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”Yes?” “I do.”

Thought this little thing up when I saw mewnbuns post about accepting a blorbo’s silliest proposal after they’d proposed a few times in the past.

Varka x reader (sfw)

word count: 2164

cw: none that I can think of. mentions of alcohol because well…it’s Varka. Reader has some reservations about marriage.

((Be gentle with me, I’m not used to writing him;; divider here))

Varka doesn’t get blackout drunk often. Sure, he’ll get pretty tipsy, but the events of last night are a little more than just blurry.

Thankfully, you’re an angel. Water’s been placed on the bedside table for him and a pack of pills that will soothe the throbbing in his temples sits beside it. His hand pats at the table, feeling for the pills as he groans, briefly overshadowing the humming coming from the kitchen.

It’s a song from the Angel’s Share during last night’s entertainment; he can clearly manage to remember that at least. Memories bubble up slow and thick like mud, but in his hunt for the medicine, he catches streaks of black on his palm. Flipping his hand over with the pill pack finally acquired, he sits up and reads a single word.

Yes.

Yes?

Yes.

‘Yes’ what, exactly?

He looks at his other hand just in case the other says No in bold letters, as if it could’ve been some sort of weird drinking game he’d played last night. There’s no sign of any other words though, and all he can glean is that you must’ve written it given the fact that it’s on his right hand.

His nose catches the scent of food as he perks up. Sausage, and maybe bacon too by the sizzling pops he hears. Eggs, and gods above, he hopes coffee is in the mix too, his body in desperate need for caffeine.

The summer sun beams through the window over his bed, leaving him to believe it’s much later than a Grand Master should be rising, but although a few windows are open, he doesn’t hear knocking or the stern calls of his name and title from anyone outside his small house tucked in a corner of Mondstadt.

Soft footsteps pad on softer wood, aged for years and lived on for more time than even he’s been alive. You peek in from the doorway of the bedroom, your eyes meeting his own as he finishes downing his medicine.

“Morning, Dove,” he grins, the pun making you snort as you walk in to sit on the bed, your boyfriend curling his body around yours as an arm wraps around your middle, thicker than a whopperflower vine and needier too.

“Dove is a new one. Is that a me only thing, or do you go around calling just anyone sweet bird names?” you ask wryly, watching his face light up. The laugh from him dies as quickly as it comes, more of a bark than anything. He taps his chin in thought, dramatic even this early in the day.

His voice is softens now, flirty as he nudges himself somehow closer. You can smell the sweet scent of Windrest flowers lingering on him from the bedsheets, something new, you note before your attention goes to him again as he speaks. “Only you. Unless you hate it, in which case I’ll toss it in the old junk drawer in my head and find a better one,” Varka drawls, looking up at you for a breath. “Mind tellin’ me what the deal is with my hand though?”

“Oh no, I think I’ll let you figure it out yourself. Maybe breakfast will help jog that memory of yours,” you say, a hand to your chin as if lost in thought, “If you don’t remember by lunch I’ll send word to Jean that your ‘terrible illness’ has miraculously disappeared, and that you’re raring to go back to the stack of paperwork you only half finished last night,” you muse, cocking a brow at him.

“C’mon! Not even a hint?” He pouts, though it’s not as charming as he thinks it is. Or maybe it is, and you just won’t let it show. Hungover, still maybe a quarter asleep Varka isn’t as good at reading you as he usually is. Still, you’re merciless in his eyes as you shake your head while pulling his green comforter up on his hip, just high enough to make him decent. You’d dragged him home in the early hours of the morning, both of you giggling like teenagers as you stumbled into the house and he promptly stripped, a trail of clothes having made it from the living room, down the hallway, and eventually all the way up to the bed which still has a stray sock hanging on the bedpost.

“Oh c’mon you old wolf, I know you got it in ya,” you tease, watching his expression and anticipating the perfect moment where his ocean blue eyes will register the remembrance of events that led to such a simple word marked on him. “Well, it’ll come to you. Eventually. Now unhand me before the eggs burn,” you chide, your hands prying his arm off, and of course the only reason he lets you go without complaint is because of the kiss you give him after you hop off the bed.

Once you’re out of the room, you look at your own hand with Varka’s messy scrawl. A simple ‘I do’ makes you both smile and stirs a small pot of frustration in your chest.

Meanwhile, Varka’s sat up in bed, staring at the word ‘yes’ like it’s an adversary. Surely bards won’t be able to write prose about the great Knight of Boreas getting so drunk he forgot playing what he assumes was a word game. Barbatos might though, just to tease him.

He retraces his steps so to speak, from the beginning. You’d met him at the bar early in the evening - check. He tried asking Diluc for the second time this week if he’d be interested in working with the knights and got rejected again - also check. He was letting you slip him a tankard full of water while that new bard was playing, even though you’d told him it was dandelion wine and he pretended to believe you, as goes the ritual for a night out together. That’s where he starts pushing through the haze until it clicks like pieces of a puzzle he’d scattered himself.

