"I will see my duties fulfilled..."

Hello :) English isn't my first language so pls be nice. I like to draw, listen to music and read fantasy romance books.

[sparksstreet]

aelin and lysandra when people are a little upset that they gaslit multiple entire armies along with their friends and made plans behind everyone’s back while knowing that they were about to willingly sacrifice both of their lives in one way or another:

[red-velvet-throne]

Facts

[reineydraws]

something real quick for opla s2 bc like. who gave him the right to look that good? no, really. who?????

[red-velvet-throne]

WHY IS NOBODY TALKING ABOUT THAT MIHAWK MOMENT IN OPLA

I think i died-

[cryoculus]

⟢ SITUATIONSHIP┊ VARKA

varka claims the distance was supposed to make him less fond of you, but after half a decade of secret letters tucked into tax tomes, the knight of boreas is finally marching home to collect on a five-year-old tab.

✦ word count. 8.8k words

✦ content. varka x f!reader. attempt at humor. idiots to lovers. reader is a snarky tsundere n varka is wayyy too into that. exchanging letters through the years. fluff. getting together. varka kinda does the medieval ish equivalent of sexting in one of the letters but there's no smut (sorry, folks). capital Y for yearning.

✦ foreword. this wip has been collecting cobwebs in my drafts for a little over six months now and i couldn't quite figure out what to do with it until recently LMAO please enjoy the fruit of half a year of trying to figure out how i want to write one of, if not THE most anticipated character(s) in genshin impact history <3

READ ON AO3

The first thing you learn working at Angel's Share is that people talk.

The second thing you learn is that people talk even more when Varka walks in.

It isn’t subtle, either. The shift moves through the tavern the way a gust of wind stirs tall grass. One moment the room is full of low conversation and clinking glassware, and the next there are heads turning toward the door, voices lifting in greeting, and chairs scraping as someone stands to clap the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius on the back like an old friend. Mondstadt adores its heroes, and Varka, loud and golden and larger than life, has always been one of the city’s favorites.

You, unfortunately, are not among his admirers.

Behind the bar, you continue polishing a glass with the patience of someone who refuses to acknowledge the storm gathering across the room. The lanternlight catches against the rim of the glass as you turn it in your hands, wiping away a nonexistent smudge while the noise of the tavern swells briefly in welcome.

Someone laughs near the door and you know, without looking, exactly who has just arrived.

Charles does look up, of course. Charles is polite.

“Evening, Grand Master,” he says as the man himself approaches the counter.

Varka’s boots come to a stop on the other side of the bar, and there is a brief, deliberate pause that’s heavy with expectation. When you finally lift your gaze, you find him watching you with open interest.

He looks exactly as irritating as usual—broad-shouldered, forearms slightly tanned from the sun, his blond hair falling in a careless sweep around his face. The lanternlight catches along the scar at his neck and glints faintly in his blue eyes, which are bright with the same irrepressible good humor that seems to follow him everywhere.

He smiles when you meet his gaze, as if the sight of you is the best part of his evening.

“Good evening.”

You set the glass down with a soft, decisive clink.

“What do you want to drink.”

“See?” The Grand Master glances at Charles as though seeking confirmation. “She always greets me so warmly.”

“If I greeted you the way I actually wanted to, I suspect I’d lose my job.”

Varka laughs.

It is a bright, unguarded sound that spills easily into the room, drawing the curious attention of the nearest tables. He seems entirely delighted by the exchange, leaning his arms comfortably against the bar as though he has settled in for the evening.

“You look lovely tonight,” he remarks after a moment, studying you with an ease that would be charming if it were directed literally anywhere else.

“You looked better when you were out of my sight,” you answer, already reaching for the bottle that holds his usual order without waiting for him to ask.

“How cruel,” Varka sighs, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest as though you’ve driven a lance clean through it. “The most beautiful woman in all of Mondstadt, wanting absolutely nothing to do with me.”

You slide the bottle back into place behind the counter.

“Drink your wine, Grand Master,” you tell him flatly. “Before someone notices the Knights of Favonius are being led by a man with a martyr complex.”

Varka lifts the mug, still smiling to himself, but before he can say anything else a voice calls from deeper in the tavern.

“Grand Master Varka! Over here!”

A long table near the hearth has erupted into motion—several knights waving him over with the loose enthusiasm of men already halfway through their evening. One of them raises a mug in salute, while another pounds the table loud enough to rattle the dishes.

Varka glances toward them, then back to you.

For a moment it looks as though he might say something else, some last comment meant solely to annoy you—but instead he sighs, pushes away from the bar, and picks up his drink.

“Duty calls,” he singsongs.

“You’re drinking with your men,” you deadpan. “Hardly duty.”

“Morale is just as tantamount as everything else,” Varka counters with solemn dignity, and with that he turns and makes his way across the tavern, the crowd parting easily around him as he goes.

The moment he is out of earshot, Charles chuckles quietly beside you.

You shoot him a look. “What?”

“Nothing,” he insists, still smiling as he stacks a row of clean glasses. “It’s just that not everyone has the courage to speak to the most powerful man in Mondstadt the way you do.”

You scowl.

“If we let people like Varka have their way around here,” you reply crisply, reaching for another bottle, “Master Diluc wouldn’t be very pleased with us.”

Charles hums in mild agreement, though the amusement remains firmly in his expression.

The night presses on regardless.

Angel’s Share settles back into its usual chaotic rhythm. You move easily through the noise, as well as the familiar motions of the evening: pouring drinks, sliding plates across the counter, accepting payments while Charles handles the orders piling in from the tables.

It’s work you take seriously. The pay is good. The hours are reliable. The owner of the establishment expects competence, and you pride yourself on providing it. Angel’s Share is the most reputable tavern in Mondstadt, and you intend to keep your position here for as long as possible.

Which means you know better than to indulge certain distractions.

Unfortunately, those distractions have a habit of staring at you.

You do not need to look to feel it—the faint, unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze lingering across the room. Every so often it settles against the back of your neck with enough persistence to be noticed. When you glance up by accident, it is always the same pair of bright blue eyes watching from somewhere among the tables.

The infuriating man seems to know everyone in the tavern tonight.

At one moment Varka is laughing with a cluster of knights near the hearth. At another he is leaning back in his chair beside a group of adventurers who appear thrilled by the attention. Someone claps him on the shoulder. Someone else pours him another drink. But every now and then, those crystalline blue eyes drift back toward the bar.

Toward you.

You promptly look away.

You have no intention of tossing scraps of attention to a wolf who already believes he has been invited to the feast.

“Well, this is quite interesting.”

The voice arrives beside you like a cat slipping silently onto the counter.

You don’t need to turn to recognize Kaeya, whose talent for locating entertainment in other people’s suffering is well documented across Mondstadt. He settles against the bar with the languid ease of a man who has come here for a very specific purpose, his visible eye flicking between you and Charles with undisguised delight.

Beside him stands Rosaria, her expression as unimpressed as ever. Without so much as asking, she reaches across the counter and lifts a glass, holding it up like she’s deciding whether the contents are strong enough to justify her attention.

They are regular fixtures at the bar by now—faces you see often enough that their habits are as familiar to you as the grain of the wood beneath your hands. Most people would call them an unlikely pair, but you know better. Especially on nights when Kaeya has selected a target for his amusement, and Rosaria has decided the evening might be improved by watching someone else suffer for it.

