’s your version?”

“Well,” you start, “dandelion seeds drift through the wind, you see. They travel across many places and see many things before they settle down to grow. There’s an old story about them—perhaps you’ve heard it.”

“Never,” he murmurs.

You give him an unimpressed look, and he shoots you an innocent grin. “Oh, is that so? I’m sure such an important figure in our nation would know one of our most popular tales, would he not?”

“Hah,” he chuckles, gruff and heartily from his chest in that way you can’t help but be endeared by. “If I told you I snoozed through history classes, would you be surprised?”

“Hardly,” you snort.

“Then tell a poor, history-challenged man this famous tale you speak of,” he brings your fingertips to his lips, nibbling at them as you giggle, pulling away from his grasp. 

“Varka,” you huff, “you’re a fool, did you know?”

“Not on the battlefield, my fair lady,” he quips back. “That, I can promise.”

“Well,” you roll your eyes, “fine. But only because you asked so sweetly.”

Varka grins up at you, settling even deeper into the pillow of your lap, looking more relaxed than you’ve seen him in a good long time. His hand runs lazily along your thigh while he waits, eyes half-lidded as he admires you.

“There’s an old folktale,” you begin softly, “about a single dandelion seed that rode on the wind for far longer than any of the others. They say this little seed drifted all across Mondstadt.”

“Hope the journey was kind to the little guy.”

“Don’t interrupt,” you scold, giving him an exaggerated scowl.

He shoots you a faux apologetic look, squeezing your thigh as he obediently says, “Yes, ma’am.”

“It flew through Starsnatch Cliff and watched the cecelias overcome the harsh winds as they grew, and it passed through Whispering Woods and listened to travelers’ and their secrets. This seed saw many things as it passed through while being carried by the wind,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “It watched people as they lived and made memories filled with joy and laughter. Eventually, so much time had passed that the wind had whispered it was time for the seed to settle in a single place and make its own memories, too. But the little seed kept going, it held onto the hopes of witnessing more and carrying as many memories from the people it would see for just a bit longer.”

“What a hardworking little thing,” Varka murmurs teasingly. Then, he winks—cheeky and playful. “Reminds you of someone, huh?”

You flick his forehead. “Certainly not you. All you work hard at is drinking more than everyone around you.”

He laughs, deep and warm. “Well…can’t say that’s completely false. Though it’s not the only thing I work on.”

“Anyway,” you continue, “after a long, long journey, the wind had finally convinced the little seed to settle down on a tiny patch of grass near Windrise. Nothing special—just a small, humble patch of land beneath a big tree.”

“Right where we are now,” he notes, glancing at the roots beside you.

You nod. “And there, after all that traveling, it finally grew. People say the dandelion that sprouted from that seed was different. It was taller and brighter than most dandelions—perhaps because it was touched by all the spirits of all the people it had seen during its journeys. Because it was touched by their hopes to make more cherished memories with the ones they love.”

“And then?” he asks quietly.

“Well,” you say, smoothing the collar of his shirt, “they say the first batch of dandelion wine was brewed with that particular dandelion, and the people loved it so much, it became a significant part of Mondstadt’s culture. So…it’s thought that perhaps dandelion wine became a symbol of all the love that the dandelion carried in its little seed form, and all the love it passed on by becoming a drink that people shared on happy occasions.”

As though Barbatos himself were pleased by your words, the wind stirs around you, kissing your skin as it passes through. Varka reaches up and cups your cheek with a large, warm hand, and grins. “Am I safe to assume you brought dandelion wine for me then, because being with me is a happy, joyous occasion?” 

You lean down to press your forehead to his, giving him an especially sweet smile. Too sweet, even. “No. I merely told you an old tale that I heard, that’s all.”

He lets out a low, dramatic sigh. “And here I thought you brought all this up just to tell me how much I mean to you.”

“I brought all this up, you see,” you roll your eyes, and he watches as you pull away ever so gently to get a better look at his face. The scar that litters his cheek, the necklace that hangs against his chest, and those thick brows that frame those bright, sparkling eyes. You stare at him, at Varka. Your Varka. You get a good long look before you say, “Because the people of Mondstadt have been drinking dandelion wine more than they ever have these days. And a certain hero has made that so.”

He hums, lips curling into a small, smug grin. “A hero, you say?”

“Yes,” you chuckle, cupping his cheeks, “one who has defeated a dragon and saved us all. We drink dandelion wine in honor of his triumph.”

You lean down and press your lips to his, and he hums, a deep, satisfied rumble that comes from his chest. His hands find the side of your face, holding you steady as a callused thumb traces your cheek. Then, after a moment, he slowly sits up from your lap, taking all his warmth with him. You’re about to protest until he reaches over, picking a small dandelion from the patch of grass beside your picnic blanket before turning and tucking it against your ear. 

“There,” he murmurs, “this dandelion has seen how much you mean to me. So, I guess we can say the wind carried it to the right place, huh?”

Your breath hitches for a moment before you slowly break into a bright beam, tugging him closer and pressing a soft, delicate kiss to his lips for a brief moment. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “I suppose the wind has carried it exactly where it belongs.”

—

He wakes up with a start, fingers lifting to feel at his lips. The roughness of his fingertips wipe away the lingering phantom of your touch. He groans, rubbing a hand over his face before turning and curling deeper into the blankets that litter the floor of his tent. 

“Same dream as always,” he grunts to himself shaking his head, “I think I’m beginning to lose it.”

────────────────────────

When Varka returns, Mondstadt gives him a warm welcome. At least, those who remember him, anyway.

Most people tend to forget that Acting Grand Master Jean is only acting in his place temporarily. He does not blame them for it. It has been years since Varka last set foot in his homeland, and much has changed in his absence. Another hero has risen to save his people—a hero to whom he is endlessly indebted, of course. A hero who, alongside the acting grand master and Barbatos himself, has kept his people safe when he could not.

Varka is grateful. Happy, even. Relieved.

But he is also human—and a human who once held a dream. An ambitious dream that had once unfolded vividly before his very eyes, so close it felt tangible, as if he could reach out and grasp it. And yet, fate had cruelly yanked it away from his fingertips just as he thought it might finally be his.

He does not fight fate. Instead, he thanks it. He thanks it for allowing someone else to fulfill his dream in his stead while he battled a crisis in a distant land, ensuring his home remained safe.

But Varka is human, and all humans feel melancholy when their dreams remain only dreams, and nothing more.

“So,” you murmur, sliding into the chair beside him in Angel’s Share and propping your head against your hand, “you come all this way home from a place I can only dream of visiting, and you don’t even bring me back a souvenir? I must say, Grand Master, I’m quite disappointed.”

Varka recognizes your voice. Of course he does. How could he not? It is the same voice that haunted his dreams time and time again while he was away. He has found that on nights when you appear in them, he wakes with an especially sharp ache of homesickness. He longs for the wind of Mondstadt against his face more fiercely than ever, for the distant scent of sweet madames cooking at Good Hunter. He yearns for the familiar sight of his knights and their bright, loyal smiles as he salutes them in passing.

He yearns to see you.

He has not dared to seek you out since his return—fear is a strange, fickle thing. He does not fear dragons, nor monsters of the abyss, nor the countless dangers he has faced without hesitation. But the thought of standing before the woman he has loved silently for years fills him with a quiet, dreadful terror.

So he does not go to you. Instead, you come to him—while he is drunk and alone.

Fantastic.

Slowly, he turns his head.

You sit beside him as though it is the most natural thing in the world. As though he did not vanish for years. As though he had not returned and deliberately avoided the very streets he knew you walked.

As though he had not already lost you.

His throat tightens. He swallows it down with another mouthful of dandelion wine.

“…I…traveled light,” he says at last, voice slurred by his…(what number cup of wine was this? He’s lost count.)

Your mouth curves into a tight smile. There’s something searching in your eyes as you look at him. Something that sees through him too easily. “That so?” you hum. “Not even something small? I’m hurt.”

He huffs quietly, looking down into his glass. In another life, he had seen this moment differently. He had seen his return as something grander, something worth being prouder of. Not something quite like this. In that life, he had returned a hero.

Sometimes, though he doesn’t regret the path he chose, he mourns what he had seen in the scryglass—the dragon falling beneath his blade, Mondstadt safe beneath his watch, the city singing his name with pride. He had seen the statue. The celebrations. He had seen you, too. You had been smiling at him like he was something worth waiting for.

He breaks out of his thoughts when your voice cuts in. “You shouldn’t be here,” you say gently.

He blinks, dragged from the memory. “…Hm?”

You gesture faintly to his glass. “You’ve had enough to drink, Varka. You shouldn’t be sitting here any longer—you should get home.”

Home. The word lands strangely. He barely recognizes it, even when it was all he had thought of while he was away. It doesn’t feel right being there, sometimes—not when he’s gotten used to hard soil under his back as he sleeps in a tent.

“One more round,” he says, “jus’ another glass.”

“You didn’t come see me,” you say quietly.

He flinches.

“You came back,” you continue. “Everyone knows you’re back. The knights know. The city knows. But you didn’t come see me. You didn’t even see me before you left to say goodbye.”

He can’t look at you. Because the truth is as simple as it is pathetic. 

“I…couldn’t,” he says. “…Couldn’t.”

You frown. “Couldn’t?”

“Th’ scryglass,” he murmurs. “It…it showed me somethin’.” 

You frown in confusion—of course you don’t know what he’s talking about. It’s all a bunch of nonsense to you coming from a drunk man. But his mouth can’t stop now that it’s begun. 

“Showed me Mondstadt. A dragon. I fought it, y’know—won, too.” His jaw tightens faintly. “Then I was a hero.” The hero he did not get a chance to actually become. “It showed me what would happen if I stayed,” he continues, words slower now. Less steady. “An’… it showed me what would happen if I didn’t. There was…somethin’ in Nod-Krai. Would reach Mondstadt. Eventually.” He swallows. “I saw what I had t’ do—what I had t’ give up.”

Silence stretches between you. You don’t know what to say, how to make sense of what he’s telling you. But he continues before you get a chance to figure anything out. 

“If I had seen you before I left…” His voice falters, just for a moment. Just enough to betray him. “I…I don’t think I would’ve gone.” The admission hangs there, fragile and terrible. He laughs roughly after, but there is no humor in it. “Pathetic, isn’t it? Grand Master o’ the Knights o’ Favonius…brought low by somethin’ as simple as a goodbye.”

Your expression softens just a fraction, but it only makes his chest ache more. And then, you whisper, “You should get home, Varka. I’m being serious—you’ve had a lot to drink.”

With that, you slowly stand, getting ready to leave. He watches you turn, and something inside him breaks. Because this is it—this is the life he chose. The one where everything he wants is not his, and everything he dreams of is just a sick, distantly wishful dream. 

His hand moves before he can think. He catches your wrist again, and you turn back, startled.

“…Go out w’ me,” he says, “on a date. You ‘n me.” The words come out rough. Unsteady.

Your eyes widen in shock. “…What?” You search his face. “You’re too drunk, Varka. You’re saying nonsense.”

He would rather leave for Nod Krai again than see that doubt in your eyes. Doubt that he would want you—what a ridiculous thought, he thinks. To doubt that you are not all he’s ever wanted. He can’t blame you, of course, but the absurdity of the idea is too bitter to swallow. 

“…Please…?” he says. So quiet, you can barely hear him. “S’all I wanted, y’know? Before I left, an’ stuff—thought maybe ‘t was too late when I got back.”

You stare at him for a long moment. Long enough that he feels every second like a blade. And then—

“…Okay,” you say. And then, after a moment of sitting with your decision, you smile. It’s a carefree little thing—stripped of all that doubt and underlying hurt. “Okay. I’ll go out with you. But first you need to get home. C’mon.”

────────────────────────

Sitting here, under a large tree at Windrise, the wind is gentler than he remembers. Or perhaps it has simply been far too long for him to remember correctly. Varka has stood in this place countless times before—for training, for duties, in passing, in leisure, in haste. But never like this. Never with you.

He shifts his weight slightly on the blanket, one knee drawn up while the other leg stretches out into the grass. His armor is gone, replaced with something simpler. 

“This was a good suggestion,” you murmur, smiling at the view. “I don’t believe I’ve ever thought of having a picnic here.”

He hums, giving you a crooked grin. “Of course, this was a good suggestion,” he chuckles, “it was my suggestion, of course.”

He’s not sure why he suggested it. Perhaps it was a pathetic attempt to recreate the silly images he’s seen in his sleep—small, hopeful dreams dreamt in the reclusiveness of his own mind, where he is allowed to be what he wants: yours, a hero, a cherished citizen of Mondstadt who gets to stay home. These are all things Varka has always wanted to be. Things he has given up. And yet he clings to them, despite it all. The suggestion to come here tumbles past his lips before he can stop himself, before he can remember that dreams are not meant to be lived in.

You snort softly from beside him, adjusting the basket at your side. “Of course, Grand Master. How could I doubt your wisdom?”

He groans. “Don’t call me that, please. I hear that enough already everywhere else.”

“But you are that,” you counter. 

“Not today,” he says easily, giving you a wink. “Today, I’m just a lucky man who was fortunate enough to convince a very lovely woman to accompany him.”

He says it lightly. Playfully. But he does not look at you when he does—or he’d have seen the way you flustered at being called a lovely woman. Instead, he fiddles with blades of grass between his fingers. Varka has missed the feeling of grass from his homeland—even something as common and mundane as grass is not the same in other lands.

You watch his fingers carelessly grab at a dandelion, feeling up its stem before pulling away. “…Did you know,” you begin softly, “people believe that during ancient times, when wine was first brewed from dandelions, it had a symbolic meaning?”

His breath catches. Not visibly. Not enough that anyone other than himself would notice. 

Because he has heard these words before. Distant, echoed words that haunted him in his sleep, teased him with versions of his life he always thought were simply too out of touch for him. 

He turns his head toward you slowly, brows lifting. “Oh?” he hums, forcing his voice to stay steady. “This sounds like the start of a history lecture.” You give him a look. He raises both hands in surrender, smiling. “I’m listening,” he promises.

But something in his chest has already begun to tighten. He remembers this—he remembers warmth. He remembers the wind. He remembers your voice, softer than anything else he’s ever heard, telling him a story about something small and stubborn and endlessly wandering. He remembers your touch and your fond, delicate eyes staring back at him. 

And he remembers waking up alone every time. 

You smile in satisfaction at his willingness before continuing. “There are many theories,” you say. “It is folklore, after all. Who’s to say which version is true?”

He leans back against the tree behind him, stretching his legs out further into the grass.

This is different than his dreams. In his dreams, he had been lying down. His head had been in your lap. He had belonged there without question. Now, he sits beside you instead. You’re not as fond of him now as you were then, and you aren’t as intimate with him either. 

But you could be. The thought makes his head spin a little. You came here with him—agreed in a heartbeat when he asked for your time to spend with him, to do something romantic and not just as two friends who are simply catching up. And you are recreating his dreams, little by little—the same, but different all at once. 

“Which version do you believe?” he asks quietly. 

Your gaze drifts upward, toward the small, drifting seeds carried through the wind. “Dandelions travel far,” you murmur. “The wind carries them across countless places. They see many things—people, their lives, their memories.”

His fingers press faintly into the soil beneath the grass. The words are not exact. But they are close enough that his chest aches with recognition.

“There’s an old story,” you continue, “about a single dandelion seed that drifted in the winds longer than all the others. It passed through every corner of Mondstadt. It saw all of the people’s joys and sorrows.”

He smiles faintly. He knows this story—has heard it in your voice several times. He’d been under the impression that it ended somewhere far from here.

“Sounds like it lived a full life.”

You glance at him. “Don’t interrupt.”

He swallows thickly, wondering what’s real and what isn’t. Is this still reality? Will he wake up in his bed and get ready to bring you here in a little bit? Are his dreams taunting him yet again, even after he’s journeyed all the way home?

He doesn’t dwell too long. Instead, he presses a hand to his chest and says, “My apologies, madame—I won’t do it again.”

You continue with a roll of your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “After many, many days of journeying and watching all of the people of Mondstadt, the wind eventually urged the seed to settle. To grow somewhere and stop wandering. But it didn’t. Not at first. It wanted to keep going. To see more. To carry more memories with it.”

He exhales quietly through his nose. “…Stubborn thing,” he murmurs.

You look at him again. “Yes,” you chuckle.

The wind stirs. A dandelion seed catches briefly against his shoulder before drifting away again. In Nod Krai, he had not questioned it. He had accepted the taunting visions of what could have been his life without wondering if he’d made a mistake. Without wondering if they were still a possibility. Now, he is sitting beside you, close enough to hear your breathing and close enough to reach out and touch you—and he thinks maybe he has not given up all of his dreams. Not yet.

Maybe Varka has not lost that future. Maybe he has simply not reached it yet.

“Eventually,” you say, “it did settle. Right here, near Windrise. And when it finally grew, it was said to be taller and brighter than all the other dandelions. Perhaps because it carried all of Mondstadt and its people’s spirits. They say the first batch of dandelion wine was brewed from that same dandelion, and that it carried all the memories it had gathered, all the love it had witnessed. So, it’s believed that dandelion wine was made to enjoy during happy occasions worth remembering.”

This was always the part of his dream that had ached the most. The part where he had allowed himself to believe, if only for a moment, that he had stayed. That he had chosen differently. That he had not turned his back on the path that had everything he’d always wanted. The part that stung the most when he’d realize it was nothing but a dream when he’d crack his eyes open and only a tent was there to greet him in a distant, foreign land.

But you are here now. Real. Close enough that he can see the way the light catches in your eyes. Close enough that he understands, with a clarity that leaves him almost breathless, that you are not something he lost. You are not something he gave up. You are something he still has time to earn.

He clears his throat, stretching his arms behind his head to rest against them as he says, in what he hopes sounds teasing, “Did you bring dandelion wine, then? To celebrate the joy of going on a date with this legendary knight?”

You laugh softly. “I did.” You reach into the basket and pull out a bottle.

His eyes widen slightly, delighted. “Well,” he says, “how fortunate I am.”

You hesitate for just a moment before adding, “I’m sure people have offered you wine everywhere since you’ve returned, but still…it seemed appropriate.”

He watches you as you pour. The careful way you hold the bottle. The way the sun kisses your skin and warms it up. This moment had lived in his mind before it ever existed. Not exactly like this. But close enough that it feels less like a coincidence and more like mercy. Fate has had mercy on Varka, and he has never been one to argue with fate.

When you offer him the glass, your fingers brush his. He stills.

(It is difficult not to dwell on it for a moment—how easy and simple it was in his dream, just to touch you. He had reached for you without hesitation. Now, he is so careful. So grateful for accidental touches and so wishful that they would last a little longer. If only for a moment.)

You don’t pull away immediately. Neither does he. Finally, you release the glass and move to pour your own.

But it never happens. 

Because Varka cannot endure this any longer.

His restraint snaps suddenly—so suddenly, that he almost doesn’t recognize it for what it is. Every chivalrous, righteous virtue he lives by as a knight to be a good, respectable man gets carried away by the wind, and leaves him stripped with nothing else but instinct. Instinct, and perhaps an aching longing that has been sharpened by years of absence, and then sharpened even further still by the unbearable reality of you being right here, within reach, and not his. The sharpness is too painful now—it slices him in ways he can no longer tolerate and move on from. 

His hand moves before he can stop it. He catches your wrist—not rough, never rough—but with a firmness that startles you. You barely have time to react before he pulls you toward him, and then you are no longer sitting beside him. You are on his lap, your breath catching as the world tilts, as his arm comes around your waist to steady you, as warm and hard muscle shaped by years of battle and discipline wrap around you.

For a moment, he only looks at you.

His eyes search your face like a starved man. Like a lost man, even. He takes you in as though he is committing you to memory all over again, as though this, too, might become something he will only be allowed to revisit in dreams.

He should stop. He knows he should stop.

But he has spent years stopping himself, hasn’t he? Years choosing duty. Years choosing others and not himself. Years choosing to live with the quiet, gnawing absence of you, knowing what he could have had and yet, still choosing to walk away from it. He has spent years choosing to give up the future he has dreamed of for the sake of the future of his nation and his people. 

He cannot do it any longer. Not when you are real instead of some figment of his imagination, and not when you are here, with him. 

Varka has had many, many dreams of you—not all of them have taunted him with the images of your affection. Some have taunted him with the images of you moving on, looking elsewhere, finding someone else. Maybe that is why he did not find you when he returned. Why he waited for you to find him. Maybe that is why, all along, he has been scared to face you—too scared to learn that perhaps he has given up a life that you both could have shared and sent you on a path to a life that no longer has room for him.

But it does. You still have room for him, and he is done with no longer allowing himself the space to be there. 

