age : 20+
pronouns : she/her
current concern : holding space for soft launch's ch 14
CARRD
TAGS : (reorganizing my tags)
# ☕︎ ninas.coffeetalks - for general idle chatter
# ☕︎ ninas.vents - somethings i need to rant on / kept under the cut
# 🎮.nina.plays: [game] - thoughts about the games i play
# ☕︎ nina.coffeewriting - for fics, drabbles and a like
# 🤝. moots - interaction with my mutuals
I tried writing some lighter things, but right now I can only pull out some angst. I hope you enjoy and my requests are open, let me know what you want to read!
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You're going through a depressive slump and having a hard time getting out of bed, showering, or even just existing. Each of the LADs men try their best to comfort you in these uncharted territories.
Content Warning: Suicide attempt in Rafayel's POV
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Xavier:
It was the third day in a row you had called out of work. The third day since you had showered. You couldn't remember the last time you ate, let alone the last time you got out of bed. Staring into your room you saw the laundry piled in the corner, you knew the stack of dishes in the sink was too high, that everything was more than a little messy, but you couldn't bring yourself to get up. The world was just too heavy today.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door and the sound was astoundingly loud in the silence that your apartment had been.
"Hey," a voice called out, Xavier. "You haven't been answering your phone, no one at the Hunters has seen you for days, Tara is worried. Are you okay?" He asked and you could hear the genuine hurt in his voice from you ignoring him.
You don't answer.
"If you don't open the door, I'm coming in." Xavier commanded. He had your spare key, and even if he hadn't you knew he would break the door down.
"Go away," you call out, your voice weak and rough from not having been used. You heard the lock click softly and the door push open. "Please, just leave me alone," you begged as you buried yourself deeper in the blankets.
Xavier didn't listen as you heard his footsteps padding softly towards you. You didn't look up, but you could feel his presence in your bedroom, almost as if he were glowing.
You don't know how long you hid in the blankets, how long he stood leaning in the doorway watching you. It could have been minutes, hours even, before you finally pull your head out from the covers and dare a look at him. He was watching you carefully, in his eyes there was no judgment or disgust, only concern and love. And this was too much for you, you looked away rapidly, ashamed of the grease in your hair, ashamed of the mess in your room, ashamed that you couldn't even pull yourself out of bed.
Once again, you heard his foot steps coming even closer, and you felt the familiar dip his weight caused in your bed. You rolled as far as you could away from him and he didn't try to pull you in.
"Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible, "please, let me help." His voice almost broke.
Finally you turned to face him and took a hesitant breath, trying to find the words to say.
"Sometimes..." you start, twirling your hair, unable to make eye contact. "Sometimes it feels like everything, anything is too much. That my arms can't hold me together, that I can't do anything..." your voice shakes as tears form in your eyes. You wrap your arms around yourself, holding on, desperately trying to keep yourself whole. "That if I can't hold myself together, then I just shouldn't.." your voice breaks and silent, violent sobs take over your body.
Xavier watches you for a moment before asking, "Can I touch you?" His voice is gently and you give a slight nod. He reached over slowly, as if testing your reaction, before pulling you into his arms.
“If your arms can’t hold you, use mine,” he murmured, voice steady. “I’ll be here. When everything is too much, I’ll keep you together.”
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Zayne:
Zayne had heard you were sick and as soon as his shift at Akso ended, he made sure to get everything you might need. Warm jasmine tea with honey, his favorite egg drop soup, tablets for runny nose and cough, a cozy blanket to wrap you in, and a new thermometer to check your temperature. He was prepared for whatever illness plagued you, prepared to get you right back into tiptop shape. He was not prepared for the version of you that opened the door when he knocked.
You had barely cracked the door open enough for him to see you. Your hair was tied in a messy bun, your oversized hoodie was stained and the cuffs frayed. You didn't say a word as your stepped away from the door letting Zayne inside. You slumped back onto the sofa, and stared at the wall, staring at nothing.
"I heard you weren't feeling well, that you called out of work today," Zayne started as he entered your apartment and set his bags on the kitchen counter. "I brought some things to help you feel better." Zayne flitted about the kitchen, pouring soup into a bowl, preparing a cup of tea and came to set everything on the coffee table in front of you.
Zayne pulled out the thermometer, holding it up as if expecting you to argue. You just shrugged, not even lifting your eyes. That was when it hit him, the pale of your skin wasn't from fever, your sluggishness wasn't from being ill. This was something more, something heavier.
He set the thermometer down without a word, his jaw tight as he reevaluated you. He offered you the mug of tea. "Just sip. You don’t have to talk, don't have to acknowledge me, but please, just do this one thing"
You took it, hands trembling faintly, and the warmth seeped into your palms. He watched you for a long moment, then kneeled beside the couch, level with your eyes. You looked away immediately, a faint blush coloring your cheeks as you felt the warmth of his breath so close to your face. You raised the mug to your face as if you could hide behind it.
"I know I can't heal this." He started slowly, "I know I can't just give you some medication and have you be cured." He watched you as you slowly took a sip of the tea and turned your gaze in his direction. "But I know I can be here, for however long it takes, for whatever you need, I can be here with you."
He didn’t push for conversation after that. He just sat with you in the silence, steady, his presence like a shield against the weight pressing down on you.
Finishing the cup didn’t fix everything, but it made the rest feel a little less impossible.
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Rafayel:
You were at the beach with Rafayel, and if you were being honest with yourself, it was the last place you wanted to be. The sun was too bright, the air too warm, the sand uncomfortable under your feet. You hadn't wanted to do anything today but Rafayel all but dragged you out of your home, rambling about fun, fish, and going home.
So, here you stood at the edge of the water, feeling the cold wake washing over your feet, wondering what it would be like to be swept away. Rafayel had gone to get ice cream on the boardwalk, and you had been left with your own thoughts.
You had spent the last couple days locked in your room; at first everything had felt too heavy, too much to deal with, but now, now you felt nothing. The sea looked endless and cold, and the idea of melting into the nothingness you saw seemed easier than trying to hold yourself together.
Without thinking, you stepped forward. Then another step. The water climbed from your ankles to your knees, as the sun reflected on the water, warmth in contrast to the frigid sea. The next wave came harder than the rest, crashing against your chest, and a cold, strange relief fluttered through you. With a few more steps, you wouldn't have to be anymore, with just a few more steps you could be free.
Another wave crashed into you, even hard this time, knocking you over. As the water overtook you, you could hear a shout, "Cutie, look out!"
As the waves continued to pull you under, you closed your eyes, embracing the chill of the water. But suddenly there was a warmth in contrast, and you felt arms circling around you, pulling you to the surface.
The ocean pulled at your legs again, and you stumbled, salt stinging in your mouth. For a heartbeat you thought he might let go, let the tide have you, but his grip only tightened. He carried you toward the shore with a strength that you didn't know he possessed, placing you down onto the wet sand where you coughed and spat and tried to breathe.
He was on his knees in front of you then, soaked and frantic, his typical smile gone from his face. “What the hell were you thinking?” His voice was rough, a sound that was more hurt than angry. When you didn’t answer, he buried his face in his hands for a moment like he couldn’t quite believe it. He looked up, eyes wide and terrified. “Please, please don’t do that to me. Don’t make me pull you out of the water wondering if you meant to come back up.” His hand hovered over your shoulder like he wanted to touch you but was afraid of breaking whatever was still holding you together.
You wanted to say it was an accident, that you’d slipped, that the tide had surprised you but you also didn't want to lie. Instead the words you couldn’t keep inside came spilling out of you in quiet, rushed whispers. He drew a slow breath, grabbed his towel from nearby, and wrapped it around your shoulders without hesitation. “Listen to me,” he said, softer now. “You are not a weight you must drown. I will not let you do this all alone. If you’re hurting like this, if it ever gets that bad again, you tell me. I’ll stay with you. I'll do whatever you need until it’s less heavy.”
He stayed there, holding you close until you stopped shivering and your clothes started to dry. When you pressed your face to his chest against his towel, he held you close. “You’re stuck with me,” he muttered his lips pressed into your hair. “Whether you like it or not, I am not leaving. Ever.” It wasn’t a promise to fix everything, but it was a promise that he would not let the tide take you without him throwing his arms into the water after you.
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Sylus:
You knew Sylus was going to be gone for a few weeks, something about a weapons deal abroad, so you took this time to hide in Onychinus's base. Away from running into Xavier in your apartment lobby, away from seeing Tara at the Hunter's Association. Away from everything.
At first, the silence was comforting. The walls here were thick, the shadows familiar. But days passed, and you found yourself sinking into them, like you were becoming part of the shadows themselves. You stopped turning on lights. You stopped counting down the days till he returned. Eventually you stopped wandering the halls, instead you lay still in the dark, not sleeping, not waking, barely holding onto a thread of existence.
Mephisto was the one who noticed. Sylus had sent him to check in on you when you had missed a video call from him. He found you sitting on the floor of Sylus’s bedroom, knees drawn up, eyes glassy. Without another word, he vanished.
You didn’t know how long it was before you heard the heavy footsteps echoing down the hall, but your heart sank as Sylus appeared in the doorway. He wasn’t supposed to be back yet. His expression unreadable as he took in the sight of you crumpled on the floor.
He stood there, silently. Then he crouched down in front of you. His hand reaching out uncertain before pulling back. "Kitten," he muttered, "what happened to you?" His voice was low, and laced with concern.
You wanted to turn away from him, but his ruby eyes held you in place. “Why didn’t you call me?” he asked. "I would have been here in a heartbeat sweetie."
You opened your mouth but no sound came out. It was easier to stay silent, safer. You wanted nothing more than for the darkness to swallow you whole.
Sylus leaned in closer “Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t fade away.” He exhaled, there was clear frustration cutting through the softness. “If you can’t fight it right now, then let me do it for you. You know I've always been ready to fight for you.”
And then, he finally sat beside you, his presence anchoring you in the dark. He didn’t touch you, not yet, but he stayed. A steady weight against the emptiness.
For the first time in days, you felt something again, you felt seen.
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Caleb:
You had grown up with Caleb, spent every minute of your childhood with him, and as you grew up and saw each other less, you were still always texting, always calling, always together. So the moment you didn't text back, he knew something was wrong.
At first he gave you space. A few hours, maybe your phone had died while out on a mission, then a day, maybe you hadn't brought a charger. But when your silence stretched into next night, he was at your door without hesitation. He knocked once, twice, and when you didn’t answer, he used the key he knew you kept under the mat.
The apartment was dark. The air stagnant. He found you curled up on the couch, staring at the TV that wasn't on, clothes rumpled. He didn’t tease like he normally would, instead he let out a soft “Hey, Pips,” and moved quietly toward the kitchen.
The smell hit him first when he opened the fridge, milk soured, vegetables wilted, containers of food starting to mold over. His heart ached. You hadn’t been eating. The sink was spotless too, not from cleaning, but because there weren’t any dishes used in days.
Caleb exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright,” he muttered under his breath, “That's enough.”
Before you could protest not that you had the energy to try, he was already pulling out a pan, setting ingredients he had brought from his own place onto the counter. Braised pork. Your favorite. The smell of garlic began to fill the apartment, and you lifted your head, towards the sound of the oil sizzling in the pan.
When he finally set the steaming bowl down in front of you, he crouched to meet your eyes. “Just try a bite,” he urged gently. “Not for me, for you.”
Your hands shook as you picked up the chopsticks. The first bite made your throat tighten, unfamiliar with motions of swallowing. When the flavor hit, warm and familiar, something inside you cracked.
Tears pricked your eyes as you whispered, “I don’t deserve this.”
Caleb frowned, sliding into the seat beside you. “Don’t start with that, Pipsqueak. You deserve to eat. You deserve to be here. You deserve every damn thing in this world, even when you don’t feel it.” He nudged the bowl closer to you. “So eat. And let me be here with you.”
Caleb stayed right there, steady and unshakable, making sure you ate every bite. Making sure you remembered you weren’t alone.
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Thank you so much for reading! I know they aren't all super even in length, but when inspiration hits, it hits hard for the boys!
Imagine Sylus whose heart breaks anytime he finds out you didn't buy something you like because of a tight budget.
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We all know he loves to spoil you but he really gets that weird heartache anytime you tell him casually about the times where money limits you.
He knows you are capable of affording your own stuff, and that you don't want him to buy you expensive things just like that. You'll say "I don't want you think that I'm with you cause of the things you give me" or "Sylus it's not a big deal, we could have used that money to buy necessary things like groceries" and he almost wants to scoff right at your face.
How could you deny yourself the good stuff? You work hard, are a literal angel on earth and you more often than not put others needs before your own. Hell, you even give more presents to him than to yourself.
That's why he learned not to ask when buying something for you. He takes quick glances at your phone screen, that item you'd been eyeing for weeks on display for Sylus to memorize while you look at the same picture with a pinched brow, waiting for that discount that was honestly never gonna come.
In a few days a package is at your door and Sylus couldn't be more happy seeing you smile and giggle the moment you open the box.
Another day he notices the tiny pout of your lips and couldn't help himself from asking you "What's the matter kitten?" He says putting his polished gun down to pay full attention to you. At first you are reclutant to tell him, a silly matter making you sulk was a bit pathetic in your mind, but you couldn't help the sour feeling, you really wanted a cute expensive pair of shoes and when your savings finally made it to cover the price of it, the shoes weren't available anymore.
Deception still lingers in your eyes when you say it's fine, so of course Sylus can't have that. He is gonna search in every website for those damn shoes behind your back. And when he finally finds it and checks the quality of it, he is annoyed with the people who had the nerve to charge that much for an ass quality thing.
You deserve much better, and Sylus is so down to find you a customized pair of shoes, something unique and exquisite just for you. Needless to say, you forgot the ugly feeling when you tried on his gift.
He doesn't want your pretty head to worry about something so trivial for him as money, nevertheless he still notices every time your head starts doing the math, keeping mental note on how much things cost and how much he's spent on you. He hates it, and he is gonna kiss you every time just so you lose count.
He wants to spoil you but more than that he wants to give you something that makes you happy.
He wants you to feel completely capable of anything, for you to not worry about buying something for yourself, about wanting stuff, about surviving when you, out of everyone he knows, should be living.
He knows more than anyone that money gives you freedom, maybe that's why he insists on providing for you, saying "Kitten I can take care of anything if you want me to, you just have to say yes"
When you say no he'll respect it even if it hurts him a little, however he still treats you something fancy when you eventually figure your financial matters out. He says it's a present for being his smart and hardworking sweetheart, and you can't help but melt in the praise.
And when you do accept his help, he is the happiest man alive and will take care of any expenses you might have. He doesn't want you worried ever again.
With him you don't have to worry about making it to the end of the month, you don't need to think about debts, you don't have to choose between what you need and what you want, you can be greedy and choose both.
Sylus is a giver, whether it's money, material stuff, support, company, a confident or a lover he is happy to spoil you rotten, you could totally take everything from him and he will thank you in the process.
The truth is, you're only selfish when it comes to him. Everything could disappear in an instant, but he's the only thing you'd give anything to keep.
The only one you refuse to let go.
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a/n: Not me fantasizing about financial stability.
Inspired by some custom made heels I saw online and found out that they are made in my country, but the company is not selling them anymore :( (not that I have the budget to buy them but I wanted the possibility of it)
sylus x fem! reader. [ est relationship ]. cw: reader had a troubled childhood, implied childhood abuse (nothing too graphic tho dw!), sylus being the gentle giant he is. notes: i cried while writing this, so yea it's pretty self indulgent ^_^ w.c: 2.5k. mlist.
being in a relationship with sylus was great — too great actually, it sometimes felt like you don't deserve him, that you're one mistake away from losing him, no matter how much he reassures you otherwise.
with all of sylus' wealth, you barely have to lift a finger to do anything. does that sometimes make you feel guilty? yes. does sylus kiss you stupid until your brain shuts up? also yes.
cooking was always taken care of, whether by a chef or sylus himself. sure you'd help sylus when he cooked, but nothing too serious.
which is why when you decide to cook for the first time, all on your own— a recipe you'd been eyeing for a while now, your mind as always, starts coming up with all the possible way you could potentially mess up and ruin everything. you know it's not rational, you know sylus won't be angry at you if you do happen to mess up — the only time he has been angry with you, if you can even call it that because it was more like gentle reprimanding honestly, was when you were being unkind to yourself.
it is because of his understanding nature you even worked up the courage to do something new, you can't backup now, at least that's what you tell yourself as you desperately try to shake away any past experiences where your creative, curious endeavors lead to a very unhappy man — it lead to you feeling worthless, like you've wasted ingredients and time. and in some cases it lead to more uglier stuff that you'd rather not think about.
sure, you read each line of the recipe ten times, staring at the words like they owe you money but you're not giving up, not today. you cut the vegetables, put them in the pot and season them as instructed. you follow the instructions for the meat and other components of the dish as well.
let it cook for at least ten minutes, you read again and again until your brain stops telling you that you missed something important.
as you wipe the counter clean and wash the used utensils, your mind starts to race once again, did i even put in salt? i think i did, wait did i actually put the said amount. what if they mistyped the amount needed.
endless questions swarm your brain that you know deep down the answers to but unfortunately your mind is quite stubborn, your biggest opp if you will.
once you're satisfied with the look of the dish, making sure it's properly cooked through, you very carefully grab a glass dish to plate the fresh food in. it smells good, even you can admit that.
you feel nervous as the clock ticks, just a few more minutes before sylus arrives. just a few more minutes before he'll eat the food you've prepared, just thinking about it makes you feel all queasy and scared.
the question rings in your head, what if he doesn't like it?
the minute you start thinking of just throwing the food away and leaving no evidence behind, you hear the door open and the familiar footsteps of none other than your lover. he's back.
