Hello so the Soldier Boy x Top male reader it is. Because I don't think I've seen more than three(maybe one more)fics like this. 😞
I've read the like headcanon thing you wrote for him,loved it. And I kinda wanna see it in action. Like actually a one shot or drabble. Don't make it too long,don't wanna take a lot of your time.
Maybe reader getting too handsy and kissy like all over his body(can't blame him cuz his body is..)but Soldier Boy ends up liking it.
Thank you you're great. Even if you're not gonna write this👍
Soldier boy x “handsy” Male reader
⚠️ Warnings!!- dubcon due to initial resistance and reluctance, power imbalance, rough language and dirty talk, body worship, heavy kissing and touching.⚠️
The safehouse is quiet except for the low hum of the old fridge. Soldier Boy is sprawled on the couch, suit half-unzipped after a long night, chest glistening faintly with sweat. He’s got a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers, looking every bit the untouchable supe.
You’ve been watching him too closely again. That body—broad, powerful, every muscle carved like it was made for war—makes it impossible to keep your hands to yourself.
Before he can say anything, you move in.
Your palms slide up his stomach, fingers digging into the hard ridges of his abs. You lean down and press a hot, open-mouthed kiss right over his sternum.
Soldier Boy tenses instantly.
“The fuck are you doing?” His voice is sharp, low, and edged with warning. One big hand clamps around your wrist, stopping your hand from roaming higher. “Get off me with that shit.”
You don’t pull away. Instead, you kiss lower, tongue tracing the deep line between his pecs, tasting salt and warm skin.
He stiffens even more, shoulders going rigid. “Hey. I said knock it off.” There’s real irritation in his tone now, that old-school macho defensiveness flaring up. “I ain’t some goddamn girl for you to slobber all over. Back up.”
But you’re already too far gone. Your hands keep moving—greedy, appreciative—squeezing the thick muscle of his chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples as your mouth follows, sucking lightly at the sensitive skin just below his collarbone.
Soldier Boy sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Fuckin’ hell… you deaf or something?” He grabs your shoulder this time, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise a normal man, clearly trying to push you back. His jaw is clenched, green eyes narrowed. “This ain’t my thing. I don’t do… whatever the hell this is.”
You hum against his skin, undeterred, and drag your lips slowly across one of his heavy pecs, tongue flicking out to tease his nipple.
His grip falters. A low, involuntary sound escapes him—half growl, half grunt—and his back arches just slightly off the couch before he catches himself.
“Shit—” He sounds pissed, but there’s a new roughness in his voice. “Stop that. Right now.”
You don’t. Your hands slide down to his sides, thumbs stroking the sensitive dip where his abs meet his hips, while your mouth keeps working—kissing, licking, sucking marks that won’t last long on his healing body but feel filthy in the moment.
Soldier Boy’s breathing is getting heavier despite himself. His hand is still on your shoulder, but the push has turned into more of a grip, fingers flexing like he can’t decide whether to shove you away or pull you closer.
“You’re really testing me, you know that?” he mutters, voice strained. There’s a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I ain’t supposed to… fuck.”
When your tongue dips into the groove of his abs and your hands squeeze his thick thighs, he actually twitches. His head falls back against the couch with a quiet thud.
“Goddamn it…” The curse comes out weaker this time. His free hand clenches into a fist on the cushion beside him. “This is fucking weird… but don’t you dare stop now.”
You smile against his skin and keep going—more confident, more handsy. You push the suit further off his shoulders, exposing more of that powerful torso, and worship every inch with your mouth and hands. Each new kiss draws another reluctant groan from him, his body slowly betraying his initial resistance.
By the time you reach his neck and suck a hard mark just under his jaw, Soldier Boy’s resistance has mostly crumbled. His hand slides from your shoulder to the back of your neck, not quite gentle, but definitely not pushing you away anymore.
“Fuckin’ greedy bastard,” he growls, voice thick and rough with arousal. His hips shift restlessly. “Didn’t think I’d like this shit… but yeah… keep going. Harder.”
He tilts his head to give you better access, eyes half-lidded and dark.
“Show me how bad you want it, then. But if you tell anyone I let you do this… I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
This is my final statement regarding Pressure, including the situation around it and any further works from me. Of course, this is all in support of Ren. However, I wish to focus this post towards Zerum, specifically “Sebastian Solace”. I feel obligated to share the truth from my short yet surprisingly telling experience working on his ref sheet.
I would also like to take this time to finalize my stance as an artist and a person, now that it’s been a second.
———
PLEASE READ:
I trust. I hope and trust all of you. ALL OF YOU. To know that I don’t do this with intent of “making more drama”. I want to give people peace of mind and let the truth be heard. I want people to have solace.
———
“Sebastian Solace”
It has now been brought to my awareness several times that Zerum is publically racist (as well as homophobic, ableist, yada yada). This allows me to reveal my disgust with how Sebastian Solace has been treated.
I will reveal *for her* that Sebastian, the Chilean American angsty 2012 grunge character, is intended to be 100% based off of a Kpop idol in personality, looks, body type, accessories, everything.