His hand rises to your face, and a calloused thumb brushes your cheek. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t really sound too sound sorry at all.

And then he kisses you. Hard.

It’s everything he has denied himself, poured into a single, desperate press of his lips. His mouth finds yours with a force that is unbearably hungry. Hunger that has grown painful over years of restraint. He pulls you closer against him, his hand firm at your waist, anchoring you there as though he’s afraid you might vanish if he loosens his grip.

Your lips are softer than he remembers in his dreams. Warmer. Alive beneath his. There is life to them, not some ghostly mimic meant to haunt him cruelly. 

For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he thinks you might pull away. But you prove him wrong. You don’t. And when you finally gather yourself enough to respond, you lean into him instead of away. You kiss him back just as hard—just as desperate. And something deep in his chest aches more than it ever has.

His hand slides to the back of your neck. To keep you there, in place—right there against him, where you belong. To convince himself this is real, that he is not asleep in a tent, envisioning Windrise and you and your warmth. To convince himself that he will not wake up and feel the aftershocks of shame and bitterness and insufferably agonozing yearning. 

He has kissed you in dreams before. Those had been gentle things. Easy and familiar and almost part of a routine. It had been so simple to just kiss you as he pleased in his mind, that it had made him feel helpless. He had walked away from what he’s always wanted most. 

This is not gentle. He doesn’t have the luxury to take his time and be cautious with you when this could end in an instant. This is not part of his routine, and it may never be. So he takes advantage of it, as ashamed as he is to admit it. He pulls back only slightly, just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven in a way no battle has ever managed to cause.

He searches your face again, as though waiting for you to change your mind. To regret this and regret him.

You don’t.

Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer, kissing him just as hard. As if…(dare he believe such a bold idea) as if you have dreamt of this moment for years and years, as well. 

“Forgive me,” he says again, his voice a rough, deep rumble as his lips press to yours again. Again and again and again and again. Hot, searing kisses are pressed to your lips as he whispers, “Forgive me,” between them. 

“There is nothing to forgive,” you manage to whisper in between, somewhere along the way. And you kiss him, too. Again and again and again and again.

And after so long, Varka is home. His dreams are no longer just dreams. 

his lore makes for a good romantic angst i think

[slvtbunbun]

♡ 𝐈 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐘 𝐄𝐗…𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐀~

♬⋆.˚ 𝓿𝓸𝓵𝓾𝓶𝓮 𝓸𝓷 ‎♪ 🔪

𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥. 𝐡𝐞’𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞

🔪 featuring {separate}: 𝐯𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐫𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐫 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐝𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 🔪 tw: yandere content 𝜗𝜚 murder duh 𝜗𝜚 drugging 𝜗𝜚 jealous sex 𝜗𝜚 noncon 𝜗𝜚 size kink 𝜗𝜚 fear play 𝜗𝜚 kidnapping 𝜗𝜚 scent kink 𝜗𝜚 they're psycho 𝜗𝜚 lovebombing 𝜗𝜚 cherry poppin' 𝜗𝜚 blood kink 𝜗𝜚 sex after murder?? 𝜗𝜚 this lwk kinda scary 𝜗𝜚 aphrodisiacs 𝜗𝜚 full nelson 𝜗𝜚 🔪 an: her new boyfriend nexttt how'd I get hereeee?? 👀

🔪 CHILDE — Shits n' Giggles

Maybe if you don’t move, he won’t see you

You’re crouched between two crates, knees pulled to your chest, barely breathing. Your hands are clamped so tight over your mouth that your teeth are digging into your palm.

You saw it. 

You saw Ajax laugh while he carved the man you were seeing apart. The way the hydro blades slashed n’ ripped.

Witnessing the moment your boyfriend stopped screaming, and he just kept laughing, louder and louder.

And then he looked right at you. 

So now you’re hiding. Because you’re next. You have to be next.

His footsteps crunch over the gravel, slow and bouncy like he’s having the time of his life. Then the laughter starts again — loud, wild, completely deranged.

“Hmmm~ Where’s my favorite person?” Childe sings, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “Come out, come out, wherever you are! I saved the best part just for you, babe!” Another burst of manic giggling echoes through the alley. 

Fuck he’s getting closer way too fucking close.

Your whole body is shaking so hard that the crate behind you is rattling. Tears won’t stop pouring down your face. 

Shit shit shit! He’s going to kill you. He snapped. He’s completely lost it, and now he’s going to— 

“BOO!” 

A bloody hand slams down on the crate right above your head. “AH THE FUCK-” You immediately slapped a hand over your mouth

Ajax drops down into a crouch in front of you, blue eyes wide and sparkling with pure insanity. His ginger hair is soaked red.

Blood smeared across his freckles like war paint. He’s grinning so wide it looks like his face might split.

“You really thought you could hide from me?” he laughs, loud and bright. “After I just put on a whole show for you? That’s so mean!” 

He swiftly grabs your ankle and yanks you out from between the crates in one smooth motion.

THUD!

Hissing in pain as you hit the ground hard, but he’s already on top of you, straddling your waist, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand.

His face is inches from yours his mouth panting. You can smell the blood, see the lovesick glee in his eyes.

“You watched the whole thing, didn’t you?” he whispers, almost affectionate. “Saw me tear him apart... laughing while he cried like a little bitch. And then you ran away from me like I was gonna do the same to you.”

He drones off on that last part, Childe tilts his head, still smiling that terrifyingly happy smile. 

“Wait...You thought I was coming to kill you next, huh? Pffttt!-” He bursts out laughing again — loud, unhinged, shoulders shaking as he presses his bloody forehead against yours. “That’s so fucking cute.~” 

His cock is already hard, grinding against your stomach through blood-soaked fabric. You feel it twitch when you whimper.

His free hand slides down your side, gripping your ass hard enough to bruise. “I’m not gonna kill you, babe,” he purrs, voice dropping into something much darker. 

“I killed him because he touched you. Because he thought he could have you. I did it all for us.”

He leans in and licks a tear off your cheek, blue eyes half-lidded with delight.

“Baby, stop crying and tell me how much you loved the show… or I’ll give you a reason to really scream.”

He says that last part with a proud little grin, an attempt to reassure you he’s stable. 

You stare up at him, chest heaving.

“…Ajax is you on drugs right now?” you choke out.

He blinked once, then twice before laughing; his pupils literally dilated into tiny hearts as he pants above you, chest heaving, that manic smile never fading.

“Completely sober, babe. Promise.” He nipped your ear playfully. “Did it all on no drugs~,” he sing-songed.

“You’re fucking insane!” you scream, thrashing underneath him.

The insult lights him up like fireworks.

He moans openly, hips rolling slow and filthy, pressing the thick line of his cock against your cunt.

“Fuck— say it again. Louder.” Childe’s voice cracks with glee. “Call me a lunatic, baby. Please.”

You spit in his face. “Get the hell off me, you psychotic ginger bast—”

“Hah— you’re so h-hot when you’re mad at me,” he cuts you off delighted.

“You made me so sad when you decided to cheat on me, baby…” he coos.

“What???” This made you freeze. “We broke up months ago, you fucking psycho— get off—”

“No.”

The word drops flat. Instant. Like a switch flipped behind his eyes.

“No. No no no no no.” He’s giggling now, shoulders shaking as he pins your wrists deeper into the gravel. “Don’t do that. Don’t say that. We didn’t break up. I didn’t agree to that. You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

“Ajax…we broke up. Months ago. I left. You can’t just-”

“No.”

His fingers dig bruises into your ass. Cock twitches hard against your belly, leaking through his pants as he fishes it out one-handed. Thick. Angry. 

Drooling precum in fat sticky ropes that splatter hot against your clit.

“Shhh gonna split you open, bunny,” voice still sickeningly sweet. Hips rocking forward as the fat head kisses your entrance—hot, demanding, wider than you remember. "Just relax… let me fill you up…"

“Wait!- hngh!-”

Plunging in deep you cried out nails scraping the gravel, walls fluttering uselessly around the sheer girth, trying to push him out even while more slick gushes out to betray you.

“F-ffuck! Didn’t you hear me??”

He sinks deep, deep, deep, blue eyes half-lidded in bliss while that smile never falters.

“Don’t say that again.” One blood-stained hand cups your cheek, thumb smearing red across your skin like he’s petting a scared kitten. 

“C’mon, babe. We both know how this ends. Seems you forgot who you belong to. That’s okay though.”

With a broken moan his forehead dropped to yours pausing briefly.

“I’ll remind you.”

He starts moving.

Slow at first—wet, filthy drags that grind his cock against every raw nerve inside you.

Then harder. Meaner.

Each thrust timed with that same cheerful, hollow voice.

“Ya f-feel that, babe? That’s me. That’s us. No break-up. No ex. Just t-this pretty pussy squeezing me so tight like it missed its owner!”

You gritted your teeth and tried to twist away.

He’s too heavy. Too deep. Too gone.

“Ajax, ngh! puhleeasee! This isn’t!-”

“NO-“ plap! “NO-“ plap! “NO NO NO- don’t do that! Don’t say that!” 

Every “no” lands with a vicious snap of his hips. 

Cockhead battering your womb like he’s trying to fuck the memory of leaving him out of your body.

“-We’re on a nice date right now, babe! Can’t you hah…haha…see? I took you out, I got all dressed up for you, I’m being so good for you tonight!”

He’s screaming between giggles. 

Tears pouring. Smile never drops. Just keeps stretching wider and wider like his face is about to split. 

The wet pap-pap-pap of skin on skin echoes loud between you, slick and cum all mixing together. 

You sob harder. “W-what are you ah!- talkin’ bout?!? I said we broke up! T-this isn’t a date!”

“NO!”

Another scream tears from his throat. Raw. Unhinged. Sinking deeper. Inch after thick inch.

“Don’t say that again. Don’t say that, don’t say that don’t say that - we’re on a date! This is our date!”

Laughing and crying and babbling all at once while heart-shaped pupils spin wildly.

As he fucks you in earnest—wet, filthy schlick-schlick-schlick echoing off the crates in the alley.

His leaking precum making an obscene mess between your thighs.

He’s laughing and crying and babbling all at once, that empty cheerful mask splintering wider and wider.

“You always come back to me eventually.” His voice fractures sweeter, darker. “This cunt is squeezing me so tight! Baby!— fuck, you missed me, didn’t you? Haha…”

You sob, hands gripping his shoulders tight so hard you made indents from your nails.

He only groans louder, pace turning relentless, hips grinding deep on every thrust like he’s trying to crawl inside your ribs and stay there forever.

In his shattered mind, this is a date.

The only one that matters.

And he’s never letting it end.

🔪 DOTTORE — Exhibit A

“You brought this on yourself, you know.” 

The words hum down the long, sterile hallway, lazy, almost affectionate.

As if he’s scolding a pet who keeps making the same mistake.

You’re running as fast as your legs will carry you, feet slapping hard against the cold tile while your lungs burn and your heart hammers so violently you can hear it thundering in your ears. 

Sweat pours down your spine, and your thighs feel way too slick, way too hot, and none of it makes any sense because you’re running for your life.

You’re sure you’re going to die, so why the fuck is your pussy throbbing and dripping down your own legs like this?

Your mind is spinning so fast it hurts.

You’d only come back to Snezhnaya because your ex said he needed to talk, and then you heard the screaming and the wet, horrible sounds, and then nothing at all. 

Of course, you didn’t witness what happened, but you’re starting to piece together what unfolded now with every heavy footstep echoing behind you. 

He killed him. 

He actually killed your boyfriend, then he injected you with something, and now he’s hunting you through his own lab, part of whatever sick experiment he’s running, wanting you terrified and soaking wet at the same time. 

Your head is pounding, your skin feels clammy and burning hot all at once, your heart is beating so fast it’s making you dizzy.

Yet still your cunt keeps clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs with every desperate step. 

The ache between your legs is getting worse. 

Throbbing hot and embarrassing, how are you running for your life, and your pussy is acting like this is foreplay?

“Do I really have to do this to teach you a lesson each time?” Dottore chuckled, his humming getting louder, his steps steady. “Running only makes the poison work faster, love~.”

His voice is so much closer now, curling up your spine, breathing down your neck, and you don’t dare look back. 

You just keep running, gasping, crying, thighs trembling and slippery while that awful heat keeps spreading through your body, and you're so sure that whatever he gave you isn’t poison at all.

And then it hits.

It crashes through your veins like liquid fire, so sudden and violent that your legs give out instantly. You fall hard, knees slamming into the cold tile as a broken sob rips from your throat. 

A puddle of slick immediately spreads beneath you, warm and humiliating, because you’re gushing so much it’s pooling on the floor. 

Fuck

Your cunt won’t stop spasming, clenching, and fluttering around nothing while wave after wave of pure, pent-up arousal drowns you.

All you feel is white-hot need flooding every inch of you, so violent it rips a broken moan straight from your throat. 

Attempting to get up, but you only twitch and writhe your limbs, feeling like static jello.

You look like you’re in the throes of a fever — flushed all the way down to the roots of your sweat-drenched hair, eyes slightly glazed and unfocused, lips parted as you pant like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Treachorous pussy won’t stop twitching against its will. Fresh slick gushes out of you in waves, so much that you can hear the wet sound of it dripping. 

You can’t think...you can’t even remember why you were running. 

All you know is that you’re burning, aching, dripping, and the man who just killed your boyfriend is standing right behind you. 

“There we go…” he purrs, slow footsteps finally stopping beside you. “That’s what I wanted to see. Fascinating.”

His red eyes pierced through your trembling form like twin scalpels, cutting straight through whatever was left of your dignity. 

You’re on the floor in a puddle of your own slick, thighs shaking violently, chest heaving as another wave of that cursed heat slams into you. 

Shame burns hotter than the aphrodisiac. 

Shame on you.

Shame on you for even considering giving him another chance.

That stupid letter he sent you had sounded so sweet, so almost-human.

You’d actually let yourself believe he might’ve changed. 

What a fuckin' joke. 

You left him for a reason.

No matter how tenderly he touched you, you could never tell if he was holding you because he missed you or because he was quietly counting your pulse for some new “stress test.” 

Every damn time he looked at you, it felt like he was staring at a particularly interesting petri dish.

Those segments gave you the worst hive-mind uncanny valley feeling, like you were dating twenty versions of the same man who all saw you as data.

You were so fucking sure that Dottore didn’t actually love you. 

That you were just his favorite little experiment. 

And yet here you are. 

Dripping all over his floor. Whimpering like a bitch in heat while he stands over you, looking as smug as always.

“Pathetic,” voice low and clinical, but there’s something darker threaded underneath it.

He crouches slowly beside you, gloved fingers tilting your chin up so you’re forced to meet those crimson eyes. “Look at you. Running from me only to end up like this.” 

You try to snarl at him, but it comes out as a broken moan instead.

Hips twitch uselessly against the cold tile, cunt clenching hard around nothing as another gush of slick leaks out of you. The shame is suffocating. 

“I left you-” you gasp, voice cracking, “-because you don’t even love me. You look at me like I’m just another specimen. Those Segments… It’s like dating twenty of you, and none of them actually want me; they just want the data-” 

Your words cut off into a sharp cry as he drags two fingers through your soaked folds, spreading you open without warning. 

“Such a dramatic little thing,” Dottore coos, mocking. “All that fire with your pussy drooling all over my fingers the second I touch it. You really think I don’t love you?” 

He laughs softly, dark and cruel.

“If I didn’t, would I have gone through the trouble of killing that worthless fling of yours? Would I have spent weeks perfecting this particular strain of aphrodisiac simply so I could watch you fall apart so beautifully?” 

Your ex smiled eerily and slowly took off his glove.

“Did you have your fun? Did you get it all out?--” He pressed two thick fingers inside you without mercy, curling them viciously against that spot that makes your vision spark white. “-It’s time to come back to me.” 

You sob, hips jerking, tears spilling down your flushed cheeks. “Zandik- hah- please” 

“Please, what?” Twisting his fingers deeper, thumb circling your swollen clit with slow, teasing strokes. “Use your words, darling. You were so eloquent a moment ago about how I don’t love you. Tell me exactly what you need from the man who supposedly feels nothing for you.” 

Your pride is crumbling fast.

The heat is unbearable now, every inch of you burning, pulsing, begging. You’re so pent up it hurts.

“I— I can’t— fuck— Zandik, please, I need—”

He pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine pathetically at the loss, hips chasing his hand like a desperate whore. 

“Beg properly,” he says coldly, eyes glittering with wicked delight. “Beg the man you claim doesn’t love you to fuck the need out of your pitiful, dripping cunt. Or perhaps I should just leave you here like this?... Let you writhe on the floor until the aphrodisiac drives you truly insane? Hm?~” 

Damn him

You break. Tears streaming, voice shaking, pussy throbbing so hard it’s painful, you sob out the words he wants to hear.

“Please… please, Zandik, I need your cock— I need you to fuck me, please— I can’t take it anymore—” 

Dottore's mouth curls, slow and terrifyingly satisfied. “Good girl.”

Two thick fingers push back inside you without warning, curling viciously against that spot that makes sparks explode behind your eyes.

You sob, hips jerking hard as another gush of slick floods out around his hand, pooling on the cold tile beneath you.

The pleasure is too much. Too fast. Your cunt keeps spasming and fluttering uselessly, greedy and desperate even as shame burns through you.

You try to close your legs. Try to bite back the whimpers.

Smack!

It was sharp - fleeting, even - but your entire body is jolting at the feeling of Dottore’s thick fingerpads smacking your poor cunt. 

Right above your ravaged clit. “Ngh- Z-Zandik!” 

“Z-Zandik!” he mocks your moans, voice higher than usual. “Thought you wanted hngh- to be quiet, whore?”

He grins, chuckling softly at the way you’re half-lucidly pushing at his rippling biceps - nails leaving neat little marks as you’re torn between pushing him away and wanting more, more, more-

“How are you gonna do that if you’re like this, huh?”

You fixed your quivering lips to say anything, but he did something unexpected-

He leans in and kisses you like he actually missed you.

Soft at first. Almost sweet.

His moves against yours with surprising tenderness while two thick fingers sink back into your dripping cunt, curling lovingly against that spot that makes your brain melt.

“I love you,” he whispers between kisses, his voice low and warm against your lips. “I’ve always loved you. Do you have any idea how much effort I’ve invested in you?”

At the same time, his fingers pinch your swollen clit hard, rolling the poor bud between his thumb and forefinger with mean, precise pressure.

You jolt and whimper into Dottore's mouth. “Mmnph!- no, you-”

He just kisses you deeper, swallowing every sound, murmuring sweet filth against your tongue.

“My perfect little whore,” he coos lovingly, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your tear-stained cheek, the corner of your eye. “Look at you. Such a pathetic, dripping mess on my floor. Crying and gushing like you were made for this.”

Another deep, affectionate kiss as he pinches your clit even harder, tugging on it while his fingers fuck into you with wet, filthy sounds.

“I love you so much,” he breathes tenderly, like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. “I’ve discarded less valuable things for far smaller reasons.”

You’re shaking, overwhelmed and confused at the constant contrast between his soft kisses, gentle confessions, and the ruthless way he’s abusing your clit is driving you insane.

He kisses you again — slow, deep, devoted — right as he gives your clit one last vicious pinch.

That’s what breaks you.

Your orgasm hits like lightning. You scream into his mouth as your cunt clamps down around his fingers, gushing everywhere in messy, humiliating waves.

Dottore keeps kissing you through it. Sweet. Loving. Like he’s proud of you.

Only when your body finally goes limp does he pull back, red eyes glowing with satisfaction.

Then his smile turns sharper.

“That aphrodisiac I gave you?” he says calmly, still stroking your hair like a lover. “It was always a hybrid. The paralyzing agent activates right after orgasm.”

You try to move your legs.

Nothing.

From the waist down… you’re completely paralyzed.

“Fascinating…” Zandik leans down and presses one last gentle kiss to your forehead, his voice soft and affectionate.

“You won’t need legs anymore, darling. I’ll take care of you from now on.”

🔪 RERIR — Fuck Your New Guy

He’s going to kill him. Right now.

That’s what the eye contact is for. You understand that now, tied to the headboard, gag wet from crying, that the man you’ve been seeing for three months is going to die in front of you.

Watching Rerir’s hand coil around your man’s throat, slowly wanting you to see all of it.

Your fling is begging. Grabbing at his wrist with both hands, saying things — please and wait and something pathetic about not even knowing you that well — and your true lover doesn’t even flinch. 

Pink eyes bore holes through you, and somehow, you knew exactly what they were silently communicating at this moment.

You ran, his eyes say. 

Across a continent, across a whole ass ocean. Inazuma. You made it to Inazuma and stood in your new home, and almost convinced yourself it was over.