"sweetheart," he calls out for you in that soft voice of his that makes you melt, but right now it just makes you more nervous. when sylus opens the door to the kitchen, he can't help but smile, "it smells good in here," he muses out loud, his crimson eyes landing on the steaming dish. you know he's put two and two together, he's the leader of onychinus after all, but he's still waiting for you to take the lead — just like he always does.
"well...i uh made something."
"you made me dinner?" he asks, clearly very happy.
"i hope it's edible," you nervously chuckle, although you're sure the man who has half of your soul knows exactly what you're feeling but regardless you push through all the nerves and bubbling anxiety, serving the food to both of you in plates.
"thank you darling," he kisses your hand before bringing it back down onto the table, holding it gently. you want to tell him to stop, stop giving you so much grace for making something that's probably medicore at best but you hold your tongue.
you hold your breath as he digs in, your mind tells you to flee before something bad happens, before he shows how disappointed he is. but sylus keeps holding your hand as he take the first bite, eyes closing as he chews before finally swallowing.
"i hope there's enough, so i can go for seconds," he tells you.
"sylus, it's okay you can spit it out."
he squeezes your hand, eyebrows gently furrowing, "and why would i do that sweetie?" he asks.
"because it's bad." it probably is, you stare at your untouched plate.
"it's not," his voice takes on that slightly firm tone, "nothing you put your heart into is bad. it's amazing and don't think i didn't notice that heart shaped garnish," he chuckles, eyes trained on yours that are casted down on your plate.
you want to look at him, tell him you're glad he likes it. his praise fills your heart up with joy and warms you up from the inside — but you know the tears are going to start flowing when you meet his patient, loving eyes.
but you know he'll wait.
he always does. because sylus is the most patient man on earth, especially when it comes to you.
"there she is," he gently wipes the tears that do fall when you look at him, "i love you," he whispers before kissing your lips, pulling away only to peck your nose.
"i love you too," you wipe away any lingering tears, suddenly feeling a little shy under his gaze, this man is infuriatingly patient.
sylus then feeds you a bite from his plate, his hand never letting yours go.
and just like that he'd healed a part of you that had been crushed and left to hurt for years.
so when sylus catches you in the kitchen after that, all on your own and much more comfortable with the idea of messing up and failing — because that's what makes us human, it's a natural part of life, he can't help but smile and take a seat on one of the stools near the counter, waiting to try whatever it is that you're making.
you've gotten so used to just hiding parts of yourself that can stir up any sort of conflict, no matter how small it may be — it feels almost wrong to speak about them out loud.
so when your lover catches you looking stuff up to buy on your laptop, particularly for sewing, he's intrigued.
and that's how you two end up here, sitting on the couch which has a lot of space but of course he sits right next to you — close enough that you can feel him breathing, his shoulder pressed against yours. the laptop sits on your lap, momentarily forgotten.
"i never knew you wanted to get into sewing," sylus speaks softly, his thumb running small soothing circles over your knuckles.
well how could he? you never told him.
you take a deep breath. "i never got to try it out," you start, "and i don't want to waste your money," a familiar lump starts to form in your throat, ready to burst any moment now.
"you can't waste it sweetheart," he assured you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, "will it make you happy if we got you all these supplies hm?"
you nod, sightly hesitant.
"then it's not a waste, i want to see you happy."
he says it so casually too, so certain of himself and the way he feels — you're kind of jealous.
"what if i don't end up liking it."
"what if you do?"
damn him.
he continues, "and even if you don't, it's not the end of the world. but you won't know if you don't try."
you know he has a point, you know he's being rational — yet your mind still isn't fully convinced.
after sitting in silence for a good minute or two, you gather up your courage once again.
"....can i," you trail off, the sentiment clear, you want to try — you want to get these supplies to see if it really can be your new hobby.
"of course sweetie, you don't have to ask."
"thank you."
once those supplies arrive a week later, sylus finds you hunched over your desk, working on some piece of fabric — a tutorial paused on your laptop as you sew carefully with the new machine. you look happy and once again, that's all he wants.
needless to say after that you became a lot more open with your hobbies — specifically the ones you gave up because they seemed insignificant, pointless and a waste of time to your father. and every once in a while, if you wanted, sylus would join you in your hobbies, trying his best to learn more about you and your interests through these small activities.
and who knows? maybe he even picked up a hobby or two because of you, all you know is the small embroidered heart that he stitched on the inside of your coat — sits right above your own beating one when you wear it and it makes you feel seen and loved in a way that you never thought you could experience.
being with sylus has changed you, for the better definitely. you don't feel like you're constantly walking on pins and needles, you don't treat every interaction like a ticking time bomb that you're responsible for diffusing and your nervous system doesn't seem to work against you for once.
but it seems like some things still remain the same because when you accidentally knock a vase over, you freeze up — your instinct kick in as dread settles deep in your gut, your eyes sting with unshed tears as you prepare yourself for the inevitable.
"i heard something," sylus finds you in the hallway, the second he sees the broken glass on the floor, he immediately panics and picks you up and sets you down somewhere safe — away from the glass.
"are you hurt?" he asks, worry clear in his gaze as he frantically looks for any injuries.
"i'm sorry," you sniffle, "i'm sorry," you say again, as if your mind's on autopilot.
"sweetheart, no stop," he gently prys away your hands that cover your face as you cry. "it's okay, it's okay, i promise," his voice falters a little as he sees how deeply this has affected you mentally, your distress breaks his heart.
sylus envelops you in his arms, his warmth — that always soothes you does nothing in the moment, he can still hear your muffled apologies, "sweetie i told you it's okay, i don't care about the vase. please, stop this, you didn't do anything wrong, it was an accident," he rubs your back to offer some much needed comfort and kisses your head, "stop apologizing, please."
you hate yourself for acting like this when sylus has been nothing but kind to you, he's never given you a reason to act like this, but your stupid brain still hasn't forgotten the past it seems.
"i'm just glad you're not hurt, i don't care about that vase, i care about you," he softly rocks you back and forth, his arms still wrapped tightly around you. "no one's going to hurt you, i promise."
you don't know how much time has passed when you finally calm down, but it feels like an eternity — sylus still hasn't let go.
"......do you feel better?" he asks, whispering so he doesn't startle you.
you nod into his chest, your tears have made a mess on his shirt. you know he doesn't care about that but you still open your mouth to apologize.
"sweetie i swear to god if you apologize one more time my hair will turn even more white."
you can't help but let out a small laugh at that — he sighs in relief to see you back to normal, his shoulders are less tense and his brows are no longer furrowed.
when you pull away a little, your head no longer buried in his chest, sylus wastes no time kissing away the lingering tears on your face before pressing a firm kiss to your lips.
"i know you wouldn't hurt me, i don't know why i-"
sylus cuts you off, something he's never done before, "it's not your fault, it's okay. we're okay."
"are you trying to make me cry again?" you bump your nose against his.
"i'd like to, preferably in bed," he smirks at your scandalous glare directed at him.
sylus notices everything, from the small beauty marks decorating your skin to the way your eyes linger on the soft serve at the mall when you two are finishing up your little shopping trip.
"do you want ice cream?" he asks, although he knows you'll deny it. you'll probably say something like, "let's not waste time! we should get going," or "no no i'm not in the mood thank you," you're terrible at lying, he finds it cute. but he does wish you'd just be open with him, whether it's ice cream or something else, he'll happily give you whatever you want.
but he knows your past, the one filled with guilt for buying basic necessities — an angry father to whom you'd feel indebted to for basic stuff like a roof over your head and food. he knows how much you'd denied yourself just so the man wouldn't tick, you had grown to barely glance at anything that isn't a basic need. you deserve so much more and sylus wants to be the one to give you everything you ever wanted, everything you held yourself back from getting just so you wouldn't start a potential fight in your house.
"oh no thank you! i'm pretty full." like clockwork you deny it when you both know damn well your stomach grumbled a minute ago.
you already feel bad about all the extra stuff he bought you when you just came here to buy new shoes.
sylus stares at you, you stare back for a good ten seconds before you give in and ask, "... what?"
"you can be honest with me."
"i know."
"i know you do sweetheart, but i think you can be more honest."
"...."
"so, do you want ice cream?"
"....if that's okay."
he gently huffs, slightly amused, "why wouldn't it be okay? i'm the one who suggested it, you can't be in the wrong for saying what you want," he laces his fingers with yours as you two walk over the little soft serve stand.
you watch as sylus' gaze scans all the options on the menu, taking a deep breath, you squeeze his hand.
"i want a choco dip," you tell him, voice small like you're still unsure about the fact you're allowed to be this open and honest but at least you're telling him.
and for the dragon that is more than enough. it's progress, it's proof that love can change people.
he turns to you, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "as you wish sweetie."
sylus thinks you deserve the world for trying — for putting your faith and trust in him, for standing up when the world has done so much to make sure you never do.
but for now he'll settle for a choco dip cone with extra chocolate, hoping one day you'll let him hand you the world instead.
When the Wind Calls You Wandering (Varka x Reader)
Synopsis: You never planned on letting anyone get close. Not while you were busy hunting Abyssal monsters and chasing ghosts from the past. But Varka is persistent, infuriatingly kind, and very bad at staying out of your business.
Somewhere between commissions, tavern conversations, and one dangerous night that nearly costs you everything, you both discover that belonging might be closer than either of you expected.
A/N: This fic started as a ~3k draft back in January that I never finished because something about it felt incomplete. This month I revisited it and turned it into a much longer oneshot. Blame the sunshine, my current craving for angst and fluff and tension, and Varka being Varka. Enjoy! 💙
The first time you meet Varka, you’re trying to convince Katheryne to let you take a commission above your current rank.
“I can handle it,” you insist.
“The recommended party size is three,” Katheryne says patiently. “You’re one person.”
“I’m aware.”
“Many Mitachurls—”
“I’ve fought Mitachurls before.”
A voice rumbles from behind you. “And how’d that go?”
You turn.
The man standing there is large. Broad-shouldered, muscular, with an easy confidence that probably makes most people instinctively defer to him.
You’re not most people.
“Fine,” you say flatly. “I won.”
His eyebrow rises. “Alone?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
Something flickers in his expression. Surprise. Maybe respect. “At the same time?”
“One got the jump on me while I was fighting the first.” You turn back to Katheryne. “So as I was saying—”
“The commission requires three people,” the large man interrupts. “For a reason.”
You give him a look. “And you are?”
“Varka. Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius.”
Most people would be embarrassed. Apologetic. Deferential.
You just nod. “Nice to meet you. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“I’m not excusing you.” But he doesn’t sound angry. If anything, he sounds… amused?
“I’m telling you that commission is too dangerous to take alone.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
“You’re getting it anyway.” He crosses his arms, and you notice he’s trying not to smile. “You’re good—I can tell that much. But good gets you killed if you’re reckless about it.”
“I’m not reckless.”
“You’re trying to take a three-person commission solo. That’s reckless.”
You glare at him.
He gazes back, completely unmoved, and now he is smiling.
Katheryne clears her throat. “Perhaps a compromise? There’s a similar commission, lower rank, still challenging—”
“Fine.” You snatch the posting. “This one.”
Varka’s smile widens. “Smart choice.”
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“Didn’t say you did.”
You turn to leave.
“Hey,” he calls after you.
You glance back.
“What’s your name?”
You hesitate. “Why?”
“So I know what to call you when I inevitably have to save your reckless ass.”
Despite yourself, your mouth quirks. “It’s not going to happen.”
“We’ll see.”
You leave without giving him your name.
(He finds out anyway. Katheryne tells him within the hour. He asks three times to make sure he heard it right.)
(You definitely don’t think about how his arms looked when he crossed them. Or how his smile changed his entire face. You absolutely don’t notice these things.)
The commission pays well.
You try not to think about blue eyes and an irritating smile while you work. You fail.
When you return to the city two days later, the sun is setting and you’re covered in dirt and blood. You’re walking over the bridge when—
“Heading out?”
Of course.
You don’t turn around. “Just got back.”
Varka falls into step beside you anyway, looking entirely too fresh and clean for someone who’s supposedly been working all day.
His stride is easy, unhurried, and you’re very aware of him. He could probably carry your pack and you without breaking a sweat.
“Successful commission?”
“Obviously.”
“No near-death experiences?”
“Not a single one.” You glance at him. “Disappointed?”
“Relieved, actually.” His smile is warm. “Though I did have a bet going with myself about how long you’d last before needing rescue.”
“How long did you give me?”
“Two days.”
“It’s been two days.”
“Exactly.” He’s grinning now. “I’m very good at reading people.”
Despite yourself, you almost smile. “You’re very irritating, is what you are.”
“I’ve been told that.” He doesn’t sound bothered. “Where are you headed?”
“Guild. Report the commission.”
“Mind if I walk with you?”
“Free city. Walk where you want.”
“That’s not a no.”
You don’t dignify that with a response.
He walks with you anyway, making easy conversation about nothing important. The weather, festival preparations, a merchant who’s trying to sell him “authentic Fatui memorabilia” that’s obviously fake.
You find yourself listening. Occasionally responding.
“You know,” he says casually, “you’ve got guts. Most people wouldn’t take commissions like that alone. You must really enjoy the thrill of it.”
You stop walking. “What?”
He blinks. “The danger. The fight. Some people are drawn to—”
“I don’t do this for thrills.” Your voice is sharp.
His smile fades. “I didn’t mean—”
“I do it because someone has to. Because if I don’t, people die.”
The words come out harsher than you intended.
Varka goes very still.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “That was stupid of me. I made an assumption.”
You start walking again. Varka catches up, falling into step.
“You’re trying to protect people,” he says. “Same as me. I should’ve seen that.”
You glance at him. His expression is serious. No defensiveness. Just understanding.
“Yeah,” you say finally.
He nods once. Doesn’t push. The tension eases slightly.
When you reach the Guild, he stops.
“Well,” Varka says, “this was nice.”
“You have a strange definition of nice.”
“Spending time with interesting people? That’s my definition exactly.” His eyes are warm. “See you around.”
He’s already walking away before you can respond. You stand there for a moment, watching him go. Then you shake your head.
You see him again two days later. And three days after that. And then it stops being surprising when he just shows up. The pattern continues. You take commissions. He appears. You work together with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people who barely know each other.
(Except you’re starting to know him. The way he fights. The way he laughs. The way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.)
Two weeks later, he shows up again.
“You know,” you say, blocking a treasure hoarder’s strike, “don’t you have Grand Master things to do instead of slacking off?”
“Probably.” Varka disarms another hoarder with casual efficiency. “But this is more interesting.”
“Following me around?”
“Protecting Mondstadt.” He grins at you over the hoarder’s shoulder. “And getting to do it with you.”
He pauses, and something in his expression softens. “Enjoy spending time with you.”
You fumble your next parry.
The hoarder takes advantage, lunging forward, and Varka’s there instantly, intercepting the blade.
You catch a glimpse of his arms as he blocks. The way his muscles shift under his sleeves, controlled strength that could probably break someone in half but he’s using it to protect you—
Focus. You need to focus.
“Careful,” he says, and you’re not sure if he’s talking to you or the hoarder.
Later, after the fight, you watch him sheath his claymore. There’s a scratch on his forearm that wasn’t there before, and you have the absurd urge to check if he’s alright.
He fought three hoarders without breaking a sweat. He’s fine.
You’re still looking at his arm when he nudges your shoulder.
“You alright? You seemed distracted there for a second.”