You can figure out who for yourselves, I feel no need to bring the person into this. But the guitar pick necklace he wears is the group’s merch. As far as I’m aware, it has no deeper meaning. I suggested changes to it. She denied changes. It is the merch to a T.
I mean no hate to kpop fans or that group btw. I don’t mean that in any way, I think they’re fine
Zerum sent me countless photos as reference, but only used the aforementioned idol, saying she wanted him to be “just like him”. I questioned it, voicing concern for not being Chilean if I made the modifications. I asked if she had any input on the fact that those were modern outfits and hair, but this was Sebastian pre-experimentation (early 2010’s). Instead of responding with her thoughts, she drew over my artwork asking for me to do “exactly so”: A modern hairstyle akin to that of the idol. She wanted a toned body akin to that of the idol. Clothing exactly like the idol. HEIGHT exactly like the idol. The only time his race was ever mentioned to me was by Kat, who told me to make sure that his skin tone was the same. “We don’t want any whitewashing”. I had trusted the writers- I had trusted ZERUM with at least depth of character writing. But what I got instead was the belief that whitewashing was purely skin tone. I was disgusted.
I have since deleted our dms, but she said to me along the lines of “this is so stupid, everyone would laugh”. Her and Kat both said if people found out about this, “[idol]’s photocard would increase in price!” I hated these statements the moment it entered my dms. The arrogance.
So I will say this with confidence: Sebastian is Zerum’s kpop crush. And she proudly married him, boasting about how she kept him from everyone. He wasn’t made for anyone else.
Please see this post if you would like proof of some shitty stuff she said (tw: homophobia, transphobia and the like)
I am putting the ref sheet here as I have deleted it off of my page, my portfolio, and I feel sick knowing she has my work on her twitter. But it’s just for reference to what I’m talking about.
I get it may not Look like much. I tried to keep what I thought was true as much as I could. I kept his body shape wider than I think she wanted. I kept his hair curly, trying to keep strands flying around. But the outfits, the accessories, all of it. It was directly from Zerum, telling me to copy the idol verbatim.
My final proof to that situation is the third image there. I posted with my original post. Frankly, I didn’t want to post it. I saw someone with it as their pfp though, meaning Zerum posted it elsewhere. I thought no reason to hide it. It is once again, a direct rip from the kpop idol in the exact pose. I hope some of you connect the dots. She just wanted a version of him that was hers and only hers.
Now, I don’t want this to sound like you can’t make a character in which you yourself love and adore, romantically or platonically. You can make characters based on your irl crushes, that’s fine. That’s awesome! What’s not awesome is lying, letting people believe there was truth to everything you made up. Putting labels on the character just so it was “different”. Shunning people who didn’t believe what you believed about a widely beloved character (that in turn wasn’t even the real character??!??). But you shun them because the widely beloved character was actually just your crush, hand-tailored for you and Only You. This should not have been in the game or even related to the game. This should be a private oc. By integrating this into the game, Zerum has caused what she hated: people “taking” her crush. But it’s her fault.
I beg of any of you who love the Sebastian we were led to believe existed, whether that be platonically or romantically or whatever. I beg you to rip it away from Zerum’s arms.
The writers do not get to choose what entire culture and heritage is just a label to give an oc for fun.
My statement was prepared before this came out. See the details. It’s exactly the photos I was given and whatnot.
An addition: Just to add to the lack of depth we all thought Sebastian had, Painter’s VA has now revealed that the secret redacted dna on his document was… a mermaid. Fml.
———
My final thoughts to Pressure and its community
We are all left in shambles. The amount of artists I’ve seen completely devastated because they poured their hearts out into the media, only to feel like they were held in a chokehold because of it. I am disgusted. I want nothing to do with Pressure. Nothing to do with its IP. I have deleted my official art, as mentioned. I leave my fan work up as a statement of my progress and a statement to how I approach characters and their relationships.
I am so sick to my stomach knowing I was ever involved in this fucking game. Knowing I ever wanted to be a part of it. I might speak for more people than I think, but I personally always saw the way they connected with community artists and thought “that could be me”. I wanted to interact with the devs, to be a part of the team somehow. How fucking vile. How fucking horrendous everything would turn out to be, and I feel ashamed to have had that hubris within me. I say it as I’m sure I’m not the only artist, commissioned or not, who wanted to be involved in its “open community of developers”. I hope I speak for all of us when I say that the people we idolized do not represent us now. But I know I’m not the only one ashamed of it anyways.
I wish luck to those like me who feel taken advantage of. I wish luck to those who feel like they can’t trust a community again. I wish luck to those who relied on the game as a comfort. I don’t have kind words, some advice, or really… anything. I don’t have anything to say, because I haven’t figured it out.
But there’s no rush.
To those of you who found comfort in Sebastian, just know that the Sebastian you loved was already your own original take. “He” was never who you thought he was. “He” was made for Zerum, and nothing more. Any headcanons, any gender identifications, any sexualities you gave him, that is more than Zerum ever would have the gall to do. He is not Zerum’s character. Sebastian was a PR act.