“What do you want?”

Kaeya gestures loosely toward the other side of the tavern, where Varka has just burst into another round of laughter with his companions. “The Grand Master seems… distracted tonight.”

You slide a mug toward another patron without missing a beat.

Rosaria leans on the counter beside Kaeya, her pale gaze drifting lazily toward the laughing table across the room. “He’s been watching you for the last twenty minutes.”

You frown. “Then he clearly needs a better hobby.”

Kaeya chuckles softly.

“My dear,” he begins, “I believe you are the hobby.”

You fix him with a flat stare. “Order a drink or leave.”

“Alright, alright.” He lifts his hands in mock surrender. “A glass of dandelion wine, and story about… Ah, what do the kids call it these days? Your… situationship with the Grand Master on the side, please?”

Rosaria snickers into the rim of her glass.

“A ‘situationship’ requires two willing participants,” you tell him flatly. “What you’re witnessing is a persistent pest and a woman trying to earn a living without committing regicide.”

Kaeya doesn’t even flinch. He just leans further onto the polished wood, his single eye dancing with a mirth that makes you want to dump a bucket of ice down his collar. “Regicide? My, we’re thinking big, aren’t we? I didn't realize the Grand Master had already ascended to royalty in your heart.”

“He’s a king-sized headache, if that’s what you mean,” you snap, turning your back to them to reorganize the shelf of colorful liquor bottles.

“Careful,” Rosaria mutters as she stares into the middle distance. “If you keep denying it that hard, you’re going to pull a muscle. The man is practically vibrating over there every time you look in his general direction.”

You ignore her, but your eyes involuntarily flicker toward the reflection in the dark, polished glass of a bottle Charles set on the counter sometime ago. In the distorted surface, you can see the golden blur of him.

Varka is currently gesturing broadly with a meat skewer in one hand and a mug in the other, telling a story while the younger knights are hang on to every word. Even from across the room, you can feel the sheer, gravitational pull of his presence. It isn’t just that he’s the strongest man in Mondstadt; it’s the way he wears that strength like a comfortable old cloak.

Throughout the night, you’ve caught glimpses of him between orders—the way he claps a nervous new recruit on the shoulder hard enough to make the poor boy nearly spill his drink, the way his laughter rolls across the room until even the hearthfire seems to crackle a little brighter for it. There is nothing distant about him. He is not some austere statue looming over the Church of Favonius, nor merely a heroic name preserved in the records of the Knights.

He is flesh and blood, smelling of pine needles and morning dew. And perhaps most dangerously of all, he possesses that terribly human ability to be completely, hopelessly ridiculous.

Then, the reflection shows him turning his head. Those blue eyes find yours—even through the distorted glass—and he offers a slow, knowing wink. Your blood pressure rises immediately.

“He’s doing it again,” Kaeya chirps, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “The ‘Look of Longing.’ Truly, it’s like a romance novel, only with significantly more sarcasm on the protagonist’s part.”

You would have volleyed back with yet another sharp retort, but something in your peripheral vision catches your attention.

“Charles.”

“Yes?” your coworker asks, his voice suspiciously high-pitched. You glance over to see him “polishing” the same spot on the counter for the last three minutes.

“If you don’t stop eavesdropping and go check the back for inventory, I will tell Master Diluc you’ve been giving the Cavalry Captain a ‘loyalty discount’ on his Death After Noon.”

Charles pales, offers a quick, apologetic shrug to your present company, and vanishes into the back room with impressive speed.

You turn back to Kaeya and Rosaria, slamming a fresh napkin down in front of them with enough force to make the wood rattle. “Both of you. Out of my face. Kaeya, your wine. Rosaria, whatever that sludge is you’re drinking. If I hear the word situationship out of either of your mouths again, I’m banning you from the Angel’s Share until the Grand Master actually manages to grow a brain cell. Which, by my calculations, should be somewhere around the next decade."

“So you’re saying there’s a timeline?” Kaeya teases, picking up his glass.

“Get. Out.”

They retreat to a corner table, chuckling like a pair of hyenas. You take a deep breath as you smooth out your apron, and try to regain your composure. You are a professional. You are the best bartender in the city. You do not let overgrown golden retrievers in armor distract you.

Naturally, that’s when a shadow falls over the bar. A very large, very familiar shadow.

“They seemed to be enjoying themselves,” Varka says, his voice a low rumble right in front of you. He’s leaned back against the bar, facing the room but tilting his head just enough to watch you. “What was the joke? I love a good laugh.”

“The joke,” you begin, leaning in until you’re mere inches from his face, relishing the way his pupils dilate just a fraction, “is currently standing right in front of me, asking for more attention than a toddler in a toy shop.”

Varka’s grin doesn't waver. If anything, it sharpens into something dangerously fond. “A toddler, eh? Well, I suppose I do have a certain... youthful energy.”

“You have the impulse control of a slime,” you counter, moving to the other end of the bar.

“But the heart of a lion!” he calls out after you, loud enough for half the tavern to hear. “And that lion is very thirsty for another round, my lady!”

You don’t look back, but you can feel the heat in your cheeks. Barbatos, give me strength, you think, grabbing a bottle with a little more violence than necessary. Or give him a very long expedition to go on.

It turns out that Barbatos has a sense of humor.

The announcement tore through Mondstadt like a gale-force wind. An expedition. A northern crusade into the heart of the Abyss. The city, never one to miss an excuse for a festival, turned the night before the departure into an absolute riot. Angel’s Share was the epicenter of the madness, the air thick with the smell of spilled ale, roasted meat, and the heavy, humid anxiety of a people seeing their strongest protectors march into the unknown.

You were exhausted. You spent the last twelve hours pouring pint after pint for weeping recruits and boisterous knights who were drinking to forget the fear of what lay ahead. But as the clock struck midnight and the tavern began to thin out, the relief you’d been nursing suddenly felt hollow.

Then, the floorboards groaned under a familiar, massive weight.

Varka doesn’t slide up to the bar with his usual swagger. He doesn't offer a witty remark about the quality of the wine or try to bait you into an argument. He just pulls himself onto a stool, his shoulders slumped, his face flushed not just from the drink, but from the weight of a thousand eyes waiting for him to be a hero.

He looks… human. And that is significantly more terrifying than him being an annoyance.

“One more,” the Knight of Boreas mutters, waving a hand vaguely at the tap. His voice is gravelly, stripped of its usual theatrical boom.

You set a mug down, not bothering to ask if he wants his usual. “You’ve had enough. If you fall off your horse tomorrow because you’re nursing a hangover, the entire city will be weeping in the streets.”

Varka lets out a short, dry laugh. He stares down into the golden liquid as if it holds the secrets to the North. “They think I’m going there to win, you know. They think I’ll march in, clear the Abyss, and come back with a victory feast already planned.”

“And won’t you?” you ask, your voice softening despite your best intentions.

He looks up at you then, and the blue in his eyes is muted, weary. “I don’t know what’s out there. I really don’t. We have intel, yes, but the Abyss… it’s not a battlefield you can just charge into. It’s an endless rot that eats at you from the inside-out.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it in a disarray that looks uncharacteristically fragile. “I’m taking the best of our men, and I’m not sure if I’m a leader, or just a man who’s going to get a lot of people killed.”