“Fine.” Your face feels warm. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Nothing important.” You busy yourself cleaning your blade. “Thanks. For the save.”
“Anytime.” His voice is soft. “That’s what partners do.”
“We’re not partners.”
“Aren’t we?” He gestures at the defeated hoarders. “Could’ve fooled me.”
You don’t have a response to that.
— ✦ —
A month after your first meeting, you’re tracking Abyssal activity when he appears.
(You heard him coming. You always hear him now. You’ve learned the sound of his footsteps, the rhythm of his breathing when he’s trying to be quiet.)
“You’re getting predictable,” you say without turning around.
“Am I?”
“Every time I go after Abyssal monsters, you show up. Commission or not,” you mutter, refocusing on the tracks.
He’s quiet for a moment. “You track them outside of Guild work?”
“Someone has to.”
“That’s…” He pauses. “That’s dangerous.”
“Don’t care. Someone has to keep them away from the cities.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “Guess you need someone protecting you then.”
You swallow hard. “What are you doing here, Varka?”
“Maybe I’m just very good at timing.” He crouches beside you, examining the tracks. “Or maybe I worry.”
That makes you look at him. “Why?”
“Because you hunt them like it’s personal. Not just for the mora.” His voice is gentle. “And personal makes people reckless.”
“I’m not reckless.”
“You absolutely are.” But he’s smiling. “You’re like a firecracker. All explosive energy and no hesitation.”
You snort. “That’s not a compliment.”
“Sure it is. Firecrackers are exciting. Dangerous.” His eyes meet yours. “Beautiful when they go off. Hard to look away.”
Your breath catches. He’s close enough that you can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. Close enough that if you leaned forward just slightly—
“The tracks go northeast,” you say abruptly, standing. “We should move.”
“Right. Northeast.” He doesn’t move immediately. Just keeps looking at you with that soft expression.
“Varka.”
“Yeah. Moving. I’m moving.”
But he’s still smiling as he follows you.
Four days later, you’re following a track near the Thousand Winds Temple when you hear his footsteps. Again.
You stand, facing him. “I can handle this alone.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why—”
“Because you don’t have to.” There’s frustration in his voice now. An edge you haven’t heard before. “You keep doing this. I’m right here and you just—”
He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I’m right here,” he repeats. Quieter this time.
You blink at him. “I didn’t ask you to be.”
The words come out sharper than you intended. Something flickers across his face. Hurt, maybe. Or frustration.
“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
Silence stretches between you.
He looks at a loss. Like he doesn’t know what to say. What to do with his hands.
It’s so unlike him that you actually feel bad. “Look,” you say finally. “You’re all strength and efficiency. And you like making use of your skills instead of just being in your office. I get it.”
Varka’s expression shifts. Something lighter creeping back in. “You could’ve just said you like it when I help you out.”
Despite yourself, your mouth quirks. “Must be the adrenaline talking.”
“Right. Adrenaline.” But he’s almost smiling now. “From all the standing around examining tracks.”
“Very intense track examination.”
“Clearly.”
He crouches beside you, examining the traces. Closer than necessary. “Not easy to rely on others,” he says quietly. More statement than question.
“Works better like this.” You keep your eyes on the tracks. “Simpler.”
“Simpler,” Varka repeats. “Right.”
He doesn’t sound convinced. But he doesn’t push.
Seven weeks in, at Dadaupa Gorge, the fight gets messy. The Hilichurl camp is larger than expected.
You’re outnumbered, outflanked, and one of them has a crossbow—
Varka's improvised shield takes the bolt meant for your head.
“Behind you!” you shout.
He spins, catches your attacker with his shoulder, sends them flying like they weigh nothing. You’ve seen him fight before, but there’s something about watching him move that makes your breath catch.
He’s close enough now that you can see the sweat on his brow, the way his chest rises and falls with exertion.
You force your eyes back to the fight. You barely dodge the next strike. You cover Varka's flank as three more rush in.
The fight is chaotic. Messy. Dangerous. And you’re both laughing.
“This is insane!” you call out.
“I know!” Varka sounds delighted. “Isn't it great?”
“Are you actually enjoying this?”
“You're smiling too!”
You are smiling. You can’t help it.
Fighting beside him feels like you’ve been doing this for years. Like you know exactly where he’ll be, what he’ll do, how he moves.
The last Hilichurl swings wild—you dodge left, it clips your shoulder, throws you off balance—
You crash into Varka. He tries to catch you but the momentum sends you both down. You land on top of him, straddling his waist, hands braced on his chest to catch yourself.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Your heart is still pounding from the fight. Adrenaline singing through your veins. Blood rushing in your ears.
And now you’re acutely aware of everything.
The way his chest rises and falls hard beneath your palms. The heat of him even through armor. The way his hands have landed on your hips, fingers flexing slightly like he’s not sure whether to push you away or pull you closer.
Your faces are inches apart. His eyes are very wide. Very blue.
“Hi,” you manage. Your voice comes out breathless.
“Hey.” His comes out rough. Almost wrecked.
You should move. You can’t seem to make your body cooperate. Neither can he, apparently, because his hands are still on your hips and he’s just staring at you.
“You good?” His voice is lower than usual.
“Yeah. You?”
“Honestly?” His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before snapping back up. “Not sure.”
Your breath catches. The adrenaline from the fight is mixing with something else now. Something that makes your skin feel too tight and your pulse jump for entirely different reasons.
“You’re—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re still on top of me.”
“I know.”
“Just making sure you noticed.”
“Hard not to.”
Something flickers in his expression. Heat and surprise and want all tangled together.
His hands tighten slightly on your hips. You feel it everywhere. “If you wanted to pin me,” he says, voice rough, “there are easier ways.”
“I didn’t—I fell—”
“I know.” His mouth quirks, but there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you. “But if this is a new combat technique, it’s very effective. I’m thoroughly distracted.”
“Varka—”
“Can’t think straight right now,” he admits. “You should probably move.”
“Probably.”
You don’t. Neither does he. His thumb brushes against your hip, and it sends heat racing up your spine.
“Firecracker.” His voice is strained. “You’re killing me here.”
That breaks the spell. You scramble off him so fast you nearly fall again, heart still hammering.
He catches your arm, steadying you, and when you glance at his face he looks flushed. Breathing hard.
You notice the scratch on his forearm then. Fresh, bleeding slightly. Without thinking, you catch his wrist, turning his arm to see it better.
“You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.” But his voice comes out rougher than usual.
Your fingers brush over the scratch and the older scars beneath it.
His breath hitches. You look up sharply, but he’s not pulling away. Just watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
“You take a lot of risks yourself,” you mutter, still holding his wrist.
“Have to.” His voice is steady. Confident. “Besides, I’m good at what I do.” There's no arrogance in it. Just fact.
Your thumb traces the edge of one scar. Longer than the others, almost stretching across his whole forearm.
“Quite the battle map you’ve got.”
His mouth quirks. “That obvious, huh?”
“Tells a story.” You glance up at him. “Lots of them, looks like.”
“Yeah, well.” He tries for lightness. “Comes with the job. Can't lead from the back.”
“Mondstadt’s very own hero,” you say.
“Something like that.” His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “External scars tend to do that. Give people a heroic impression.”
Something flickers in his expression then. Brief. Complicated.
External. The word hangs there. You almost ask. Almost.
“You take calculated risks though,” you say instead, thumb still resting on one of the scars. “Not like me. You think things through.”
You glance up at him. “I admire that. Admire you for it.”
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something softer.
He clears his throat. “You’re growing soft on me, firecracker.”
“You wish.”
He laughs. That low, rumbling sound that you’re starting to recognize. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. You keep me on my toes.”
Something in your chest does a complicated flip.
But he’s already shifting, gently pulling his arm from your grip. Not rejecting the touch, just closing the moment.
“We should—” He gestures vaguely toward the city.
“Yeah.” You let him go. “We should.”
His hand finds your shoulder briefly. Warm. Steady.
Neither of you moves for another few seconds.
When you finally do start walking, there’s a new awareness between you. The way he stays close. The way you’re hyper-conscious of every accidental touch.
Everything’s shifted. And you both know it.
— ✦ —
A few days later, Varka catches you before you can leave the city again. “Angel’s Share,” he says. “Tonight. Just drinks. Just us.”
“Varka—”
“Please.” The word is simple. Sincere. “I want to understand. And I think you want to tell someone.”
You shouldn’t say yes. You do anyway.
The tavern is warm, filled with low conversation and the clink of glasses. You sit in a corner booth, and for a while neither of you speaks.
Then Varka sets a drink in front of you. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says quietly. “But I want to understand why you hunt them like this. Why it’s personal.”
You stare at your glass for a long moment.
“My parents,” you finally say. “Years ago. Abyss order attack.”
His expression shifts—understanding, sympathy.
“We were traveling. Coming back from visiting family.” Your hands clench around the glass. “It was supposed to be safe. The road was well-traveled, close to town. The enemy never came that close to villages”
“But they did.”
“Yeah.” Your voice is flat. “They did. We saw them too late. Mages. Hilichurls. They came out of nowhere.”
You stop. Breathe.
“My parents told me to run. Get to town, get help. I didn’t want to leave them but my father—” Your throat tightens. “He made me promise. So I ran.”
Varka’s quiet for a long moment. Then his hand covers yours on the table. Warm. Calloused. Surprisingly gentle for its size. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and you’re suddenly very aware of every point of contact.
“By the time I got back with the guards, it was over.” You have to force the words out. “My mother was… she’d tried to crawl toward town. Trying to get to safety. But she didn’t make it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“My father fought them. Gave her time to try to run. There were five mages and he was alone and—” Your voice cracks. “I should have stayed. Should have fought with them instead of—”
You stop. Your eyes are burning.
“If I’d been stronger, if I’d stayed and fought, maybe—”
A tear slips down your cheek.
“Hey.” Varka’s voice is gentle. “It’s not your fault.”
“I left them—”
“You did what they asked. What any parent would want.” His thumb brushes across your knuckles. “You survived. That’s what they wanted.”
You wipe at your eyes roughly.
“That’s why,” you say. Your voice is thick. “That’s why I hunt them. Why I track them even without commissions. They came too close to town that day. Too close to people. And I can’t—I can’t let that happen again.”
Across the tavern, a bard starts playing. Soft strumming that gradually builds into something familiar. An old Mondstadt tune you've heard before but never really listened to.
A few people join in, humming along. The words drift over the conversation:
“When the wind calls you wandering...”
The melody is warm. Steady. Not quite cheerful. Not quite sad. Something in between. Comforting in its familiarity.
“Because I won’t let anyone else lose their family like I lost mine." Your jaw tightens despite the tears. "I won’t let them get that close again."
“Follow the wind that’s whispering, the northern wind from far…”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Looking at his drink. Turning the glass slowly. “And you still care,” he says finally. “After everything. Could’ve been easy to just shut down. Get cold. But you didn’t.”
Something in his voice makes you look up.
“Lot of people rely on me,” he continues, still not meeting your eyes. “Knights. Citizens. Whole damn city. Not much room for…” He stops. “For anything else.”
He glances up then. Brief. Vulnerable. Your breath catches. He clears his throat. Looks away.
The song swells around you. Voices blending together, something about steady winds and finding your way even when you’re lost.
“Your parents would be proud,” Varka says quietly, nearly lost under the music. “What you’re doing—it takes incredible strength.”
“Home is not the place you harbor, but the heart that waits for you...”
The chorus fades. Returns to gentle strumming. Your throat tightens again.
“I’m proud of you,” he adds. "For what that’s worth.”
You look up at him. His expression is open. Warm. Full of understanding. “Thank you,” you whisper. "For listening.”
“Always.” His hand is still covering yours. “Anytime you need to talk. I’m here.”
Something in your chest loosens.
The music continues in the background. Familiar now, wrapping around the conversation like a blanket. You don't pull your hand away.
For the rest of the evening, you talk. About lighter things, easier things.
Varka tells you stories about the knights, about Mondstadt, about the time he accidentally started a food fight at an important dinner. He tells you about his past, and you can't help but imagine a younger Varka.
You tell him about little things. People you met on your travels. Encounters you are still fond of. Experiences that taught you something about life or yourself.
You laugh more than you have in months.
When you finally leave, his hand lingers at the small of your back as he walks you out.
The night air is cool. Welcome after the warmth of the tavern. You walk in comfortable silence for a while.
Then Varka glances at you. “You doing okay? That was a lot to talk about.”
“Yeah. I’m okay.” And you mean it.
You walk a few more steps. “You know,” you say, “most people get uncomfortable when I talk about it. They either avoid the topic completely or try to tell me it wasn’t my fault and I should move on.”
“That help?”
“Not really.”
“Didn’t think so.” He's quiet for a moment. “Grief doesn’t work on other people’s timelines.”
You glance at him. “You sound like you know something about that."
“Lost people too. Different circumstances, but...” He shrugs. “Yeah. I know.”
“So,” you say after a moment, deliberately lighter. “Do you always walk random Adventurers home? Or am I special?”
He grins. “Of course you’re special. Most Adventurers don’t try to fight several Mitachurls alone.”
“I won that fight.”
“One time.”
“Every time.”
“Keep telling yourself that, firecracker.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. He doesn't budge. Just laughs. “See, this is what I mean,” he says.
“What?”
“This. You giving me shit. Making me laugh after a long day.” He's smiling, but there's something genuine underneath. “Does me good.”
“What, having someone insult you?”
Varka looks at you, and there's something warm in his expression. “Makes me feel alive.” He clears his throat.
At that moment, you reach the corner where you usually part ways. Neither of you moves.
“This was nice,” he says.
“It was.” And you mean it.
“We should do it again.”
“Varka—”
“As friends,” he adds quickly. “If that's what you want. Or as—” He stops. “As whatever you want.”
You look at him. This large, kind, persistent man who's somehow worked his way into your life. Who listened without judgment. Who makes you feel less alone. Who you apparently make feel alive.
“I’ll think about it,” you say.
His smile is warm. “I’ll take it.”
— ✦ —
Three months in you’re walking back to the city after a fight, the sun setting behind you, when Varka glances over.
“You ever think about doing anything else?” he asks. “Besides commissions?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Settling down. Taking a break. Living life instead of constantly fighting.”
You’re quiet for a moment. “Fighting is living. For me.”
“Because of your parents.”
“Yeah.”
“I get it.” His voice is soft. “But you can’t hunt the Abyssal creatures forever.”
“Watch me.”
He laughs quietly. “Stubborn.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not. It’s very you.” He pauses. “Just don’t forget there’s more to life than revenge.”
“Like what?”
“Like this.” He gestures between you. “Working together. Talking. Spending time with people who—” He stops. “With people who care about you.”
Your heart does something complicated.
“Varka—”
“I know. Too much. Too fast.” But he doesn’t sound apologetic. “Just think about it.”
The shift happens gradually.
His hand lingers when he helps you over rough terrain.
He stands closer than necessary when you’re reviewing maps.
He finds excuses to see you even when there are no commissions. Bringing food, checking if you’ve eaten, asking if you want to spar.
And he flirts. Openly. Shamelessly.
“You know,” he says one afternoon, watching you sharpen your blade, “you’re really good with your hands.”
You don’t look up. “That’s what makes me a good fighter.”
“Also what makes you distracting.”
“How is me sharpening a blade distracting?”
“Everything you do is distracting.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, smiling.
“But especially that. Very focused. Very precise.”
You can feel your face heating and look down. “Don’t you have paperwork?”
“Probably.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Better view.”
“Of what?”
“You.”
You make the mistake of looking up again. He’s backlit by the window, and the afternoon light catches in his hair, highlights the line of his shoulders.
There’s something unfairly appealing about the way he’s standing there, completely relaxed, just watching you.
“You’re—” The words slip out before you can stop them. “You’re very distracting too.”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “Distracting, huh?”
Oh no.
Your face heats. “I didn’t—that's not—”
“No, no. Don't take it back.” He’s grinning now. Fully grinning. “I’m listening. Distracting how?”
“You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“That—” You gesture vaguely at him. “Standing there all... like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know what you're doing.”
“Just standing here.” He’s clearly enjoying this. “Tell me. How am I being distracting?”
You look back down at your blade very quickly, then back at him. “The... the stones by the cathedral are very nice this time of year.”
Varka blinks. “What?”
“Stones. Cathedral. Nice. Pretty. You should look at them instead.”
His expression does something complicated. Confusion and delight and fondness all at once.
“You just tried to redirect my attention to cathedral stones."
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They’re very interesting stones.”
“They’re not.”
“Sure they are. Very stone-like.”