Please. Make your own Sebastians. Give him his chilean heritage. Let him somberly play guitar in the park at midnight because he needed somewhere to think. Let him pierce his ears impulsively at the age of 12, only to be caught by his mom or his siblings. Let him be in middle school band playing the trumpet. Let him be who Zerum never wanted him to be.
———
I need time. I haven’t been thinking straight or drawing straight or anything. I feel so ashamed I tried to rush through it via the greed day artwork I did. I can’t shove myself into another hyperfixation forcibly. For now, I will probably lean back on my OCs, waiting for the next fixation to come.
I am hugging my sea bunny and convincing him that he’s been saved from the hellhole he was born. I am taking my seb keychain and retiring him to my merch collection, forever to be held in pristine condition as a relic of my loving past. I am trying to move forward with kindness in my heart towards myself for loving what I loved. I encourage you to do the same.
Do not be ashamed of who you were before this all came out. We didn’t know. And we loved the material. Nothing will deny that. Don’t shun it out of your life just because of that. Accept it happened, accept the source material is dead, know you’re not supporting it anymore in a physical and monetary sense, and move on.
mondstadt is filled with more life and joy than ever before with the return of the grand master and the expedition knights, echoes of laughter and drunken tales trickling into every crevice of the city. but in the dead of the night, it is only you who knows the extent of what he has endured, and it is only you whom he trusts to show the barest and most vulnerable parts of himself.
CONTAINS : gn!reader, 4.7k wc, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship (married), nightmares, death & mentions of death, brief(?) descriptions blood, spoilers for varka's story quest, takes place after his story quest when the expedition returns, varka needs a hug ;w; a nice warm and tight hug ;w; you need a hug too ;w; it's okay, you hug each other :3 yearner varka as always
A/N : inspired by this this fan comic that desecrated my solar plexus and rendered me unable to comprehend anything even now, a week later, and u should definitely check it out... haha... but i also thought it would be interesting to explore the more ptsd side of things bc his quest definitely... yeah...
The City of Freedom has always stayed true to its moniker.
The breeze blows in whichever way it wishes; the people are able to choose their own path; the adults are free to choose how they spend their day; the children run around and follow wherever it is their heart leads; the animals roam the streets regardless of who or what lurks in the shadows; the city walls welcomes whoever steps foot into its domain.
The City of Freedom has always stayed true to its moniker. While it wasn’t always quite so peaceful — quite so free and left to the will of its people — it has been a prominent aspect throughout recent times. From two thousand years ago to now, peace and freedom has found its home within Mondstadt; even more so during the recent years where the citizens have slowly begun to forget what times of turmoil and strife are like.
Such as now.
The city’s streets are alight, fluorescent yellows trickling from high windows and streetlamps giving way to their chosen placements. Voices echo within the late-night streets, their sounds muted behind warmed tavern walls and the frequent strum of a bard’s lyre before they delve into their song of poetry for the awaiting audience, clinking glass and the occasional tone of a bartender asking what the tavern-goer would like to drink for the night, roaring laughter and the fall of a chair or bang of something hitting the table a fine accompaniment to the noise like practised song.
It is late at night, or perhaps early in the morning, yet the City of Wine and Song rarely rests. Not for long, anyway, and certainly not when they are still celebrating the successful return of the expeditionary forces they have been awaiting for the last six years.
And yet, in a tucked away corner of the city where the shadows just barely settle over the architecture, peaceful nights have been somewhat of a luxury.
You lay there under the covers, peaceful and tucked into a deep slumber, soft breaths escaping parted lips as you remain nestled beneath the cocooning warmth. Beside you lies a large, scarred body tossing and turning, heaving and writhing beneath the rumpled side of the sheets. Cold sweat clings to his skin, brows furrowed into a deep point and fists clenched tight around the edge of the blanket settled over his heart. His breath comes out in uneven gasps, a disharmonious sound in comparison to your calm state.
The Grand Master shifts again. His body begins to curl in on itself, grip wrinkling the sheets even further, a pained grimace etched into his paling expression.
He remembers. He remembers the loud beat of his heart ringing through his ears, that all-consuming sensation familiar throughout the length of his journey yet never something he could become accustomed to. He remembers his last moments suspended in the air, telling the golden-haired hero and Honorary Knight of Mondstadt the rest of that whispered plan was up to them before the Abyssal Roland in a spirit of Boreas snapped its maw around him and darkness swallowed him whole. He remembers that phantom pain, how it tore its teeth through his torso for a fleeting moment before he reawakened in that space in perfect condition as though he was never maimed in his final moments. He remembers that sense of displacement, like something was horribly wrong despite being perfectly fine. He remembers…
…What happened after that?
Head swivelling, he now finds himself surrounded by thick fog. He cannot hear, nor can he see anything, but he is vaguely aware that he is still in the dream. There is nothing in this space he is trapped in, yet his body remains on high alert; as if danger lurks within the fog, within the realm he cannot perceive. Foreboding is the chill which runs down his spine, a warning from somewhere deep within his mind that something is there; that something is watching him.