You freeze. Someone of his position, the pillar of Mondstadt and the Knights, never admits doubt. Certainly not to a cynical bartender. But the truth in his expression is naked, and for the first time, you don't feel the urge to bite back. You don't want to tell him to stop whining.

You lean over the counter, the distance between you shrinking until you can smell the pine and the sharp, fermented tang of the Dandelion Wine on his breath.

“You’re an idiot,” you say, but the sharpness is gone, replaced by a quiet, steady resolve. “You’re an arrogant, loud-mouthed, paperwork-hating idiot. But you’re our idiot. If you go up there and die, there’s nobody left in this city with enough ego to keep the Knights in line. Much less the Abyss.”

Varka blinks, caught off guard by your lack of a sting. He stares at you, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes, his expression shifting into something far more dangerous than his usual teasing flirtation.

“Is that so?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” you press on, forcing your hands to stay steady on the bar. “So don’t you dare go getting yourself killed. Because if I hear that you’ve fallen, I’m going to track down every single barrel of wine we’re sending to your caravan, and I am going to poison the lot of them personally. I’ll make sure your last drink is your worst one.”

Varka laughs, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. It is the first genuine thing you’ve heard all night. He leans forward, closing the final inch of space between you. The air in the tavern seems to vanish, replaced by the sheer, overwhelming heat of him. He looks as if he is going to bridge the gap—as if he is going to press that brash, smiling mouth against yours right here in the middle of the tavern.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, a traitorous, frantic rhythm. You hold your breath, leaning in just a fraction—

Then, he stops.

Varka pulls back, his hand brushing against your knuckles as he pushes himself off the bar. The moment shatters.

“Poison, hmm?” he repeats huskily, his playful mask sliding back into place, though the wolfish grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll be sure to come back, then. I wouldn’t want to suffer a bad vintage on my way out.”

The Grandmaster turns and walks toward the door, leaving you standing there clutching a clean rag with white-knuckled intensity, your face burning with a heat that has nothing to do with the hearth.

Come morning, the sun rises over Mondstadt with a clarity that feels almost insulting.

You stand at the very back of the crowd near the city gates, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Varka is mounted on a horse so large it looks like it was plucked from an old legend, his golden hair catching the light as he laughs and waves to the citizens. He is every bit the Knight of Boreas should be—charismatic, unwavering, and draped in bravery in a way that makes people feel they could survive a literal apocalypse just by standing in his shadow.

It’s jarring. You keep looking for the man who leaned over your bar and admitted his fear of leading his men to their doom, but he’s gone, replaced by the invincible Grand Master. You realize then that life in Mondstadt is built on this very illusion. He has to be the most reliable man in the world so that everyone else can sleep at night, even if he's the most annoying man in the world to you personally.

As the caravan disappears into the horizon, a strange, ringing silence settles over the city.

The months that follow are exactly what you spent years praying for: quiet. With eighty percent of the Knights gone, the nights of rowdy drinking songs and Varka’s booming laughter are replaced by the low hubbub of civilian regulars and the occasional group of weary squires-in-training.

Kaeya and Rosaria remain your most consistent—and most irritating—patrons. The Cavalry Captain spends most of his evenings draped over the bar, sighing dramatically about how he “lacks a cavalry to captain”. Rosaria just drinks in silence, though she occasionally shoots you a knowing look when you find yourself staring a second too long at Varka's favorite empty stool.

Even Master Diluc makes more frequent appearances, his presence a somber weight in the room when he isn’t busy playing Darknight Hero under the city’s nose. But despite his outwardly stoic demeanor, your boss is sharper than most people. You can tell he’s well aware of the shift in your mood, and maneuvers around it just as carefully as Charles would, much to your surprise and annoyance.

Because it doesn’t make sense.

This is the monotonous, peaceful life you wanted. No one pestering you. No one calling you “the most beautiful woman in Mondstadt” just to watch you scowl.

So why does it feel so dull?

Oftentimes, you find yourself cleaning the counter with a bit more aggression than necessary, your ears unintentionally straining for a boisterous, unguarded laugh that hasn’t echoed through the rafters in nearly half a year. The king-sized headache is gone, and in his place is a void that makes Angel’s Share feel much larger and colder than it ever has before.

“You've polished that spot three times already,” Kaeya’s voice cuts through your thoughts, smooth as silk and twice as sharp. He leans in, a playful smirk dancing on his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were actually missing the sound of his voice.”

“I’m missing the revenue his knights brought in,” you snap back, though your hand hitches for a fraction of a second. “Nothing more.”

Yes… This is the truth.

You’ve been praying to be rid of the nuisance that was the Knight of Boreas for Archons know how long. So why is it that when you find a letter neatly tucked beneath the door of your apartment after running errands, your heart nearly skips a beat?

You flip the envelope over, your thumb catching on the rough grain of the parchment. There is no wax seal, and certainly no return address. It’s a plain, unassuming thing that has no business making your chest buzz with this much frantic anticipation.

Your rationality insists it can’t be from him. He never promised to write. Why would he? You spent every waking moment of his presence in Mondstadt pushing him away, meeting his boisterous affection with nothing but barbs and sighs of exasperation.

Still, you don't wait. You unlock your door with trembling fingers, slip inside, and kick the door shut. You don't even take off your cloak before you tear the envelope open.

The handwriting is exactly what you expected: bold, messy, and large enough that it practically marches off the page. It’s the handwriting of a man who is clearly used to handing off his administrative duties to the next poor soul down the hierarchy of the Knights of Favonius.

EXPEDITION REPORT: NORTHERN FRONT TO: The Most Dangerous Woman in the Angel’s Share FROM: Your King-Sized Headache

My Lady,

I trust this reaches you before you’ve successfully replaced me with a more manageable regular. If you have, don’t tell me. My heart is already fragile enough from the frost up here.

We’ve finally reached a settlement in a region called Nod-Krai. It sits just a few miles south of the Snezhnayan border. It’s a strange, haunting place—not quite as biting as Dragonspine, but it lacks the golden warmth of Mondstadt’s sun. I find myself looking at the horizon and missing the way the light glitters across Cider Lake.

The Knights are currently settling into our encampment. We’ve made contact with a local group called the Lightkeepers. Stalwart folk, though they don’t laugh nearly as much as we do. But I won't bore you with the logistical nightmares of setting up a garrison in the tundra.

Tell me, have you learned any new mixes while I’ve been away? I find myself inexplicably jealous of every man who gets to sit at your bar and watch you work. I’ve even caught myself staring at our traveling supply of Dawn Winery’s finest and thinking it tastes remarkably flat. It turns out that even the best vintage in Teyvat doesn't compare to a drink served by a sharp-tongued beauty who looks like she’s considering poisoning me.

I don’t expect a reply. A man of my reputation shouldn't be so needy, right? But, should you find yourself bored and holding a pen, I’ve made an... arrangement. If you leave a letter on shelf 12A on the first floor of the Favonius Library and tuck it inside the twelfth tome from the right on the third row, it will find its way to me via our next supply runner.

Take care of yourself. And keep that tongue sharp. I’d hate to come home to a polite bartender.