He’s trying not to laugh. You can see it. “You’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he says.
“I’m not flustered.”
“You just recommended I look at rocks.”
“Stones.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“Rocks are different from stones. Rocks are rougher. Stones are—” You stop. “Why am I explaining this?”
“Because you’re flustered and deflecting.” He’s fully smiling now. “And it’s working. I’m thoroughly distracted by your stone categorization system.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.” He pushes off the wall. “But I’ll go look at the stones if it makes you feel better.”
“It would.”
“Alright.” He pauses at the door. “For the record? Still more interested in you than any stone. No matter how stone-like it is.”
He leaves.
You sit there, blade forgotten, face burning.
Stones. You talked about stones. This is getting out of hand.
— ✦ —
The weeks that follow establish a rhythm you didn’t plan but can’t seem to break. You take commissions. He appears.
Sometimes he has a reason—patrol routes that conveniently overlap with your targets. Sometimes he doesn’t bother with excuses, just shows up with that easy smile and asks if you need a hand.
You always say no. He helps anyway. (You're secretly glad.)
You fight together in Wolvendom. Clear hilichurl camps near Springvale. Track treasure hoarders.
People start noticing. Adventurers at the Guild exchange looks when you both walk in together. Knights nod at Varka with barely concealed smirks when you’re spotted training near the city walls.
You pretend not to notice. So does he. But when you’re both in Mondstadt at the same time, you end up at Angel’s Share.
It becomes a habit.
It's late evening when you walk into the tavern and find him already there, sitting in your usual booth.
He looks up when you enter. Smiles.
There’s already a drink waiting across from him. Your usual.
Your feel all warm.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” You slide into the seat, fingers curling around the glass. Still cold. He ordered it recently. Like he knew you’d show up.
For a while, you just sit. Comfortable silence. The warmth of the tavern wrapping around you, the soft murmur of conversation and music in the background.
Then Varka glances at you. “Windblume Festival’s coming up,” Varka says, turning his glass slowly.
“Mm.”
“You going?”
You shrug. “Haven’t decided.”
“You should come.” He’s watching you now. “It’s beautiful. Music, dancing, flowers everywhere.”
“Not really my thing.”
“Relaxation and joy?” His mouth quirks. “Yeah, I can see how that’d be terrible for you.”
You kick his shin lightly under the table.
He grins. “Come with me.”
Your heart stutters. “What?”
“To Windblume. Come with me.” He says it easily, but there’s something careful in his expression. “We could walk around. Listen to music. I could show you the good food stalls. It’ll be—”
“Like a date?” The words slip out before you can stop them.
“Would that be so terrible?” he asks quietly.
The same bard from before is playing tonight. You recognize the melody immediately. That song about the wind. But this time it's different. Slower. Softer. Almost intimate.
No one's singing along. Just the gentle lute weaving through the quiet murmur of conversation, the melody familiar and grounding.
Your breath catches. “Varka—”
“I know.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I know you’re focused on your mission. I know you don’t want distractions. But I—” He stops. Breathes. “I like you. A lot. And I keep hoping maybe you feel the same.”
The music shifts to that gentler refrain. Something about home not being a place but a person.
“This is complicated,” you manage.
“Doesn’t have to be.”
“You’re the Grand Master—”
“And you’re an Adventurer. So what?” His hand finds yours across the table. “We're also two people who work well together. Who trust each other. Who enjoy each other's company. Who—” He stops himself.
“Who could be good together,” he finishes. “If you wanted to try.”
The bard’s fingers dance across the strings. Soft. Steady. Like a heartbeat beneath the words.
You’re acutely aware of his thumb brushing across your knuckles. Of how close he is across the table. Of the way his eyes keep dropping to your mouth.
Your heart is hammering. You should keep the distance you’ve maintained. But his hand is warm over yours, and his eyes are soft, and he's looking at you like you’re something precious.
“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit quietly.
“Neither do I.” His smile is gentle. “But we could figure it out together.”
The music seems to fade into the background. Or maybe you just stop hearing anything except the blood rushing in your ears. The space between you feels impossibly small.
“Varka—”
His eyes drop to your mouth. “Can I kiss you?”
You should say no.
“Yes.”
He leans across the table and kisses you soft and slow, like he’s been thinking about it for months. (He has.) His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek. Your hand finds his shoulder, gripping, and you feel him smile against your mouth.
When he pulls back, his eyes are warm and wondering.
“So,” he murmurs. “Windblume?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Windblume.”
He smiles. “Good. Because I already told half the knights we’d be there together.”
“You did what—”
“I’m an optimist.” His grin is unrepentant. “And I was really hoping you’d say yes.”
Despite yourself, you laugh. He kisses you again. Quick and sweet and full of joy.
The bard finishes the song. Starts another. But that melody lingers. When you finally leave the tavern that night, Varka walks you partway home.
(You still don’t tell him where you live. Some habits are hard to break.)
At the corner where you usually part ways, he catches your hand. His thumb traces across your knuckles. A gesture that’s becoming so familiar. Comforting. But now it also makes your pulse jump.
“Tomorrow,” he says. “Meet me at the statue? The one near the gates. Afternoon, around three?”
Your heart skips. “Why?”
“Because I want to see you.” He says it simply. “And because we should probably talk. About this. About us.”
“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Three o’clock. At the statue.”
His smile is brilliant. “It’s a date.”
“Varka—”
He kisses you before you can finish. “See you tomorrow, firecracker.”
You watch him walk away, heart full and terrified in equal measure. Tomorrow, you think. I can handle tomorrow.
You arrive at the statue at quarter to three. (You’re not nervous. You’re not. This is just talking. Figuring things out. It’s fine.)
Three o’clock comes.
No Varka.
That’s fine. He’s probably just running late. He’s the Grand Master. Things come up.
Three-fifteen. Three-thirty. By four o’clock, you’re still standing there, feeling increasingly foolish. By four-thirty, something in your chest starts to hurt. He’s not coming.
You wait until five. Then you leave.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. Maybe he got called away. Maybe something came up. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe the kiss was a mistake and he realized it and didn’t know how to tell you. Maybe you misread everything.
You don’t go back to the gates. You don’t go to Angel’s Share. You take commissions without talking to anyone. Everything, not just fighting commissions. You train. You try not to think about it.
(You fail.)
— ✦ —
By day ten, the not-knowing is worse than any answer could be.
You find yourself walking to Angel’s Share without consciously deciding to. The tavern is busy. Warm. Familiar.
Charles sees you come in, and something flickers across his face. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he says.
“Been busy.” You slide onto a barstool. “Just water tonight.”
“Right.” He sets the glass down. Then hesitates. “There’s, uh… there’s a message for you. From Varka.”
Your heart stops. “What?”
“He left it about a week and a half ago. Said if you came in, to give you this.” Charles pulls out a folded piece of paper from under the bar.
Your hands shake slightly as you take it.
The handwriting is unmistakably Varka’s. Bold, slightly messy, rushed.
Firecracker,
Got called to Liyue. Something came up—had to leave immediately. Tried to find you this morning but you weren’t at the Guild, and I realized I don’t know where you live.
Left this with Charles in case you come by. I’ll be back as soon as I can. A week, maybe two.
Don’t take any stupid commissions while I’m gone.
—V
P.S. - Still want to take you to Windblume. Don’t forget.
You read it three times.
He didn’t just leave. He tried to find you. He left a message. And you weren’t here to get it.
For ten days, you’ve been thinking he abandoned you, when really—
“You okay?” Charles asks.
“Yeah.” Your voice is rough. “I’m—yeah.”
You sit there, holding the note, feeling like an idiot.
Don’t forget.
An hour passes. Then two.
You’re still sitting there, nursing the same glass of water, when the door opens.
Your heart leaps—
Varka walks in. He looks tired. His armor is dusty and his hair is disheveled and he’s the best thing you’ve seen in ten days.
He scans the room—
His eyes find you.
Stop.
For a moment neither of you moves.
Then someone calls his name. A group of knights in the corner, waving him over.
He glances at them. At you. Back at them. He goes to the knights.
You stare at your glass.
The minutes crawl by.
You should leave.
You stay.
Across the room, Varka sits with the knights, but he’s not drinking. Not really talking. Just present.
He looks as miserable as you feel.
Another hour passes.
The knights eventually leave.
Varka stays.
You’re both sitting in the same tavern, fifteen feet apart, not talking.
It’s ridiculous.
Finally, you can’t take it anymore. You stand. Cross the room. Slide into the seat across from him.
“You’re back,” you manage.
He doesn’t look up from his glass. “Yeah.”
The silence stretches. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
This is wrong. He’s never this distant, never this quiet.
“I got your message,” you say, holding up the paper.
“When?”
“Tonight. Just now.”
His eyes lift to the note. Something flickers across his face. Relief? Hurt? You can’t tell.
“When did you get back?” you ask.
“Three days ago.”
Your stomach drops.
“I haven’t been coming here,” you admit. “I thought you just… left. Without saying anything.”
“I tried to find you that morning.” His voice is rough. Careful. “Couldn’t.”
“I know. I read—”
“I don’t know where you live.” The words come out blunt. Almost accusatory.
You blink. “What?”
He finally looks at you fully, and there’s something raw in his expression.
“Your apartment. I don’t know where it is. Spent a week in Liyue thinking about you. Got back, wanted to see you, and I didn’t know how to find you.” His jaw tightens. “Came here every night hoping you’d show up.”
Every night. He’s been here. Waiting. And you—
The confession lands between you like a weight.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Don’t be.” But his voice is strained. “Should’ve asked before. But we kept running into each other and I didn’t think—” He stops. Drags a hand through his hair. “Point is, I didn’t know. And it bothered me.”
The air between you shifts. Some of the tension bleeding out.
You take a breath. “Come on.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Come with me.”
You walk in silence through Mondstadt’s streets.
He follows without question.
You stop outside the door.
“Here,” you say. “This is where I live.”
He looks at the building. At you. Back at the building. “Thank you,” he says quietly.
“Do you… want to come up?”
“No.”
The word is gentle but firm.
At your expression, he adds quickly: “Not—not because I don’t want to. But because if I come up, I’m going to—” He stops. “I need to do this right.”
“Do what right?”
“This. Us.” His hand finds yours. “I’m not going to rush this. Not going to mess this up because I’m impatient.”
“Varka—”
“I’m a knight,” he says, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. “I’m supposed to be honorable. Patient. Do things properly.”
Then, quieter, he adds: “You regret it?”
“Regret what?”
“The kiss.”
Your breath catches. “No,” you say. “Do you?”
“No.” He steps closer. “But I’ve been gone for days thinking about it. Wanting to—” He stops. “Can I—”
You kiss him before he finishes asking.
This time there’s nothing tentative about it.
Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds immediately. His hand cups the back of your neck, the other sliding to your waist, and he kisses you like he’s been starving for it.
You make a sound—surprise or need or relief—and he swallows it, deepening the kiss. His thumb strokes the side of your neck and you feel his pulse hammering against your palm where your hand has found his chest.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.
“I missed you,” you admit against his mouth. The words slip out before you can stop them.
His forehead drops to yours. “I was going crazy. Not knowing where you were. Not being able to find you.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” His hand tightens on your waist. “We’re here now. That’s what matters.”
He kisses you again. Slower this time but no less intense.
Your fingers find their way into his hair and he makes a low sound in his throat that sends heat racing through you. When you finally break apart for the second time, you’re both flushed and breathless.
“Grand Master!”
You both jerk apart.
A knight is running toward you, out of breath.
“Sorry—urgent—there’s been an incident—”
Varka’s jaw tightens. He looks at you. At the knight. Back at you.
“Go,” you say. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not—”
“It’s your job.” You squeeze his hand once. “Go.”
He searches your face. Then nods reluctantly.
“I’ll find you tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll talk. Properly.”
“Okay.”
He kisses you once more. Quick and fierce.
Then he’s gone, running toward headquarters with the knight.
You stand outside your apartment, touching your lips, heart hammering.
Tomorrow, you think.
But something twists in your chest.
The way he looked at you. The way he kissed you. The way your whole body responds when he’s near.
The way you spent ten days thinking about him. Missing him. Aching for him.
Oh.
Oh no.
This isn’t just liking him. This isn’t just attraction or enjoyment or companionship.
You’re in love with him.
The realization hits like a physical blow.
You’ve never been in love before. Never wanted to be. Never had time for it, never saw the point when you had a mission, a purpose, a—
But now there’s Varka.
Varka who shows up. Who stays. Who looks at you like you’re something precious.
Who kissed you like you matter.
Who keeps getting pulled away by duty because he’s the Grand Master and that’s who he is and you knew this, you knew this—
Your chest feels too tight.
You don’t know how to do this. Don’t know how to be someone who loves someone who has responsibilities to an entire city, who could be called away at any moment, who—
You need to think.
Need space.
Need to clear your head.
At dawn, you see the commission posting.
Stormbearer Point. Camp spotted.
You stare at it.
You should wait. Should ask Varka to come with you.
But the thought of seeing him right now, of having to look at him and pretend everything’s fine when you’re still processing this crushing realization—
And he’s busy anyway. Always busy. He’s the Grand Master—he has responsibilities that don’t include accompanying you on every commission.
You can handle this.
You’ve been handling Abyssal monsters for years.
You grab the posting.
— ✦ —
Bennett crashes through the headquarters doors, wild-eyed and terrified.
“Grand Master—need help—”
Varka is on his feet immediately. “Bennett? What happened?”
“Commission—went wrong—there were Mitachurls—multiple Abyss Mages—they’re—”
His blood turns to ice. “Who’s with you?”
Bennett names you.
Varka’s already moving, grabbing his sword from the wall.
“Sir, should I alert—”
“No time.” His voice is clipped, focused. “How long ago?”
“Not long—I ran as fast as—”
Every second counts.
“Where?”
“Stormbearer Point, near the cliffs—”
Varka is out the door before Bennett finishes.
He hits the street at a run.
(Later, Jean will ask why he didn’t wait. Why he didn’t bring knights. Why he went alone.
He’ll say it was the fastest option. That he knew the route. That backup would’ve slowed him down.
All true.
But the real reason—the one he doesn’t say—is that it had to be him.
Because it was you.)
The clearing is too quiet when Varka breaks through the tree line.
His eyes sweep the scene. Fallen Hilichurls and Abyss Mages, scorched earth, broken weapons scattered across trampled grass.
And you.
Standing in the center of it all, swaying slightly, one hand pressed to your side.
Relief floods through him so fast it nearly makes him stumble.
“Hey!” he calls, running toward you. “You alright? Bennett said—”
You turn toward his voice.
That’s when he sees your face.
Too pale. Eyes unfocused. Blood—too much blood—soaking through your fingers where they press against your ribs.
“Varka,” you say, and your voice sounds distant. Confused. “What’re you… doing here?”
“What am I—” He’s moving faster now, closing the distance. “You sent word you might need backup—”
“Did I?” You blink slowly. “Oh. Right. Got a bit messy.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He’s close enough now to catch you if you fall. “Hey. Look at me.”
You try. Your eyes won’t quite focus on his face.
“’m fine,” you mutter. “Just need a… minute…”
“Sure. You’re fine.” His hands hover near your shoulders, careful not to jostle you. “That's why you’re bleeding through your clothes?”
“’s not that bad.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s assessing you rapidly. The blood, the way you’re holding yourself, the slight tremor in your legs. “How long have you been standing here?”
“Dunno. Few minutes? Half an hour?” You frown. “What time is it?”
His stomach drops.
“Alright. We’re sitting you down—”
“No.” You shake your head and immediately regret it, swaying dangerously. “Still got… gotta check if they’re all…”
“They’re all down. I checked on my way in.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You did good. Now let me—”
“Varka, I’m fine—”
Your knees give out.
He catches you before you hit the ground, arms banding around you with desperate speed.
“Easy—I’ve got you—”
His heart is hammering against your cheek. He’s breathing hard. From the run, from the fear, from the relief of catching you.
“Sorry,” you mumble against his chest. “Legs stopped… working…”
“Yeah, that happens when you lose blood.” He’s lowering you carefully to the grass, hands supporting your head, your back. “Stay with me. Eyes open.”
You blink up at him, and there’s something almost dreamlike in your expression.
“You came,” you say, like you’re surprised.
His chest tightens. “Of course I came.”
“Thought you were… in meetings…”
“Meeting can wait.” He’s already reaching for his pack, pulling out supplies with practiced efficiency. “You can’t.”
Your hand catches his wrist. Weak grip, but determined.
“’m okay. Really. Just… dizzy.”
“You’re not okay.” His voice is steady, but his hands shake slightly as he starts checking your injuries. “But you will be. Just let me work.”