But then he hears it — a deafening, ba-thump. It rattles his brain, fogs his mind even further, blurs his vision until spotted dots fade in and out of focus, numbs all his senses like cotton is stuffed in his ears and only serves to heighten the phantom pain which courses through his torso. When he looks down, he sees crimson. His left side is drenched in the colour, his trembling right hand only splotched with it in comparison. Was blood always this red? This vivid? So lifelike, so real, so violent in its likeness? Was this warmth amid the dreadful cold always so apparent?
Did this part of the dream always go like this…?
When he looks up again, numbly forcing himself to tear his gaze away from the sight of his body half devoured, the abyss stares back at him in the form of two familiar wispy eyes glowing in the same colour as that of which drips from his body.
He remembers. He remembers that wide, awaiting maw closing in on him like time slowed down just so he would be forced to relive every racing thought, every regret and what-if during his last moments. Darkness encroaches. Rooted in place, all he can see are sharpened teeth dripping with saliva and the eternal darkness which lies beyond the bone. It draws closer, his heart rings louder in his ears and throbs in his head — louder, and louder, and louder, and louder, and—
He shoots up, gasping and heaving, right hand instinctively shooting towards his left side; his body is intact. The ache in his body, his heart however, has magnified. Limbs numb and heavy, like lead has replaced the marrow in his bones, he sits there amid the streaks of moonlight. Damp sheets pool at his hips as a chill seeps into his sweat-ridden body, eyes wide and roving as if trying to take in anything and everything he possibly can.
It’s silent. There is a slight discrepancy in his surroundings — like something is not entirely right, yet he cannot quite place his finger on it. Where is he? Recognition faintly flits through his mind as he tries to blink away the throb in his head, but nothing immediately springs to mind. Was there always a wardrobe in that space? Was he always on a bed? Did his surroundings always seem so homely?
No… he does not think so. That cruel, unforgiving nightmare would never give him a reprieve such as this. Something is wrong still, but what?
And then it quietly clicks within his brain: his heart. Why is it not beating? Why can he not hear nor feel the thumps of the very organ which sustains his life? Dread crawls into his ribs and grips down, cold and unrelenting.
His heart…
“Varka…?”
His heart… His heart.
“Varka.”
His heart, his heart, his heart, his heart—
“Varka!”
His breath hitches. Warmth encases his hands and cradles them with a gentleness that never once existed in that memory. The adrenaline wears down, only slightly, but it is enough for him to have a clear grasp on his surroundings.
Varka blinks once, twice, a third time; he sees you. You were never present in those horrid recollections. No, you were always there to pull him out of it, out of that post-nightmare trance he has been finding himself caught in every time.
You let out a breath, shoulders sagging from their tense posture as your gaze softens. Your eyes are so clear, Varka manages to think within his bleary senses, your fingers rubbing repetitive circles against his knuckles a grounding warmth.
“It’s okay,” you reassure. Your voice is a soft and familiar lull as you raise a hand, guiding his head to rest against your chest. “You’re okay now.”
His ears pick up a faint sound.
Ba-thump. Ba-thump. Ba-thump.
Your heart, he thinks. Your alive and beating heart. It thumps in a steady rhythm, only slightly quickened from the scare he most likely gave you. Its rhythm reaches him, slowing down the erratic beats of his own heart in order to match yours and beat together in tandem.
“Sorry,” he manages to mumble out, voice slowly coming back to him but still hoarse. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You can go back to bed, I’ll be alright. I know your sleep’s been disrupted ever since I came back, but you don’t need to worry. It’s something I can handle, so—”
“Varka,” you call his name again in that soft and patient tone despite the sleep he can see clinging onto you, effectively stopping his escalating rambles. Guilt pervades into every inch of his being upon the realisation, even more so when you smile like you’re reassuring him that everything will be okay.
He hasn’t been deserving of your patience these past nights ever since his return; he certainly does not think you expected your husband to have finally come home, only to wake up every night since in cold sweat and tremors. But it is you — you and your unending patience and understanding for him during the worst of nights, even when you end up spending the rest of it awake to make sure he is fine from the claws of something far beyond your imagination.
And that alone undoes something tightly coiled within him.
“Don’t apologise for something like this. These nightmares are out of your control, and you don’t choose to have them every night. But do you know?” Your voice shifts. The patient tone addled with sleep makes way for something softer, something warm and wholly you which clears the fuzziness clogging his senses like stuffed cotton. “You’re home now, Varka. You can relax now. You don’t have to fight it anymore; not with me.”
The effect is practically immediate.
He clings to you, burying himself further into your warmth — into your vitality. Shaking arms wind around your midriff and trembling fingers dig into the back of his shirt swallowing your body. Body folding over you, eyes squeezing shut, nose buried into the crook of your neck and surrounding himself in everything that you are, he vaguely senses the trembling to have begun stabilising.