His grip tightens slow n’ deliberate…You feel it in your stomach even from across the room, this horrible, telegraphed knowing, and you’re pulling at the rope again without deciding to, wrists burning, throat working around nothing-

CRACK!

The sound was loud. Wrong in a way that lives in your body now, permanent, a sound you will never un-hear for the rest of your life.

You closed your eyes tight as if that would make this go away. Flinching when you heard the deep thud of your ex's body dropping to the floor.

Still not opening your eyes. Just squeezed them shut harder, biting your lip behind the gag so the sob stays where it is.

How did this happen?

Why you?

Why not some other girl - there’s no way he’s this obsessed, right?!

It’s ok, it’s all a dream once you open your eyes; this’ll all be some sick nightmare that you can laugh about—

He’s right in front of you. 

“EEP!-” You jerked back hard, skull connecting with the headboard, stars exploding across your vision.

Rerir’s hand shoots out, gripping your face hard. Cheeks squishing between his long, sharp claws, blood forming at the ends of his talons, forcing your teary eyes to meet his. 

When he tore the gag off, you didn’t even breathe first. "I'm sorry!-"

Already. Before you can even think.

"I'm so sorry, okay, I know I left, but I just needed — it wasn't about you; he didn't even mean anything, I swear, I wasn't thinking. Please, I'll fix it, I'll do whatever you want, just please don't-"

Rerir stares at you, eyes narrowed in genuine confusion.

He killed for you. Crossed an ocean for you. And here you are looking at him like he’s something you have to survive.

It should bother him.

…it doesn’t.

He tunes most of it out. 

The rambling. 

The apologies.

The way your voice keeps cracking. 

He just watches your face, searching for the girl who used to call him "Riri".

“—I can make it up to you.”

Oh

There she is.

“Make it up to me.” He drawls, repeating.

You gulp but nod frantically. “Yes. Anything! I swear! I’ll do anything.” 

His eyes drop for a second, then back up to yours. “Even that?”

You know exactly what he means. 

The thing you always shied away from, always found some excuse for — you’re too big, we can’t, I can’t— and he was patient. 

He was. 

But patience has a limit, and you just handed him an open invitation.

His giant cock visibly throbs in his pants, a wet spot spreading from the tip as he leans in close, long sharp claws trailing down your stomach.

Rerir brings two blood-stained fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a slow drag of his tongue, pink eyes never leaving yours.

“You said I was too big.” His voice drops low. Husky. “Said you couldn’t take it.”

Clawed hand sliding lower until he’s cupping your soaked cunt possessively. “And now you’re tied to the bed, telling me you’ll do anything.”

“Ok wait- Rerir— I didn’t mean—”

“Fuckkk, I need ya.” He crashes his mouth into yours like a starving animal.

He doesn’t give you time to breathe.

One clawed hand tilts your head aside while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. His mouth attacks your neck — licking, sucking, biting marks into every inch the other man never touched.

“I need ya so badly,” he groans against your skin, “Been dreaming about this tight little virgin pussy the entire time I crossed that fucking ocean for you.”

You whimper as he frees his cock.

It’s monstrous.

Thick, veined, heavy enough that it slaps against your stomach with a wet thwack. The tip is already drooling thick ropes of precum.

“Rerir it’s— it’s way too big— I can’t— we shouldn’t—”

“Fuck no.”

He cuts you off with a sharp snap of his hips, notching that fat cockhead right against your entrance. Pink eyes gleaming with something feral.

He pushes forward with just a tip. The bigggg stretch is immediate, stinging, and impossible.

Your back arches clean off the bed, a broken cry ripping from your throat.

“You got very far. Fuck, I’ll give you that.”

He’s panting against your ear, claws digging into your thighs as he forces you open wider. “Tied up. Begging to make it up to me. This pussy’s already creamin’ all over me, and I’m barely inside.”

SCHLCK!

Another thick inch sinks in. Your walls flutter desperately around the invasion, trying and failing to adjust. “Rerir!!— ngh!—”

Rerir’s claws dig harder into your thighs as he forces another thick inch inside you.

Your pussy has never taken anything close to his size before, and it’s fighting him, walls clamping down so tight it almost hurts him too.

“NGGH-” A broken whine rips from your throat. “-IT HURTS!” Your back bows clean off the bed.

“Just relax,” he hisses against your neck, “Hah, you’re already this tight?”

He rolls his hips again. 

Slow and greedy. 

Another inch sinks in. The fat head of his cock pushes so deep that the bulge in your stomach becomes obvious, moving with every shallow breath you take.

You’re crying now. Legs shaking uselessly in the air while the ropes bite into your wrists.

“I can’t— I’ve never—”

“You will.”

Your pussy flutters desperately around the invasion, creaming and dripping down his length even as you sob. Rerir groans. Low. Filthy. His claws flex on your hips, yanking you down to meet the next heavy push.

“This is what you owe me.”

He starts fucking you for real then — long, sloooooppy strokes that drag every veined inch through your walls, forcing them to stretch around him whether they want to or not. 

The first real thrust tears a sharp sting through you.

Blood.

A thin trail of red mixes with your slick, smearing down his thick cock as he forces your virgin cunt open for the first time.

The sight makes Rerir shudder so hard you feel it in your bones.

“Fuck…” he groans, voice cracking with something close to reverence. “First time.”

Each pull back has your cunt clinging to him desperately, gushing and creaming down his length like it’s trying to keep him inside.

Every brutal push forward forces another wet schlck out of you, the obscene sound mixing with the faint metallic scent of blood in the air.

You can’t think. 

Can’t even speak. 

Just broken little cries and whimpers every time that fat, roverin’ reddened cockhead plunges between your pussylips and hits dead-set on the back of your cunt — splattering slick, cum, and blood upwards.

Bandaged torso presses flush against you, chest heaving as he drinks in every twitch, every sob, every tear.

“C-can’t wait til ya cum f’me, my girl. First time taking all of me — I want to feel it.”

He leans down, forehead pressed to yours, fangs grazing your lip as he feels your body start to seize again.

He drags his swollen cock all the way back until only the fat tip is teasing your puffy folds, letting you feel every single throb… then slams back in with a wet SCHLORP, bottoming out so deep the bulge in your stomach is obscene.

You bit your lip so hard it bled, tears falling freely from your eyes.

Laughing low and mean, another thrust, even harder, mercilessly bashing in the top of your cervix, so smooth and slick you were - your sure his rude tip has formed a bruise there. 

“Who the fuck leaves a cock this big for some pathetic little fling?” he taunts, voice dripping smug cruelty. “Do you have any idea how many sluts would kill to get split open on something this thick? And you ran far n’ wide just to let some tiny-dicked nobody be your first?”

He punctuates it with a particularly brutal ram that made your cunt gush out more fluids.

Your only coherent thought, floating somewhere above the pain and mind-melting pleasure, is:

He’s really talking shit about my ex… right now? While he’s literally taking my virginity?

Rerir seems to read it on your face, grinning genuinely for the first time in the night. 

“What? Were you actually gonna let that loser pop ya cherry?-” He laughs darkly, hips never stopping their brutal rhythm. “-Cute. Stupid. But don’t worry, baby… I ngh, made the decision for you.”

His hands angled your hips to hit right in that spongy spot inside you, pain and pleasure blurred together as you hiccup and gasp.

“F-FFUCK! RIRI!”

The nickname slips out before you can stop it… Moaning mindlessly, too cockdrunk to realize what you had said, wrists burning from your frantic moving around.

Rerir goes completely still for half a second. 

Then something in his face does something complicated — jaw tight, pink eyes flickering, like you just reached into his chest and squeezed.

His next thrust comes slower. 

Deeper n’ more deliberate.

"T-that’s it." Rough. Barely above a whisper. “Let go f’me.”

Toes curling until it hurts — you cum so hard your vision whites out, mouth in a wide 'o' shape.

Rerir's grinding down your g-spot perfectly, making you go numb with the pleasure of him poking that tight orifice — right before you're bursting into your very first orgasm.

He doesn’t pull away even when you’re sobbing from the overstimulation.

Just keeps grinding that fat cockhead against your cervix like he’s never letting you go again.

Silky ropes of cum pour deep into the back of your pussy — thick, goopy, and endless.

Splashing around every time he fucks his groin inside, collecting right where he keeps pressing like a button he has no intention of releasing.

Being fucked through peak after peak.

Thrust after thrust all targeting that same ruined spot.

When you finally come down, those same pink predatory eyes are staring into your star-struck ones.

And you know with terrifying clarity, that he’s not chasing you a second time.

🔪 VARKA — “Too Much?” 

I’m so mature. 

Varka keeps telling himself that, knuckles white around the rag as he wrings it out over the bucket. 

Pink. Then red. Then clear again.

Methodical. Steady. Same hands that carved through warzones without flinching. Same hands that just turned her little side-piece into red paste across the cabin walls. 

Heh. Mature.

The rag rips clean down the middle.

He stares at the torn halves for half a second, lips twitching. Tosses them aside and grabs a fresh one.

I’m so mature. I’m so mature. I’m so fucking mature.

Three weeks of that bullshit looping in his skull. 

Ever since Kaeya dropped it so casually — she’s seeing someone now. Varka had just nodded, smiled, and gritted out through clenched teeth, ‘Good for her,’ with the straightest face in all of Mondstadt.

Then went home and split a training dummy clean in half.

Now the cabin reeks of iron.

Blood on the walls, floorboards, and blood drying in his blond hair and streaked across his scars. 

And he’s still cleaning...calm as you please.

Because he’s the Grand Master, he doesn’t get jealous.

He's mature.

Footsteps hit the porch — right on time, like clockwork. 

That familiar little rhythm that used to make his chest warm. Now it makes his cock twitch against his thigh like a goddamn animal.

Wringing the new rag, slower now. Blood drips plip… plip… plip into the bucket while his blue eyes flick toward the door.

Frozen in the doorway. Eyes wide. Pretty little mouth falling open at the massacre he made of her ex.

3...2…1

“VARKA WHAT THE HELL!”

Flashing her that same easy, sheepish grin he always gives when he comes home late from a mission.

“Princess-” he drawls “-it’s not what it looks like.”

You’re frozen in the doorway.

The entire cabin is covered in blood. It’s everywhere — walls, floor, even the ceiling.

The smell is so thick it makes your throat close up. 

And there’s Varka. 

On his knees in the middle of it all. Blond hair matted with red. Scars stood out sharply against all the blood. Blue eyes looking up at you with that same easy, friendly expression he always wears. 

He’s casually wiping down his claymore with a rag like he’s cleaning dirt off it after training. 

Your man... or what’s left of him is lying in a heap a few feet away.

He gives you a bashful little smile. “Alright, okay, I know how this looks,” his voice warm and almost playful as he wrings the bloody rag out between his huge hands.

“Things got a little out of hand. I really did try to talk to him first, doll. Swear on my honor. But the guy just wouldn’t listen. Kept going on and on about how he was in love with you and wouldn't leave you…” He lets out a low chuckle, scratching the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed.

“I just didn’t like how obsessed he was getting with you. So… I handled it.”

Why and how the fuck is he so nochalant? Well, of course, violence wasn't new for him since he is the grandmaster...but this was insane!

This psycho literally killed your boyfriend, and for what?!-

Your eyes darted from him to the mangled corpse a few feet away then back at Varka, him catching your stare and chuckling at your expression.

That was until your knees started to buckle, and the world began to blur as the familiar feelings of danger banged in your head.

This is exactly why you left him.

The man can stand in a room full of someone else’s blood and talk to you like he just spilled juice on the carpet.

You thought if you left, he would've gotten better- you were so wrong.

You stumbled a bit, the faint deja vu of stress reeling in.

Varka notices immediately. His blue eyes widen. “Ah, doll—wait, don’t!—”

Your vision goes black before you even hit the floor.

.

.

🔪

SCHLCK! SCHLORP! SCHLCK!

He’s got you folded in half before you even wake up.

Strong forearms hooked all tight n’ draaaaagging them upwards- the moment your pussy’s smeared all open, it’s letting out the most lecherous squelch!

Your back plastered to his sweat-slick chest, pussy spread obscenely wide and already drooling all over his thick cock.

The moment he spears back in — SCHLCK! — your eyes snap open on a broken wail.

“NGHH… FUH—?!”

Varka groans low against your ear, chin digging into the crook of your neck so he can watch the way your poor cunt stretches around him. 

Every brutal upward thrust makes your tits bounce, makes more of that gooey white cum he already pumped into you earlier splatter out in messy little bursts.

“Fuuuull fuckin’ Nelson,” he pants, hoarse and delighted. “There she is. There’s my good girl.”

He rocks you on his cock like you weigh nothing.

Huge hands locked behind your head, forcing you to look down at the obscene sight your puffy folds split wide, his fat, veiny length disappearing into you over and over, creamy ring of cum and slick coating his base.

Your walls flutter desperately around his girth, clenching, milking, trying to push him out and pull him deeper all at once.

Legs tremble uselessly in the air. You can’t kick or twist. Can’t do anything but take it.

“V-Varka— what?—are you AH! doing?!!”

He chuckles warmly and unhinged. Another mean thrust, cockhead bullying straight into your cervix. 

“You passed out on me, princess. Looked so fuckin’ distressed. Figured this woulda helped wake n’ cheer ya up.”

SCHLORP! 

Your cunt squelches obscenely with every slam. Slick sprays. His balls slap wet against your ass.

PLAP! PLAP! PLAP!

He’s huffing against your temple now, hips never slowing. 

You sputtered, “FUH- hah! please- this is- ngh- too much!”

“Too much?” His forearms flex harder beneath your knees, yanking you down another inch so his cock grinds mean against your cervix. “Princess, I just redecorated the whole damn cabin for ya and yer tellin’ me this is too much?”

You sob again, voice hoarse, head lolling against his sweat-slick shoulder, trying to calm him down like you used to do before.

“Y-You killed him- we can’t just! fuck— okay, o-okay, slow down, talk to me— we can fix t-this!—”

The word “fix” makes something in him snap clean in half.

He groans way more animalistic than before.

Teeth sinking into the side of your neck as he grinds his cock in deep, swollen tip kissing your cervix over and over like he’s trying to knock it open.

“Fix?” His voice is hoarse now. Shaky. That warm Grand Master tone is completely gone. “There’s nothing to fix. Yer mine, always have been. That pathetic fuck thought he could have ya, and I handled it.”

“I’m bein’ so mature about this,” Varka grits out, teeth clenched so hard you hear them click.

One brutal thrust punches the air out of you.

“So fuckin’ mature. Could’ve killed ya too the second you ran off with that nobody. Could’ve snapped yer pretty neck and kept ya here forever.”

That made you whimper, realizing he still could do it with the way he gripped your head.

His hips are pistoning harder, cock buried deep in your stomach battering it over, and over and over-

“But I didn’t. I was good. I waited. I cleaned up my mess like a big boy and now yer cryin’ and beggin’ me to slow down?”

Every word gets more feral.

Every time you try to talk Varka down, he fucks you harder, like he’s punishing you for even suggesting he’s out of control.

You whimper, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “I-I’m sorry— please just talk to me; we don’t have to—”

He cuts you off with a broken moan that sounds halfway between a laugh and a sob. 

“Talk?” The word comes out shaky n’ unstable. “Ya really want me to talk while this pussy’s squeezin’ me so good? While you’re still drippin’ down my balls after I killed for you?”

His thrusts turn punishing. Short, deep, cervix-kissing jabs that make your vision spark white.

“I’m so mature. I’m so mature. I’m so mature. I’m so mature. I’m so mature. I’m so— fuckin’ mature—”

The mantra is falling apart. His voice is cracking. That easy smile you loved is gone, replaced by something wild and teeth-bared and terrifyingly fond.

You try one last time, voice small and trembling between moans.

“Ok look Varka… you’re scaring me—”

He buries his face in your neck, blond hair tickling your skin, and you feel his lips pull into a grin against your pulse.

“Good.”

Because he is scaring you.

And that fact alone has his cock throbbing so hard inside you it hurts.

You left him weeks ago.

Packed a bag in the middle of the night while he was out on some Grand Master bullshit. 

Left nothing but a note that said you couldn’t do it anymore; the hovering, overprotectiveness, it all felt suffocating. 

You ran.

He let you.

Told himself he was being mature. That if you needed space, he’d give it. 

That the Grand Master of Mondstadt doesn’t chase. Doesn’t obsess. Doesn’t break.

Cause’ he’s handling it well!

Now here you are.

Folded in half in his arms like a fucking rag doll. Pussy gushing and fluttering and creaming all over the cock that just painted your ex across every surface of this cabin.

And you’re still trying to talk him down.

“You left me a note, princess. A fucking note. While I was out keeping Mondstadt safe. And the whole time I was tellin’ myself I was bein’ so goddamn mature.”

He shifted justttt enough to look at your face — eyes wild, pupils blown wide with obsession.

“Look at me. Being reasonable.”

His next thrust is so deep you completely went limp. "OHHH SHIT!-" Your eyes crossed, mouth slack.

SCHLORP—!

Thick ropes of fresh cum flood your insides without warning.

Hot. Endless. He doesn’t stop moving.

Just keeps grinding through his orgasm, fucking every last drop deeper while your own high crashes into you like a freight train.

You sob his name, orgasm crashing through, thighs violently shaking in the air.

Cunt clenching and gushing around him as he fills you past the point of overflowing, dripping down his cock to his balls.

Varka just holds you there. Folded. Full. His.

Pressing a slow, almost tender kiss to your tear-streaked cheek, blood from his face smearing against your skin.

“So glad I didn’t hafta kill ya princess,” he nuzzles into your neck chuckling lowly.

“Cause if I can’t have ya no one will.”

a/n: im glad they didn’t overreact 😌

♡ 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡

©𝐬𝐥𝐯𝐭𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐛𝐮𝐧 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔

[kendricksmoneytree]

mdni !! fucking in husband!varkas office ୨ৎ

"f-fuck- varka.." you moaned out as you slowly slid down onto varka's fat cock. hes so... big. and girthy. your walls twitch and struggle around varka.

"there ya go, pup. there's my good girl." he said, wrapping his large arms around your hips, guiding you. his hands are large enough to cover the expanse of your thighs and hips.

"don't be too loud, mhm? don't want the guards to hear how y're being such a slut f'me." he murmurs against your ear. that name just makes your walls flutter even more around his cock, and varka notices.

"mhm. like that, don't ya pup? know ya do." you grind against him, the fat mushroom head of his cock rubbing against your g-spot. "oh f-fuuuckkk!.. varka- i need- it so bad-"

"whaddya need pup? tell me. im right here, sweetheart." again, those names.. you were seriously a sucker for praise and degrading. and varka knew that very well.

"vark- need you to c-cum in me." you stutter out as you continue to grind. you seriously love the feeling of going uuupp, doowwnnnnn onto varka's cock. the stretch burns but feels so good with the pleasure.

"oh yeah? you need my cum sweetheart? need me to.. fuck-!" he lets out an accidental loud whimper as you increase the pace of your grinding. your starting to get impatient.

"fill me up varka- please. fff-fuuuccckkk! need it soooo bbaaadddd.." at this point, your babbling out random words, drool spilling freely from your mouth.

"ill- give it to ya pup." his thrusts matched yours, and you came, with a loud yet muffled moan which was muffled by varka's hand on your mouth.

you panted into his hand, but he continues his thrusts, and follows suit, stuffing you up with a hot, sticky creampie. "ohhh. fuuuckkk yeeaah. that's my girl."

he removed his hand from your mouth, and as you panted and tried to catch your breath, he patted your thigh. "cmon. ill clean ya up, sweet."

lifting your body off of his, his length slips out slowly with a squelch, a string of his cum connecting your pussy and his tip. settling you down on his desk, he grabbed the towel that he kept in the cabinet, just in case. he cleaned you up so gently and softly. he left little kisses on your inner thighs in the process too. oh how you love your husband (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡

───────────────────────────

© kdotsmoneytree — all work belongs to me! any changes to my works is not permitted. thank u ᕙ⁠(⁠⇀⁠‸⁠↼⁠‶⁠)⁠ᕗ

kinda wrote this in a rush so i hope yall like it 🩷

[maopll]

"I genuinely can't believe YOU got yourself folded"

"ugh...im grovelling in shame as is, please don't amplify my predicament further..."

you dragged him by his collar like a mother cat would hold her kitten except the said kitten is your literal hunk and bulky boyfriend

you sat him down 'neath the shade of a big oak tree. "how did this even happen?" you look at all the wounds littering his arm and a few cuts and bruises on his thighs

"I got two answers which one do you want?" you looked at him funny. "the honest one" you scoff as you tear down bandages and wrap it around the wounds after sanitising them with iodine you keep in your back pocket

"got distracted as I suddenly remembered last night" "WHAT?" sure last night with him was a little more steamy than usual cause you two met after a really long time again. "What made you remember that??" you asked confused at your jaw slacked to the floor

"I caught your scent in the wind" he gave you that lopsided smile when he would either say or do something which he knew would make you flustered. "God you're insane..." you didn't bicker with him further as you saw the red blush that dusted his cheeks and the gloss in his eyes.