He works methodically.
Years of battlefield experience make his movements efficient, clinical. Checking pulse points, assessing wounds, prioritizing treatment.
Gash on your arm. Superficial. He binds it quickly.
Bruised ribs. Painful but not critical.
The wound on your side where your hand had been pressed. Deep, still bleeding, but manageable.
He’s packing it with cloth, hands steady, when he notices your pant leg.
Dark. Too dark.
Wet.
His hands still.
“When did this happen?” His voice comes out rougher than he intends.
“What?”
“Your leg.” He’s already cutting the fabric away, and—
Oh.
The gash runs from mid-thigh nearly to your knee. Deep. Still bleeding sluggishly. The kind of wound that would’ve dropped most people immediately.
“How are you even—” His hands are shaking now. Actually shaking. “How long have you been walking on this?”
“Didn’t really… notice…” You’re squinting down at your leg like you’re seeing it for the first time. “Huh. That’s… not good.”
“No.” His voice cracks. His hands still for just a moment, like he’s forcing himself to keep moving. “It’s really not.”
He presses cloth to the wound. “You’re okay,” he says. To himself. To you. “You’re going to be okay.”
“’m sorry—”
“What were you thinking?” The words come out sharp.
You blink slowly at him.
His jaw is tight. “You could have—” He stops. His hands are shaking harder. “You could have died.”
“Varka—”
“I found you bleeding. Barely standing. Do you understand—” His voice cracks. “Do you understand what I thought when I saw you like that?”
You try to respond, but the words won’t come. Your vision is blurring.
Is that tears or is everything going fuzzy again?
“I’m sorry.” Your voice comes out small. Broken. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
A tear slides down your cheek.
He stops. Stares at you.
Then his whole expression crumbles.
“Shit. No. I’m sorry.” He shifts closer, hands gentler now. “I’m sorry. You’re in shock and I’m—”
Another tear falls.
“Hey.” His voice is softer now. Rough with emotion. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
You’re crying, but you’re not sure why. The fear, the pain, the adrenaline finally crashing—
“I’ve got you,” he repeats, thumb brushing away tears. “You’re safe now.”
He's focused. And tense. You see how tight his jaw is, the way he keeps checking your pulse.
“Hey.” Your hand finds his arm. “Varka. I’m okay.”
“You’re not.” The words come out sharp. “You’re really not.”
“But I will be. Right?” You’re trying for reassuring and landing somewhere around slurred. “You said… you said I will be…”
“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “Yeah, you will be. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Talk to me,” he says. “Keep talking. Tell me what happened.”
“Commission went… sideways.” You’re watching his face instead of his hands. “More Hilichurls than… expected. Abyss Mages. And a Mitachurl. Strong one.”
“Did you fight them alone?”
“Didn’t have much… choice…”
“You could’ve run.”
“Couldn’t.” Your voice is getting quieter. “Had to stop them…”
His hands still for just a moment.
Then he continues bandaging, but his voice is rough when he speaks.
“No.” But there’s something that sounds almost like a sob caught in his throat. “It’s me trying not to lose my mind right now.”
You blink slowly. “You’re...scared.”
“Terrified.” He doesn’t hide it. “When I saw you standing there bleeding—when you collapsed—”
He stops, breathes. “Yeah. Terrified.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Just stay awake.” He finishes with the bandage and immediately shifts to check your pulse again. “Keep talking to me.”
“’bout what?”
“Anything. Everything. Just keep those eyes open.”
So you do.
He finishes bandaging in silence, hands steadier now.
— ✦ —
The sun is dropping toward the horizon.
Varka glances at the sky, then at you, then makes a decision. “We’re not making it back to the city tonight,” he says. “Not with you like this.”
“I can walk—”
“No.” It’s not harsh, just absolute. “You’re not putting weight on that leg until you feel better. We’re staying here.”
“Where?”
“I’ll figure it out.” He’s already looking around, cataloging options. “There’s a rock outcropping over there. Defensible. Out of the wind.”
“Varka—”
“Not arguing about this.” He looks down at you, and his expression is gentle despite the firmness in his voice. “I’m keeping you safe tonight. That’s what’s happening.”
You don’t have the energy to argue.
He works quickly—gathering branches, building a simple lean-to against the rocks, making a space that’s warm and dry and protected.
Then he comes back for you. “Alright. Arms around my neck.”
You comply, and he lifts you like you weigh nothing—one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back.
“Don’t jar the leg,” you mumble against his shoulder.
“I’ve got you.” And he does. Steady. Careful.
He settles you inside the shelter, back against the rock, and immediately starts building a fire.
“Cold?” he asks.
“Little bit.”
His cloak is around your shoulders before you can blink.
“Varka, you need—”
“I’m fine.” He’s arranging blankets, positioning you more comfortably. “You’re the one losing body heat.”
The fire catches. Warm light flickers across his face.
He settles beside you. Close enough to monitor, close enough to reach you if anything changes.
For a moment he just sits there, staring at the fire, jaw tight.
Then his shoulders drop slightly. Like something in him is finally letting go of the fear now that you’re stable.
He pulls you against his side, arm around your shoulders, holding you steady.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.” His voice is quiet. “But I’m going to anyway.”
You don’t argue.
For a while there’s just the crackle of fire and the sound of breathing.
Then Varka starts talking.
“You know what the worst part was?” His voice is low. Rough. “Seeing you standing there and thinking you were about to fall, and knowing I was too far away to catch you.”
“But you did catch me.”
“Barely.” His arm tightens slightly. “Another second and you would’ve hit the ground.”
“’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.” He presses his face briefly against your hair. “Just don’t do this again. Please.”
“Can’t promise that.”
“I know.” A rough laugh. “It’s what you do. But maybe next time don’t wait until you’re bleeding out to call for help?”
“Noted.”
“How you feeling?”
“Dizzy. Tired.” You pause. “Safe.”
His breath catches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re here. So… safe.”
His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.
“Not letting anything happen to you,” he murmurs. “Not tonight. Not ever if I can help it.”
You lean into him, and he adjusts to support your weight more comfortably.
“Varka?”
“Mm?”
“Thanks for coming. For staying.”
“Nowhere else I’d be.”
Time becomes strange.
You drift.
Sometimes you’re lucid. Aware of the fire, of Varka’s solid presence beside you, of the pain that’s settled into a dull throb.
Sometimes you’re floating. Disconnected, confused, words coming out wrong.
Varka talks through all of it.
Later—or maybe just minutes, you can’t tell—you’re drifting when Varka’s voice pulls you back.
“You know what happened last week?” he says.
“Kaeya convinced me to help him with inventory in one of the wine cellars. Made me believe I still owed him one.”
You make a vague sound.
“Should’ve known it was a trap. Man is always up to something.” There’s warmth in his voice now.
“Got down there and realized he’d ‘accidentally’ locked us in. Said we weren’t getting out until I told him about ‘the Adventurer who has the Grand Master running around Mondstadt like a lovesick puppy.’”
Normally you’d react to that. Tease him. Say something.
You don’t.
He continues anyway. “Tried to break down the door. Jean heard the noise, came to investigate. Very calm. Very professional. Right up until she saw me covered in wine because Kaeya had ‘accidentally’ knocked over a bottle trying to dodge my attempt to strangle him.”
Silence.
His hand stills in your hair for a moment.
“The look on her face,” he continues, voice a little more forced now. “Like she was reconsidering every leadership decision that led to that moment. Pretty sure she’s still thinking about bringing it up in a dignified way.”
Nothing.
“Hey.” His voice shifts—less storytelling, more concerned. “You still with me?”
“Mmm.”
“Come on, firecracker. Give me something. Tell me the story’s boring. Tell me Kaeya’s a scoundrel. Tell me anything.”
“’s boring,” you mumble.
“Liar. That story’s hilarious.” But there’s relief in his voice. “Though you’re right about Kaeya being a scoundrel.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
Silence falls again.
His hand resumes stroking your hair, but there's tension in the movement now.
“You're scaring me,” he admits quietly. “You're not talking. You're not arguing. You're just—” His voice roughens. "Just stay with me. Please.”
“'m here.”
“I know. But I need you to stay here.” His arm tightens around you. "Keep talking to me. Even if it's just to tell me to shut up.”
“Won't tell you... to shut up.”
“Why not? You usually do.”
“Like... your voice."
He chuckles. “Yeah?”
“Mmm. 's nice. Warm.”
His hand is trembling slightly as it cups your face. “You're going to be okay. You hear me? You're going to be fine.”
“I know.” Your voice is getting quieter. “'cause you're here.”
“That's right. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”
Time passes. You're not sure how much.
The pain starts to dull. The dizziness eases slightly, then gets worse again. You drift.
Varka keeps talking. About anything, everything, his voice a steady anchor.
Then something shifts.
He's not talking anymore. He's humming. Quiet. Almost unconscious. Like he doesn't realize he's doing it.
You recognize the melody through the haze. That song from the tavern. The one about wind and wandering, about following the north wind home.
His voice is rough, unpracticed, but steady. Familiar. Safe.
Eventually, the fog lifts enough that you can follow thoughts again. The pain settles into something manageable.
You shift slightly, and your head finds his shoulder.
“Varka?”
The humming stops. “Right here.”
“That song...”
“Mm?” He sounds surprised, like he didn't realize he was doing it. “The one from Angel's Share?”
“Yeah.”
“Couldn't get it out of my head,” he admits quietly. “You looked... peaceful. When it was playing. Thought maybe...”
He doesn't finish. But you understand. He remembered. Noticed it comforted you. Used it to keep you here. His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.
He starts humming again. Softer this time.
When the wind calls you wandering...
“You're really warm,” you murmur.
“That's the point.” His voice is soft, relieved. “Keep you warm. Keep you with me.”
The melody continues. Gentle. Grounding.
“'m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” His voice is fierce. “You better not.”
His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together. “Feeling better?”
“Little bit." You are. The fog is lifting. “Still dizzy. But better.”
“Good. That's good.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
“Don't apologize. Just don't do it again.”
“Can't promise that.”
“I know." His laugh is rough. “But I can hope.”
You lean into his warmth, and his arms come around you more securely.
The humming fades, but the melody stays. Wrapped around you like his cloak. Like his arms. Like safety.
“Tell me another story,” you murmur.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. The wine cellar one was good. Even if you tell it boring.”
“Knew you were listening.” But he sounds delighted. “Alright. Think I got something...”
And then he starts talking again.
His voice rumbles through you, steady and warm and alive.
You hold onto the sound. And somewhere underneath it, you can still hear that melody.
Slowly, slowly, you start to feel like maybe you really will be okay.
Later, you're mumbling something that doesn't quite make sense.
“...can't believe you... came all this way...”
“Course I did.”
“Could've... sent someone else...”
“No time. Wasn't sending anyone else anyway.” His hand strokes your hair gently. “It was you. Had to be me.”
“Why?”
The question hangs in the air.
His hand stills for a moment. “You know why," he says quietly.
You're floating again. The words come out before you can stop them.
“Love you... too much to die...”
His breath catches audibly. “What did you just say?”
"Didn't mean... to say that...” You're fading, words slurring. “Wasn't supposed... to tell you... yet...”
“Hey.” His hand cups your face gently, turning you toward him. “Stay with me. What did you just say?”
But you're already drifting off, eyes closing.
"Damn.” He sounds wrecked. “You're gonna tell me this now? While you're half-conscious?”
He pulls you closer, and you feel his forehead press against yours.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “Alright. We're talking about this. But later. When you're actually awake enough to remember saying it.”
His thumb strokes your cheek.
“And for the record?” His voice drops to barely a whisper. “I love you too. So you have to wake up properly so I can tell you that when you'll actually remember it.”
He starts humming again. So quietly you might be imagining it.
Home is not the place you harbor, but the heart that waits for you.
The melody wraps around you. Steady as his heartbeat. Warm as his arms.
Following you down into sleep like a northern wind guiding you home.
— ✦ —
You wake to sunlight and the smell of smoke.
Your body aches everywhere.
But you’re warm. And alive.
And Varka is right there, sitting beside you, looking like he hasn’t slept at all.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Welcome back.”
“Did I… sleep?”
“On and off. You talked a lot.” His mouth quirks. “Said some interesting things.”
Oh no.
Your face heats. “What kind of things?”
“We’ll get to that.” He’s already checking your pulse, your bandages, assessing.
“How you feeling?”
“Like I fought a mitachurl.”
“You did.” He helps you sit up carefully. “And won. Somehow.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts.” He hands you water. “Drink. Slowly.”
You do. It helps.
“Leg?” he asks.
You shift slightly and wince. “Hurts. But… better than last night.”
“Good. We’re getting you to a healer today.” He’s packing up the camp with efficient movements. “I’m going to carry you part of the way. When you feel steady enough, we’ll walk slowly. But you’re not putting full weight on that leg yet.”
“Varka, you can’t carry me the whole—”
“I can carry you as far as needed.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “We’ll take it slow. Rest when you need to. But we’re getting you treated today.”
The journey back is slow. Careful.
True to his word, Varka carries you for the first stretch—one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back, moving with steady purpose through the terrain.
“You can put me down,” you mumble against his shoulder after a while.
“Can I?”
“I can walk.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” But there’s warmth in his voice.
Eventually, when the path levels out and you insist, he sets you down carefully. Keeps one arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, his other hand ready to catch you if you stumble.
“Still with me?” he murmurs every few minutes.
“Still here.”
“Good. We’ll rest when you need to.”
You do need to rest. Twice. But each time he’s patient, never rushing, just sitting with you until you’re ready to continue.
By the time the healer’s house appears, you’re leaning heavily on him, exhausted.
The healer—a woman named Greta—takes one look at you and immediately gets to work.
Varka hovers.
“Sir, I need space—”
“I’m staying.”
“The wounds need cleaning, it’ll hurt—”
“I’m. Staying.”
Greta looks at you. You shrug slightly.
She sighs. “Fine. But sit down and don’t get in my way.”
He sits.
But his hand finds yours, and he doesn’t let go through the entire process.
When Greta irrigates the leg wound and you gasp, his grip tightens.
When she stitches and you bite back a sound, his thumb strokes across your knuckles.
“Almost done,” he murmurs. “You’re doing great.”
Finally, Greta steps back.
“Well. You’re lucky.” She’s washing her hands. “That leg wound was deep. Another few hours without treatment and we’d be having a different conversation.”
Varka’s face goes pale.
“But,” she continues, “you’ll heal. Keep it clean. No strenuous activity for two weeks minimum. And someone needs to monitor you for the next few days.”
“I’ll do it,” Varka says immediately.
You blink. “Varka, you don’t have to—”
“I’m doing it.” He looks at you, and there’s no room for argument in his expression.
“Not negotiable.”
Greta‘s mouth twitches like she’s fighting a smile. “Alright then. Change the dressings twice daily. Make sure they eat. Rest. Plenty of fluids.”
“Got it.”
“And get some sleep yourself. You look exhausted.”
“I will.”
(He won’t.)
He takes you back to his place.
“Varka, I have an apartment—”
“Which is up three flights of stairs.” He’s helping you through the door. “You’re not climbing stairs on that leg.”
“I can manage—”
“You’re staying here.” He settles you on his couch with surprising gentleness. “At least until you can walk without limping.”
“That could be weeks.”
“Then you're staying for weeks.” He's arranging pillows, getting blankets, moving around his space with purpose.
He sits beside you, and for a moment there's just comfortable silence.
Then you notice him looking around his own place with a slightly bemused expression.
“What?” you ask.
“Nothing. Just...” He gestures vaguely. “Place feels different with you in it.”
“Actually—” He stands, and there's something determined in his expression now.
He stops. Turns to look at you.
“You should just move in.”
You blink. “What?”
“Move in. With me.” He says it simply. Like it’s obvious. “Move in. For as long as you need. And if you want to stay after that, I wouldn’t mind.”
“Varka—”
“I know it’s fast.” He sits beside you again. “But last night, when I thought—” His voice roughens. “When I thought I might lose you—”
He takes your hand.
“I don’t want to waste time anymore. I want you here. Where I can see you. Where I know you’re safe.” He pauses. “Where I can tell you I love you every day instead of just when you’re half-conscious and bleeding.”
Your breath catches.
“You… you remember that?”
“Every word.” His thumb strokes across your knuckles. “You said you loved me. And I said it back. And I meant it.”
“I meant it too.”
“I know.” He smiles. “So. Move in with me. Please.”
You look around his space. At the care he’s already taken to make you comfortable. At the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most important thing in his world.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You squeeze his hand. “I’ll move in.”