Yours, in exile,

Varka

You stare at the letter for a long minute, the ink blurring slightly as you read his specific, ridiculous instructions for the library. Shelf 12A? The twelfth tome on the third row?

“Idiot,” you mutter.

You toss the letter onto your coffee table with a decisive flick of your wrist. You have no intention of dignifying this with a response. You are not some lovelorn maiden waiting by the window for her knight. You are a professional, and you have a shift starting in four hours.

You leave the letter right where it is, stubbornly clinging to your pride as you move to the kitchen to make tea. You won't write back. You won't.

You stay stubborn for exactly three days.

By the fourth, the silence in your apartment feels loud, and the letter on the coffee table starts to look like a personal challenge that you are much too competitive to set aside.

That is how you find yourself in the Knights of Favonius library during the quiet morning hours when Lisa is busy elsewhere. Shelf 12A. Third row. Twelfth tome from the right. You pull the book—a dry, dusty record of Mondstadt’s civilian taxes from a century ago—and slip your folded parchment into the middle of it.

TO: The “King-Sized Headache” Currently Staining the North FROM: The Bartender Who Still Has Your Tab Open

Grand Master Varka,

Mondstadt is quiet. It is peaceful. It is, frankly, a relief to work a shift without having to listen to your voice drowning out the sound of the actual music. The only downside is that without your knights around to run up their tabs, the tips have been abysmal. So, for the sake of Angel’s Share’s bottom line, try not to get eaten by a lawachurl.

Nod-Krai sounds miserable. If there’s no sun, I assume you’re currently the color of a blanched radish. Is the food there even edible? I’ve heard rumors that the northerners live on nothing but dried fish and melted snow. If you’ve lost weight, don't expect me to pity you when you get back; you had plenty of “youthful energy” to spare.

And stop being ridiculous. The men in the bar are customers, and unlike some people, they actually know how to order a drink without making a theatrical production out of it. I haven't bothered with any new mixes. Why would I? There’s no one here with a refined enough palate to appreciate them—or a big enough ego to demand them.

Don’t get used to this. I am only writing because the silence in the tavern is making Charles go stir-crazy, and I needed something to occupy my mind while he reorganizes the cellar for the fifth time this week.

Stay warm. If you come back with even a single toe missing, I’m doubling the price of your wine for the next three years. I’m serious, Varka. One piece. Or don't come back at all.

Try not to be an idiot (I know it’s hard),

—The One Who Should Be Paid to Deal With You

The correspondence between you and the Grand Master isn’t what anyone would call “regular.”

It lacks the frantic pace of a romance and the rigid structure of a carefully penned report. Sometimes, his letters sit on your coffee table for weeks, while you go about your life in a city that feels increasingly like a toy box he left behind.

It isn’t always out of spite. Most of the time, it’s simply because life in Mondstadt is… well, Mondstadt. You tell him about the wine yields, the way the wind smells before a storm, and how Charles finally managed to drop a full crate of dandelion wine without breaking a single bottle. Then you read his latest letter. It was filled with accounts of Abyssal skirmishes, diplomatic dances with the Snezhnayan border guards, and the beautifully moonlit landscape of the north. Once you put it down, you feel a sudden, sharp sting of insignificance.

Your life is a quiet tavern; his is a map of the world.

Eventually, you find something worth reporting. You spent three pages detailing the arrival of a golden-haired Traveler and a floating guide who sounds like an over-caffeinated finch.

You write with uncharacteristic fervor about the Stormterror crisis, and how this stranger managed to soothe a dragon that had been part of Mondstadt’s soul since the beginning. You feel a strange sense of pride in delivering the scoop, imagining him reading it in some tent and finally realizing that Mondstadt can produce heroes even when he isn’t there to hog the spotlight.

His response arrives three weeks later.

My Lady, I was touched by your detailed account of our honorary Knight’s exploits. Truly, I was flattered that you went to such lengths to keep me informed. However, Jean’s official report reached me two days prior. Still, I prefer your version—you have a much better way of describing how 'insufferable' the Traveler’s companion is.

You don't reply to that one. In fact, you don't even put it on the coffee table. You shove it into a drawer and sulk for a month, refusing to even walk near the library. The nerve of the man, letting you write your heart out about a national crisis only to tell you he’d already read the “official” version.

But Varka has always been a man who thrives on the impossible—including reading your mood from across a continent.

The Windblume Festival arrives in a flurry of cecilias and dandelion fluff. The air in Mondstadt is sickeningly sweet with romance, and Angel’s Share is packed with couples sharing special Love and Aftermath cocktails. You are mid-pour, your jaw tense from a day of forced customer-service smiles, when the bell above the door chimes with a familiar rhythm,.

Kaeya Alberich doesn’t head for his usual stool. He leans over the counter, blocking your path to the tap, woth a small, elegantly wrapped parcel held between two fingers.

“Move, Kaeya. I have three orders waiting,” you grumble.

“My, my. Still as prickly as a Whopperflower,” Kaeya hums. “And here I am, acting as a royal messenger at great personal expense to my own social calendar.”

“If you're here to take over being the biggest annoyance in my life while your boss is away, you're doing a stellar job. Now move.”

Kaeya snorts, a genuine sound of amusement. “Oh, I would never dream of it. I know my limits; I’ll never be worthy of that particular title. No, this is a delivery from the Great North.”

Your hand freezes on the tap. You finally look at the parcel. It isn’t flashy—wrapped in sturdy, dark blue paper and tied with a simple leather cord.

“The Grand Master sends his regards,” Kaeya whispers, sliding the package across the wood. “He was quite insistent that it reach you today. Apparently, he's a stickler for tradition.”

“I don't want it,” you insist, even as your fingers twitch toward the cord that binds it.

“Of course you don’t. That's why your face is currently the color of a Jueyun Chili,” Kaeya teases, straightening up. “I'll leave you to your... professional duties.”

When Kaeya is out of sight, you snatch the gift from the counter and, without a word to Charles, retreat into the back room. You tell yourself you’re just checking the inventory. You tell yourself you’re going to throw it in the trash.

Instead, you tear the paper open.

Inside is a small, hand-carved wooden box. When you open it, the scent hits you first—the sharp, clean smell of northern pine. Resting on a bed of dried moss is a single, preserved flower you don’t recognize: a hardy specimen with three jagged leaves. Small, ice-blue crystalline shards cling to the tips like permanent droplets of frozen dew, shielding a central bud that glows with a warm, pale yellow heart. Beside it lies a small, heavy iron coin, its surface polished until it shines like silver.

A note is folded and tucked into the lid.

I’m told it’s Windblume back home. The knights are all busy making fools of themselves writing poetry to girls they haven’t seen in months. I thought about joining them, but I figured you’d find a poem from me even more offensive than my presence.

I found this winter icelea on a ridge overlooking the Abyss. It reminded me of you—stubborn enough to grow in a place where nothing else dares to, and far more beautiful than the pampered flowers in the city square. I also found this coin in an old ruin. It's useless as currency, but it’s heavy and hard to break. Keep it in your pocket; think of it as a weight to keep you grounded until I get back to annoy you in person.

I wish I could be the one dragging you out to the plaza tonight to watch the fireworks, even if you spent the whole time telling me how much of a spectacle I was making. Since I can’t be your date, consider the flower my proxy. Don't let it die out of spite.