"come one babe let's get you home..." you sighed and something told you this is not the only time its gonna happen...

WRIOTHESLEY , VARKA , FLINS , CHILDE , AYATO , ITTO , CYNO , PHAINON , MYDEI , JING YUAN , BOOTHILL , SAMPO , MAMMON , DIAVOLO , BEELZEBUB , MALLEUS , LEONA , KALIM , YUUJI ITADORI , GOJO SATORU , CALEB , RAFAYEL + your favourites !

© 2025 maopll. do not copy, repost or modify my work in any form

[celabi]

𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑

summary: they meet someone who they think is pretty. pairings: ifa, ororon, flins, varka, gorou, itto, kaveh, alhaitham x gender neutral reader.

a/n: level: mischaracterisation. boss: me. c5 flins haver: also me.

　 　　 　 　　　 ∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

𓈒⟡₊⋆ IFA

the streets of natlan are alive, sunlight catching on shiny trinkets and banners that sway high above the bustling marketplace. children dart down the roads, laughter echoing between stalls as some cute saurians lounge lazily along the sidelines.

ifa’s out running errands again, busy as always, restocking on saurian medicine and a few other supplies which his clinic needs, when cacucu suddenly lets out a loud chirp and decides to zip away instead of staying perched on his shoulder. “later, bro!”

“what— hey! dude, you get back here!”

the tiny red qucuaurus flies between natlan’s market stalls, his little wings fluttering as he weaves through the crowd like the mischievous little creature he is. ifa follows in quick pursuit, muttering apologies as he brushes past startled vendors and random people.

and then, he cringes.

whump!

cacucu crashes headfirst into some unaware persons forehead, letting out a startled squawk as his wings flap in a frantic blur. the little dino tumbles backward midair, clearly dazed from the sudden impact.

“cacucu!” ifa shouts, worried for his little buddy and guilty to the poor victim of his clumsiness. his breath catching in his throat as he pushes through the last few steps, only to stop dead in his tracks.

you’re standing there in the middle of the street, brushing tiny red feathers from your clothing. the faintest smile ghosts across your face, confused but unbothered despite the growing red mark in between your eyebrows.

yet when you lift your head, and the sunlight hits just right. your eyes catch the gold of the afternoon, gleaming warm and soft, and for a heartbeat ifa seems to forget everything around him, his errands, the crowd, even the mess his companion had just caused.

“uh— oh no, i’m— uh— sorry about him.” ifa stammers, hand flying to the back of his neck as he tries to laugh it off. his ears are pink, and his words are tripping over themselves.

“bro! no way, bro! pretty person, bro!”

ifa’s flush somehow seems to darken even further. “cacucu—”

but the little qucuaurus isn’t done. he spins mid air, wings flashing in the light as he belts out another line, louder and far too gleeful for ifa’s liking. “so pretty, bro! you’re doomed!”

you laugh softly, a sound that feels light and genuine in his ears, and ifa swears something in his chest just short circuits. it’s a feeling that not even an experienced veterinarian like himself could comprehend.

he clears his throat, trying to reel himself back in, his cheeks dusted pink. “he, uh… tends to say things he really shouldn’t.”

“he’s honest,” you reply. “but it’s quite alright.”

cacucu lets out a triumphant squawk, wings fluttering like he’s won the battle that he himself had started. “ifa bro, they talked back!”

ifa groans under his breath, tugging the brim of his hat down to hide his face. “i’m so sorry about this guy,” he mumbles, voice muffled. “just, um… don’t listen to him.”

cacucu only cackles in reply, circling around the both of you.

you laugh again, softer this time, and crouch slightly to meet cacucu’s gaze. “i think he’s sweet.” you say, reaching out to let him perch on your hand. he chirps proudly, puffing up his chest.

ifa blinks, caught somewhere between awe and awkwardness. “ah… ya’ think so?”

you glance up at him, eyes warm. “mhm. he’s just looking out for you.”

cacucu tilts his head toward ifa, then back to you. “bro! they like you, bro!”

ifa sputters, nearly choking on air. “cacucu!”

but you’re already smiling, that smile that instantly makes one appear on his face, as you hand the little creature back. “see you around?”

you walk off, sunlight tracing your silhouette, and for a moment, he just stands there, staring like a fool. cacucu lands back on his place on the vet’s shoulder, wings flapping smugly.

“told you, bro,” he parrots, voice lilting with pride. “you’re doomed.”

ifa laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “yeah,” he murmurs, watching you disappear into the crowd. “guess i am.”

𓈒⟡₊⋆ ORORON

ororon doesn’t do nervous.

he once fought an out of control qucusaur with nothing but a hoe and a half empty bag of seeds. he’s stared down hilichurls while casually watering his cabbages. nothing shakes him.

but stepping into citlali’s home, arms full of freshly picked vegetables, only to see you sitting there, smiling, relaxed and sipping something that smells faintly of fruit and liquor, yeah. that just about does him in.

“oh, ororon!” citlali exclaims, her voice warm and slurred, cheeks rosy from her drink. “my favorite grandson! c’mere, c’mere!”

he barely manages a grunt in reply, already wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole as you glance over, eyes meeting his for just a heartbeat too long.

he steps forward, boots heavy against the wooden floor, trying his hardest not to look at you for too long. but you… stars above, you look so out of place here, in the best way. clean and polished, dressed in soft colours and finer fabric than he’s ever owned. even the way you tilt your head when he walks in feels too graceful.

suddenly, he’s all too aware of himself, the dirt under his nails, the sweat clinging to his neck, the frayed edges of his old cape. he clears his throat, his voice low.

“uh, hi, granny,” he mutters, setting the basket down gently by his feet. “ifa was busy with his clinic, so… i’m bringing these instead.”

citlali lets out a laugh, one that sounds bright and unrestrained, a far cry from her usual grumbling when sober. “oh, aren’t you sweet!” she beams, swaying slightly as she gestures between you both. “see, [name], i told you he’s a gentleman! look at him, he even grows spinach! what a catch, huh?”

ororon nearly chokes on air, ears burning as he stares hard at the basket, praying you don’t notice the way his hands fidget at his sides.

you blink, amusement tugging at the corners of your mouth as you set your cup down with a soft clink. “you grow spinach?”

“and turnips,” he blurts before his brain can catch up. his voice cracks slightly and he winces. “uh, and… beans.”

you smile, quiet laughter slipping through. “beans are my favorite.”

his ears go pink instantly.

citlali notices, because of course she does. her eyes narrow with mischievous, and before ororon can so much as shift his weight, she’s grabbed his wrist in her intoxicatedly strong grip.

“you two should talk!” she declares, dragging him toward the couch despite his clear reluctance. “maybe share bean recipes! or— or sow a garden together!”

he stumbles, nearly dropping his gloves as he’s unceremoniously shoved down beside you. his shoulders go rigid, eyes fixed firmly on the wall ahead.

citlali hums proudly to herself and takes another sip of her drink. meanwhile, ororon’s trying very hard not to combust, especially when your knee brushes lightly against his.

“granny—” he starts, voice strangled somewhere between a plea and a protest.

“stay seated, boy!” she barks, slamming her cup down with authority before promptly letting out a small burp. “don’t make me call ifa and tell him you’re scared of an attractive face!”

you try to save his embarrassment, you really do, but the laugh slips out anyway. it bubbles past your lips before you can bite it back, and ororon swears his heart just about leaps clear out of his chest. you lean in slightly, eyes still shining with amusement, and whisper, “hey, don’t listen to her. she’s a terrible wingman.”

he blinks, stunned into silence, the faintest smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. he glances down at his hands, fingers picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. his voice comes out low, barely above a mumble. “yeah… but she’s not wrong.”

citlali’s already half asleep in her chair, humming some old tune to herself, cup still dangling loosely from her hand.

and there he is, sitting beside you, awkward and flushed, shoulders tense but a smile tugging at his lips anyway. it’s small and shy, the kind of smile that sneaks up on him before he can stop it.

suddenly, the room feels warmer somehow, much quieter too, and when you glance over, you find him looking at you like he still can’t believe you’re a real person.

“um, so…” he starts, adjusting his wrist links. “…beans?”

𓈒⟡₊⋆ FLINS

it’s late. the fog drapes low over the island, thick enough to swallow even the faintest sound. the old tombstones creak and groan as the wind brushes past, and flins moves between them with his lantern held steady in his hand. the purple flame inside flickers weakly, fighting the cold that seeps into everything around him.

he’s walked this path more times than he can count, yet tonight feels different. the air is too still and the silence is too loud. even the usual whisper of the lingering spirits seems to have faded.

but when a faint motion catches at the edge of his vision, he stops. his breath clouds faintly in the air. someone’s there, half hidden between the stones, a silhouette shifting just out of reach.

flins lifts his lantern, his posture straight and voice calm but gentle enough as to not disturb the peace. “who’s there?” he calls, the light spilling across worn marble and just barely catching a glimpse of a figure.

“it’s all right,” he adds quietly when they make no further movement. “don’t hide”

when you step out from the fog, hesitant and clutching the small bouquet in your hands, nervous because now there’s someone else here with you in the dark on some spooky little island, flins exhales softly, the tightness in his shoulders easing just enough for him to lift a hand and swat at the air.

“…please return to your side of the world,” he says after a small second, his tone low as the purple lanternlight brushes against the soft lines of his face. “you do not belong here anymore.”

you blink at him startled, the grip on your flowers wilting slightly . “…what?”

for a long moment, neither of you moves, and the fog coils between you and whispers through the multiple gravestones. flins blinks too, the initial authority in his eyes faltering as he studies you properly. your face, the warmth of your breath in the cold air, the faint tremble of the flowers in your grasp.

his expression softens and the light catches in his eyes, illuminating them at the edges.

“oh.” he mutters after a small, quite awkward beat, lowering the lantern a little, the glow slipping from his face. “you are… not a spirit?” he asks uncertainly.

you stare flatly. “yeah… didn’t think i was.”

flins clears his throat, shifting his weight, one gloved hand rubbing the back of his neck. “right. yes. of course, and that is my apologies. it’s just—” his gaze flicks up again carefully, studying you like he’s afraid he’ll blink and you’ll vanish into thin air. “—you look… ethereal, and they tend to slip through from time to time.”

you raise an eyebrow, your lips twitching despite yourself. “flattering.”

a quiet sigh escapes him, his shoulders loosening as the flame between you wavers in the fog. “…it was not intended to be.” he says softly, almost under his breath, yet you hear it anyways. and it lingers, because somehow it kind of was.

for a moment, neither of you speak. the wind drifts tighter around the ground and mutes the world until it feels like there’s only the two of you on teyvet.

flins glances up again, unable to help himself. the light paints you in blues and violet, the kind of glow that doesn’t belong to the living or the dead because it’s something softer. it catches on your lashes, your skin, the curve of your mouth when you shift your weight slightly.

he’s quiet, but his eyes linger and trace details like he’s trying to commit them to his memory. when he finally speaks, his voice is much quieter than before that you nearly miss it had he not stepped closer. “forgive me,” he says, “it’s simply that you look as though the light itself might favor you.”

it’s a compliment that is both delicate and unintentional, but undeniable true. he looks away a moment later, clearing his throat as if that might undo what he’s said. obviously it does not.

you allow a small smile to form on your lips. “is that a part of your job? keeping the light… and then giving it away?”

he huffs out a soft laugh through his nose, glancing down at the lantern as its flames tremble faintly in its cage. “perhaps,” he admits quietly, “…but it seems that tonight, it has already chosen where to shine.”

𓈒⟡₊⋆ VARKA

varka truly was built like a storm. his loud laugh and heavy steps made him the kind of man whose presence seeped into every corner of the half empty angel’s share bar. even diluted by drink after drink, he was unmistakably him, the grand master, knight of boreas, and the man the entire city looked up to.

but tonight, mondstadt’s pride looked a little less like a hero and more like a man who was voluntarily drowning in some good alcohol and loud music.

he’d been chatting poor charles ear off for hours now, stories of frostbite on his toes, hunts and victories, sometimes the odd misadventure where he was stuck fighting beasts with nothing but his shoe, until finally charles shift had ended and he was able to slip away with a tired, yet relieved smile.

and that’s when you stepped in.

a quiet exchange of nods as you took his place behind the counter, towel over your shoulder, sleeves rolled to your elbows. the tavern’s golden light glowing against your skin, and before he knew it, the chatter in the corners somehow dimmed just enough that even someone as intoxicated as him were able to take notice of.

“hah… well, would you look at that,” he murmured, voice dropping low, gravelly in that way only men who’ve spent years shouting over battlefields could sound. his eyes crinkled, and a lopsided grin slowly began forming on his face. “now there’s a sight worth sobering up for.”

you glanced up, unfazed by his behaviour because you’ve seen countless people like him in your job, as your fingers were already moving over the countertop to wipe down a spill he must have made during one of his tales. “hi there. i assume you want another round?”

if possible, his grin widened at the sound of your voice. “mhm… if it means you’ll keep lookin’ at me like that, then yeah. another.”

you pour his booze, and his gaze not once managed to leave your face. his grin is dopey and warm, and the light flush on his cheeks was evident in the calm lights.

“you’re far too pretty to be workin’ here,” he says, lifting his empty mug slightly, voice loose but very much sincere. “someone ought to paint you instead. or, ah—” he pauses, gesturing vaguely with one of his massive hands as the words elude him, leaving him fumbling for a thought, “…put you on one of those, you know… fancy cathedral windows. saints and angels and all that.”

you huff a quiet laugh, sliding a refilled mug toward him. “flattery won’t get you a discount.”

he taps the counter once as a soft wordless thank you, before taking a long sip. the sound of his sigh blends with the low hum of the tavern. but when he sets the mug down again, he leans forward on his elbows, his eyes glinting as he tries to get a better view despite his blurring vision.

“not lookin’ for one,” he says. “just tellin’ the truth. knights swear oaths to honesty, might i add.”

you arch a brow. “…and to drinking?”

“…that too,” he chuckles. “but tonight, i’ll drink to you, bartender.” he raises his mug like a toast despite being the only one drinking. “may whoever you belong to know how lucky they are.”

you look at him, his cheeks flushed, grin boyish, sincerity unfiltered by rank or pride, and for the briefest moment, you understand why they call him the heart of mondstadt.

𓈒⟡₊⋆ GOROU

gorou was doing fine.

really.

the meeting had started off well enough, those long routine discussions he’d learned to navigate after years of serving under kokomi’s command. logistics, patrol rotations, supply routes, coordination between squads… nothing he couldn’t handle.

he’d even practiced the night before, pacing his tent back and forth until every word of his report was committed to his memory. he’d timed his speech, adjusted his tone, even practiced not letting his tail wag too much when kokomi praised his work.

and it had been working. kokomi was pleased, her calm voice guiding the meeting smoothly. the soldiers sat in rows, their eyes on her, their notes neat and orderly. gorou had been relaxed. alert, yes, but composed because everything was running exactly as it should have been.

until kokomi said his name.

“general gorou, please present your summary on the shoreline defense.”

“yes, ma’am.” he replied courtly, standing from his place and stepping forward, his report in hand.

…but then he finally saw you.

you were seated off to the side, not even part of the formal council if he could recall, just observing, chin propped gently in your hand, a quiet smile resting on your lips. the soft light filtering through the tent’s entrance caught the creases of your eyes, and for some reason, the world just… tilted.

you weren’t doing anything. not even a single thing. you were just sitting there, watching. yet it was enough to completely derail him.

his ears shot straight up, tail freezing mid wag.

oh no.

oh no, oh no, oh no.

his throat went dry, the neat lines of his speech dissolving into nothing.

“t-the shoreline defense is, uh—!” his voice cracked much to his horror and some of the troops amusement, who chuckled in the backline. “i-it’s, um, doing very— very fine!”

kokomi blinked, her quill pausing mid letter. “…fine?”

gorou swallowed so hard it almost hurt. “yes! i mean— not just fine, it’s— uh, stellar! the troops are, um, exceptionally… defensive?”

there was a beat of silence. a few soldiers shifted awkwardly in their seats. someone coughed.

gorou’s hands fumbled with the stack of papers he’d been holding, the edges trembling ever so slightly. he could feel your gaze now, more curious than anything yet completely unassuming, and somehow that only made it worse. his ears twitched uncontrollably, and his tail… oh archons, his tail. it twitched once. then again. and before he could stop it, it curled tight between his legs like it was trying to hide. like a puppy in trouble.

kokomi tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing in that soft, knowing way of hers. “general, are you feeling alright?”

her words only made him laugh weakly. “y-yes, perfectly! i just— uh, the heat got to me a little— haha—”

it was a terrible attempt at recovery, one he failed. he could feel his face burning, the fur on his ears probably as red as the crimson banners outside the tent. one of the soldiers near the back tried to suppress a snicker, disguising it as a cough. another averted their eyes entirely, shoulders shaking.

kokomi who always stayed composed, simply regarded him with patient confusion.

and then you smiled.

just a tiny one, the corner of your lips tugging up in slight amusement, but to gorou, it might as well have been the sunrise itself. his breath hitched, and that’s when it happened.

his tail shot up, wagging furiously, a blur of movement that betrayed every ounce of composure he’d fought to maintain.

kokomi blinked with her quill still hovering midair. “…general gorou,” she said, voice calm but growing weary. “your tail.”

he froze completely. the color drained from his face. all motion ceased, ears, tail, even breathing. for a single suspended heartbeat, he looked like a statue.

and then, in the smallest, most mortified voice imaginable, he whispered.

“…i-it has a mind of its own.”

there was a beat of silence before one of the soldiers failed to stifle a laugh. kokomi’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but dangerously close, and you were smiling fully now, warmth in your eyes that made his heart stutter all over again. gorou wanted to dig a hole right there in the sand and bury himself in it until the tides turned.

but when he dared to glance your way again, you were still watching him, and somehow that made the humiliation just a little too much to bear.

his tail however, clearly disagreed, as it gave one final, very eager wag before he ducked for cover behind the chalkboard.

𓈒⟡₊⋆ ITTO

“alright! who’s next?!”

the oni’s booming voice shook the courtyard, echoing through every corner of inazuma city. itto stood proudly in the center of the gathered crowd, hands on his hips as his laughter rumbled from his chest. beside his foot, his prized beetle, the unbreakable crimson crusher, puffed up its tiny carapace, practically preening after its latest victory against some wild bug that was probably just plucked from it’s tree minutes prior.

a ring of kids surrounded him, cheering, whining, and groaning all at once. some were his devoted little fans, shouting his name like he was some kind of beetle battle celebrity, while others sulked over their defeated bugs. a few adults looked on from the street, muttering something about “that oni again” and “why is he picking fights with children.”

itto who was oblivious as always, threw his head back and laughed. “ha! did you see that? crushed it! my little crimson crusher’s unstoppable! you kids better train harder if you wanna stand a chance against the one and oni arataki itto!”

he flexed his muscles and beamed, soaking up every bit of attention that was being thrown at him. life was good. he was unbeatable, totally glorious, perfectly balanced—

until you stepped forward.

you crouched down at the edge of the ring, quietly calm and your expression unreadable. but the moment sunlight hit you, itto forgot how to breathe. you weren’t just anyone, you were breathtaking. skin kissed by the afternoon glaze, eyes soft and posture elegant even while crouched in the dust as you put your little beetle forward.

itto blinked owlishly, then promptly forgot every single beetle battle rule he’d ever learned and made.

“uh—” his voice cracked halfway up his word, “n-not bad, uh, newbie! brave of ya to step up, yeah! but, uh, just so you know, you’re kinda… goin’ up against the best there is around here.” he puffed out his chest, flexing subtly (or not subtly at all). “no big deal or anything. y’know. champion stuff. all that jazz.”

you smiled at him politely, and itto’s grin faltered. his tail almost wagged, which was absurd because he didn’t have a tail at all. but if he did, it’d be wagging like crazy. his brain scrambled to say something cool, anything at all, but all that came out was, “I-I mean, I could, uh… go easy on ya? y’know, since you’re new. and, uh, your beetle’s kinda cute.”

he paused, and his entire face went red.

“just like you…—! wait, no! not like you, i mean yes— uh— forget I said that!”

the kids around him lost it. laughter broke out in the small crowd. one pointed at him, cackling. another whispered loudly, “big bro’s blushing!!”