“You’re alive,” you whisper, lips a gentle caress atop the crown of his head. One of your hands drift up the nape his neck and begin slowly threading your fingers through the dampened tufts of his hair, while the other rubs soothing circles against his bare back covered in a sheen of lingering beads of cold sweat. “You’re alive. You’re here. In Mondstadt. With the knights, with the people of our home, and with me. You are alive and well. You are safe now, Varka. Nothing from that expedition can hurt you again.”
Something within his heart shakes violently.
Right. That’s right. He is back in Mondstadt now. He is no longer in Nod-Krai, no longer on that six-year-long expedition. The soul of a god, of Andrius, no longer weighs heavy in his heart, slowly devouring the very organ which beats right now alongside your own steady beats, and no longer does it slowly sap away the energy in his body and bear upon his shoulders the burden of a god’s soul as he fights for a safer tomorrow. He is not in need of any contingency plans in case things go awry (in case he were to fall and never return).
No. Varka is not there anymore. He is in Mondstadt. He and the expeditionary forces have returned back home to everyone. He is back home… He is back with you; in your arms, in your embrace, in your ever-so familiar warmth he dreamt about with increasing longing for every night he spent away from you.
With that comfort, he finally manages to breathe — the air returns to his lungs a little easier, the taut muscles loosen under your grounding touch, the numbing sensation subsides as your warmth seeps into his very being.
Varka loves you. He truly does, and he knows he will love you until the end of time and even beyond that. He has seen all your highs and lows, during your best and your worst, just as you have with him. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say he knows you like the back of his hand, because even that comparison could never begin to touch the surface of everything you have both been through to know the other so intimately.
So when he feels the trembling come not from him, but from you tucked in his embrace, something in his heart cracks. It is he who made you cry — he who made you shake and glossy-eyed and bite your lip trying your best to hold it in and resist looking up at him in your current state.
“I know… I know you sometimes sneak out when you think I’m asleep. I don’t know where, maybe to go to Boreas to fight it out of your system like you tend to do when something troubles you, maybe to have a late night drink to chase away those thoughts, maybe to take a walk and get away for a little bit by yourself, but…” There is a slight pause, a hitch in your voice, before your arms tighten around him and your face buries further into his neck. “But I still worry that when you leave, you might never come back; that you returning was all just something I made up to cope with the weight of your absence. I… I never got used to it, the lack of you in everything. I thought I would become more accustomed to it as time went on, but… I never did. It only seemed to worsen, if anything.”
You laugh a little, a humourless chuckle as you recount your days and nights and endless time here in Mondstadt, wondering when next you would hear news of the expedition. Varka’s jaw clenches at the thought, at the now very real possibility of you losing sleep in worry about whether or not he and the expeditionary forces were safe.
The momentary laugh falls into silence. Nothing emerges for a long, few seconds. You don’t say anything, and he follows suit, waiting patiently for you to finish your piece because he knows something else is on your mind.
Eventually, you suck in a shaky breath and Varka strains his ears to hear even the slightest of sounds you produce.
“Sometimes, you have this expression,” you begin. “Like… like you’re gazing into something far beyond here— something I can’t even begin to imagine. I.. I don’t know what you faced in the last six years, I don’t even know what you’re forced to see in your dreams because I’m worried bringing it up will make you relive the very thing you’re trying to keep me from knowing. And— and I don’t mind that you’re not telling me the full extent of it when it’s causing you so much pain as it is, but I… I guess I just… want you to feel like you can lean on me a little more during these times.”
Varka feels like the biggest fool in all of Teyvat. He’s so stunned, he doesn’t even know where to begin. To think, not onlydid he make you cry when he vowed to never be the reason of your tears (in a negative way, of course), but he also made you feel as though he doesn’t trust you enough with his troubles — which is far from the truth! Varka would entrust his life into your hands within a heartbeat if he could!
He thinks about the times he would sneak out when you were asleep (only to find out just now that you, in fact, were notasleep…), how he would gaze at you apologetically and press a lingering kiss to your head before leaving. His destination was often to that of Boreas, to spar his lingering worries away just as you had predicted. He didn’t want to burden you any further with his baggage, with the weight he carried in the aftermath of it all. And so he dealt with it in the way he was most accustomed to. Boreas had sensed something to be troubling him the first night he requested a duel, making his own guesses that hit a little too close considering he was well in the know about his Abyssified counterpart. The wolf spirit offers comfort in his own way — through wise words spoken from millennia of experience and quiet acts of comfort.
Sometimes on his way back, Venti would catch sight of him and beckon him over for a chat over drinks in the late night — yet another thing he did that you guessed right... In those instances it was nigh impossible to refuse, and so he would share a few drinks with the Archon who also knew the inner turmoil deep in his heart a little too well. Sometimes the drinks would work, and he would be happily warm and tipsy with little thought about those crimson eyes and fanged maw which plagues his slumber, but it usually doesn’t last. Not when he goes one drink more and then ends up ruminating over the events — what led to them, what could have gone differently, and what could have been to the bard clad in green.