The smile that breaks across his face is brilliant.
“Good.” He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours carefully. “Because I’m never letting you do something that stupid alone again.”
“Hey—”
“You fought alone. While injured.”
“I protected Mondstadt—”
“I know.” His voice softens. “I know you did. You’re brave and strong and incredible. And I love you. But you’re also reckless and stubborn and you’re going to give me gray hair.”
You laugh despite yourself.
"Don't scare me like that again," he whispers.
You're quiet for a moment. Thinking about the night in the clearing. About him finding you. About how it felt to wake up in his arms knowing you were safe.
About how you told him you loved him while half-conscious and he said it back.
“Can’t promise I won't do something stupid again," you say finally. “But I can promise this.”
“What?"
You look up at him. “I’ll only be reckless with you.”
He blinks. “What?”
“You heard me.” You squeeze his hand. “No more dangerous solo hunts. No more running off without backup. If I’m going to do something stupid..." You pause. “I want you there.”
His expression does something complicated. Surprise and joy and relief all tangled together.
“That’s not much of a promise," he says, but his voice is thick with emotion. “You’re still planning to do stupid things.”
“Yeah. But with you.” You manage a small smile. “We can be reckless together. A little. Like partners.”
“Partners,” Varka repeats softly.
“If you want.”
"If I want?” He laughs. Rough and wondering. “I’ve wanted that since you tried to take that commission alone and glared at me for interfering.”
“That was months ago.”
“I know.” He presses his forehead to yours carefully. “Took you long enough to catch up.”
Despite everything—the pain, the exhaustion, the fear still lingering—you laugh.
“So,” he murmurs. “Reckless together?”
"Reckless together,” you confirm.
“I can work with that.”
He kisses you. Gentle, careful, full of relief and love and the fear he's still processing.
When he pulls back, his eyes are very bright.
He settles beside you, arm around your shoulders, and you lean into his warmth.
“Welcome home,” he murmurs.
And for the first time in a long time, you feel like you actually are.
⋆ ✦ ⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. More Varka to follow soon. :)
finding you on the bathroom floor crying | comfort
writing this because that’s what i’m doing right now :’)
━ kuroo tetsurō
you hear two gentle knocks ring through your head. panicking, you snatch some toilet paper off the roll and rubs your eyes while checking in the mirror as if it’ll make them any less red. you open your dry mouth to respond, only for a shaky “yes?” to come out.
“…can i come in?” kuroo gently asks. “i um…surō wants to see you.”
surō is your plush cat, the one kuroo gave you before he left for a business trip. “if you miss me, hug him until i come back,” he had said. since the plushie looks just like him, hair and all, you named him surō in honor of “tetsurō.”
you clear your throat and harshly sniffles. sudden embarrassment fills you, realizing that he must’ve heard your sobs outside. “i’m not feeling very good …” you weakly say. “i’ll- i’ll see him another time.”
kuroo shuffles around outside. “…surō’s an impatient guy, is it okay if he sees you now?”
a small smile tugs at your lips as you lift yourself off the cold tiles, slowly turning the doorknob to see your tall boyfriend towering over you. you want to look up at him, to see his reaction, but it’s hard to meet his eyes. through your teary vision, you can see him clutching onto surō. you reach for the plush and slowly lifts him out of kuroo’s grasp.
kuroo peers past you, spotting the small pile of toilet paper and tissues on the floor. though you can’t see it, his heart chips into pieces at the sight.
“do you want to talk to me about it, babe?” he softly asks as he lifts his hand up and cups half of your face, gently rubbing your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “is there anyone surō and i need to have a little chat with?”
he hopes to hear a giggle from you, but to his surprise, unstoppable tears spills down your cheeks. his eyes widens as he runs his thumbs over your eyes.
“it’s been a rough day,” you choke out. his touch feels gentle and loving. the kind of touch that tells you that everything will be okay. “i-it’s hard to explain but i….i-”
“that’s alright,” he reassures. “i’m listening.”
you lean your body against his as you bury your face into his chest, squishing surō into a sandwich in the process.
as soon as he notices your shaky legs, he quickly crotches down, patting the carpet floor next to him as he fully sits down. kuroo looks up at you with a soft smile. “sit down next to me, kitten, and tell me what’s on your mind.”
you slowly lower yourself down, arms still tightly clutched onto surō. you have so much to say, so much you want to let out, and because of him, you have someone to tell those feelings to.
Warnings: depression, dark thoughts, anxiety, hopelessness
~~~~~~
You're not sure how long it's been since you've eaten. Or drank a glass of water. Or washed your hair. Laundry is piled high. Dishes in the dishwasher waiting to be put away for days. Trash cans overflowing. Your life is at a stand still. Everything feels dirty, but you have no energy to clean, no desire to change the conditions of your existence.
You can feel like your body is shutting down. Your heart pounding in your chest from the caffeine you choke down to make you feel something, anything, other than despair.
You take the pills your doctor prescribed. And every day, you wake up feeling the same. The same questions of 'why' plague your mind.
You're curled up in bed, it's well past three in the afternoon, and you haven't eaten. Do you deserve a meal? You haven't done anything today. Why bother, right? The darkness of your room swallows you whole. You close your eyes, trying to disappear into the void.
"Sweetie?" His voice is soft, tender.
You swear under your breath. You knew giving him a key in a moment of weakness would bite you in the ass. You consider pulling the blanket over your head and pretending to be asleep. Anything to keep him from seeing the state you're in or asking questions. But the squeak of your bedroom door makes you jump, you lift your head, and your eyes meet his.
"I just wanted to make sure you're still alive."
His tone is playful, but there's a timidness to his tone. You've never brought up your 'condition' - until recently, you'd hidden it fairly well. But then the cycle began again. The prospect of stepping out of your apartment and into a crowd became too much. Eventually, it got so bad your job replaced you and you had to rely on credit cards to get by once again. Explaining your gaps between jobs was becoming harder and harder. And just because Sylus had more money than he knows what to do with, you hated the idea of telling him about your struggles. It would only lead to more questions. And having to talk about things has never helped.
Accepting help doesn't make you weak, it doesn't make you a burden. You've always known that, but the voice in your head - who has taken on a life of their own lately - has convinced you otherwise. They've locked your logical mind in a cage and you've grown exhausted trying to break the lock.
So you started avoiding him. At first, it wasn't on purpose. Now...
The floorboards groan under his weight as he crosses the room. The mattress dips, and you sense his presence. The warmth you've missed and craved. But at what cost. If he tries to talk, you'll end up shutting him down. Maybe even shutting down yourself.
His finger trails over your cheek, looping around a strand of hair to tuck behind your ear. You cringe away from him, embarrassed by how greasy your hair must feel. When you glance at him, his concern is evident. His brows furrowed, his lip between his teeth. His usual clean-shaven appearance was long gone, along with his usual attire. Rough stubble, messy hair, a t-shirt and jeans. You weren't the only unrecognizable one.
"Come here."
It wasn't a question. You don't move, but you don't stop him from curling an arm around you. He picks you up, as heavy as you've felt lately, the weightlessness is strange.
Entering the bathroom, he lowers you onto the side of the tub. He turns on the water and turns to the cabinet. He pulls out bottles of the expensive body washes he's bought you. You felt bad wasting them on a regular day, so you saved them for special occasions. You hadn't realized he knew were you stored them.
He crouches and holds each bottle under your nose until the ghost of a smile appears. When the scent of cherry blossoms and vanilla flood your senses, your lips twitch. He immediately spins and deposits the rejected bottles in your sink.
You try to fight him when he starts to undress you, so he stops and stares. He waits for you to come to terms with the fact that he's not going anywhere. When he finally has your stained pjs in a pile on the floor, he holds your hand as you step inside the shower. Your chest tightens and you reach out to grab onto the wall. You're dangerously close to doubling over, a sob lodged in your throat. What must he think of you? You smell, you feel the layer of grim on your skin. But Sylus is there, letting his shirt soak through to hold you up. He helps you sit down and kneels beside you.
His hands, trained for violence, are soft and careful as he runs a washcloth over your skin. You close your eyes, a futile attempt to stop the tears from falling. As they wet your cheeks, he uses his thumb to wipe them away. He stays quiet, focused on washing you. When he tilts your head back to run his fingers through your hair, you sigh. His fingers massage your head as he works your shampoo through. He slowly washes away every ounce of dirt and grime. He rinses you with cool water to soothe your flushed skin before wrapping a towel around you, lifting you once again to carry you to the bedroom.
Laying out a pair of clean underwear and one of his oversized t-shirts he kept in your bottom drawer. He grabs one for himself before turning to leave. Once he closes the door, you pat yourself dry and step into your clean clothes. You're tempted to crawl back into bed, facing him again was too terrifying. But you hear your washing machine start. You shuffle to the door and find him tossing dirty clothes in a basket from around your apartment. He sees you emerge and just as you open your mouth to argue, he picks you up again, effectively shutting you up.
When he deposits you on your kitchen counter, you raise a brow. He offers a small smile and turns to open the fridge. You bite your lip as you notice how barren it's become. What's left is either expired or leftovers so old you're unsure they're even still considered food. He doesn't make a sound and just focuses on navigating the devastating sight before him. Finding a jar of strawberry jelly, he returns to your side. He examines the peanut butter on your counter and finds your bread in good condition. He makes a simple PB&J, plates it, and fills a glass with water. He clears a space on your kitchen table, job applications, and unopened mail piled to one corner. He wraps an arm around your waist and helps you off the counter.
He once again leaves you so you can eat without an audience. You can hear him cleaning up your apartment behind you. Tears once again flow down your cheeks. The peanut butter is perfectly sweet and sticky. The jelly offers a bright pop of freshness. When you sip the water, it's like you haven't had a drop in years. You empty the glass in a single go. He picks up the glass and refills it. You hadn't even realized he was right behind you. He watches you finish the second glass in a similar fashion.
Foregoing the stack of dirty dishes in your sink, he leaves the empty plate and glass on the table. He leads you back to the bathroom to brush your hair. Drying your locks with a towel, he braids your damp hair and clips back any strays. Adding a swipe of toothpaste on your toothbrush, he holds your chin and places the brush in your mouth. You take over, gently working the bristles over your teeth. He leaves briefly, returning with a bottle of lotion. He runs his hands over your legs, the lotion quickly absorbing.
He leads you back into your bedroom. You sit on fresh sheets, lowering your head onto clean pillowcases. He settles behind you, an arm resting over your waist. He doesn't hold you tightly. He just offers his hand over your waist. When your fingers lace with his, he moves closer and presses his chest against your back. His heartbeat against your back makes your eyes sting with fresh tears. His thumb traces soothing circles into your palm.
"I'm sorry." You mumble.
"For what?" He whispers.
"I didn't call. Or text. I disappeared. I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not..." Your voice cracks.
"You don't have to explain. We can just lay here. I just want to be with you."
A sob escapes you, your throat hurting from how hard you tried to hold it back. His lips greet your neck, gentle kisses so feather light they tickle. You shiver and try to breathe through your nose. He lifts a blanket over both of your bodies and lowers his head to the pillow. You hold your breath as you turn over to face him. He looks at you, surprised but welcoming.
"I feel lost. Barely surviving. And I'm angry. I'm so angry all the time. No matter what I do, how hard I fight, how many pills I take, I always end up here. What's the point?"
He listens. His arms wrapped around your waist, his hands rubbing your back as you speak. His expression remains neutral.
"Why can't I just deal with it? Other people struggle with these things! Inadequacy, trauma, fear, anger, anxiety - why can't I just... I can't do anything, I just..."
He runs his fingers through your hair, unwinding the braid he made so your silky tresses cascade over your pillow. Winding strands around his fingers, massaging your scalp. He doesn't offer a solution or opinion. He just lays beside you, hearing you.
"I had so many hopes and dreams. Where is that girl? The girl determined to wake up every day and do what she loved. The girl who wouldn't settle. I don't know if she even exists anymore."
You turn onto your back and stare at the ceiling. His hand remains on your waist. With his other, he props his head up on his palm. He looks down at you and nods, wordlessly urging you to continue.
"I don't want to just survive. I want to live. But this isn't living. And no matter what I do, I can't... find the strength to try anymore. There's too much "
You hold your breath as you meet his gaze.
"I just want to disappear."
He leans forward and kisses your forehead. Your sobs have built up so rapidly, you start to feel nauseous. So you stop holding back.
Your sobs are broken, ugly, loud. Your brows pinched together so tightly your head aches. Tears stream down your cheeks into your hair. Sylus wraps his arms around you and holds you against his chest, letting you sob into the crook of his neck. He's so still, so warm, his arms never flinching or squeezing. Just holding.
As you calm down, a sense the wave of shame and embarrassment looming. You mutter apologies over and over.
"Sweetie?" He whispers, his voice holding more emotion than ever.
He gives you a little space and when you look up at him, you see his own cheeks are wet with spilled tears. Seeing those streaks of tears, the tinge of purple beneath his bloodshot eyes, you nearly start sobbing again. He rests his palm against your cheek and gently holds your face in place to keep your eyes on him.
"I could say all those stupid lines - 'you're strong' 'I'm here for you' 'you'll get through this' - but people say that when they don't know. The strongest soldier can still be injured, they can still be weak. That doesn't mean they are no longer strong. I want to be by your side through everything. But this world is unpredictable, I could be whisked away tomorrow. And I can't control you. I can't tell you how to get through this, so I can't say with certainty that you will."
His thumb swipes over your cheek, keeping the tears from dampening your pillow case.
"Your pain, is real. This wound is deep. You've carried this with you for so long, I doubt you'd know how to be without it. Choosing to live, even choosing to survive, is terrifying. It's hard, brutal even. Carrying on, when you don't believe you have a reason, is even worse. Why fight? Why try? Hope is evasive. Hunting it down is exhausting. And sometimes... it's not a one person job."
He pulls you back to his chest and rolls onto his back. Your ear presses against his chest.
"When you smile, genuinely smile, it's not for anyone. It's a reaction, an instinct, your body showing the world how happy you feel. Or when you cry. Sometimes you don't even know why the tears fall. Shivers breaking out across your skin, a sign that you're cold or that you're body is aware when your mind isn't. A defense, a prompt, helping you return to the present."
His hands stroke your back, your muscles relaxing inch by inch.
"Let me show you what it means to live again. To walk amongst flowers just to take in their scent. To stand in the sun to feel the heat. To dance to the song that makes you smile, blood rushing through your veins as you twirl and laugh. Reminding you that you are very much alive. And you get to choose why. And you don't have to defend it. You don't owe anyone an explanation. Only yourself. And that... is enough. More than enough. You, are more than enough."
You feel as though you should be crying again, but no tears come. No sob rips free from your chest. His heartbeat becomes the only sound you can hear. The steady beat lulls you into a dream, one where you stand in a field of flowers. The sun high in the sky, the warm rays warming your skin. The subtle scent of flowers surrounds you. A gentle breeze carrying petals swirls, chills spreading as the wind cools your skin.
Sylus appears beside you. He offers his hand. You smile, that giddy silly smile that you usually try to hide. Taking his hand, he leads you down a path through the flowers. You know it's a dream, but its significance is not lost on you.
Sylus isn't offering to fix your problems, but rather walk with you as you rediscover your reasons to love life. You know it's a scary prospect, to live for the sake of living. To smile, just because you can. To try again, when you've fallen flat on your face countless times, just because your happiness is worth the risk. It won't be an easy journey, you'll fall again and that's okay. Just as long as you get back up.
~~~~~~
𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙:
@trishiepo0
@not-so-quite-human
@kitsunetori
@babyx91
@libriomancer
@lilyadora
@crowskitten22
@letharue
@silverbrain
@alastor-simp
@drama-trauma
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@godzillaglitter
@godoffuckedupcats
@klmpun
@ariallaisawesome
@spidy-spider01
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@plsdonttakemyname
@hauntedbysmutm0
@withering-dream
@lostwingz2236
@simpfortheseven
@bubbleteakittyy
@freddy-2002-blog
@sylus-hunter
AN: This has been in my drafts for a while. I started writing it to deal with my depression and cried a lot while writing it. I'm still very much not okay, but writing has helped me focus on something less negative. Sylus has become more than a comfort character to me. He's sometimes the only thing I smile about. I'm grateful for finding LADs when I did. I'm glad I started writing, even if it's cringe sometimes. And I don't think I can really express how grateful I am for everyone who likes, shares or comments on my writing. You've given me more hope than you'll ever realize. Thank you.
since he's your first relationship, you can't help but feel shy around sylus.. luckily, he's happy to take things at your pace!
to anyone with eyes, it was no secret that you were one of the dearest things to sylus. the terrifying boss of onichynus, reduced to a lovesick fool whenever you were around.
you yourself would notice too, if only you weren't so shy around him.
you had never been in a relationship before him, and you hated how obvious it was. any attempts he made at touching you had you freezing up, your mind malfunctioning as you stared at him, almost in shock he was trying anything in the first place.