“h-hey! quiet down!” he barked, trying to regain dignity he’d never really had to begin with. “this is a serious battle! serious!”

he crouched beside his beetle, whispering furiously, “buddy, you hear me? no distractions. eyes on the prize, alright?”

his beetle clicked its pinchers one, and then just… didn’t move. itto frowned. “huh? what’s the holdup—”

then he realised. his beetle was staring at yours, utterly entranced.

“…traitor,” itto muttered, mortified. “you too?”

you giggled softly, and it was enough to make him forget what embarrassment even felt like. he quickly stood up, clearing his throat a little too loudly, hands on his hips again as if sheer posture could save him. “a-ahem! alright! get ready, ‘cause you’re about to face the undefeated, unstoppable, unbelievably handsome arataki itto! the one and oni!”

he pointed dramatically, his voice booming again. the crowd cheered, your beetles clicked, and his confidence flickered back to life, at least until he risked another glance at you.

you were smiling again, sunlight glistening on your skin, fingers gently nudging your beetle forward. and just like that, itto’s heart skipped. his chest tightened, his grin softened, and he muttered under his breath, almost sheepishly.

“…man. i am so doomed.”

𓈒⟡₊⋆ KAVEH

kaveh had worked with hundreds of clients before.

arrogant scholars who thought they knew more about architecture than he did, the one with the architecture degree. self absorbed nobles who equated aesthetic with ‘cover every surface in gold until it reflects the sun like a mirror and blinds passerbys’.

and then there was those money hungry merchants who never once looked up from their ledgers and instead cut corners at every turn and asking if he could ‘make it cheaper but still look expensive’.

he’d smiled through all of it, the pomp, the greed, the endless corrections, because that was what he did. he built beauty out of ugliness, dignity out of ego, yet somehow was only barely managing to keep his reputation afloat.

but this client? you?

you were something else entirely.

from the moment you met him, you’d been… calm. your words were soft and free of the snobbery he’d grown used to over the years. you didn’t interrupt when he spoke about light and space, about the direction of shadows or the way open air could make a room breathe. you listened, literally, really listened with the ears you were given, and it threw him completely off balance.

because for once, someone wasn’t treating him like a craftsman to order around. you were treating him like an artist.

and archons, he melted a little every time you did.

now, he sat across from you in your living room. or, as he privately thought of it, your soon to be masterpiece. scrolls and sketches spread in a half organized clump across the coffee table. sunlight slanted through the tall windows, spilling gold across the blueprints and tracing along his sleeve as he pointed at the paper with the smudged pencil mark.

his voice was animated because he was excited, the kind of tone he only used when he forgot to guard himself. “so, here,” he said, tapping the design for the eastern wing, “i was thinking of adding a study, something that faces the garden. you’d have morning light, but not so much that it overheats the space. it’d be perfect for reading, working, or just… thinking, because everyone needs to do that once in a while.

you leaned closer to get a better look. a faint scent of jasmine trailed with you, and kaveh’s heart did a strange little flip. you smiled, eyes focused on the sketch. “that sounds lovely. a quiet space would be nice.”

and that’s when his mouth betrayed him.

“yeah, exactly!” he said, sitting up straighter, eagerness spilling out before his brain could catch up. “it’d be perfect for you. and when we get married, i’ll need one too, so—”

the words hung in the air for a few seconds, giving his chest enough time to close in on itself. his breath caught. his pencil froze mid gesture, and his soul briefly left his body.

oh no. oh no, oh no.

his entire face flushed, from the base of his neck to the tips of his ears, crimson blooming quickly on his skin. “w-wait! i mean— hypothetically! like— not us! just, you know, a married couple in general! a client, maybe uh, just— someone!”

his hands started flailing, as if he could physically push the words back into the air and rearrange them into something less humiliating. one nearly sent a cup of tea flying, and he caught it at the last second with a strangled little gasp.

“hah— see? i just worded it wrong! that happens sometimes when, uh— when you’re talking fast, and, ah— oh, by the seven, please stop looking at me like that…”

because you were looking at him, your lips curved into that faint, amused smile that could undo a man more effectively than any argument.

you tilted your head, eyes bright with a noticeable teasing glint in the orbs. “when we get married, hm?”

he groaned softly into his hands, muttering under his breath, “i’m never living this down.”

but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving helplessly upward. when he finally dared to peek through his fingers, your smile hadn’t faded, if anything, it had softened, warm enough to rival the afternoon sun.

and for all the mortification twisting in his chest, kaveh realized something startling.

if embarrassing himself like this made you smile like that… maybe it was worth every second.

𓈒⟡₊⋆ ALHAITHAM

the library was silent, just the occasional soft turning of his pages, the faint hum of candlelight beside his herbal tea, and alhaitham’s own breathing. his attention was deep in a text on comparative linguistics when a somewhat disturbing crash echoed through the marble halls.

he didn’t even look up at first. perhaps a stack had toppled. perhaps one of the junior scholars had dozed off again and fell out of their seat. but then came another sound, a clatter of books, a low thud, and then finally, a small and pained “ow.”

he exhaled slowly, closing the book with care. of course.

it was late. most of the akademiya had emptied hours ago. and yet somehow, chaos still managed to find him. marking his place in his book with a small slip of paper, he stood and made his way toward the noise. he could have walked faster, sure. but whatever the reason for the noise probably wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

because turning the corner, he found the culprit.

you.

half buried in a heap of fallen tomes, pages tousled and expression dazed, the picture of complete disaster amid the polished order of the library.

for a long moment, he said nothing, instead choosing to simply assess. no visible concussion. no broken limbs. just embarrassment, and from the looks of it, several paper cuts.

“…are you quite alright?” he asked finally, as if he were confirming an equation rather than showing concern to someone who clearly needed some assistance.

you blinked up at him, eyes lidded. “um— yes. i think so. just… a little started, i think...”

his gaze flicked toward the collapsed shelf, then back to you. “startled,” he repeated flatly. “right. i suppose gravity is startling the first few times one encounters it.”

you gawked. “i didn’t… it wasn’t my fault. i just leaned—”

“—against an unsecured shelf?” he finished for you, cutting you off and crossing his arms. “a bold decision, considering the laws of physics remain undefeated to this day.”

you opened your mouth to protest, then shut it, realizing how ridiculous it sounded to argue with logic itself. or perhaps with this man in particular.

he crouched down, brushed aside a particularly heavy novel that had been resting on your shoulder, and straightened up again.

“stand up.” he said simply. you hesitated, then reached for his outstretched hand. his grip was firm to where it made you feel weightless for a second as he hauled you up, even if his expression didn’t soften in the slightest.

once you were upright, he glanced at your hands, his eyes catching on the thin red lines across your skin.

“…you’ve managed to injure yourself with literature,” he murmured, brows lowering just slightly. “that’s impressive.”

a laugh spilled from your lips, only to soon be followed by a small wince as you made the poor decision to wipe your palms on your thighs. “i… i guess i have a talent for it.”

he tilted his head, faint amusement ghosting across his porcelain face. “if so, it’s a useless one. try cultivating something more practical next time.”

you smiled, and to his mild surprise, he didn’t find it all that irritating. instead he sighed, and stepped a little closer. and for someone who wanted nothing more than personal space, this was a feat. “sit.”

you blinked. “what?”

“your hands,” he said, his tone clipped yet not entirely unkind, in fact, he was already retrieving a silk cloth from his pocket. “they’re bleeding. small cuts or not, it’s unsanitary.”

you sank into the nearest seat, still a bit stunned. “you carry a cloth for, what, emergencies?”

“no,” he replied, kneeling beside you to gently dab at your bleeding fingertips. “i carry it because books are often older than the people who read them. they deserve careful handling, and because some people, evidently do not.”

you bit back another laugh. “are you saying i don’t deserve careful handling?”

he glanced up, sharp eyes catching yours, a faint glimmer of dry humor in their depths. “i’m saying you must require supervision.”

his touch was a clear sign that he was no medic, yet was still somehow careful. his hands moved slowly as if he were tending to something far more delicate than mere paper cuts.

when he finally sat back, he murmured quietly, following the general number one rule of a library. “there. try not to bleed on the manuscripts. some of them are rare copies.”

“…thank you.” you said quietly.

he nodded. “…sure. just see that it doesn’t happen again.”

he turns to leave, and falls back into his quiet space. yet when he returned to his desk, the words on the pages seemed to blur, his focus waning for the first time in hours. every few minutes, his gaze drifted back towards where you now sat, clean fingers tracing the spine of a book, head tilted slightly as you read.

he told himself it was just vigilance, that he was only ensuring you didn’t destroy another shelf in the one place he cared about most.

but when you smiled faintly to yourself, the corner of his mouth almost, almost, curved upwards too.

okay bye

[azullumi]

RUN DOWN THE HALLWAYS OF MY HEART ft. VARKA

you’re the new hire english teacher and he’s the carefree pe teacher | pairing: varka (w/ gn!reader) | highschool!au, except you guys are teachers, pe teacher!varka x english teacher!reader, fluff, kind of crack, ex-boyfriend never mentioned but is present through reader’s outlook and thoughts, trust issues, golden retriever varka, not proofread, haven’t done the archon quest nor anything with him in it so possibly OOC, bulletform narration + scenarios | wc: 2.8k

DIRECTOR'S NOTES — i know nothing about teaching professions and systems, please do not come after me :')) also, i’ve been experimenting with my writing style now!! and also HI GUYS WE ARE SO BACK

There are many ways to describe VARKA. For one, he’s rowdy, for two, he’s loud, for three, he’s a relentless shadow that seemingly appears behind you at any given moment. Like a dog that begs for its owner’s attention, especially when said owner is busy working or doing something else. It’s not right to say that he’s clingy but it’s not wrong to admit it either. It’s just that wherever you are, he seems to always be there, despite the difference in your teaching fields (and his, quite literally, a field).

“Morning, sunshine!” ; “Varka, it’s 7 AM.”

“Need help carrying those?”

“Varka, what are you doing here? Your classroom is on the other side of the building.” ; "Detours are healthy. Nice posters, by the way, did you put these up? Is that Shakespeare? I know him! He wrote that one play with the guy and the girl. It was a tragedy, right? Man, it sure had some sad stuff." He surely does not shut up.

In all honesty, he’s a good guy. He’s just not your good guy—no one is your type of good guy. It may be cliche and corny, The last man who seemed charming broke your heart; what could a man who seems to have never had a heavy thought in his life be hiding?

You don’t find him annoying whatsoever, though you may have found him intimidating and scary when you first met him. At most you just find it odd how he’s always there like he got nothing to do. Well, he really got nothing to do—he’s quite notorious for slacking off and being too carefree, so oftentimes, you cannot help but wonder how he is still here. But then, you see his students’ academic performance and standing, and you just shut your mouth.

Man, how does he even do it? You questioned yourself one time, especially when your students become rowdy and overly excited that it’s hard to get their attention. This occurrence was mostly recurring at the first few months you started—you have a hard time trying to calm them down and keep them quiet. It is an understatement to say that you were frustrated, patience was never of your virtue and being disrespected feels shitty. But hey, what can you even do against a group of loud teenagers? Understanding was something that came with your job and you try to have some of it.

At one point, you wished for him to appear and save your ass (simply because you saw how his students obeyed and listened to him with just a few words).

And guess what happens? He appears by the door, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, and your entire class goes silent in an instant. You don't even know what he said, but it was probably the most profound words you've ever heard leave his mouth. The students shuffle back to their seats, chastened, and you're left standing there at the front with a thank you lodged in your throat. He catches your eye and that easy grin spreads across his face, then he's gone, disappearing back into the hallway as if he were some kind of guardian angel sent specifically to rescue you from the chaos of third-period English.

Varka hit you with a ball in the face once just as you were rushing to get to your next class in five minutes. You have only come by the gym because one of your students left their notebook in the bleachers during PE, and as their homeroom teacher, you've somehow become responsible for retrieving every single forgotten item in existence. It's not in your job description. It's not even close to your job description. The last thing you heard before you went down is the whistle blowing and shouting, particularly of your name.

How the situation further unraveled was that he had to take over your next period as the substitute and it was hellish for him. 

He was not one to give in to threats or anything of sorts, but seeing you with a bloody nose, teary eyes, and telling him off that you cannot let this little gym accident ruin your lesson plan and now you’re going to pull all of his hair out because your students need to finish the activity, seems to have shaken him. That, and the constant booing coming from the students behind him, blaming him for being careless. The chorus of accusations persisted like a background music to his miserable scene.

“Mr. Varka, you’re literally the worst!”

“Apologize, Mr. Varka!”

“How dare you hurt our teacher?!” It was an accident, but still.

“I’m trying to focus here!” Varka could only yell at them as he offered to carry you on his back, bringing you to the nearest clinic. You decline at first, saying that you can handle it, pushing past him and then taking a near trip to the dirtlands before his quick reflexes catch you in his arms.

“Woah there, I got you.” He says, and his voice resonates with something steady and sure, rather than the panicked one from earlier. You don’t even make an effort to fight now, letting him support you instead, as you tell him about what he should do for your class. Even at this moment, your mind still thinks of your work—admittedly, it was just a poor effort to distract yourself.

Between that gym accident and constantly finding your way towards him, some students have begun to ship you a lot. Typical youngsters nowadays, always looking for things to entertain them even if it were just two teachers who they have seen interacting a lot. 

Who cares if you guys have a little chemistry than the others? You've given up on relationships, and you've certainly given up on entertaining the idea that a man like Varka could be anything more than a very persistent, very annoying fixture in your daily life. So what if your students whisper and giggle every time he drops by your classroom with some flimsy excuse? So what if one of your more brazen seniors asked you, straight to your face, if you were going to the upcoming faculty dinner because "Mr. Varka always goes and he always leaves early but maybe this year he'd have a reason to stay"?

Sure, his arms are big, and sure, he has such a stupid fucking grin that makes your heart flutter once you see it, and sure, he’s conveniently there when you need him to be. And sure, you love listening to him talk and boast about many things even though you’re not fond of those things. And sure, you're mesmerized when the golden sun hits his skin, catching the sweat on his neck after practice, warming the blond of his hair until it looks like spun honey, making him look less like a person and more like something painted by an artist who wanted to study the way light loves certain people more than others. Sure. All of that is sure.

But none of it means anything nor can it mean anything because you've been here before, in the orbit of someone who seemed too good to be true, and you know how that story ends. You've already learned your lesson about reading into things, about hoping, about letting yourself believe that someone's attention means something more than convenience or boredom or pity. And Varka is many things—loud, clumsy, inexplicably competent at his job despite all evidence to the contrary—but he's not stupid. He's not blind. If he wanted anything from you, he'd say something.

He had offered you rides, oftentimes when he catches you in the parking lot or when you catch him. There was the convenience of it; he had never asked you to pay for anything, just simply offers and does what he has offered to do. You’re wary of his intentions at first, sending your live location to a close friend of yours who is also part of the school faculty and having the emergency call button prepared.

The first time he offers, you almost laugh in his face. The key word here is almost. You’re standing in the empty parking lot after detention duty, exhausted, and he's just there again, like a stray cat that's decided you're its person. Has he been waiting for you? You cannot really tell, you’ve never been close to him, or did not even try to, no matter how much your co-workers push you to simply talk to him or how your students constantly tease you about this handsome PE teacher that clearly has the hots for you.

"Let me drive you home," he says, and you're already formulating your polite refusal when you ask the obligatory question:

"You have a car?" 

"A bike. Not much though." You nod, expecting some modest little scooter, maybe a beat-up motorcycle that matches his energy, however, what you didn’t expect to get is a monster. It's a big, gleaming machine that looks like it could outrun your trauma if you let it. 

He swings a leg over it, pats the seat behind him, and gives you that charming of a goddamn smile, waiting and watching for your next step. "Well? You coming or what?" You hesitate hard. Every self-preservation instinct is screaming at you, telling you this is exactly how bad decisions start, whether it was to be found on the news or that the last man who seemed charming also had nice things and look where that got you. But you're tired, and it's cold, and your apartment is a fifty-minute walk away. So you get on.

You hold onto the back of the bike at first, gripping metal like it's a lifeline. Then he accelerates, and your hands find his shoulders. Then he takes a corner, and your arms are around his waist, and you're pressed against his back, and he's warm, and he smells like soap and something faintly woodsy, and you hate that you think of how good he smells, of how you long for such warmth, of how you keep on noticing him no matter where you are.

You only ask him to drop you off by the convenience store near your home (and not the exact place of it) but there are times that he would ask: “Do you want to go somewhere else?” To which you declined from the start, saying that it would be late already, but some convincing, please’s, and promises that it won’t take too long, and eventually, you’re there in a place where you can see the city, where the stars are seemingly smiling down at you, and where there’s only the two of you.

Ever since then, you can feel the distance closing in, your walls crumbling no matter how hard you try to fix it and put barriers up around it. But you cannot help it—human beings are not meant to be islands, no matter how hard they try to carve themselves out of the mainland, no matter how many storms they've weathered alone. You can build all the fortifications you want, stack every stone of past betrayal and future fear as high as they'll go, but eventually someone will come along who makes you remember what warmth feels like.

You don’t exactly know when it began but you’re suddenly getting coffee and a note. Sometimes there’s a bouquet of flowers and sometimes there’s not. Only one person came to your mind—a man whose eyes remind you of clear summer skies and whose hair tangles in warmth and gold. 

Other than the messy handwriting and crude sketches giving it away, you know he’s the only one who would do something like this. The other teachers are nice enough, but they're not the type to leave anonymous gifts. Even then, they'd want credit, or they'd make it a group effort, or they'd forget after the first week. But this was consistent. This is someone who notices when you've had a rough morning, who knows you skip lunch when you're grading papers, who somehow always has a fresh flower waiting even when you come in early to catch up on work.

One day, you find a small potted succulent on your desk with a note that just says: "This one's harder to kill. Like you or like me trying to get your attention." You laugh, despite how cringy and corny the line is and when you look up, you catch him peeking through the door window. He flashes grins when your gazes meet that you have to look away before he catches the expression on your face.

And then, finally, unable to endure it any longer, you ask. The flowers are on your desk again and you need to know what game he's playing, what angle he's working, what the catch is.

“How do you even know when to buy me a new bouquet?” You had asked him the very question that had been pestering you for such a long time now. You find him after school, in the parking lot, leaning against his ridiculous bike like he was waiting for you. This was routine now, something unbreakable and persisting between you and him, but don’t dare to acknowledge despite the flowers and coffee.

Varka lights up when he sees you approach. Then the question registers, and his expression softens into something almost shy. “I bought a separate, single flower at the same time I bought yours so I know if it has already withered.” That was smart, you admit.

But... “Listen, I really don’t get what you’re trying to do or say here, but you should honestly stop now.” You say, voice coming out sharper than you intended, and before he gets a word in, you speak once more: “If you’re looking to mess with someone, choose another person.”

His face falls and for a moment, you see something hurt flash through his eyes, but then it's gone just as quickly as it came, replaced by that steady, patient thing he does when you push him away. He knows exactly what you mean and why you’re pushing him away like this constantly, consistently. He had never begged for an answer or some form of reciprocation from you.

“I wasn’t doing any of this simply because I wanted to get in your pants or anything.” He says sheepishly as he rubs the back of his neck and you cannot help but notice how his cheeks are tainted pink. Under all this light and within the softness of his rough voice, you cannot help but think of how utterly adorable akin to a puppy this man is.  “I like you, if the flowers and constant bugging was not enough to tell you.”

“You’re lying.”

Varka’s smile is bitter, different from the usual bright and cheery ones, and you feel an arrow shot straight to your heart. "I'm not messing with you. I never thought about wanting only those things," he says quietly. "I would never. I simply… I see you, all of you, and I want more. I want to hear you laugh more, see you smile more, heck, I’ll do anything for you if you would simply let me. Is that too selfish to ask?”

The parking lot is quiet; gold turns into amber and he stands there before you, having just handed you his heart like it's the simplest thing in the world. The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything you should say but can't quite form, and then you reach into your bag. Your fingers find the familiar spine—the poetry book he left on your desk weeks ago, the one you pretended to ignore, the one you've read so many times the pages are starting to soften.

You hold it out to him. He takes it automatically despite confusion flickering across his features as he looks down at the cover, then back at you, then down again as he opens it to the dog-eared page. He reads it silently and you wait, gaze extending towards where the sun sets in the horizon and where the distant noise of cars and students chattering is. But your mind is a mess, loud in all its forms, trying to silence the sound of your rapidly-beating heart.