A few hours prior

“Aren’t you a sight? I’d look at you all night ‘n day if I could,” Varka had slurred, his head laying on the bar table. Your thumb brushes his bangs back, letting you see the crinkly lines near his eyes that his smile causes, little temporary veins of happiness you definitely have kissed before.

“Oh really? I think you might already do that,” you’d said, amused at how completely smitten he looks when he gets like this. Sure, sober Varka is equally lovestruck the moment you enter the room, but he melts like a puddle when he drinks with you much to his embarrassment, especially on the occasion that he does something too bold trying to impress you.

“Yeah, but I wanna look more. Will you marry me this time? I can look at you at home every day if you’d just move in with me. You liked my bed the other night,” he adds, sulking and trying to continue those thoughts as if he’s a lawyer building a case, all while his finger inches across the table to tap at your own.

Your left ring finger is empty, though if given the choice, he would’ve had the ring in his jacket pocket taking up that space in a heartbeat. “If ya marry me, I’ll carry ya every day just like you ask me to sometimes, and- and! I’ll quit drinking!” He scrambles, leaning on his chair almost too close your way as he tries to give a most serious expression, all while hiccuping softly.

You can’t help but laugh at the last part, because as insistent as he seems about it, you’d never ask him to do that. It’s part of him in the way that his job is, and truly he isn’t so bad at self control that you’d need him to stop either. You can see he’s torn, because making you laugh is one of his favorite things, but also you haven’t given him an answer, and he may be starting to rethink the ‘no drinking’ thing.

He’d proposed a few times in the past, the first time scaring you, though not because it wasn’t a good proposal. It was perfect in execution, you could tell he’d planned it extensively, and you did love him almost too much at times. The nagging fear from that same love caused you to take a step back the moment he’d asked, and the tears and apology that followed from you still make his chest ache when he remembers it. Something in your mind screams caution at giving yourself away like that, even though you know you’d be even happier than you are currently if you could be with him all the time.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, I just don’t know if I’d like to get married right now,” you’d sniffled, and of course he understood. It prompted a discussion afterward, and the consensus was that it wasn't a complete rejection. You also told him you wouldn’t mind him trying again, as long as he didn’t mind you turning him down again if you still had reservations.

He’d then asked in a handful of other ways. Once while you were mid battle, the high of it making him blurt it out in the moment. You’d have said yes if it weren’t for you taking a hit after being distracted from the sheer bluntness of the moment. One bloody nose and sprained wrist later and he’d sworn he’d never propose during a fight again.

The rest of the proposals ranged from overly romantic to tender and sometimes silly, and after each one you deliberated on marriage and all its parts. Of course, that was after you’d followed every ‘not right now’ with a slew of ‘I love you’s and kisses on his cheeks as if to soften the blow. For Varka, it worked like a charm, and each proposal somehow whittled down that fear inside you, chipping it away after all the times he’d accepted that ‘no’ without question and bounced back, continuing to love you through it.

This time, not in the heat of the moment, but in the silence between you in an otherwise clamoring bar, you’d decide it’s time to stop running from it.

“Varka, I-,” Before you could say yes though, you notice he’s dozing, his eyes still watching you as if you’re the most interesting thing in the world even when you’re stuck in your own head.

You sigh before asking Diluc for a marker and write your answer on his palm, hoping he’ll remember this conversation in the morning.

And now he does in fact remember. He also remembers your breath on his ear as you said it to him despite how far off in outer space he’d been. “Yes Varka, I will marry you,” you’d whispered, and he’d stirred from his dozing just long enough to scribble down ‘I do’ on your hand as if it were binding even without the ring and ceremony.

You’re plating the food now as you hear a hard thump and the smacking of bare feet making their way down the hall. It takes great pains for Varka to catch himself before he smacks face first into the door, though he leans oh so casually against the wall once he’s righted himself.

“So…that was a yes?” he asks, holding his hand up. He’s almost desperate. Okay he is kind of desperate. He’s hoping this ink on his skin is proof of your agreement that you can in fact live the rest of your lives together, even if that’s what he’d intended to do with you if you hadn’t wanted to marry officially.

He’s thinking about you both old and wrinkled and arguing over how much meat he puts on the grocery list, or even before that, adding an extra room in the house for Razor to stay over in when he feels like it. Weddings, and maybe babies, and anniversaries, and him getting to call you mine all over again proudly and loudly to people just because he can…all those things rush through his head as he looks at you like you’re his purpose as much as knighthood is. He’ll be known for his title as grandmaster only half the time if he can help it. The other half will be him as your husband, plain and simple and loving you.

“Yes. Very much yes, and I do,” you say, lifting your own hand to show him the words he wrote, and although there’s still dwindling nerves on the matter, you think it might be more anticipation than dread as you hand him the green velvet ring box from his jacket pocket. His hands have never been so shaky as they are when he’s slipping the ring on your finger, though once it’s on, snug and perfect, it very rarely comes off.

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