But to explain it all to you, how he really did die and might have not even been able to return from the Ley Lines in the worst case scenario… Varka doesn’t even want to imagine how that conversation could turn out; not from wanting to withhold anything from you, but from the sheer guilt that eats away at him that, in another world where the worst case scenario came true, you would be left alone with word of his death being the last thing you ever received from him.
No, he could never do that to you. Just the mere thought of it has him misty-eyed with his nose stinging, and he is for once glad you still refuse to look at him to save your own face so you don’t see his rising emotions once more.
Unfortunately, you seem to take the silence from his excessive thoughts negatively, sniffling as you quickly add, “Ah— forget it. I don’t know what I’m talking about, haha…”
…Scrap that. To hell if he starts bawling his eyes out in front of you because of a misunderstanding! You have comforted him more than you know, and now it is his turn to repay your love in kind.
He calls your name in a gentle tone, the remnants of his emotions from the nightmare and your feelings still lingering despite having calmed down. “Look at me.”
You don’t budge.
He tries again, “My love?”
Your hands twitch; the corners of his lips tugs upward.
“My sweetest darling?”
Your arms tighten, and he knows he has you then.
“My lovely, beautiful, amazing, kind, caring, kind of scary, but definitely love of my life and other half—”
He cuts himself off when giggles are muffled against his skin, wet and teary but undoubtedly still yours, shoulders shaking in tandem under his hands. Shoulders sagging from the tension which had built up at the face of your distress, he sighs softly and allows a smile to lift his lips — it’s a little wobbly from his glassy eyes, and not quite his typical toothy grin, but one which softens and crinkles the corners of his eyes and comes to him as easy as breathing and loving you comes; one only reserved for you.
And when you lift your head, eyes sparkling from the lingering tears like the water’s surface on a sunny day paired with that smile of yours which never fails to send his heart into a frenzy and make him feel like he is eighteen trying to court you amid his flushed skin and pounding heart all over again, he cannot help but to think, “I love you.”
Your eyes widen a fraction before softening, the words, “I love you more,” uttered with such tenderness it makes his heart skip a beat and inhale sharply. He realises then that he said it out loud. It matters little, however, when the sentiment is always there — lingering, waiting to be said over and over again, a quiet longing for you forever and always.
Varka decides then and there he will tell you everything. From the very beginning of the expedition where he asked Boreas to give his soul so he could track down the fragments of Andrius’ spirit and help him, to the encounters he had and the perils he faced throughout the regions, to the new friends he made that he thinks you would get along with if given the chance to meet (really, just say the word and he will have everything arranged within days, a week maximum!), to the accumulating burden he carried with every fragment of Boreas’ spirit he absorbed and resonated with, to the crises that really seemed to pick up in Nod-Krai — from the Wild Hunt he constantly fended off, to the calamities known as Rerir, one of the Five Sinners: the Rächer of Solnari, and Dottore, one of the Fatui Harbingers otherwise known as The Doctor.
And, of course, his final collection of Andrius’ fragments and the confrontation against and Abyss-consumed Roland; how he knew he was bound to face off against him at some point to help Andrius stave off the Abyss, how he was prepared and planned for the worst case if things went awry, how he died and fell into heart of the wolf so he could convey Boreas’ thoughts to Andrius, how he fought against countless Abyssal creatures to fight his way back home, how the letter he asked you and everyone to send was what allowed him to come back home to Mondstadt, how he saw your spirit asking him to get back home safely in the Ley Lines and nearly broke down at the sight of you after so long, and how he finally made it back to you just like you wished...
He spills everything, leaving no woe unsaid, no fear of his left to linger in the back of his mind, no what-if to haunt him in every waking moment.
Predictably, you’re a mess. Sobs wrack through your body as he recounts everything in earnest, not wanting to keep you in the dark any longer and have you doubt his trust in you. He isn’t any better either, his own tears spilling out when apologising for making you believe he doesn’t trust you enough to confide in you and for causing your tears in the first place.
And yet, even when you’re calling him stupid, or an idiot, or a fool, your fists weakly banging against his chest, he still thinks you’re the most beautiful person in the world.
He thinks as such when one of his hands lifts to cup your cheek and thumb away the stray tears spilling over your lashes; when you subconsciously lean into his warm and callus palm, your own hand raising to hold the back of his hand, and his heart rate spiking as a result; when your other hand moves to toy with the wolf fang necklace resting against his chest, your fingers brushing against his now warmed skin; when he dips his head and begins to press soft, lingering kisses against your forehead, your brow bone, the space between your brows, your eyelids, the corners of your eyes, your temple, your hairline, your cheekbones, nose bridge, the tip of your nose, the apple of your cheeks, your jaw, your chin, the corners of your lips, and eventually the lush of yours lips itself.
His heart just about bursts at the seams with each of your tinkling laughter floating into his ears at every ministration he performs, your shared warmth seeping deep into his skin as he gazes half-lidded into your expression crinkled shut with unadulterated glee.
I love you. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Only you, forever you.