When you look back at him, his eyes are bright and glossy like he might cry, which is ridiculous, he's a grown man, he's built like a mountain, and the sight before you simply tugs at your heartstrings, because you, in all your carefully guarded, hard-won, terrified-of-being-hurt glory, like him too—perhaps more than he likes you, perhaps in a way that terrifies you down to your very bones, perhaps with a depth that makes all those years of running and hiding and building walls feel like time wasted when you could have been here, in this parking lot, watching the sunset turn his tears to gold and realizing that this is what you've been afraid of all along: not getting hurt again, but feeling something this much and not being able to stop it.

“I like you too.”

I loved you first: but afterwards your love Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove. Which owes the other most? my love was long, And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong; I loved and guessed at you, you construed me And loved me for what might or might not be – Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong. For verily love knows not ‘mine’ or ‘thine;’ With separate ‘I’ and ‘thou’ free love has done, For one is both and both are one in love: Rich love knows nought of ‘thine that is not mine;’ Both have the strength and both the length thereof, Both of us, of the love which makes us one.

— Christina Rossetti

just pulled this out of my ass ig, also im not really that satisfied with the ending because it feels so random but its the best that i can think of rawrwrawrararw HOPE U GUYS LIKE IT STILL AND YEAH first fic after months of not writing,,,, curse u uni

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[muslimalinowe]

varka x wife!reader

fluff, established relationship, stubble varka cuz thats hot <3

before you can enter the knights of favonius headquarters, the guards stop you. the surprised look on your face is enough for them to hurry with an explanation.

“the grand master is in his office. he isn’t receiving visitors at the moment unless it’s urgent business.”

“and a partner bringing him lunch isn’t urgent business?”

they exchange awkward, uncertain glances.

“forgive us,” they say apologetically. “Jean’s orders.”

you barely stop yourself from smiling. of course Jean issued an order like that. you respect it, knowing how overworked that poor woman can be because of your husband.

this wasn’t your first rodeo bringing lunch to Varka, and every one of your visits during his working hours always ended the same way: Varka dodging work under the pretense of attending to his partner, because according to him, “there’s nothing more important in life than a happy wife.”

and truth be told, sometimes you did it on purpose, whenever your heart softened hearing his groans and laments about the mountains of paperwork in his office.

but seeing that you won’t accomplish anything more productive today and must abandon the idea of visiting your husband with the bitter taste of defeat, you hand the guards the bundle containing the still-warm meal for your partner.

“alright then, an order is an order. just give it to him. oh, and say hi to Jean for me!”

then you turn back towards the road home.

…

the sound of a heavy foot tapping restlessly mixes with the scratching of a pen on paper. drowning in piles of unfinished documents, Varka is slowly losing both patience and the will to continue signing and reading reports. hungry, thirsty, craving action, and above all craving to see you again, he’s already trying to figure out how to escape.

a knock on the door brings him a blessed distraction from his duties.

“come in,” he says, already setting the pen back into the inkwell.

when the knight enters, he salutes, holding a bundle against his chest. at the sight of the familiar thick cloth, unmistakably yours, Varka can’t hold back a smile. he doesn’t have to scheme anymore. opportunity has presented itself on its own.

“oh, what a wonderful gift,” Varka murmurs, reaching for the bundle. still warm and quite large, which greatly pleases his heart. “but why wasn’t it delivered personally?” if he had dog ears, they would probably droop to the floor in sorrow at the absence of your presence. he glances at the empty corridor trying to spot your hiding place. “where are they? I must personally thank my beloved for the meal.”

like a rocket he springs up from his chair, already intending to leave the office.

“grand master, please wait! they’re not in the headquarters! master Jean gave orders that only scheduled visitors are to be allowed in.”

at that, Varka’s brows lift in surprise for a second, but he quickly masks his disappointment with a wide smile. something flashes in his blue eyes, sparks of boyish excitement for action.

“huuuh, what a shame… Mika!”

the young blond man jumps from his chair like a spring.

“please take these documents to Jean.”

“grand master!” Mika calls out, despite the massive hand carrying the strength of ten men already resting on his shoulder and urging him toward the task. “I hope this isn’t an excuse to escape.”

“pffff, Mika.” Varka waves his free hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t leave this mountain of papers unattended. now go, and come back quickly.”

when Varka is finally alone, he wastes no time and immediately gets to work. clutching your gift tightly against his chest, he opens the window and glances around to make sure there are no witnesses to his little escape.

when he sees none, he jumps out without hesitation, landing neatly on the cobblestones below, his thoughts already filled with you and the moments you’ll soon share.

finding you takes him record time. the sight of you in the afternoon sunlight is like mead for his thirsty soul.

in a few long strides he reaches you and pulls you into a one-armed embrace, kissing all over your face out of longing, even though you saw each other this very morning.

“Varka!” you yelp when his short but already rough stubble scrapes your cheek. “weren’t you supposed to be drowning in paperwork today?”

“hey, there are important things and more important things,” he murmurs, placing one last kiss on your lips. “and it just so happens that anything concerning you carries the highest priority for me.”

“you snuck out and jumped out of a window, didn’t you?”

“pfff, please. that's too irresponsible, even for me,” he says, waving a dismissive hand.

“Varka…”

“I was going to take a break anyway,” he finally relents under the pressure of your voice and stare. “you just have impeccable timing, dear.”

he intertwines your fingers with his and starts guiding you towards the city gate.

“now come on,” he grins excitedly. “I know the perfect quiet spot for a picnic.”

[kominigiru]

You’re not a knight of the Knights of Favonius, yet nearly everyone in Mondstadt knows your name. Not because of any official title, but because you’re the Grand Master’s closest friend.

The elderly still talk about the two of you like it was just yesterday. You and Varka were inseparable as children—always darting through the streets, wooden swords clashing loudly enough to earn the occasional scolding from passing adults.

You were the one who insisted on stories.

Sometimes you’d be a royal heir kidnapped by a terrible dragon lurking beyond the city walls. Other days you were a wandering scholar who had uncovered an ancient ruin and needed a brave knight to escort you through danger.

And Varka was always the knight.

Even back then he took the role too seriously. He’d puff his chest out, declare some dramatic oath about protecting you, and charge headfirst into imaginary monsters with reckless enthusiasm. Half the time he’d end up tripping over his own feet or crashing into a crate, but he’d still look at you afterward like he’d just saved the whole world.

The people of Mondstadt grew used to the sight of you together. If Varka was getting into trouble, you were likely involved. If you were wandering somewhere questionable—like the outskirts of Windrise or climbing places children definitely shouldn’t climb—Varka was right beside you.

As you grew older, things changed.

Varka joined the Knights of Favonius and quickly proved himself to be exactly the kind of man people trusted in battle—brave, loud, and honest to a fault. Someone who would throw himself between danger and the people he cared about without hesitation.

You didn’t follow him into knighthood, but that didn’t mean you disappeared from his life. If anything, you only became a constant presence around the headquarters—dropping by with food, listening to the knights complain about training, and occasionally helping with things that didn’t require a sword.

Some knights joke that you’re an unofficial member of the order. Others say you’re the only person capable of telling the Grand Master to “sit down and finish all his paperworks instead of giving all the work to Jean”.

And Varka listens to you because you’ve always been the one person who knew him before he became the Grand Master. Before the title, before the responsibilities, before people began looking at him like a legend instead of the boy who used to trip over wooden swords.

With you, he’s still just Varka.

Somewhere along the way, the lines of your friendship blurred for him. He’s not sure when it started.

Maybe it was the first time he returned from a long patrol and you were waiting at the gates for him. Maybe it was the way you always noticed when he was exhausted before anyone else did. Or maybe it was something much simpler: you’ve just always been there.

When people praise him, he looks for you in the crowd without thinking.

When he laughs, it’s usually because you said something first.

And when he imagines the future, you’re always standing somewhere nearby.

The problem is… he doesn’t know if you see him the same way. To you, he might still just be that friend who used to fight imaginary dragons.

Varka can face monsters without hesitation. But risking your friendship? That terrifies him more than any battlefield ever could.

The night before he leaves for his expedition, he asks you to come drink with him.

You’ve gone with him to Angel’s Share plenty of times before; usually with other knights. Sometimes the whole place turns into a loud celebration with stories, laughter, and half the order trying to outdrink each other. You normally just sit there listening, sipping something weak because your alcohol tolerance is terrible. But tonight feels different.

When you arrive, Varka doesn’t head for the counter where Charles or Diluc usually serve drinks. Instead, he leads you upstairs on a quiet table in the corner.

The conversation starts light—old stories, knights’ antics, gossip from the city. You talk about the same things you always do. It feels normal.

At some point between stories and half-finished drinks, your voice gets quieter, your responses become slower, and your head droops slightly before you catch yourself and blink awake again.

“You’re gonna fall asleep on me,” he teases, nudging your glass away from you.

“I’m not,” you mumble stubbornly, though your words slur slightly. He laughs.

You try to keep talking. Something about how you’ll miss him once he leaves with the expedition from Mondstadt. Something about how the city always feels a little quieter without him around.

But halfway through your sentence, your voice fades. Your head tips forward. And before either of you realize it, you’re asleep—arms folded on the table, cheek resting against them.

Varka blinks.

“…Hey.” He nudges your shoulder gently. No response.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck before leaning back in his chair. For a moment he just watches you, the same way he used to when you both collapsed after running around the streets as kids.

You look peaceful.

“You know,” he mutters after a while, “I figured if I was going to say it, tonight would be the only night.”

You don’t move.

Of course you don’t. You’re completely out.

Varka lets out a small laugh under his breath, shaking his head.

“Figures,” he says.

He rests his elbow on the table, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“I’ve been in love with you for years.”

The confession slips out easier than he expected.

Maybe because you can’t hear him. Maybe because if you could, he wouldn’t have the courage to say it at all.

“Pretty pathetic, huh?” he murmurs.

He studies your sleeping face for a moment, the familiar features he’s known almost his entire life. The same person who used to drag him into ridiculous adventures around the city.

“Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius,” he continues softly, “and the only person who can make him nervous is someone who can’t even stay awake through two drinks.”

Another quiet laugh escapes him.

Then he reaches across the table and carefully brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

“You’re lucky you fell asleep,” he says. “Because I’m only brave enough to admit this when you can’t hear me.”

For a long moment he just sits there with you, the lantern light flickering softly between you both.

Then he sighs, pushing himself to his feet.

“Come on,” he murmurs, gently lifting you up so you don’t have to stumble home alone. “You’ve got the whole city to look after while I’m gone.”

And you never remember the confession he left hanging in the quiet upstairs corner of the tavern.

© 2026 kominigiru.

[azullumi]

TWILIGHT ZONE ft. VARKA

mondstadt celebrated the return of the grand master, you, however, welcomed home your husband | pairing: varka x spouse!reader | established relationship, gender-neutral reader, fluff, reader yearns and misses him a lot (it’s actually just me writing my thoughts), reunion, yearning | wc: 2.2k

DIRECTOR’S NOTES — a little something before tomorrow’s update; i could be wrong about how long he had been away

Varka could have had anything he wanted in the world. Riches, glory, power, everything an ordinary mortal like him could ever dream off, but he didn’t. He chose not to and this act of sacrifice led him to his expedition in Nod-Krai in which he had to spend years away from his home—from you.

But now, he’s coming back.

Of course, the city of Mondstadt, having caught the news of his return, have carefully and excitedly planned for a celebration to happen. Thus, the usual silent and peaceful air turned into something electrified with the rustle of banners and bustling chatter of the citizens, whispering and talking among themselves—oftentimes of the grandmaster, of how long he had been away, of what would happen now that he’s here. Before, the only thing Knights of Favonius, stationed at the mainland, have received are reports of his status and the elite knights, while the citizens could only wonder about the whereabouts of the man himself.

It would be no wonder that some would even speculate whether he’s still alive or not, and even then, what use would he have if he were to return now since they already have the acting grandmaster, Jean, already performing his duties. It was an inevitable thing to have such whispers, though it had never fostered into anything, only remaining as fleeting murmurs carried away by the wind.

Every corner of the city was not spared with silence and just as the citizens have been waiting with bated breath for the day, for the culmination of their efforts, you, too, cannot sit still at the simple thought of Varka, finally, coming back.

It’s been a long time since you have last seen your husband. It’s been three years now and the only kind of communication, interaction, or way you feel his presence is through letters with souvenirs, trinkets, or anything that he thinks you will like. Letters that can never be a page or less than two, letters written with that messy script of his with occasional blobs of ink that have dripped on to the paper, letters that will end with those three words of his affection for you and signed with ‘Your Beloved, Varka’.

It is no understatement to say that you lent a great hand in the preparations for the expedition team’s return. From the hanging banners, the decorations all over the place, the cathedral looking for helpers, literally anything you can get your hands on. If you were even given the opportunity, you would have built a statue of his honor. It was no news to everyone that you were ecstatic no matter how much you try to appear calm and composed in front of them. You cannot sit still at all. 

You were simply everywhere and doing everything all at once, and this is evident by that fact Lisa had to come to you and tell you to take some time to rest or else, you wouldn’t even get to see the day that he will be here. You couldn’t even say no to her, knowing how scary she can get—she even threatened to tell Jean to ban you from helping. The thought of it was ridiculous but it was not impossible, so for the last few days leading to the day of celebration, you sat in your home or outside; you played with the children who each, but all the same, told you of how excited they are to see the grandmaster again and have him train them—by which, they mean chasing him with a sword while he pretends to be scared.

You simply love and miss your husband, the love of your life, Varka. It was hard not to—only an insane person wouldn’t, or maybe you just adore him a lot. Either way, this ache was strong and this ache was making you lose your mind at each second he’s not here.

The day comes and as early as dawn, people are already coming out of their homes, looking forward to the day ahead. The streets are alive with a palpable energy, the kind that only surfaces during festivals. Albeit, it was still different—this was no ordinary festival, after all. Children dart between the legs of adults, their laughter as bright as the streamers that now adorn every lamp post and awning. The smell of fresh bread and roasting meat wafts from Good Hunter, where Sara is already working twice as fast to accommodate the influx of orders. Even the cats, those independent creatures of the city, seem to sense the shift in the atmosphere, finding sunny spots along the route where the crowds will gather, as if they too wish to witness the grandmaster's return.

“I’ll give you a discount since I’m in a great mood today!”

“Ah, the pigeons!”

“How long until we see them?!”

Today just feels so right and perfect.

There is a sea of familiar faces and excited chatter as soon as you step outside and walk along the streets. People greet you, pat your shoulder, offer kind words and knowing smiles—some have even teased you, pushing you into a flustered state with their words. They understand, perhaps better than anyone, what this moment means for you. You’ve been a part of their community long enough that your yearning has become woven into the fabric of their own anticipation.

Not far away, the gates of Mondstadt stand open, welcoming, waiting. Beyond them lies the path to the rest of Teyvat, the path Varka took so long ago. And then—

“They’re here! They’re coming!”

Immediately afterwards, the people gathered at the sides so as not to block the pathway, and there, on the horizon, you see them—the expedition party emerges from the distance like a dream given form and cheers soon erupt, yelling, shouting. It drowns out the sound of your own heartbeat, your own breath, and your own thoughts.

The procession slows as it reaches the gates. The crowd takes this moment to press closer, voices calling out greetings and blessings.

“Grandmaster Varka!”

“Barbatos bless you all!”

“Look! Do you think one of them is Captain Kaeya’s horse?”

Though you, too, are glad to see the elite knights return, knowing how much of a strong foundation they are to the city’s military prowess, your eyes only seem to look for one and one person only. You watch him, eyes warm with affection, a smile tainting your lips, and your shoulders relax at the utter sight of him, basking in all this glory and celebration.

(Beneath it all, you are relieved—relieved, not just because he’s returned, but because he’s here and that through all your prayers and desperation, he is unharmed. He is alive. The mere thought of it crashes through you like a wave, sudden and overwhelming, and you realize that you had been holding something beneath your ribs all this time—something cold and sharp and terrible, a fear you never allowed yourself to name, a dread that lived in the space between heartbeats, in the silence between letters, in the hours past midnight when the bed felt too large and the world too quiet. You had carried it so long it had become part of your breathing, part of your waking, part of the way you moved through days without him. You had grown so accustomed to its weight that you forgot it was there at all.)

He's dismounted now, his great horse being led away by a young squire who looks absolutely starstruck. Varka pats the boy's shoulder with a laugh you can hear even from here, that booming, infectious sound that has always made your heart swell. He looks around, taking in the banners, the decorations, the crowd of familiar faces, and you watch as recognition dawns on his features, one by one.

Many have approached him already, though you still remain on the sidelines, not wishing to interrupt this tender moment. You know the extent of his longing for his homeland, having to endure the battlefield every single day; his letters have told you so.

"Grandmaster!" A young knight pushes through the crowd, his face flushed with excitement. "Welcome back, sir! Could I—could I possibly ask for your autograph?"

Varka laughs again, clapping the young man on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. "Slow down, soldier! I'm not going anywhere. We'll have plenty of time for autographs and training and everything else. But first—"

Through the chaos of celebration, through the sea of bodies and noise and color, his eyes easily find yours. Albeit he tries to approach you, only to be intercepted by one person to another, and you cannot simply help but laugh at the sight, waving him off and telling him to deal with that first. He could only mutter a silent apology while scratching the back of his head, turning his attention back to entertaining everyone who comes to him.

"Grandmaster! The children have been practicing a song for weeks!"

"Sir Varka! My tavern has saved its best cask for tonight!”

"Welcome back, old friend!"

He’d greet them warmly, genuinely, but his attention would keep on drifting, keep wandering, keep settling on you for a few moments as if he was trying to reassure—or remind—himself that you’re still there waiting.

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there now, underneath the shade and away from the crowd that have gathered and drowned him with their relentless inquiries and excitement. He was not spared a single moment, perhaps even accumulating all their energy, returning it back to them tenfold. Varka, through all of it, was a man who loved his people with the same ferocity he loved anything—wholly, without reservation, with every piece of himself he had to give.

However, this time, his eyes find you again, and you see the silent question there: Can I come to you now? Please?

You nod, laughing warmly, and he starts toward you, and this time, the crowd lets him. People have stepped aside, making way for him and leaving the man alone, understanding that this moment—this reunion—belongs to the two of you first. His boots strike the cobblestones with familiar rhythm, each step bringing him closer, closer, until he stops before you. 

Up close, you see the changes the years have wrought. New lines etched at the corners of his eyes, evidence of harsh sun and harsher conditions. His hair is longer than you remember, but still styled in the same way that he always does. But more than everything, his eyes. 

Archons above, his eyes.

They are the same eyes that looked at you on your wedding day, full of wonder that someone like you could love someone like him. They are the same eyes that crinkled with laughter when you made silly faces to cheer him up after difficult days. They are the same eyes that, even in his hastily scrawled letters, you could feel looking at you across impossible distances.

And now they are looking at you from only a breath away.

“Hello, my love.” He says, and his voice falters on the last note.

The sound breaks something in you. You surge forward, closing the remaining distance between you, and his arms—those strong, warm arms you have dreamed about for so many sleepless nights—wrap around you and pull you tight against his chest. You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek.

"I'm home," he whispers into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm home."

You can't speak—despite the amount of times you have practiced in front of the mirror on what to say to him, despite the amount of daydreaming you have of this moment, despite having prepared yourself—silence, brought by so much emotions and feelings, has lodged itself in your throat. Words are inadequate, useless things when faced with the enormity of this moment. So instead you cling to him, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt as if he might disappear if you loosen your hold even slightly. He holds you just as tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped firmly around your waist, anchoring you both to this moment, to each other.

Eventually, reluctantly, you pull back just enough to look at him. Your hands come up to frame his face, your thumbs tracing the new lines, the beloved features that have haunted your dreams. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed for just a moment, as if he, too, cannot believe this is real.

"I missed you," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I missed you so much." And the tears you’ve been holding at bay finally spill over, just a little. You don’t wish to embarrass yourself in front of him and already make a mess. You told yourself repeatedly that you wouldn’t cry or do anything stupid, but it seems like that was thrown out of the window.

Varka immediately panics. This legendary warrior, this grand master who has faced down monsters and braved the harshest conditions Teyvat could throw at him, looks utterly and completely terrified by the sight of your tears. His hands, which have held swords and shields and the weight of an entire expedition, flutter helplessly at your sides as if he has no idea what to do with them.

"Don't—please don't cry," he pleads, his voice cracking in a way that would be comical if you weren't so overwhelmed.

He fumbles for something and ends up pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He dabs at your cheeks with a gentle clumsiness that only he possesses, his brow furrowed with such intense concentration you'd think he was back in the battlefield rather than wiping away tears.

"Please don't cry, my love," he murmurs, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of your eye. "I can't bear it. I could face any enemy and it would be less terrifying than watching you cry."