"is this alright, sweetie?" his voice was always gentle, never trying to push you as his hands hovered over you.
the most you could offer in your flustered state was a nod, still freezing anytime he touched you.
he noticed. of course he would, he wanted to know everything about you after all. and while at first he thought it was you being scared of him, your flustered state told him otherwise. it was clear you weren't used to the contact, and how would he change that?
keep touching you, of course.
he made sure to never push. that was a big thing for him, he never wanted you to feel pressured to reciprocate or even initiate if you weren't ready.
but he stayed constant, persistent, his affection as sure as the sun rising and falling each day. he would always offer you a hand, a warm smile on his lips as he led you through the base or wherever you both were, his warm palm finding a home on your hip.
you were still nervous to initiate anything, and he was fine with that. he would give you what you were willing to take, and take what you were willing to give. even a mere smile his way was enough to have his heart fluttering as he watched you with endless fondness.
"i'm sorry." you had mumbled one day, flustered as you hesitantly placed your hand in his outstretched one.
"what for?" he asked, not a hint of judgement in his tone as he gently squeezed your palm.
"for.. you know." you avoided his gaze, staring down at your intertwined hands instead. "i'm sorry i haven't been as affectionate as you've been."
"oh, sweetie," he breathed, gently tugging you closer with a soft look on his face, "it's alright. you know the last thing i'd ever want is to push you when you're not ready. if this," he motioned to your intertwined hands, "is all you can give me at the moment, then i'll have it with an open heart."
he smiled, bringing your hand to his lips to kiss your knuckles, "never force yourself to do anything you're not prepared for. i'm happy with you like this, and i'd be just as happy if we were merely standing next to each other." he kept his gaze on yours as he kissed your wrist, "i'll be here no matter what."
kuroo tetsuro, the perfect and persuasive businessman. kuroo tetsuro, jva’s golden boy. but you don’t know that guy, you rather be with tetsu.
he’s objectively perfect, indeed. the pipe under the sink is leaking? don’t worry, don’t call anyone. he will fix it in ten minutes — looking extremely hot, by the way. you’re late to a place? it’s okay, he’s always ready to take you anywhere.
but when his friends from high school come over to your house, most of them volleyball players, he’ll show off about how he kept his form despite not becoming professional and being in his early thirties. smirk on, eyebrow arched and an smug bickering with bokuto that makes iwaizumi huff and want to throw someone through the window.
“don’t know how you put up with him. you’re quite normal” he would say while glaring at the pair — who right now are showing off their biceps and daring each other to play in your backyard. you chuckle and take a sip of your beer, “love makes you do unnormal things, i guess”
“babe, that was so cheesy” kuroo snorts smugly, and you smirk back, holding back a laugh. “you married me anyway” you shrug, and atsumu miya cheers your beer with his protein shake. bokuto gasps and tetsuro clicks his tongue, walking towards you, “and i’ll let you know that i’d do it again. mouthy woman” he huffs and shakes his head, amused. wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close before whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear, “you’re feeling my arm now, say i’m stronger than bo’, c’mon”
“that’s not fair! call a referee” kotaro points at him, and kuroo just stretches you against him, playfully. his biceps defines at his grip and you sigh, yet lean against his broad chest.
oh, he’s not some higher up in the jva, not some scary man in a suit. he’s just a dork, and yours, truly.
you wake to the smell of coffee and something sweet... cinnamon, maybe. kuroo's already dressed, tie slightly crooked, hair its usual disaster, leaning against the counter scrolling through his phone while your breakfast cools on the plate. "made you french toast," he says without looking up, like it's nothing, like he didn't set his alarm early just so you wouldn't grab some sad granola bar on your way out.
it's been like this since high school. since you were seventeen and he'd slide his lunch across the table because you forgot yours again, since he'd walk the long way just to make sure you got home okay. back then his affection was wrapped up in dumb jokes and volleyball stuff you pretended to understand. now it's in the way he kisses your forehead before heading to work, the way he texts you random reminders throughout the day like "drink water" and "love you btw."
you're not even surprised when he shows up outside your office at four-thirty, leaning against his car with that annoying smirk that still gets you. "left early," he says when you raise your eyebrows, catching your hand and pulling you close right there on the sidewalk. he's never cared who's watching. in high school he'd throw his arm around you between classes, kiss your cheek at lunch, let everyone know you were his while you wear his red varsity jacket. now he holds your hand at the store, kisses you while waiting for the light to change, keeps his hand on your knee at dinners with friends.
"you didn't have to leave early," you say, but he's already opening your door, already tucking hair behind your ear.
"wanted to," he says, and that's kuroo. that's always been kuroo—showing up for you, every single time.
Helloooo! How about this as a request for Sy :) We know big scary onychinus leader but how do you think he'll react the first time reader calls him "baby" in such a soft/loving context? You can decide what format to write this in hehe
OMGGGG hi anon! tysm for the ask :333 our big scary onychinus leader is often misunderstood ‹/3 at the end of the day he's a just a giant softie with an intimidating work life so i think calling him "baby" for the first time would genuinely crush sylus given what we know about our past with him BUT IT'S OK IN LIKE A GOOD WAY OFC hmmm it would go something like this...
linkon's sunset kissed the city skyline in a way that soothed over the mild soreness in your body after a long day, the low hum of sylus' car almost whisked you to sleep if it weren't for the fact that he was pulling into the driveway of your apartment.
you wanted to avoid thinking about your relationship with sylus for as long as possible; all the times he had secretly helped you on your missions, how he thought of you often through gifts and great company had begun to etch their way into your heart, causing it to beat just a little more at the mere thought of him.
never in your imagination did you think you would fall for (?) or admire (?) someone of sylus' background, let alone a man that made you put a bullet through his chest during your first encounter.
you denied yourself of entertaining the idea of sylus reciprocating any feeling adjacent to your personal torment, resigning to the reminder that his career allowed him to meet people just like him in a completely different sphere of life than your own.
being with him like this was good. it was enough.
you managed to lift yourself off your seat once sylus opened the car door for you, his usual smirk graced his features as the both of you walk into the building and into the elevator as his right arm hovered over your lower back.
"i'm surprised you haven't called the association for a rest day, kitten. you and jenna would have wrapped the call before you even got in the car." sylus teased while he swiped your apartment card — that you couldn't remember giving to him — and took you both to your floor.
"those fluctuations are gonna be the death of me," you groaned, being careful to not lean into his touch as the elevator shook a little. "i skimmed over my messages and i think tara mentioned that jenna gave everyone time off anyway."
"that's good," he hummed as gently ushered the two of you out to walk to your unit and into your living room, placed your bag on the kitchen bench that sylus held onto since he parked the car.
you convinced yourself that you were content with how things were.
you and sylus eventually reached a point where your lives had intertwined in a way that was comfortable, casually seeking each other out for another’s company.
luke and kieran started referring to you as "boss-lady" with each visit to the base, filling sylus with a sense of pride that made you fluster at the sound of it. however, your heart would race for a different reason whenever he found a new way to surprise you at the association, lightly treading on the notion that he would be immediately arrested if anyone recognised him.
the sun sank further into the horizon, hues of orange and blue seep through sheer curtains that flow with the breeze that entered your living room.
you settled onto the couch with a huff, sylus still moved around in the kitchen but you were too tired to ask. you welcomed the quiet ambience with waning conscience, willfuly ignoring just how easily you had adjusted to sylus’ presence.
you believed it wasn’t in your best interest to tell the onychinus syndicate that you harboured feelings for him.
it was wrong to dismiss it for proximity, let alone abandoning your duty as a hunter to turn him in. the thought of tarnishing what should have been enough had terrified you more that you’d like to admit.
perhaps it was the way he had become your semblance of peace in a life that demanded so much from you, it urged you to dream of a reality in which the two of you didn’t have to be worlds apart. it was selfish. immoral. you silently sought past his garnet gaze for possibilities, that flowers could bloom on barren soil, not knowing if he’d meet you eye to eye.
yet you yearned for him inexplicably; inevitably.
sylus carefully placed a cup of tea at the coffee table before making himself comfortable at the armchair to your left. the remnants of the sun behind him casted a halo on his silver locks and softened his usually sharp disposition.
he traced your features to memory as he stood up and draped a blanket over you. he noted how your breath slowly evened out to a steady rhythm, how your eyelashes fluttered at his movements, at how the world fell silent as you muttered something in your sleep as he was about to turn away.
"..thank you, baby."
unbeknownst to you, what was once a dying fuse of hope had boldly reignited in sylus' soul, granting him the warmth he spent countless lifetimes searching for.
(timeskip era, humor, fluff, established relationship, bimbo reader)
│ dream kuroo should have known better.
──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────
you wake up mad.
not the sleepy, mildly annoyed kind of mad. not the groggy, need-coffee kind of mad. you wake up with your chest tight, jaw clenched, and a very specific sense of betrayal burning in your gut.
kuroo tetsurou cheated on you.
in your dream.
but the emotional damage? very real.
you roll over in bed with a huff, turning your back to him so hard the mattress creaks. kuroo, who had been half-awake already, blinks blearily and reaches out on instinct, arm sliding around your waist.
“morning, baby—”
you shrug him off.
hard.
his eyes snap open.
“…okay,” he says slowly. “good morning to you too?”
you don’t answer.
you sit up, drag the blanket with you like a statement, and get out of bed without looking at him once. kuroo watches you go, confused but not yet alarmed. you’re pouty sometimes. you get moody when he works late. this isn’t new.
except.
when he gets up to shower and comes back out, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and messy, you don’t even look at him. at his abs.
that’s new.
“uh,” he says, hovering near the dresser. “did i… do something?”
you scoff.
he winces. “that’s a yes.”
you ignore him.
kuroo frowns, trailing after you into the kitchen, where you’re already making his lunch like you do every morning. rice. protein. perfectly balanced. love, usually, baked into every bite.
he leans against the counter, arms crossed, trying to catch your eye. “c’mon. talk to me. you’re being scary.”
you slide the bento lid shut with way more force than necessary.
he flinches.
“baby?” he tries again, softer now. “why are you mad at me?”
you finally turn to him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.
“you should know.”
oh.
oh no.
that’s not a pout. that’s i have committed a crime and don’t know what it is energy.
kuroo spends the rest of the morning walking on eggshells.
you don’t say a word while he gets ready. you don’t kiss him goodbye. when he reaches for you out of habit, you sidestep him like he doesn’t exist. his chest aches with the unfamiliar distance, anxiety crawling up his spine.
at the door, you hand him his lunch.
he brightens, relieved. “thank you, baby—”
“this was made with hate,” you say sweetly. “i hope you step in a muddy puddle and your socks are wet all day.”
and then you turn around and walk away.
kuroo stands there, frozen.
mouth open. eyes wide.
“…what the fuck.”
at work, he’s useless.
completely, catastrophically useless.
he stares at his screen. rewrites the same email six times. replays your voice in his head over and over. made with hate. you have never said anything like that to him in your life. you are sunshine. you are indulgent. you are his spoiled little wife who kisses his cheek and tells him to work hard. you hand make his lunch every day, hand it to him with i made this with love and a kiss.
by lunch, he’s a wreck.
he opens the bento slowly, like it might explode.
it looks perfect. smells perfect. he takes a bite.
it’s… fine.
not bad.
but not you.
his chest sinks.
“oh my god,” he mutters, staring at the food. “she’s right. she made it with hate.”
he groans, dragging his hands down his face. he texts bokuto in desperation.
kuroo: my wife is mad at me and idk why
bokuto: idk, maybe because you work a lot?
kuroo: …oh my god
neglect.
of course.
he leaves work early.
he doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about it.
kuroo sends one hurried message to his boss, barely proofreading it, and is already halfway out of the building before the reply comes in. his keys jingle too loudly in his hand, his thoughts racing faster than his feet as he bolts down the street, heart pounding with the awful certainty that he has, somehow, royally fucked up.
he stops at the flower shop on the corner first.
then the bakery across the street.
then the expensive shoe store you’ve been staring at every time you pass it together.
by the time he’s heading home, his arms are full, shoulders aching, panic buzzing just under his skin. he keeps replaying the morning over and over in his head, your voice, your expression, the way you didn’t look at him.
you had never done that before.
that’s what scares him the most.
when he unlocks the door, he’s already rehearsing his apology. he’s ready to grovel, to beg, to swear on everything sacred that he’ll do better, be home more, take time off, whatever you want—
“baby?” he calls out.
there’s no answer.
he steps inside, grip tight on all the bags in his hands, listening.
and then he hears it.
snip.
the sound is soft. almost delicate.
his blood runs cold.
he rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops so abruptly that his breath leaves his lungs in a sharp, startled exhale.
you’re standing there, jaw set, eyes blazing, holding a fistful of your long hair up near your shoulders. in your other hand, gleaming under the overhead light, are the kitchen scissors. your eyes snap to him as he enters the room, scissors paused in their almost-assault to your hair.
there’s a beat.
just one.
the world narrows to the sight of you like this. small. furious. devastating.
“…baby,” kuroo whispers.
you lift the scissors a fraction higher.
they close.
not all the way. just enough.
a single strand of hair flutters to the floor.
kuroo’s knees hit the tile with a thud.
“no— okay, okay, okay, hold on,” he blurts out, bags dropping to the floor, hands flying up in surrender. “let’s just— let’s all take a breath here—”
“you don’t get to tell me to calm down,” you snap, voice shaking. “not after what you did.”
his heart stutters painfully.
“what i—” he swallows. “what did i do?”
“you know exactly what you did.”
he doesn’t.
and that’s the worst part.
he scrambles desperately, eyes flicking between your face and the scissors. “baby, i swear to god, i don’t— if this is about work, i took time off, i left early, i bought—” he gestures vaguely around him. “stuff! a lot of stuff!”
“that doesn’t fix betrayal,” you hiss.
he freezes.
“…betrayal?”
“with your secretary!” you shout. “you left me for her! you were cheating on me and you just— just replaced me like it was nothing!”
silence crashes down around the two of you.
kuroo stares at you.
really stares.
his mouth opens. closes.
“secretary,” he repeats faintly.
you nod fiercely. “she was younger. and prettier. and you didn’t even feel bad about it!”
something clicks.
slowly.
painfully.
his panic ebbs, replaced by something like stunned disbelief, then dawning comprehension.
you were fine last night.
laughing. curled into his side. kissing him goodnight.
and this morning?
this morning you woke up furious.
“…oh,” he breathes.
relief hits him so hard it nearly knocks him over.
“oh my god,” he says, shoulders slumping as the tension drains from his body. he lets out a shaky laugh, half hysterical, half fond. “you dreamed this.”
your glare wavers.
“that wasn’t—” you start, then stop.
kuroo pushes himself back to his feet and crosses the room carefully, slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile. he gently takes the scissors from your hand, setting them far out of reach on the counter before pulling you into his chest.
you melt into him immediately.
he holds you tight, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing soothing circles into your back as he exhales a relieved laugh into your hair.
“baby,” he murmurs. “you scared the absolute shit outta me.”
your grip tightens on his shirt. “i don’t want you to leave me.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing under your eyes where tears are starting to gather. his expression softens completely.
“hey,” he says gently. “look at me.”
you do.
“there is no universe,” he says firmly, “where i leave you. dream kuroo is a dumbass. real kuroo? obsessed with you. down bad. pathetically devoted.”
you sniff. “you promise?”
“i promise,” he says without hesitation. “i don’t even have a secretary.”
“what if you get one,” you mumble, clinging to him. “and she’s younger and cuter—”
“nope.” he shakes his head. “if i ever need an assistant, i’ll hire an old woman.”
“…or a man.”
he grins. “or a man. deal.”
you nod solemnly, seemingly satisfied.
then your eyes drift past him.
to the bags.
“…so,” you say, wiping your cheeks. “what presents did you buy me?”
(timeskip era, humor, fluff, established relationship, bimbo reader)
│ dream kuroo should have known better.
──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────
you wake up mad.
not the sleepy, mildly annoyed kind of mad. not the groggy, need-coffee kind of mad. you wake up with your chest tight, jaw clenched, and a very specific sense of betrayal burning in your gut.
kuroo tetsurou cheated on you.
in your dream.
but the emotional damage? very real.
you roll over in bed with a huff, turning your back to him so hard the mattress creaks. kuroo, who had been half-awake already, blinks blearily and reaches out on instinct, arm sliding around your waist.