Sometimes he wonders if you will ever know the true depth of his love for you. If you will ever know just how ardently his devotion for you runs, how every one of his drunken rambles throughout the expedition always centred around how much he misses you and loves you and wishes to see you soon (even the Pyro Archon herself wished him a safe return to you as soon as possible the morning after their drinking competition as a result of his inebriated mourning over his lack of, well, you), how every battle he fought was always entered with the mindset of winning so he could return to you in one piece, how he would find the flickering amber of the campfire dull in comparison to the warmth of you give him, how he lamented over the expedition’s ever-changing locations unfit to properly send you letters with a definite receiving address, how he carried your picture with him everywhere and kept it concealed securely behind his breastplate to always have a reminder of you on his person, how…
…How when you welcomed him back from the expedition, the love in your eyes having not wavered in the slightest after six long years, he found himself falling in love with you all over again.
But these sentiments will be tucked away in a space closest to his heart for only him to look back on and think about, hidden carefully behind curved bones and soft organs. A space only ever reserved to keep you as close as humanly possible.
Instead, he gently swipes under your reddened eyes, thumb massaging the swollen skin in soothing motions. “Alright. I think it’s time we get some shut-eye after all that.”
“No more nightmares?” you ask, a light jest yet the concern woven in your tone is more than evident about your worry for him.
He smiles. “No. Not this time. Not with you in my arms and your doubt quelled.”
Huffing, you lightly swat his chest with a smile of your own, but don’t deny the need for slumber. You shuffle under the covers, wriggling until you find the most optimal spot for your comfort before settling in. Tucked close to his chest, his chin resting atop your head, your arms around his waist with one hand gently carding the hair at his nape, one of his arms resting at your waist while the other has his hand cradling your cheek and softly thumbing your skin, legs tangled together beneath the sheets as your heartbeats fall into a steady rhythm.
When you whisper him a good night, lips a soft press against the warming skin of his chest, Varka thinks the world will be okay. Even if it is just for this moment, even if he will wake up tomorrow night with the same nightmare once more, he thinks that this place in your shared bed, in your shared home, with you in his arms is the happiest place for him to be.
That night, Varka sleeps soundly. When he wakes up, he is greeted by the warm sunlight filtering through the window and you sleeping comfortably atop him while he lays on his back. The smile which melts his expression into that of pure adoration is hardly surprising; neither is the way he wraps his arms around you a little more securely and presses chaste kisses along the skin he has access to in this position.
I love you, he thinks with each reverent press, only stopping when you stir slightly, incoherent mumbles muffled against his neck. I love you, he thinks again when you lift your head slightly, nose brushing against his chin as you blink sleepily at him with a dreamy smile that makes his heart pound a little quicker before pressing a quick kiss to his jaw and letting your head rest in the crook of his neck. I love you, he thinks once more when your breathing evens out, you completely relaxed in his presence doing something irreparable to him. I love you, Varka thinks finally as his arms wrap around you a little tighter, nose brushing against your scalp as his fingers trace little hearts into your lower back.
The duties of Grand Master can wait a little longer, he thinks. After all, his duties as a husband are yet to be completed, and he takes his role as such to be of utmost priority much like with anything that pertains to you, his beloved spouse.
if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33
his laughter fills the whole courtyard, bouncing off the stone walls of mondstadt’s headquarters like thunder rolling off stormbearer mountains. it’s deep and warm and real.
you stop walking, looking over at him. you hadn’t expected him to be that… big.
not just tall— though he is, towering over everyone like he was carved from the same rock as dragonspine, but he is broad and solid. a man built like he could carry a whole squad on his back through a blizzard and still ask if anyone wanted a break halfway up the mountain.
he notices you staring.
“you’re the new recruit?” he asks, and his voice is just as big as the rest of him, although softened by the curious. his eyes are bright blue, like the sky after wind cleans all the clouds away.
you try to stand straighter. “yes, grand master varka.”
he hums, circles you once, slow and thoughtful, like you’re a puzzle he’s going to solve, assessing you with interest.
“too stiff,” he decides finally.
“…sir?”
“you look like you’re about to fight a dragon. relax.” his grin widens. “i only bite on special occasions.”
you blink, confused, as he pats your shoulder with a heavy hand.
your heart does something very, very embarrassing in your chest.
—
training with varka is nothing like training with anyone else.
he doesn’t just tell you what you’re doing wrong—he mostly fixes it himself. large, warm hands guiding your shoulders back, nudging your wrist so your blade catches the light just right. his touch is steady, careful, like he’s handling something precious despite the fact he could probably lift you with one arm.
“strength is important,” he says from behind you, voice rumbling near your ear like distant thunder. “but heart matters more.”
his chest is almost flush against your back. you can feel the quiet power in him; restrained, controlled, like a sleeping lion.
you swallow hard. “what if someone doesn’t have enough strength?”
he pauses, then gently taps your forehead with two fingers.
“that’s alright. i’ll let you borrow mine.”
you think you fall in love a little right there.
—
later, when the expedition team returns from a long patrol, you’re waiting at the gates.
you hadn’t meant to be, of course.
you just… happened to finish your work early and happened to wander in this direction. you also happened to lean against the gate and absolutely not wait for anyone in particular.
he spots you immediately.
the grin that spreads across his face is brighter than the sun hitting mondstadt’s windmills.