From his words, a wet laugh escapes you, and his face lights up like sunrise. Before you can say anything else, he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead—soft, reverent, lingering—as if you are something sacred, something worth crossing entire nations to return to. When he pulls back, his eyes are bright with unshed tears of his own, holding only affection, adoration, love for you and you only; and he smiles at you like you are the answer to every prayer he never spoke aloud.

“Welcome home, Varka.”

he better come home at my first 10 pull (i only have that much)

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[maopll]

they say your spouse's sleeping posture or habits tell what kind of a person they are

and oh boy...

"augh...*hack* damn..."

so what does it mean when your spouse who has either golden retriever energy or black cat energy (up to you), is quite literally enveloping you with his big, muscular body

he was sleeping so soundly too that you were more concerned over him not getting enough sleep instead of you almost suffocating

but hey he's warm

"mmm...soft...warm..."

he was mumbling in his sleep and with the way he was hugging you and caressing your body you pretty much guessed he was dreaming about you. cute as if that didn't melt your heart

for some reason he just slid downwards while he was in very very deep sleep and sluggishly climbed on top of you, with his head on your heart and his body snuggled between your legs

cracking a soft smile you threaded your fingers through his hair and gently scratched his head

"love..." you heard him say before his breathing evened out

"good night to us too"

kaeya, DILUC, zhongli, CHILDE, capitano, neuvillette, WRIOTHESLEY, VARKA, PHAINON, mydei, ASHVEIL, JING YUAN, blade(?), DIAVOLO, BEELZEBUB, malleus, LEONA, JACK, idia (trust i know he hides them pecs under those hoodies), CALEB, RAFAYEL, zayne, YUUJI

but honestly it can be for any character fr

© 2026 maopll. do not copy, repost or modify my work in any form . do NOT feed my work into AI

[innaillus]

repost - fixed an old sketch on this joyous day 💖🥰🐺

[baeshijima]

— in the dead of the night (i hold you tight)

mondstadt is filled with more life and joy than ever before with the return of the grand master and the expedition knights, echoes of laughter and drunken tales trickling into every crevice of the city. but in the dead of the night, it is only you who knows the extent of what he has endured, and it is only you whom he trusts to show the barest and most vulnerable parts of himself.

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 4.7k wc, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship (married), nightmares, death & mentions of death, brief(?) descriptions blood, spoilers for varka's story quest, takes place after his story quest when the expedition returns, varka needs a hug ;w; a nice warm and tight hug ;w; you need a hug too ;w; it's okay, you hug each other :3 yearner varka as always

A/N : inspired by this this fan comic that desecrated my solar plexus and rendered me unable to comprehend anything even now, a week later, and u should definitely check it out... haha... but i also thought it would be interesting to explore the more ptsd side of things bc his quest definitely... yeah...

AO3 LINK HERE !!

The City of Freedom has always stayed true to its moniker.

The breeze blows in whichever way it wishes; the people are able to choose their own path; the adults are free to choose how they spend their day; the children run around and follow wherever it is their heart leads; the animals roam the streets regardless of who or what lurks in the shadows; the city walls welcomes whoever steps foot into its domain.

The City of Freedom has always stayed true to its moniker. While it wasn’t always quite so peaceful — quite so free and left to the will of its people — it has been a prominent aspect throughout recent times. From two thousand years ago to now, peace and freedom has found its home within Mondstadt; even more so during the recent years where the citizens have slowly begun to forget what times of turmoil and strife are like.

Such as now. 

The city’s streets are alight, fluorescent yellows trickling from high windows and streetlamps giving way to their chosen placements. Voices echo within the late-night streets, their sounds muted behind warmed tavern walls and the frequent strum of a bard’s lyre before they delve into their song of poetry for the awaiting audience, clinking glass and the occasional tone of a bartender asking what the tavern-goer would like to drink for the night, roaring laughter and the fall of a chair or bang of something hitting the table a fine accompaniment to the noise like practised song. 

It is late at night, or perhaps early in the morning, yet the City of Wine and Song rarely rests. Not for long, anyway, and certainly not when they are still celebrating the successful return of the expeditionary forces they have been awaiting for the last six years.

And yet, in a tucked away corner of the city where the shadows just barely settle over the architecture, peaceful nights have been somewhat of a luxury.

You lay there under the covers, peaceful and tucked into a deep slumber, soft breaths escaping parted lips as you remain nestled beneath the cocooning warmth. Beside you lies a large, scarred body tossing and turning, heaving and writhing beneath the rumpled side of the sheets. Cold sweat clings to his skin, brows furrowed into a deep point and fists clenched tight around the edge of the blanket settled over his heart. His breath comes out in uneven gasps, a disharmonious sound in comparison to your calm state.

The Grand Master shifts again. His body begins to curl in on itself, grip wrinkling the sheets even further, a pained grimace etched into his paling expression.

He remembers. He remembers the loud beat of his heart ringing through his ears, that all-consuming sensation familiar throughout the length of his journey yet never something he could become accustomed to. He remembers his last moments suspended in the air, telling the golden-haired hero and Honorary Knight of Mondstadt the rest of that whispered plan was up to them before the Abyssal Roland in a spirit of Boreas snapped its maw around him and darkness swallowed him whole. He remembers that phantom pain, how it tore its teeth through his torso for a fleeting moment before he reawakened in that space in perfect condition as though he was never maimed in his final moments. He remembers that sense of displacement, like something was horribly wrong despite being perfectly fine. He remembers…

…What happened after that?

Head swivelling, he now finds himself surrounded by thick fog. He cannot hear, nor can he see anything, but he is vaguely aware that he is still in the dream. There is nothing in this space he is trapped in, yet his body remains on high alert; as if danger lurks within the fog, within the realm he cannot perceive. Foreboding is the chill which runs down his spine, a warning from somewhere deep within his mind that something is there; that something is watching him.

But then he hears it — a deafening, ba-thump. It rattles his brain, fogs his mind even further, blurs his vision until spotted dots fade in and out of focus, numbs all his senses like cotton is stuffed in his ears and only serves to heighten the phantom pain which courses through his torso. When he looks down, he sees crimson. His left side is drenched in the colour, his trembling right hand only splotched with it in comparison. Was blood always this red? This vivid? So lifelike, so real, so violent in its likeness? Was this warmth amid the dreadful cold always so apparent?

Did this part of the dream always go like this…?

When he looks up again, numbly forcing himself to tear his gaze away from the sight of his body half devoured, the abyss stares back at him in the form of two familiar wispy eyes glowing in the same colour as that of which drips from his body.

He remembers. He remembers that wide, awaiting maw closing in on him like time slowed down just so he would be forced to relive every racing thought, every regret and what-if during his last moments. Darkness encroaches. Rooted in place, all he can see are sharpened teeth dripping with saliva and the eternal darkness which lies beyond the bone. It draws closer, his heart rings louder in his ears and throbs in his head — louder, and louder, and louder, and louder, and—

He shoots up, gasping and heaving, right hand instinctively shooting towards his left side; his body is intact. The ache in his body, his heart however, has magnified. Limbs numb and heavy, like lead has replaced the marrow in his bones, he sits there amid the streaks of moonlight. Damp sheets pool at his hips as a chill seeps into his sweat-ridden body, eyes wide and roving as if trying to take in anything and everything he possibly can.

It’s silent. There is a slight discrepancy in his surroundings — like something is not entirely right, yet he cannot quite place his finger on it. Where is he? Recognition faintly flits through his mind as he tries to blink away the throb in his head, but nothing immediately springs to mind. Was there always a wardrobe in that space? Was he always on a bed? Did his surroundings always seem so homely?

No… he does not think so. That cruel, unforgiving nightmare would never give him a reprieve such as this. Something is wrong still, but what?

And then it quietly clicks within his brain: his heart. Why is it not beating? Why can he not hear nor feel the thumps of the very organ which sustains his life? Dread crawls into his ribs and grips down, cold and unrelenting.

His heart…

“Varka…?”

His heart… His heart.

“Varka.”

His heart, his heart, his heart, his heart—

“Varka!”

His breath hitches. Warmth encases his hands and cradles them with a gentleness that never once existed in that memory. The adrenaline wears down, only slightly, but it is enough for him to have a clear grasp on his surroundings.

Varka blinks once, twice, a third time; he sees you. You were never present in those horrid recollections. No, you were always there to pull him out of it, out of that post-nightmare trance he has been finding himself caught in every time.

You let out a breath, shoulders sagging from their tense posture as your gaze softens. Your eyes are so clear, Varka manages to think within his bleary senses, your fingers rubbing repetitive circles against his knuckles a grounding warmth.

“It’s okay,” you reassure. Your voice is a soft and familiar lull as you raise a hand, guiding his head to rest against your chest. “You’re okay now.”

His ears pick up a faint sound.

Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump.

Your heart, he thinks. Your alive and beating heart. It thumps in a steady rhythm, only slightly quickened from the scare he most likely gave you. Its rhythm reaches him, slowing down the erratic beats of his own heart in order to match yours and beat together in tandem.

“Sorry,” he manages to mumble out, voice slowly coming back to him but still hoarse. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You can go back to bed, I’ll be alright. I know your sleep’s been disrupted ever since I came back, but you don’t need to worry. It’s something I can handle, so—”

“Varka,” you call his name again in that soft and patient tone despite the sleep he can see clinging onto you, effectively stopping his escalating rambles. Guilt pervades into every inch of his being upon the realisation, even more so when you smile like you’re reassuring him that everything will be okay.

He hasn’t been deserving of your patience these past nights ever since his return; he certainly does not think you expected your husband to have finally come home, only to wake up every night since in cold sweat and tremors. But it is you — you and your unending patience and understanding for him during the worst of nights, even when you end up spending the rest of it awake to make sure he is fine from the claws of something far beyond your imagination.

And that alone undoes something tightly coiled within him.

“Don’t apologise for something like this. These nightmares are out of your control, and you don’t choose to have them every night. But do you know?” Your voice shifts. The patient tone addled with sleep makes way for something softer, something warm and wholly you which clears the fuzziness clogging his senses like stuffed cotton. “You’re home now, Varka. You can relax now. You don’t have to fight it anymore; not with me.”

The effect is practically immediate.

He clings to you, burying himself further into your warmth — into your vitality. Shaking arms wind around your midriff and trembling fingers dig into the back of his shirt swallowing your body. Body folding over you, eyes squeezing shut, nose buried into the crook of your neck and surrounding himself in everything that you are, he vaguely senses the trembling to have begun stabilising.

“You’re alive,” you whisper, lips a gentle caress atop the crown of his head. One of your hands drift up the nape his neck and begin slowly threading your fingers through the dampened tufts of his hair, while the other rubs soothing circles against his bare back covered in a sheen of lingering beads of cold sweat. “You’re alive. You’re here. In Mondstadt. With the knights, with the people of our home, and with me. You are alive and well. You are safe now, Varka. Nothing from that expedition can hurt you again.”

Something within his heart shakes violently. 

Right. That’s right. He is back in Mondstadt now. He is no longer in Nod-Krai, no longer on that six-year-long expedition. The soul of a god, of Andrius, no longer weighs heavy in his heart, slowly devouring the very organ which beats right now alongside your own steady beats, and no longer does it slowly sap away the energy in his body and bear upon his shoulders the burden of a god’s soul as he fights for a safer tomorrow. He is not in need of any contingency plans in case things go awry (in case he were to fall and never return).

No. Varka is not there anymore. He is in Mondstadt. He and the expeditionary forces have returned back home to everyone. He is back home… He is back with you; in your arms, in your embrace, in your ever-so familiar warmth he dreamt about with increasing longing for every night he spent away from you.

With that comfort, he finally manages to breathe — the air returns to his lungs a little easier, the taut muscles loosen under your grounding touch, the numbing sensation subsides as your warmth seeps into his very being.

Varka loves you. He truly does, and he knows he will love you until the end of time and even beyond that. He has seen all your highs and lows, during your best and your worst, just as you have with him. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he knows you like the back of his hand, because even that comparison could never begin to touch the surface of everything you have both been through to know the other so intimately.

So when he feels the trembling come not from him, but from you tucked in his embrace, something in his heart cracks. It is he who made you cry — he who made you shake and glossy-eyed and bite your lip trying your best to hold it in and resist looking up at him in your current state.

“I know… I know you sometimes sneak out when you think I’m asleep. I don’t know where, maybe to go to Boreas to fight it out of your system like you tend to do when something troubles you, maybe to have a late night drink to chase away those thoughts, maybe to take a walk and get away for a little bit by yourself, but…” There is a slight pause, a hitch in your voice, before your arms tighten around him and your face buries further into his neck. “But I still worry that when you leave, you might never come back; that you returning was all just something I made up to cope with the weight of your absence. I… I never got used to it, the lack of you in everything. I thought I would become more accustomed to it as time went on, but… I never did. It only seemed to worsen, if anything.”

You laugh a little, a humourless chuckle as you recount your days and nights and endless time here in Mondstadt, wondering when next you would hear news of the expedition. Varka’s jaw clenches at the thought, at the now very real possibility of you losing sleep in worry about whether or not he and the expeditionary forces were safe.

The momentary laugh falls into silence. Nothing emerges for a long, few seconds. You don’t say anything, and he follows suit, waiting patiently for you to finish your piece because he knows something else is on your mind.

Eventually, you suck in a shaky breath and Varka strains his ears to hear even the slightest of sounds you produce.

“Sometimes, you have this expression,” you begin. “Like… like you’re gazing into something far beyond here— something I can’t even begin to imagine. I.. I don’t know what you faced in the last six years, I don’t even know what you’re forced to see in your dreams because I’m worried bringing it up will make you relive the very thing you’re trying to keep me from knowing. And— and I don’t mind that you’re not telling me the full extent of it when it’s causing you so much pain as it is, but I… I guess I just… want you to feel like you can lean on me a little more during these times.” 

Varka feels like the biggest fool in all of Teyvat. He’s so stunned, he doesn’t even know where to begin. To think, not onlydid he make you cry when he vowed to never be the reason of your tears (in a negative way, of course), but he also made you feel as though he doesn’t trust you enough with his troubles — which is far from the truth! Varka would entrust his life into your hands within a heartbeat if he could!

He thinks about the times he would sneak out when you were asleep (only to find out just now that you, in fact, were notasleep…), how he would gaze at you apologetically and press a lingering kiss to your head before leaving. His destination was often to that of Boreas, to spar his lingering worries away just as you had predicted. He didn’t want to burden you any further with his baggage, with the weight he carried in the aftermath of it all. And so he dealt with it in the way he was most accustomed to. Boreas had sensed something to be troubling him the first night he requested a duel, making his own guesses that hit a little too close considering he was well in the know about his Abyssified counterpart. The wolf spirit offers comfort in his own way — through wise words spoken from millennia of experience and quiet acts of comfort.

Sometimes on his way back, Venti would catch sight of him and beckon him over for a chat over drinks in the late night — yet another thing he did that you guessed right... In those instances it was nigh impossible to refuse, and so he would share a few drinks with the Archon who also knew the inner turmoil deep in his heart a little too well. Sometimes the drinks would work, and he would be happily warm and tipsy with little thought about those crimson eyes and fanged maw which plagues his slumber, but it usually doesn’t last. Not when he goes one drink more and then ends up ruminating over the events — what led to them, what could have gone differently, and what could have been to the bard clad in green.

But to explain it all to you, how he really did die and might have not even been able to return from the Ley Lines in the worst case scenario… Varka doesn’t even want to imagine how that conversation could turn out; not from wanting to withhold anything from you, but from the sheer guilt that eats away at him that, in another world where the worst case scenario came true, you would be left alone with word of his death being the last thing you ever received from him.

No, he could never do that to you. Just the mere thought of it has him misty-eyed with his nose stinging, and he is for once glad you still refuse to look at him to save your own face so you don’t see his rising emotions once more.

Unfortunately, you seem to take the silence from his excessive thoughts negatively, sniffling as you quickly add, “Ah— forget it. I don’t know what I’m talking about, haha…”

…Scrap that. To hell if he starts bawling his eyes out in front of you because of a misunderstanding! You have comforted him more than you know, and now it is his turn to repay your love in kind.

He calls your name in a gentle tone, the remnants of his emotions from the nightmare and your feelings still lingering despite having calmed down. “Look at me.”

You don’t budge.

He tries again, “My love?”

Your hands twitch; the corners of his lips tugs upward.

“My sweetest darling?”

Your arms tighten, and he knows he has you then.

“My lovely, beautiful, amazing, kind, caring, kind of scary, but definitely love of my life and other half—”

He cuts himself off when giggles are muffled against his skin, wet and teary but undoubtedly still yours, shoulders shaking in tandem under his hands. Shoulders sagging from the tension which had built up at the face of your distress, he sighs softly and allows a smile to lift his lips — it’s a little wobbly from his glassy eyes, and not quite his typical toothy grin, but one which softens and crinkles the corners of his eyes and comes to him as easy as breathing and loving you comes; one only reserved for you.

And when you lift your head, eyes sparkling from the lingering tears like the water’s surface on a sunny day paired with that smile of yours which never fails to send his heart into a frenzy and make him feel like he is eighteen trying to court you amid his flushed skin and pounding heart all over again, he cannot help but to think, “I love you.”

Your eyes widen a fraction before softening, the words, “I love you more,” uttered with such tenderness it makes his heart skip a beat and inhale sharply. He realises then that he said it out loud. It matters little, however, when the sentiment is always there — lingering, waiting to be said over and over again, a quiet longing for you forever and always.

Varka decides then and there he will tell you everything. From the very beginning of the expedition where he asked Boreas to give his soul so he could track down the fragments of Andrius’ spirit and help him, to the encounters he had and the perils he faced throughout the regions, to the new friends he made that he thinks you would get along with if given the chance to meet (really, just say the word and he will have everything arranged within days, a week maximum!), to the accumulating burden he carried with every fragment of Boreas’ spirit he absorbed and resonated with, to the crises that really seemed to pick up in Nod-Krai — from the Wild Hunt he constantly fended off, to the calamities known as Rerir, one of the Five Sinners: the Rächer of Solnari, and Dottore, one of the Fatui Harbingers otherwise known as The Doctor.

And, of course, his final collection of Andrius’ fragments and the confrontation against and Abyss-consumed Roland; how he knew he was bound to face off against him at some point to help Andrius stave off the Abyss, how he was prepared and planned for the worst case if things went awry, how he died and fell into heart of the wolf so he could convey Boreas’ thoughts to Andrius, how he fought against countless Abyssal creatures to fight his way back home, how the letter he asked you and everyone to send was what allowed him to come back home to Mondstadt, how he saw your spirit asking him to get back home safely in the Ley Lines and nearly broke down at the sight of you after so long, and how he finally made it back to you just like you wished...

He spills everything, leaving no woe unsaid, no fear of his left to linger in the back of his mind, no what-if to haunt him in every waking moment.

Predictably, you’re a mess. Sobs wrack through your body as he recounts everything in earnest, not wanting to keep you in the dark any longer and have you doubt his trust in you. He isn’t any better either, his own tears spilling out when apologising for making you believe he doesn’t trust you enough to confide in you and for causing your tears in the first place.

And yet, even when you’re calling him stupid, or an idiot, or a fool, your fists weakly banging against his chest, he still thinks you’re the most beautiful person in the world. 

He thinks as such when one of his hands lifts to cup your cheek and thumb away the stray tears spilling over your lashes; when you subconsciously lean into his warm and callus palm, your own hand raising to hold the back of his hand, and his heart rate spiking as a result; when your other hand moves to toy with the wolf fang necklace resting against his chest, your fingers brushing against his now warmed skin; when he dips his head and begins to press soft, lingering kisses against your forehead, your brow bone, the space between your brows, your eyelids, the corners of your eyes, your temple, your hairline, your cheekbones, nose bridge, the tip of your nose, the apple of your cheeks, your jaw, your chin, the corners of your lips, and eventually the lush of yours lips itself.

His heart just about bursts at the seams with each of your tinkling laughter floating into his ears at every ministration he performs, your shared warmth seeping deep into his skin as he gazes half-lidded into your expression crinkled shut with unadulterated glee.

I love you. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Only you, forever you.

Sometimes he wonders if you will ever know the true depth of his love for you. If you will ever know just how ardently his devotion for you runs, how every one of his drunken rambles throughout the expedition always centred around how much he misses you and loves you and wishes to see you soon (even the Pyro Archon herself wished him a safe return to you as soon as possible the morning after their drinking competition as a result of his inebriated mourning over his lack of, well, you), how every battle he fought was always entered with the mindset of winning so he could return to you in one piece, how he would find the flickering amber of the campfire dull in comparison to the warmth of you give him, how he lamented over the expedition’s ever-changing locations unfit to properly send you letters with a definite receiving address, how he carried your picture with him everywhere and kept it concealed securely behind his breastplate to always have a reminder of you on his person, how…

…How when you welcomed him back from the expedition, the love in your eyes having not wavered in the slightest after six long years, he found himself falling in love with you all over again.