Missing the sting of your tongue,

Varka

Your heart doesn’t just flutter; it does a full, traitorous somersault against your ribs. You stare at the tiny, resilient flower, feeling a lump form in your throat that no amount of dandelion wine can wash away. You are furious. You are flustered. You are…

You slam the box shut and march back out to the floor, your face burning.

“Everything alright?” Charles asks, retreating a step at the sheer intensity of your glare.

“Fine,” you bark, grabbing a shaker and snapping it into place with enough violence to startle a nearby table of tourists.

Master Diluc, who is reviewing the ledgers in the corner, looks up. He watches you for a long, silent moment, his red eyes tracking the frantic, slightly-too-fast way you are mixing drinks. He then looks at the corner where Kaeya is smirking into his glass.

Diluc lets out a short, dry exhale—the closest he ever gets to a laugh.

“I didn’t realize the Grand Master’s influence extended to the quality of our service,” Diluc remarks, his voice smooth and deadpan. “Try not to break the glassware. Varka’s ego is expensive enough to maintain; we don’t need to add a replacement fee for the bar equipment.”

“I am perfectly calm!” you hiss, nearly overfilling a glass.

“Clearly,” Diluc replies, returning to his ledger with a ghostly shadow of a smirk.

You spend the rest of the night refusing to look at the back room, even though the weight of the iron coin in your apron pocket feels like a warm hand resting against your hip.

The years have a cruel way of blurring together when the person who defined the noise of your life is replaced by a heavy, echoing silence.

What everyone initially assumed would be a standard display of Mondstadt’s strength has taken on a far more sobering gravity. The expedition into the heart of the Abyss isn't a skirmish; it's a war of attrition. The semi-steady flow of letters that once felt like a game of wits eventually slows, then halts entirely for months at a time. News from the north becomes a rare commodity.

During those long stretches of radio silence, you wonder if he’s cold. You wonder if he has finally met a problem he can't laugh his way out of. But every time your heart begins that traitorous train of thought, you snap out of it with a sharp scowl.

Yet, as Kaeya once noted, Varka is a stickler for tradition. Even when the official reports from the front lines run dry, he never misses the three days of the year that have become the secret pillars of your calendar: the Windblume Festival, Ludi Harpastum, and your birthday.

Each time, a gift arrives. A gem of glowing resin he once called pine amber; a ribbon of silk from a Snezhnayan merchant; a pressed leaf that smells of a forest you’ve never seen. And always, there are the words. He never runs out of them.

“The moon up here is a tempting mistress,” he writes in one particularly late-night scrawl. “She is constant and quiet, a far cry from the rowdy sun of Mondstadt. But don’t worry, my Lady. The sun will always be the hearth in my heart, and you… well, you’ll always be the one holding the poker to the coals. You’re still number one, even if you’re currently several thousand miles away and probably wishing I’d fall into a crevasse.”

By the fourth year of the expedition, the letters have changed you. You’ve developed a habit—one you keep strictly to yourself. On clear nights, after your shift ends and the city is asleep, you climb the long, stone steps leading to the Church of Favonius. You stand at the top of the plaza, beneath the shadow of the great statue of the Anemo Archon, and gaze up at the moon.

You find yourself wondering if it’s the same sky he’s looking at right now, and if the silver light feels as lonely on his skin as it does on yours.

Then comes the day that breaks your carefully maintained composure.

It is a Tuesday—not a festival, not a birthday, just a mundane afternoon at the Angel’s Share. One of the knights drops a letter off, and your heart thumps against your ribs at the oddly timed arrival. You tear it open right there at the bar, leaning over the wood as you always do.

You don't even get past the first line.

I’M THINKING ABOUT HAVING YOU SIT ON MY COCK.

SLAM.

The sound of the parchment hitting the bar top is like a gunshot.

Jean, Kaeya, and Diluc, an odd trio who had been sharing a rare, quiet drink together, all jump slightly at the noise. They look at you bizarrely as they take in your state. Your face isn't just red; it is a violent, incandescent shade of crimson that rivals Diluc’s hair.

“Everything alright?” Jean asks, her voice laced with concern.

“I... I need to...” You sputter, unable to form a coherent sentence. Your eyes are wide, and you feel as though you’ve been struck by a bolt of Electro.

“Is that a letter from the North?” Kaeya asks, his voice dripping with a delight that suggests he has already guessed the contents without seeing a single word.

You can't explain it. You can’t tell the Acting Grand Master that her mentor is currently writing smut from a war zone. You can’t tell your boss why you look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.

“Charles?” you call out, your voice cracking.

Your coworker pokes his head out from the back room door. “Yes?”

“Man the bar for me, please,” you choke out, grabbing the letter and clutching it to your chest as if it were a live grenade. “I need to... collect my thoughts. In the back. Now.”

Charles nods, takes your place at front, and you bolt for the storage room, the door swinging shut behind you with a decisive click. You lean against the wood, sliding down until you’re sitting on a crate of wine, and read the rest of the letter with hands that won't stop shaking.

You sink onto the crate, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as you stare at that first, heart-stopping line. You force your eyes to move past the initial shock, your breath coming in shallow hitches as you read the rest of the messy, sprawling script.

The tone shifts abruptly. The handwriting, usually bold and steady, becomes a jagged crawl that speaks of exhaustion and something far more clinical.

Forgive the start of this, my Lady. If the ink is smudged, it’s because my hands aren’t quite my own today. We’ve just come through a siege that went sideways. I nearly didn’t make it back to the tent to write the first line. There was a hole in my chest large enough for the northern wind to whistle through, and for a moment, I actually thought Barbatos was finally calling in my tab.

A cold chill that has nothing to do with the storage room air washes over you. Your grip on the parchment tightens.

The only reason I’m still breathing is a woman named Lady Lauma. She’s the leader of the Frostmoon Scions, a group of healers up here whose blood is said to be able to pull any man back from the brink. I’ve spent the last few hours high on whatever concoctions her best healers forced down my throat to keep the pain at bay. That first line? That was the drug-addled honesty of a dying man. I thought about scrapping it once the haze started to lift, but then I realized it was that very thought—the sheer, ridiculous desire to have you exactly where I said—that kept me anchored to my consciousness while they stitched me back together.

You let out a shaky, indignant breath. Even at death's door, the man is an absolute menace.

I won’t be more explicit with the details, lest you decide to pray to Barbatos for a freak hurricane to finish what the Abyss started. But I’ll tell you this, since I’m still too light-headed to lie: I honestly thought the distance would make me less fond of you. I thought the years and the blood and the frost would dull the memory of your scowl. But I have this bad habit of writing to you, and an even worse one of looking forward to your replies. It’s become a fire that’s awfully difficult to kill, no matter how much snow they pile on top of it.

I don’t expect you to return the sentiment. (I know better than to ask for a miracle from a woman who specializes in serving reality on the rocks.) But I’m still looking forward to coming home and seeing that beautiful face of yours, even if it’s currently attached to the sharpest tongue in Mondstadt.

You stare at the page, the silence of the storage room suddenly deafening.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. You want to scream at him for being so reckless, and you want to weep because the thought of that hole in his chest makes your own lungs feel tight. Most of all, you realize that the “situationship” Kaeya joked about years ago has morphed into something you can no longer walk away from.