“you waited?” he calls out, already walking faster.
you try to sound casual, shrugging nonchalantly. “i was passing by.”
“mm.” he stops right in front of you. dusty from travel, cloak torn at the edge, hair wind-swept and sticking up in three different directions. he looks tired. he looks happy. “then pass by again tomorrow.”
“why?”
“so i can see you first.”
you look down to hide the smile splitting your lips.
varka tilts his head, and something in his expression softens. the loud, charismatic grand master fades, leaving just a man. a man who has spent too long on cold battlefields and not enough time near something warm and gentle.
“you make coming home feel different,” he admits quietly.
different.
you have a feeling he’s giving you something fragile and hoping you’ll hold it carefully. you reach up, hesitant at first, and brush a smudge of dirt from his cheek.
he stills completely.
for a man said to rival the strongest warriors in all of teyvat, he looks almost startled by the tenderness. his eyes widen, just a little.
“you’re staring,” you whisper.
“i am,” he agrees shamelessly. a slow smile curves his lips. “i like what i see.”
you laugh, bright and surprised, and he exhales like he’s just won something priceless.
carefully, as if handling something sacred, he cups your face in both hands. his palms are rough, calloused from years of swords and shields, but his touch is impossibly gentle.
“may i?”
you nod.
his kiss is warm and slow. you feel yourself melt into his hold, fingers digging into his shoulders. when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath is warm on your skin.
“you’ll visit when i leave again?” he asks softly.
“of course.”
he smiles, softer than before; a smile meant only for you, private and precious.
“then i’ll always come back.”
and somehow, with varka— with his laugh like thunder and his hands so careful and his heart so impossibly big— you believe it.
[ an. my pitiful attempts at writing varka with little to no development to their relationship but a kiss nonetheless ]
REMINDER: Phainon is NOT a Himbo. This man read his books rigorously, to the point where they were left in tatters. He's extremely skilled in Rhetoric, Math, Logic, Poetry and according to Tribbie, his planning skills are unmatched. He won 10 consecutive debate championships at the Grove of Epiphany. Anaxa refers to him as one of his most exceptional students. Even his handwriting is neat and elegant. It's been hinted by various characters that Phainon is very aware of his strengths as well and will not hesitate to utilize them. Do not undermine one of the sexiest aspects of him through misappropriation 💔
Walk with me y’all. Princess!Reader x Knight!Varka. I know it’s cliche, but hear me out!
Princess!Reader who is forced into a contractual marriage with a neighboring kingdom’s prince. It’s a marriage of convenience, at least for your kingdom, as it was the only way the much more prosperous nation would even consider an alliance with your own meek one.
Princess!Reader who is often neglected by her betrothed. He’s as disinterested in the marriage as you are, if not more so. This leads you to bond with the only other person allowed around you (as per the reigning king’s orders), the Captain of the Royal Knights, Knight!Varka.
At first, his company feels forced. He clings to you like a shadow—follows you everywhere you go, even within the palace grounds. You don’t necessarily blame him for it; he’s simply obeying orders.
Whether those orders were to keep you safe, or to keep you from running away… you weren’t entirely sure. Nonetheless, it’s the situation you were stuck with.
But over time, you start to cozy up to him. Really, Knight!Varka is everything your husband-to-be is not; he’s warm, friendly, funny, easy-going—if you’re being honest, his personality is a bit contradictory to his imposing and intimidating appearance, but you find it rather… endearing.
And before you really know it, your feelings towards him start to shift. You start to look forward to his constant presence as your guard; and it starts to feel more like a real companionship than a formal transaction.
When you aren’t with him, your mind is. He crops up in your thoughts even at the most inappropriate of times—such as when you’re with your betrothed. During royal events, such as the pompous balls the king is favorable of throwing, you can’t help but let your eyes wander to Knight!Varka. You search him out in a crowd, even though spotting him makes you itch to wander from your husband and join him instead (which would be… well, highly indecent, to say the least).
And these feelings you have… they are fully reciprocated by Knight!Varka. Honestly, he was lovestruck by you the instant he laid his eyes on you. You were just so beautiful, and as he got to know you—really know you—it was just inevitable that he would fall so hard.
In the late hours of the night, Knight!Varka finds himself truffling past your chambers over and over, despite having numerous thousands of square feet left to patrol. Sometimes he pauses and strains his ears, in hopes of picking up even the slightest sound from you. He knows it isn’t right, knows you’re meant to be his queen… but he just can’t help it. Can’t help but imagine what it would be like to be the one you’re betrothed to, instead of the prince he was crafted and molded to swear his life to.
And for the first time ever, he feels himself start to war between duty and what his heart aches for…
AOOWWWOWOOOWO THE POTENTIALLLL ARRRRGH! Like, the angst and simmering, forbidden romance of it allllll alright I’m done ugh I just had to get this out of my system 😭😭 I actually need Varka soooo baddddd NNNGGG
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