But these sentiments will be tucked away in a space closest to his heart for only him to look back on and think about, hidden carefully behind curved bones and soft organs. A space only ever reserved to keep you as close as humanly possible.

Instead, he gently swipes under your reddened eyes, thumb massaging the swollen skin in soothing motions. “Alright. I think it’s time we get some shut-eye after all that.”

“No more nightmares?” you ask, a light jest yet the concern woven in your tone is more than evident about your worry for him.

He smiles. “No. Not this time. Not with you in my arms and your doubt quelled.”

Huffing, you lightly swat his chest with a smile of your own, but don’t deny the need for slumber. You shuffle under the covers, wriggling until you find the most optimal spot for your comfort before settling in. Tucked close to his chest, his chin resting atop your head, your arms around his waist with one hand gently carding the hair at his nape, one of his arms resting at your waist while the other has his hand cradling your cheek and softly thumbing your skin, legs tangled together beneath the sheets as your heartbeats fall into a steady rhythm.

When you whisper him a good night, lips a soft press against the warming skin of his chest, Varka thinks the world will be okay. Even if it is just for this moment, even if he will wake up tomorrow night with the same nightmare once more, he thinks that this place in your shared bed, in your shared home, with you in his arms is the happiest place for him to be.

That night, Varka sleeps soundly. When he wakes up, he is greeted by the warm sunlight filtering through the window and you sleeping comfortably atop him while he lays on his back. The smile which melts his expression into that of pure adoration is hardly surprising; neither is the way he wraps his arms around you a little more securely and presses chaste kisses along the skin he has access to in this position.

I love you, he thinks with each reverent press, only stopping when you stir slightly, incoherent mumbles muffled against his neck. I love you, he thinks again when you lift your head slightly, nose brushing against his chin as you blink sleepily at him with a dreamy smile that makes his heart pound a little quicker before pressing a quick kiss to his jaw and letting your head rest in the crook of his neck. I love you, he thinks once more when your breathing evens out, you completely relaxed in his presence doing something irreparable to him. I love you, Varka thinks finally as his arms wrap around you a little tighter, nose brushing against your scalp as his fingers trace little hearts into your lower back.

The duties of Grand Master can wait a little longer, he thinks. After all, his duties as a husband are yet to be completed, and he takes his role as such to be of utmost priority much like with anything that pertains to you, his beloved spouse.

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

[baeshijima]

gym bro!varka who always comes in after his routine to buy a pastry and protein shake/latte, and barista!reader who always leaves cute little motivational messages on the back of the cup every time he orders.

they always bring a smile to his face, the drink and pastry tasting even sweeter than they do anywhere else. or maybe it’s the way you smile and indulge in his little conversations and jokes which makes his smile a little wider, a little sunnier than his usual grins.

(one day he will muster the courage to ask for your number; to finally ask you out on a date. but for now, he’ll continue his routine of hitting those gains, showering and freshening up before leaving, and getting his regular dose of your protein affirmations, warm smile, and heart-fluttering laughter when he pulls out a joke or two.)

[gingerteawrites]

PULLED INTO HIS ORBIT - VARKA

A/N: Tending to the grandmaster's wounds churns new desires in your hearts. Varka x reader.

For the nth time this month, you find yourself with your fingers pressing against damaged skin.

Viscous blood clings to the gauze in thick droplets, the abundance of it only making your brows knit further than they already were.

"You need to be less reckless in battle, grandmaster," you knew it was probably out of place for you to say this.

Unsolicited advice from a mere medic on the expedition. Your experience in combat went little beyond basic self-defense. But you knew injuries.

And you knew that the grandmaster of the knights of favonius had quite the knack for accumulating the nastiest ones.

Varka's boisterous laugh booms in his tent, enough to wake up the whole camp if they weren't completely knocked out from scaling perilous terrains earlier in the day.

A frostnight scion had spawned out of thin air, targetting the younger recruits in the back of the formation, and he wasted no time to place himself between the beast and his men.

Disregarding the fact that human flesh was not armor.

His black undershirt lays discarded on the floor—a pretense of giving you room to work despite his injuries being confined to his arms.

You don't complain.

"You call it recklessness..." his voice has a little rasp to it, heavy with fatigue engendered by months in the wild—an aura that dances between comforting warmth and an unmistakeable grit. It wraps around you and fills the space.

Just like everything about him.

"I call it valiance. I wouldn't be grandmaster of the knights of favonious if I was afraid of a little scratch here and there."

"Hopefully next time the 'little scratch' isn't you getting the entire arm ripped clean off." You respond with a shake of your head, eyes locked on the injury along his arm. Trying your hardest to focus on the final steps of the bandage, but also becoming acutely aware of the way his biceps strained against your touch, firm and defined in a way that made your heart tremble.

Everything about the man was worthy of attention. Attention that you generally schooled yourself into giving other things in his presence. Attention that now, in the absence of any distractions, had but a sole subject.

And just then, as if sensing the slightest shift in your demeanor, Varka leans in, allowing his shadow to fall over you.

His eyes lock in on your face.

The intensity behind them burns through icicles, searing enough it makes you want to avert your gaze.

But you hold his.

A challenge.

An attachment.

A slow smile pulls over Varka's lips, his body leaning in even more until you can almost feel the warmth radiating through him. Just a little closer, and he would probably hear your heart hammering against your ribcage.

"Regardless of what happens you'll always be here to patch me up, yeah?" your hands freeze around the bandage on his arm, no longer able to retain a semblance of focus. And he takes the opportunity to wrap deft fingers around them, bringing them to his lips with charm that threatens to throw you into a stupor. "Won't you, _____?"

Varka. Grandmaster of the knights of favonius. Knight of Boreas. The man who presently laid claim upon your heart; kicking the door down with unmitigated confidence and taken a seat like he belonged.

And you, enthralled by the force of nature that he was, let him.

How could anyone resist?

__________

I'm slowly getting back into playing genshin and I am thoroughly obsessed with Varka and his model! We need more male characters with his build.

Reblogs and Comments are appreciated (❁´◡`❁)

[lysarion]

╰ ON HIS KNEES ／ VARKA ⟢

SYNOPSIS: in which, varka drunkenly reveals the secret ingredient in getting you to forgive him.

𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 850 ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @millurie @axolotsofluv @tragedy-of-commons @al97649 -> come join the taglist here!

𖥔 WARNINGS: mentions of alcohol, wine, and drinking, cameo for diluc, and kaeya, varka is highkey drunk and incredibly embarrassing, established relationships, not fully proofread; expect mistakes!

♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ i genuinely didn't expect to like writing him this much. SOMEONE RELEASE ME

varka is not above knowing he's done something wrong. arguably, during arguments with the love of his life (re: you), it's always him that notices that he's crossed a line or has done something that will upset you—if not at that moment, then later when it culminates like a sleeping volcano.

it's something you're eternally grateful for. it's not every day a man has enough braincells loitering in his head to actually realize his or your mistakes without undermining the feelings of both parties. on the other hand, you are deeply, unfathomably embarrassed in varka's way of apologizing.

"please my love, i'm really, really sorry," he says with tears threatening to spill from the edges of his eyes, voice slurring, shoulders hiccupping, and cheeks flushed from the alcohol. you push away varka's face before he can nuzzle at your stomach with a chagrined huff. "you're ignoring meee. m'really sorry, 'kay? i promise i didn't mean for it to happen! i swear, love, please believe meeee."

you've made a fatal mistake of getting mad at him before getting home. because for all of varka's bulging muscles and intimidating frame, he knows how to beg. and he begs, quite loudly, for that matter.

you throw a pleading glance at diluc from the counter as varka's fellow knights huddle and holler for you to forgive their grandmaster. when the redhead turns his back on you, you throw a spoon in his direction and watch in satisfaction when it hits him square in the nape.

'this is your fault.' you mouth to him, still trying to prevent varka from swallowing you in a hug that'll suffocate you.

'i plead innocent.' diluc mouths back and returns to wiping down his already shining wine glass.

your brows twitch in annoyance at the lack of assistance, your patience growing thin when kaeya has the nerve to egg on varka's begging by saying he's not saying sorry enough. you kick his leg from under the table as a warning, while varka, ever the idiot that he is when he has too much alcohol running in his system, begins barking out even more apologies that threaten to turn you deaf by the morning.

"yeah, you're right kaeya!" varka slurs, dropping his head on your shoulders and wrapping both arms around your waist in a tight hug. "maybe i should get on my knees. that usually works when you're mad at me."

kaeya nearly spits out his drink at varka's words.

"varka, enough!" you chide, pushing his face away from your ear and watching the way his lips jut out into a pathetic pout, tears collecting at the corner of his eyes once more. your resolve crumbles a little at his expression—if you squint hard enough or maybe down a few more cups of beer, you'd see a pair of flattened ears atop his head and a tail thumping dejectedly between his legs.

you take a deep breath, rising from your seat, and throw a tight smile at kaeya's direction. "we'll be retiring for the night. thank you for the lovely company, kaeya."

"of course. anytime for my favorite couple!"

you want to gauge out kaeya's other eye when he winks at you. you don't, obviously. you'd rather not cause an even bigger scene than your lover, who has now resorted to using you as his walking stick when he stumbles over his own feet or trips over thin air. another facetious sigh escapes you when you sling one of varka's arms over your shoulders and he doesn't miss the opportunity to plant a chaste kiss on your cheek.

"what am i gonna do with you, varka…" you ask absentmindedly. taking measured steps as varka wordlessly allows you to lug him across the dimly lit streets of mondstatd.

"'m really sorry, [name]. please don't go find another man to marry," he begs, voice cracking by the end of his sentence.

"you're such an idiot," you snicker. "but you're my idiot. i'm not gonna go finding a new lover over something so silly, varka."

"but you're mad at me!"

"i'm worried. there's a difference."

"is it because i didn't go home when i told you i'd come back after work?" he asks in earnest.

you nod. "yes, i thought something bad had happened to you. i'd appreciate it if you tell me if you're going out drinking until dawn instead of pacing around the house for hours."

varka leans a little more of his weight on you when you reach your front porch. his nose nuzzles the side of your cheek, his growing stubble poking at your skin as you card your fingers into his already tousled hair.

"'m sorry, my love. i promise to do better next time. i swear it on my honor."

you let out an amused chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief as he swoops in to capture your lips into a kiss. when you part, he chases after you like a parched man in the desert. you boop his nose with a smile and usher him inside. "i know, big guy. i forgive you."

© 𝓵ysarion 2025 — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[baeshijima]

— bewitched

as the apprentice of none other than the founder of the hexenzirkel, alice, you are all too familiar with expecting the wildly unusual to be the norm. explosions which can destroy an entire city? you can handle. appearing on the other side of teyvat within a blink for some sight-seeing? you can handle. getting ganged up on by old hags and the anemo archon for your non-existent love life with a man you just met? um... what?

CONTAINS : fem!reader (no gender pronouns are used, but honestly just being a part of the hexenzirkel is indication enough when they are all. well. a faction of female witches.), 2k wc, fluff, love at first sight (varka), once again on my puppy/loser in love varka agenda, venti gets a kick out of it, the witches get a kick out of it, you are not getting a kick out of it

A/N : i swear on my life this was actually supposed to be two paragraphs long. like the concept of a fic. but now it is a fic. i hate it here. (also i'm so punny for that title i know hahaha.)

SERIES M.LIST

Your mentor informs you there will be a meeting soon with Barbatos and the current Grand Master of Mondstadt's Knights of Favonius. You don't think much of it — why would you when this clearly seems like some important business to be taken care of? Not to mention the fact you're positive such diplomacy has nothing to do with you. In fact, you've already planned how you'll be spending your newfound free time in your head!

At least, that was until you're faced with your ever so chipper mentor beaming at you with the watt of a thousand suns, her words, “Now, won't you be a dear and fetch our guests for us?” being the first and last thing you hear before your surroundings are warped.

Next thing you know, through bleary eyes and a disgruntled mind, you find yourself in an unfamiliar room. There's smoke in your lungs from Alice's questionable choice of a theatrical entrance, tickling the back of your throat and forcing a slew of coughs to be released. Really, you ought to have a word with your mentor about springing something as disorienting as teleportation on you with barely a word of warning. Not everything has to be flashy and come as a surprise—

“Oh? I didn't think you would be the one to come meet us!” Barbatos' familiar voice breaks your thoughts, and you're forced to realise that no, you're not alone, and yes, you did have an audience watching your embarrassing flounder. An audience of two, that is.

You recognise Barbatos, of course, and greet him with a nod. You've met him a handful of occasions, courtesy of Alice stringing you along for occasional meet-ups. Though you're willing to bet she just wanted an excuse to show you off in the new outfits she'd made for you on those occasions to someone other than the few available Hexenzirkel members. Regardless, he’s not all that bad of choice company during the times he strums his lyre and hums a song for you, melting away the stress which tends to build up when dealing with your eccentric mentor. (His love for alcohol is something you can handle in comparison.)

The second person isn’t someone you’re entirely familiar with, though you can deduce he must be the renowned Grand Master bold enough to seek an audience with the Hexenzirkel. Messy blond hair feathering across his forehead and falling atop his shoulders, eyes which rival the clearest of skies, and a build expected for someone of his calibre, you can say with full confidence he definitely is younger than you were expecting, what with the stories you’ve heard of his feats and his accomplishments. (Maybe all the teasing looks and pronounced smile Alice always wore when bringing him up to you was just her hinting he was closer to your age than you’d guessed?)

You offer him an acknowledging nod; he merely stares at you, gaping. Tilting your head to the side, you observe with a raised brow as he continues to stare at you, unmoving. Actually, has he even blinked? Turning to the Archon, you deadpan at his mischievous expression mirroring that of your mentor. At least he seems to be getting a kick out of the situation.

Well, whatever. All three of you have somewhere to be, and you are more than ready to leave post-haste.

With that in mind, you step towards them. An incantation is spilled from your lips with familiarity, glowing triangular patterns emerging beneath the three of you as the spell reaches its completion. Then, within a blink, your bodies are transported out of the office and into a meeting room where the present Hexenzirkel await.

Before making your way to the side (because for some reason Alice insists on you being present, the other witches also more willing for your presence than you’d like), you give a swift bow to the two you’ve teleported. Even with your back turned as you walk, the sensation akin to a pair of eyes following you remains. By the time you find a suitable spot away from the meeting of some all-too powerful people, you lean back against one of the pillars and wait for the meeting to be over.

You have to give it him, that Varka. He certainly has a way with words, even managing to charm the witches with his easy-going personality and boisterous laugh. You wouldn’t have thought it from you initial meeting, what with how still and awkward he appeared, though maybe your sudden appearance just shocked him to the point of being rendered speechless?

Regardless, you can see why he is such an important figurehead. His conditions are made clear, points thorough yet straight to the point, and he can easily navigate negotiations which juggle multiple demands. Most importantly, you can tell he cares deeply for Mondstadt and its people, to the point of setting up this Tripartite Conference to ensure Mondstadt’s safety in their time of need. Fortunately for him, such displays of love for humanity is something Alice is a total sucker for, and his fair terms and conditions seem more than enough for Nicole and Barbeloth’s thoughts.

The conclusion comes as you expected the moment he spoke his first words: the Hexenzirkel agree to help Mondstadt in their time of need. Really, someone who has such a way with words to the point of swaying even the most stubborn of witches you know is a feat in and of itself. He could probably talk his way out of the most perilous of fights with just a meagre wag of his tongue! Actually, how many incidents has he already talked his way out of by now?

You don’t get to dwell on the matter for much longer when Alice suddenly calls you over. Despite your foreboding skepticism at her twinkling eyes and eager mannerisms, you merely sigh before making your way to her side. They’ve already stood up from their seats, gathered together in a loose group as they (read: Alice, Barbatos, and Varka) chat amongst themselves.

“I’m sure you have already met from earlier, but this is my darling apprentice!”

Hands settled atop your shoulders, you’re thrust forward into Varka’s direct line of sight. You barely have time to form something close to a proper sentence, let alone think. So here you are, sputtering as words refuse to cooperate under the sudden attention. It certainly doesn’t help when Alice is giggling behind you, all-too pleased with whatever it is you’re supposed to be a part of, nor the fact Nicole and Barbeloth appear to be rather invested in you making a fool of yourself in front of them. Barbatos himself seems a little too smug for your liking, noting how his eyes crinkled with mirth shift between you, Alice, and the Grand Master he accompanied.

Speaking of the man, for all his earlier bravado when negotiating with the scariest people you know, you would think him to be a completely different person. Much like when you first appeared in that office, Varka just stares at you — wide-eyed and gaping. It’s almost comical the way someone of his stature appears so unassuming; almost. If not for the situation at hand, perhaps you would have found amusement at the blatant contrast.

But no, being the subject of close attention where eyes of varying levels of intrigue watch you be out of your element doesn’t give you room to feel that amusement, let alone gather your bearings.

Alice gives a warm squeeze of your shoulders, and you can practically hear the teasing smile seep through her voice. “Why don’t you introduce yourself, my dear? You know our new freind’s name, but he doesn’t know yours. I’m sure he would love to know your name, fufu.”

Gosh, you feel like a little kid being forced to make friends with the kid of your mother’s friend; not an adult who can make your own decisions.

Well, whatever. May as well get your introduction over with.

“My name is [Name], an apprentice witch under Alice.” If not for your mentor’s sparkling stare burning into the back of your head, or the two other witches’ very apparent interest in the situation, you would have stopped there. Unfortunately, you know you won’t be able to get away. So with another sigh, you begrudgingly continue, trying to focus anywhere but his starstruck expression. “It’s nice to meet the Grand Master who has made such a name for himself. I’m sure you must have worked hard to get to this point, and—”

Without warning, he drops to his knees. Eyes oozing nothing but earnest compassion, he speaks to you for the first time, voice warm as it carries the heavy weight of his sincerity.

“Yes, I am single. Yes, I will happily spend the rest of my life with you.”

Even the drop of a pin could shatter this new-found silence. Perhaps not quite a pin, but a tinkling explosion shatters it instead. Clouds of white smoke instantly fill the vicinity and drown out your vision. You still have enough wits about you to sense the presence of the Hexenzirkel witches, which also means you can’t detect the two visitors’ presence.

In other words: your hasty teleportation succeeded.

And sure, it’s not your best work, but conjuring a teleportation spell without any time to recite the appropriate incantations was the best you could do in that situation. Out of sight, out of mind as they say!

(You can only hope they end up back in his office. Actually? Scratch that. You hope they end up somewhere like Starfell Lake. Or a random location in Liyue. Or Natlan. Or Snezhnaya.)

When the clouds of smoke settle, the quiet beginning to creep in, something akin to dread stabbing your gut tells you this… incident, so to speak, is only just the beginning of a rather tiresome matter. That instinct solidifies the moment you’re suddenly the object of interest for these old witches, their teasing smiles and far too amused expressions already making you want to run away and hide in a corner. Even then you doubt you would be able to hide from them for long, so you exhale a resigned sigh of defeat as you feel your vitality wither away at their enthusiastic theory-crafting.

As you’re caught in the middle of these meddlesome hags trying to have a say in your very much non-existent love life, Varka remains stock-still in the middle of his office — very much dazed and lost in thoughts with a thoroughly amused Archon-slash-bard staring at him all smug. Much like his position prior to the abrupt cloud of smoke and slightly disgruntling sensation of being teleported (which he barely registered the full effects of amid his stupor), the Grand Master remains kneeled. In the middle of his office. No thoughts running through his mind other than the shocked expression you bestowed him before it quickly morphed into something akin to morbid (-ly adorable, in his perspective) embarrassment, only to be obscured by curls of smoke.

“Barbatos,” Varka eventually says, features taking on a serious tone. Venti merely widens his grin, already knowing where this conversation is headed just from the unfamiliar expression residing on the ever so laid-back Grand Master.

“Yes, Varka?”

Turning with a look so scarily serious, one none the wiser to the situation would think there to be some dire strategic talks occurring. Venti merely stifles a giggle, only to burst out into full-blown laughter as Varka’s following words are delivered with utmost solemnity.

“I think I may be in love. Horrendously so.”

(And if you suddenly find yourself appearing in a puff of smoke for the umpteenth time in front of an all-too eager to please Grand Master you’re increasingly beginning to get sick of seeing by the day with pesky witches and a nosy drunkard of an Archon on your tail? Well, that’s a story for another day. Probably.)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33