A soft knock sounds on the door.

“Are you... finished collecting your thoughts?” Charles’s voice is tentative. “Master Diluc is starting to look like he’s going to come back there himself.”

You jump, nearly dropping the letter. You shove it into your apron pocket, smoothing down your hair with trembling hands. You are a professional. You are the best bartender in Mondstadt. You do not let drug-addled confessions from dying giants rattle you.

“I'm coming,” you tell him shakily.

As you walk back out into the tavern, you catch Kaeya’s eye. He’s still smirking, his single eye tracking the way you won't look at anyone. You ignore him, grabbing a bottle of the strongest vintage on the shelf and focusing entirely on the grain of the wood beneath your fingers.

The fire in your chest matches the one Varka described, and for the first time in four years, the silence of the tavern doesn’t feel dull.

It feels like a countdown.

You find the last letter you’ll ever receive from the North tucked beneath your door. It is a plain, nondescript thing, identical to the very first one that started this five-year-long game of cat and mouse.

Inside, there is no sprawling report or drug-addled confession. There is only a single, heavy line of ink that looks as if it were written in a hurry:

We're coming home.

You stare at the four words until they start to lose their meaning. Your first instinct is to scoff—to assume he’s joking, or perhaps simply delusional. The last official word disseminated by the Knights of Favonius was grim; a crisis in Nod-Krai was reportedly reaching a breaking point, a surge of Abyssal activity that threatened to spill over and impact Teyvat as a whole if not contained.

The anxiety of that news had nearly driven you to madness.

You found yourself marching up to the Favonius Library every single day, slipping letter after frantic letter into the old tome on Shelf 12A. You still don’t understand the mechanics of it—Varka never explained how a dusty record of civilian taxes functioned as a trans-continental mailbox, and you never once saw another soul approach that forgotten corner of the library. Yet, without fail, every letter you tucked into those pages disappeared by the next morning. You knew with certainty that he was receiving them.

But now, he claims he and his men are returning.

You keep the scrap of parchment tucked beneath your pillow for a week, a secret weight that keeps you awake at night. You refuse to hold onto hope; five years is a long, agonizing time, and your pride simply cannot handle the crushing blow of a disappointment this large. Even if Varka isn’t “anything” to you, the thought of his favorite stool staying empty for another year feels like a physical ache.

Then, at the end of the week, the silence in Mondstadt finally breaks.

Acting Grand Master Jean stands before the Church, her voice carrying across the plaza with emotion she rarely allows the public to see. She officially announces that the expeditionary force has successfully contained the threat in the North and is currently marching back toward the city gates.

The city erupts. People are weeping in the streets, bells are ringing from the towers, and Angel’s Share is instantly swamped with patrons wanting to toast to a miracle.

But as you stand behind the bar that evening, a realization hits you like a cold splash of water.

Varka hadn't just sent that note as a courtesy. He had told you first. Before the official messengers reached the city, before the scouts signaled the towers, and before he deigned to inform his own subordinates, he had made sure a letter found its way to your door.

“You look like you've seen a ghost,” Charles remarks as he reaches for a clean towel.

“I’ve seen something much more annoying than a ghost,” you mutter, though you can't quite hide the way your hands are shaking as you reach for a bottle of his favorite vintage. “I've seen the return of a man who doesn't know how to follow a chain of command.”

Charles just grins like he’s in the know. Maybe he always has been.

“Well, at least the tips will improve, right?”

You don’t answer. Your eyes drift toward the door, your heart hammering a rhythm that sounds suspiciously like hope. He’s coming back. And this time, you have five years' worth of sharp-tongued retorts—and one very heavy iron coin you always keep in your pocket—waiting for him.

The day of the festival arrives in a riot of color and noise that Mondstadt hasn’t seen in half a decade.

You stand at the very edge of the plaza, arms crossed tightly over your chest. You’ve spent the morning practicing your “unimpressed” face in the mirror, telling yourself that a five-year absence doesn't excuse the sheer audacity of his letters. You are determined to be the only person in the city not currently sobbing with joy.

Then, the horns sound at the gates.

The crowd surges, a collective gasp rippling through the plaza as the first line of the expeditionary force crests the hill. They are not the shiny, pristine knights who left five years ago. They are rugged and battle-worn, their faces lined with the gravity of what they’ve endured.

But it is the man at the lead who makes your breath hitch.

Varka is mounted on a massive, battle-worn steed, looking every bit the legendary Knight of Boreas. His golden hair is much longer now, tied back in a messy, careless tail that grazes his broad shoulders. He looks older, worn thin by all he’s seen and all he’s survived.

He is scanning the crowd, his blue eyes sharp and searching, cutting through the thousands of faces with a singular focus that makes your heart hammer a frantic, traitorous rhythm.

When his gaze finally lands on you, the transformation is instantaneous.

The legendary commander vanishes, replaced in a heartbeat by the same irritating man who used to wink at you through the reflection of a wine bottle. A slow, lopsided smile spreads across his face—one that says he knows exactly how much you've missed him, even if you’d rather die than admit it.

Varka dismounts before his horse has even fully come to a stop, his heavy boots hitting the cobblestones with a decisive thud. He doesn't wait for the official greeting from Jean; he doesn't wait for the cheers of the citizens. He simply stops ten paces away and opens his arms wide, a silent, arrogant invitation.

The jury can find you guilty later.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, before your pride can gain its footing, you are moving. You break from the crowd, abandoned by your own common sense, and run.

You collide with him with enough force to make his armor clank, your hands fisted into the rough fabric of his cloak as his massive arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the ground. He smells of pine needles, old parchment, and a warmth that feels like the first day of spring after a century of winter.

"Missed me that much, did you?" he rumbles against your ear.

“I missed having someone to threaten with poison,” you choke out into his shoulder, your voice thick and uncharacteristically fragile. “You're late, you idiot.”

Varka laughs—loud and boisterous and everything you’ve ever loved. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek with a tenderness that ruins you.

“I told you,” he whispers, his blue eyes burning with a fire no northern snow could kill. “I wouldn't want to suffer a bad vintage on my way out.”

In the background, tucked away near a fountain, Kaeya sighs dramatically as he drops a heavy bag of mora into Rosaria’s outstretched hand.

“I really thought she’d hold out for at least thirty seconds,” Kaeya mutters, looking genuinely disappointed in your lack of resolve.

Rosaria doesn't even look at him, her fingers expertly catching the bag. “Never bet on a woman who’s been staring at an empty stool for five years, Captain. It’s bad for the wallet.”

Diluc, standing a few paces away from the sniveling duo, watches the you and the Grand Master for a long moment. He lets out a short, dry exhale before shaking his head with a quiet sigh.

“Charles,” Diluc says to the man idling next to him, not taking his eyes off the scene. “Get the good bottles ready. It’s going to be a very long night.”

✦ afterword. you made it til the end! congratulations <3 just a psa that i haven't played through varka's quest yet + this is not proofread, so if there are any inconsistencies and mistakes, i apologize LOL it has also been a while since i've written a story for shits and giggles and fortunately mr grand master himself is the perfect muse for a piece like this. thank you so much for reading, i hope you liked it!

[red-velvet-throne]

Literally the best Varka x reader fic out there in my opinion.