“morning, baby—”
you shrug him off.
hard.
his eyes snap open.
“…okay,” he says slowly. “good morning to you too?”
you don’t answer.
you sit up, drag the blanket with you like a statement, and get out of bed without looking at him once. kuroo watches you go, confused but not yet alarmed. you’re pouty sometimes. you get moody when he works late. this isn’t new.
except.
when he gets up to shower and comes back out, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp and messy, you don’t even look at him. at his abs.
that’s new.
“uh,” he says, hovering near the dresser. “did i… do something?”
you scoff.
he winces. “that’s a yes.”
you ignore him.
kuroo frowns, trailing after you into the kitchen, where you’re already making his lunch like you do every morning. rice. protein. perfectly balanced. love, usually, baked into every bite.
he leans against the counter, arms crossed, trying to catch your eye. “c’mon. talk to me. you’re being scary.”
you slide the bento lid shut with way more force than necessary.
he flinches.
“baby?” he tries again, softer now. “why are you mad at me?”
you finally turn to him, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.
“you should know.”
oh.
oh no.
that’s not a pout. that’s i have committed a crime and don’t know what it is energy.
kuroo spends the rest of the morning walking on eggshells.
you don’t say a word while he gets ready. you don’t kiss him goodbye. when he reaches for you out of habit, you sidestep him like he doesn’t exist. his chest aches with the unfamiliar distance, anxiety crawling up his spine.
at the door, you hand him his lunch.
he brightens, relieved. “thank you, baby—”
“this was made with hate,” you say sweetly. “i hope you step in a muddy puddle and your socks are wet all day.”
and then you turn around and walk away.
kuroo stands there, frozen.
mouth open. eyes wide.
“…what the fuck.”
at work, he’s useless.
completely, catastrophically useless.
he stares at his screen. rewrites the same email six times. replays your voice in his head over and over. made with hate. you have never said anything like that to him in your life. you are sunshine. you are indulgent. you are his spoiled little wife who kisses his cheek and tells him to work hard. you hand make his lunch every day, hand it to him with i made this with love and a kiss.
by lunch, he’s a wreck.
he opens the bento slowly, like it might explode.
it looks perfect. smells perfect. he takes a bite.
it’s… fine.
not bad.
but not you.
his chest sinks.
“oh my god,” he mutters, staring at the food. “she’s right. she made it with hate.”
he groans, dragging his hands down his face. he texts bokuto in desperation.
kuroo: my wife is mad at me and idk why
bokuto: idk, maybe because you work a lot?
kuroo: …oh my god
neglect.
of course.
he leaves work early.
he doesn’t even pretend to be subtle about it.
kuroo sends one hurried message to his boss, barely proofreading it, and is already halfway out of the building before the reply comes in. his keys jingle too loudly in his hand, his thoughts racing faster than his feet as he bolts down the street, heart pounding with the awful certainty that he has, somehow, royally fucked up.
he stops at the flower shop on the corner first.
then the bakery across the street.
then the expensive shoe store you’ve been staring at every time you pass it together.
by the time he’s heading home, his arms are full, shoulders aching, panic buzzing just under his skin. he keeps replaying the morning over and over in his head, your voice, your expression, the way you didn’t look at him.
you had never done that before.
that’s what scares him the most.
when he unlocks the door, he’s already rehearsing his apology. he’s ready to grovel, to beg, to swear on everything sacred that he’ll do better, be home more, take time off, whatever you want—
“baby?” he calls out.
there’s no answer.
he steps inside, grip tight on all the bags in his hands, listening.
and then he hears it.
snip.
the sound is soft. almost delicate.
his blood runs cold.
he rounds the corner into the kitchen and stops so abruptly that his breath leaves his lungs in a sharp, startled exhale.
you’re standing there, jaw set, eyes blazing, holding a fistful of your long hair up near your shoulders. in your other hand, gleaming under the overhead light, are the kitchen scissors. your eyes snap to him as he enters the room, scissors paused in their almost-assault to your hair.
there’s a beat.
just one.
the world narrows to the sight of you like this. small. furious. devastating.
“…baby,” kuroo whispers.
you lift the scissors a fraction higher.
they close.
not all the way. just enough.
a single strand of hair flutters to the floor.
kuroo’s knees hit the tile with a thud.
“no— okay, okay, okay, hold on,” he blurts out, bags dropping to the floor, hands flying up in surrender. “let’s just— let’s all take a breath here—”
“you don’t get to tell me to calm down,” you snap, voice shaking. “not after what you did.”
his heart stutters painfully.
“what i—” he swallows. “what did i do?”
“you know exactly what you did.”
he doesn’t.
and that’s the worst part.
he scrambles desperately, eyes flicking between your face and the scissors. “baby, i swear to god, i don’t— if this is about work, i took time off, i left early, i bought—” he gestures vaguely around him. “stuff! a lot of stuff!”
“that doesn’t fix betrayal,” you hiss.
he freezes.
“…betrayal?”
“with your secretary!” you shout. “you left me for her! you were cheating on me and you just— just replaced me like it was nothing!”
silence crashes down around the two of you.
kuroo stares at you.
really stares.
his mouth opens. closes.
“secretary,” he repeats faintly.
you nod fiercely. “she was younger. and prettier. and you didn’t even feel bad about it!”
something clicks.
slowly.
painfully.
his panic ebbs, replaced by something like stunned disbelief, then dawning comprehension.
you were fine last night.
laughing. curled into his side. kissing him goodnight.
and this morning?
this morning you woke up furious.
“…oh,” he breathes.
relief hits him so hard it nearly knocks him over.
“oh my god,” he says, shoulders slumping as the tension drains from his body. he lets out a shaky laugh, half hysterical, half fond. “you dreamed this.”
your glare wavers.
“that wasn’t—” you start, then stop.
kuroo pushes himself back to his feet and crosses the room carefully, slowly, like he’s approaching something fragile. he gently takes the scissors from your hand, setting them far out of reach on the counter before pulling you into his chest.
you melt into him immediately.
he holds you tight, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing soothing circles into your back as he exhales a relieved laugh into your hair.
“baby,” he murmurs. “you scared the absolute shit outta me.”
your grip tightens on his shirt. “i don’t want you to leave me.”
he pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing under your eyes where tears are starting to gather. his expression softens completely.
“hey,” he says gently. “look at me.”
you do.
“there is no universe,” he says firmly, “where i leave you. dream kuroo is a dumbass. real kuroo? obsessed with you. down bad. pathetically devoted.”
you sniff. “you promise?”
“i promise,” he says without hesitation. “i don’t even have a secretary.”
“what if you get one,” you mumble, clinging to him. “and she’s younger and cuter—”
“nope.” he shakes his head. “if i ever need an assistant, i’ll hire an old woman.”
“…or a man.”
he grins. “or a man. deal.”
you nod solemnly, seemingly satisfied.
then your eyes drift past him.
to the bags.
“…so,” you say, wiping your cheeks. “what presents did you buy me?”
it had looked perfect on the hanger. elegant, understated, something that said put together without trying too hard. now it feels like it’s mocking you, fabric clinging wrong in places it shouldn’t, zipper refusing to cooperate no matter how carefully you tug.
you huff under your breath, twisting to look at yourself in the mirror.
too tight. definitely too tight.
“of course,” you mutter, already feeling that familiar knot forming in your chest. the dinner is in less than an hour, and you can hear kuroo moving around in the bedroom behind you, humming lightly to himself as he gets ready. relaxed. unbothered. completely unaware that you are five minutes away from spiraling.
you peel the dress off and drop it onto the bed, rubbing your arms as if the fabric left an impression behind. your hair is next.
you’d tried something new. a half-up style you saw online that looked effortless on the model. on you, it’s a disaster. one side won’t stay put, the clip keeps slipping, and the more you fuss with it, the worse it looks.
your reflection stares back at you, eyes a little too bright.
you imagine it already. walking into the restaurant. his coworkers looking you up and down. the quiet judgments, the polite smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. this is who kuroo tetsurou chose? this is the woman standing beside him?
your throat tightens.
maybe you should’ve just worn something simple. maybe you should’ve practiced the hairstyle more. maybe you should just… not go.
you don’t notice kuroo step into the doorway until his reflection appears behind you.
“hey,” he says gently. “everything okay?”
you force a smile that doesn’t convince either of you. “yeah. just… getting ready.”
he tilts his head, dark eyes scanning you in the mirror, taking in the discarded dress on the bed, the way your hands keep fidgeting with your hair.
“…you’re spiraling,” he says softly.
you deflate.
“i don’t want to mess this up,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “this dinner matters to you. your coworkers, your boss. i don’t want to embarrass you.”
kuroo blinks.
once.
twice.
then he lets out a quiet laugh, not mocking, just incredulous. he crosses the room in two strides and gently turns you toward him, hands settling warm and steady on your waist.
“baby,” he says, like he’s trying not to smile too hard. “if you think you could ever ruin my image, you don’t know me at all.”
you frown. “kuroo—”
“nope,” he cuts in lightly. “i’m serious. without you, i’m a poor, miserable man who eats convenience store food and forgets to water his plants. my image is you.”
you snort despite yourself. “that’s not true.”
“it absolutely is,” he says, grinning. “you’re my most beloved lady. i’m just your accessory.”
he reaches up and gently fixes the strand of hair that’s been bothering you, fingers careful, unhurried. “and for the record? the hair is cute. the dress? we’ll find one that makes you feel good, not one that tortures you.”
your chest aches a little at the way he says it. like it’s obvious. like it was never a question.
“what if they don’t like me?” you ask quietly.
kuroo’s expression softens instantly.
“then that’s their problem,” he says simply. “not yours. and not mine.”
he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “you don’t exist to impress my coworkers. you exist because i love you.”
your eyes sting.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, thumbs brushing under your eyes. “hey. i invited them to dinner. i chose you. every day.”
you laugh shakily. “you’re very dramatic.”
“i’m very correct,” he counters.
he turns you gently toward the closet. “now. pick something comfy. something you like. we’ve got time.”
you do.
when you step out again, it’s simpler. softer. you look like yourself. kuroo’s smile is immediate and unmistakable, pride shining in his eyes.
“see?” he says. “perfect.”
you roll your eyes, but you feel lighter. steadier.
as he grabs his jacket, he offers you his arm with an exaggerated bow. “shall we, my most beloved lady?”
you take it, smiling.
whatever happens at dinner, you know one thing for sure.
blue dress shirt ⋆˚࿔ k. tetsurou (f!reader, fluff. wc 546)
“babe. babe, you gotta stop fussing over me—”
tetsurou puts his hands up in defeat as your fingers smooth over yet another invisible wrinkle on his otherwise immaculate dress shirt.
you step back, putting one hand on your hip and the other on your chin as you give your boyfriend another one over. today is his first official job interview at the japanese volleyball association, and you wanted to make sure that he looked his absolute best for his dream job.
his rowdy hair would never fall flat—that was a universal fact you had accepted since high school. his face, albeit mildly annoyed, was smooth and relaxed, free of the worry that occupied yours.
your eyes fall back down to his blue dress shirt. red tie—check. collar tucked—check. cuffs buttoned—
you swiftly make for his arm before he evades you, his arms swooping down to wrap around your waist and hoist you up.
“what the hell— tetsurou!”
you shriek, pounding helplessly at his back with your fists as he carried you over to his desk, promptly plopping you onto his chair.
“sweetheart, i am eternally grateful for all that you do for me, but at this point the only wrinkles you’ll be seeing are the ones between your eyebrows.”
tetsurou has his hands on his hips, his tone a touch exasperated as he looks over you sternly.
“but—”
“i know that you’re worried about my interview, but do you really have such little faith in me?” he interrupts you with a smug grin. “i’m hurt.”
with that handsome face, you can’t help but give in to your boyfriend’s argument. you averted your gaze, biting your cheek.
“so, thank you for the breakfast and the reminders and the fussing, but if you keep me here any longer, i’m afraid that the national team will have to miss out on an awesome promoter,” tetsurou says, puffing out his chest slightly.
you sigh, shoulders sagging slightly.
“you’re right,” you tell him guiltily. “i know you’ll do great, i just—”
“can’t help but worry?” he asks, bending over to press a kiss to your cheek. “i know. it’s cute.”
you frown, hating how your cheeks warmed at his comment so easily. tetsurou flashes you a cheeky grin, moving away to pick up his jacket.
“besides, i’m pretty sure that having a gorgeous girlfriend already warrants for some sort of achievement,” he adds matter-of-factly.
you stand up, following him out to the hallway where he slips on his shoes. “yeah, yeah…”
“aaand now she hates me. ‘how do you put up with this girl?’” tetsurou takes on a mock business-y tone, pouting sardonically as he looks back at you. “sir, i’m afraid she’s a witch. she’s enchanted me beyond belief!”
he chuckles as you fume audibly, walking over to pull you into his arms.
then, he says with the most lovestruck look in his amber eyes, “bye, sweetheart. i’ll see you later, yeah?”
you nod slowly, letting him gently peck your lips. the kiss is slow and sweet, and he smells like musky vanilla and tastes of the salt from your miso soup.
he pulls away, allowing you one last brush over his suit jacket.
tetsurou then enthusiastically exits your apartment, waving at you before he shuts the door.
you wake to the smell of coffee and something sweet... cinnamon, maybe. kuroo's already dressed, tie slightly crooked, hair its usual disaster, leaning against the counter scrolling through his phone while your breakfast cools on the plate. "made you french toast," he says without looking up, like it's nothing, like he didn't set his alarm early just so you wouldn't grab some sad granola bar on your way out.
it's been like this since high school. since you were seventeen and he'd slide his lunch across the table because you forgot yours again, since he'd walk the long way just to make sure you got home okay. back then his affection was wrapped up in dumb jokes and volleyball stuff you pretended to understand. now it's in the way he kisses your forehead before heading to work, the way he texts you random reminders throughout the day like "drink water" and "love you btw."
you're not even surprised when he shows up outside your office at four-thirty, leaning against his car with that annoying smirk that still gets you. "left early," he says when you raise your eyebrows, catching your hand and pulling you close right there on the sidewalk. he's never cared who's watching. in high school he'd throw his arm around you between classes, kiss your cheek at lunch, let everyone know you were his while you wear his red varsity jacket. now he holds your hand at the store, kisses you while waiting for the light to change, keeps his hand on your knee at dinners with friends.
"you didn't have to leave early," you say, but he's already opening your door, already tucking hair behind your ear.
"wanted to," he says, and that's kuroo. that's always been kuroo—showing up for you, every single time.
all your life, you never quite belonged anywhere. people never bothered getting close to you, to most you were someone to bring along just to have another person nearby.
nobody really took the time to get to know you, and you thought you were fine with it. you were fine drifting from group to group, not belonging with anyone or anywhere.
you only realized how wrong you were when you started dating sylus.
suddenly, there was someone who wanted to be involved with everything. suddenly, there was someone interested in everything about you.
and it was terrifying.
it wasn't like you didn't trust him. he was absolutely wonderful with you, always patient and willing to give you your needed alone time.
but the thought of being known so intimately when you had done nothing but be in the shadows your entire life was frightening.
you weren't quite sure you were willing to step into the light just yet.
and sylus never pushed you. he was just constant, steady, always there to catch you when you fall.
the reality of it came crashing down one night. you had been sitting on the couch together, a comfortable silence between you both as you worked on some leftover documents. a glance his way revealed him on his phone, quiet to not disturb you. his hand rested on your knee all the while.
a wave of emotion crashed over you, one that was overwhelming. he was unlike anyone you had ever met before, so willing to meet you where you were and never pushing for anything more. he didn't dismiss you, didn't use you..
before you knew it, you were crying.
sylus, always tuned into everything about you, looked up from his phone and immediately slid closer, wrapping his arm around your shoulders. "it's alright, sweetie, i've got you." he pressed a firm kiss to your forehead, watching you carefully. "are you alright? did something happen?"
"no, i just.." you sniffled, leaning deeper into his embrace. "i'm grateful for you. more than you know. i've never.. never had anyone to rely on before."
sylus' expression softened, and he gently tilted your head towards his with a smile. "i'm more than happy to change that, kitten." he lowered his head, nuzzling his nose against yours. "you deserve someone who will listen, someone to lean on. if the world is ever too much.." he brushed his lips against yours, "i'll be here for you, no matter what trials we may face."
and in the quiet of his living room, his heart beating against yours, you knew you believed him.
a/n : for this request !!
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