[red-velvet-throne]

[tamarastevie]

Quicksand

back again with more depressing stuff. but this has a happy ending! i wrote this when i was not doing so well, and rereading it before posting made me realise nothing has changed since, and i still feel like shit.

tw: smut (mdni), suicidal thoughts, depression, mental spirals, all the good stuff. genre: hurt/comfort. word count: 9k.

Her eyes opened. Engulfed by darkness. Another sleepless night. She sighed, sitting up slowly. Her boyfriend was still sleeping next to her, snoring softly. A small smile appeared on her face, glad he was finally able to rest peacefully for once. As much as his sleep apnea allowed him to be. Tamara turned her body, her feet getting into her cosy sleepers. She stood up, gaining momentum from pressing her knuckles against the mattress. She padded over to the kitchen quietly, not wanting to wake anyone up. She shut the door carefully as she exited the bedroom. Taking a seat at the kitchen table, she sighed once again. Her mind running a mile a minute. Things have been hard lately. Though on the surface, she had no reason to feel so bad. She had a loving boyfriend, a loving family, incredible friends, including both her gang from back home and the boys of Stray Kids. But, nevertheless, her brain made her suffer. Thoughts of not being good enough, of never being enough. Of how lame she was, how Chan could find someone so much better. Someone prettier, smarter, more on his level. Someone he had more in common with. Someone who wasn’t worlds apart. Her mind kept telling her that she should just disappear. Just end it all and go away. That it’d make everyone around her so much happier. That the burden called ‘Tamara’ should just fuck off from everyone’s life. If she ever gained the courage, she’d do it without missing a heartbeat. But, unfortunately for her, she was too much of a pussy to ever do anything of the sort. 

And so, Tamara sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by darkness and loneliness. She buried her face in her hands, running them up and down her exhausted features. She wasn’t much of a cryer either, so she carried all of the weight alone. She could never trouble her boyfriend with her problems. He had enough as it is. It was like standing in quicksand. Being swallowed whole slowly, with nothing to grab onto, with no way out. If only suicide were easy. She frowned, looking at the ceiling. It was illuminated by a gentle white, coming from the lights outside the window. A glimpse of hope? Couldn’t be. A bitter laugh fell from her lips, eyes dropping to her wrists. Her nervous habit of twisting her bracelets incoming. Messing with the white gold her boyfriend had gifted her for their one-year anniversary. Being with Chris made everything seem so simple. He made everything so much better. Even when they’re apart, it never feels like there’s any distance. Tamara did everything she could to show Chan he deserved to be loved. She was there anytime life felt too heavy for him. She was his shoulder to cry on. It was highlighted especially after Stray Kids won the most prestigious award of their careers. Chan had broken down completely in his girlfriend’s arms backstage. His chin on her shoulder, her arms around him, hand brushing the hairs at the back of his neck softly. His fists were clenching and unclenching by his sides, before he finally hugged her back, hands running up and down her spine. Gentle whispers about how she was so proud of him, how he deserved this award, how all the late nights and all of his hard work brought him to this moment. While Felix was comforting Jeongin, who was sobbing as well, the two made eye contact, smiling warmly at each other. Both were the comfort person for someone they cared endlessly about. 

It’s not that Tamara didn’t trust Chan. She did, with her life. It was more out of concern for him, that she didn’t want him to feel bad because of her. She knew he’d feel guilty for not noticing any signs. For not trying harder to be there for her. He had his schedule to live through. She couldn’t have him worry about her constantly. Occupying a piece of his mind at all times felt selfish. What she didn’t know, was that she already was living rent-free in his head anyway. He loved her to death. He saw the spark in her eyes diminish slowly. He noticed her colour growing paler. He waited. Maybe, just maybe, she’d come to him first. She’d tell him what’s on her mind. But all his wait was in vain. Tamara could never admit out loud that she was breaking. 

With a heavy heart and an even heavier mind, Tamara stood from her seat and walked up to the window. She loved Seoul at night. Even though it was nearly four in the morning, the city’s bright neon signs made it look like daytime. Opting for some fresh air, the girl crossed the living room and went out on the balcony. Her arms were resting on the cold metal railing. Thoughts of jumping off crossed her mind. But that would be cruel to the boys. She looked at the night sky, the full moon coming into view. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, hoping the air would clear her mind. It, however, did not. “The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” Startled, Tamara turned around. Her gaze landed on Chan, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. She smiled, features softening in an instant. “Is that a confession?” She teased. Chan walked the couple of steps into the terrace, fingers wrapping around the cold metal. He trapped his girlfriend between his arms. His eyes held worry, brows slightly furrowed. Her hands came to rest on his sides, thumbs tracing patterns mindlessly. Her head tilted to the side, confusion evident in her expression, “What’s up?” She broke the silence. Chan sighed, dropping his head to her shoulder. He mumbled something incoherently into her sleep shirt. “I can’t understand you like this, Channie.” She chuckled. That made him lift his head, dark brown eyes piercing into her soul. “I’ve waited for so long for you to come to me. But, I guess, I’m the one coming to you again.” He frowned deeply. “You’ll give yourself wrinkles if you keep looking at me like that.” Her attempt at lightening the mood went over his head. When she brought a hand to smooth out the crease between his eyebrows, Chan curled his fingers around her wrist, stopping her. His grip loosened as he interlaced their fingers, bringing the back of her hand to his lips, pecking it softly. He let it drop by her side as he came to cup her cheek, thumb brushing under her eye. “Talk to me.” He pleaded, almost begging. She turned away from him, eyes locking onto the cute plant Jeongin was taking care of. It stood in the corner of the room, growing slowly. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” She breathed out. Chan exhaled loudly through his nose, eyes still locked on her side profile. “You think I haven’t noticed that you’re not doing well? That you don’t smile as much anymore? And even when you do, it’s not sincere.” That made her turn back, shock written on her face as her mouth was agape. Honestly speaking, she thought she was hiding it pretty well. Guess nothing gets past her observant boyfriend. “You… noticed…?” Her voice was so small, so fragile. Her eyes dropped to his abdomen, watching her thumb run back and forth over his waist. His hand moved to cup her jaw, caging her chin between his thumb and index finger. Tilting her head, Chan forced her to meet his eyes. No judgment, no anger, no pity. Just concern for his spiralling lover. “Of course.” His voice was so soft that it almost hurt. “You’re my everything, Tamara.” He never used her full name. Always a cute, loving nickname. Always ‘My Panda, Angel, Beautiful, My Love’. Never Tamara. Not even during arguments. Not even when he was frustrated or upset with her. The use of her name like that, along with the seriousness in his tone, told her that playtime was over. It was time to come clean. “I can’t stand to see you hurting. Seeing you try to act like you’re okay, like everything’s fine. Talk to me. Please.” His eyes were begging, his voice breaking mid-sentence. It devastated her how much he was hurting. And it was all her fault. Again, her mind told her to break it off. That he’d be happier without her burdening him with her constant sadness. She frowned. She loved him too much to let him go. How selfish. “Okay.” She whispered.

She let Chan take the lead, her hand in his as he walked the two inside. He let her go momentarily to close the balcony entrance. He took her to his room, shutting the door after himself. Tamara sat on the unmade bed, wrapping her arms around her ankles, burying her head in her knees. Her back against the headboard, as if she was trying to minimise her very existence. Chan sat next to her, on the other end of ‘her side’ of the bed, feet on the hardwood floor, torso turned sideways to look at his hurting girlfriend. His hands were in his lap, fingers toying with each other. He didn’t rush her. He never did. Always waiting for Tamara to break the silence first. She took a deep breath and lifted her head. “I…” She began, trying to think of the right words to say to convey her feelings properly. “Don’t think,” he shook his head, “just lay it all on me.” A small smile pulled at the corners of her lips, eyes radiating nothing but love for the man in front of her. “Sometimes I wish I could just disappear.” Her focus was on the ceiling lamp, which was illuminating the two of them in a warm golden glow. “Like a vacation?” His question made her meet his eyes, and she smiled gently, eyes crinkling just a tiny bit. Her response, though non-verbal, made him understand the true meaning behind her words. “Oh.” He dropped his gaze to his lap. Her eyes remained on his side profile. “So pretty.” She blurted out. In her defence, he did tell her not to think. But he was so beautiful. The curve of his nose, the way his plush lips popped out even from side view. The way his Fendi earring dangled from his ear, moving when he did. The way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. The veins on his hands as he twisted the signature silver that always adorned his wrists. The way his elbows dug into his knees. How focused his expression was: eyebrows furrowed, mouth slightly open. His dark hair fell over his face, covering his eyes partially. 

Tamara instinctively reached forward, fingers brushing his soft locks behind his ear, palm remaining on his face. He was warm. Her thumb ran over his cheek, bringing more comfort to her than to him. She pulled back, settling against the back of the bed again. “Sometimes I wish I could just drop dead.” Her voice echoed in the room. Chan was worried the crack that his heart just made was so loud she could hear it too. The worst part was how steady her tone was when she said it. No shakiness, no uncertainty. His eyes snapped to her face, eyebrows high in shock. Before he could ask why she’d wish for something so horrible, she beat him to it, explaining exactly why. “I just feel like everyone would be so much better off without me.” Chan was about to cut her off, but she raised a hand between them, not giving him the chance to. “Before you try to say I’m wrong, think about it. I’m a nobody. You’re an international superstar. You can have anyone you want. Why settle on someone fucked up like me?” Chris’ face twisted in an emotion she didn’t immediately recognise. Anger. “Excuse me?” Her head tilted at his words, not understanding why he was mad. “You don’t get to say what or who I can or can’t ‘have’.” Air quotations on the last word, fingers hanging in the air. Tamara tried to open her mouth to speak, but this time, Chan’s cut off was successful. “I get to decide that.” He pointed at his chest. “I get to decide who I wanna be with. And I want you. Even if you’re ‘fucked up’.” More air quores. “I love you, Tamara,” again with the full name, “with your flaws. With your mess. With your everything. Because it’s you.” That did it. The dam finally broke. Tears streamed down her face. Chan’s features softened instantly, he reached forward to cup her face, wiping her tears away. He whispered apologies as he kissed her closed eyes, feeling guilty that he made her cry. Tamara shook her head, explaining that it wasn’t his anger that made her cry, but the fact that, despite everything, despite how low she was feeling, he still chose her. “Thank you,” barely above a whisper. He smiled, eyes becoming impossibly softer. He leaned in, lips connecting with her forehead. Her tears fell onto the backs of her hands, which were gripping her shins tightly. 

“Why do you think you want to die?” Chan asked once Tamara had calmed down. “It’s my brain telling me I suck, and that everyone would just be happier if I were gone. One less burden off their shoulders.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t bare to see the damage her words had done. “Hey,” it was delicate, his hand on her knee, “While I can’t promise for other people, though I’m sure they’d say the same, I can say that personally, to me, you’re not a burden. Never was. Never will be.” So confident in the way he spoke, almost making her believe him. Almost. “I wish I could believe you.” She sighed. “It’s okay,” he brought a hand to her chin, tilting her head up to meet his eyes. They were shining, hopeful, while hers were dull, void of any life. “I’ll repeat it as many times as I need to. Until you believe me.” He smiled, pecking her forehead again. “You do it for me.” She really did. She reminded him that he deserved to be loved, deserved to be taken care of, that he didn’t need to earn her affection. She was there when he fell apart, holding him so tightly that he was pieced back together. Slowly, she became his safe haven. He didn’t need to pretend with her, didn’t need to act strong, or force himself to stay composed. He knew Tamara would welcome him with open arms, no matter what. He just wished he could be the same for her. “Don’t ever think you can’t come to me, okay?” She nodded, but that wasn’t good enough. “Okay?” He repeated. “Okay.” She confirmed. Chan wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to his chest, fingers spreading into her hair, tucking her further into his shoulder. He felt her fisting his t-shirt, clinging onto him like a last lifeline. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, hoping it could help quiet her mind at least for a couple of hours, so she could at least get a little bit of rest. He kissed her temple as he felt her grow heavy in his arms. He removed her head from his shoulder, lowering her to the pillow gently. Her arms were quick to wrap around the Wolf Chan teddy bear he handed her. Her body turned to the side, itching closer to where Chan usually slept. He was quick to tuck her under the blanket and go to the other side, getting into bed himself. He knew she couldn’t magically be fixed with some sweet words and sleep. But her opening up to him was a start. He told himself he’d do better. For Tamara. For himself. That’s what ran through his head as he draped an arm over her middle, pulling her closer, his chin above her head, her face nuzzled into his neck. He shut his eyes, determined to be there for her. 

No one really noticed anything was off about Tamara. Guess she acted well in front of the others. But Chan saw. Saw the differences. Before, her laugh filled the entire dorm when Han said something dumb. Now? Barely a chuckle. Before, she always initiated physical contact with Felix, hugging or cuddling while hanging out. Now, she tried to withdraw into herself as much as possible. The boys just assumed she was tired or homesick. But Chan saw through the cracks of her mask. Saw how the bags under her eyes grew in size, darkened in colour, taking up more and more of her once beautiful face. Jeongin beamed privately in Chan’s DMs after he succeeded in making her smile, but Chris saw how it didn’t quite reach her eyes, how it was almost painful for her to fake that twist of her lips. He didn’t have the heart to tell that to the younger guy, so he kept the truth hidden. 

Tamara was never a big talker, but recently, the lack of her voice was concerning. Even though Chan urged her to talk to him, he knew opening up would take time. He was patient, but seeing the person he loved most in such a low state hurt him. But Chris never pushed, never forced, only welcomed her with open arms. She was trying to get a job in Korea, hoping to move permanently to be closer to her boyfriend and drop the long-distance act. Even though Chan never pressured her, Tamara’s stress was at an all-time high. Interview after interview, promise after promise of ‘we’ll be in touch’ or ‘we’ll call you’. But to no avail. Tamara was beginning to worry that she was not good enough, that she was incompetent. He tried to reassure her that he could carry the financial weight until she settled in. But Tamara could never take advantage of him like that. It all just added to her feeling like a burden, as it is. 

“You know,” she began one evening. The couple was in Chan’s room. He was sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, legs spread wide. Tamara sat between them, her back pressed to his chest. He hummed in response, running his hands up and down her forearms. “I feel like I’m trapped.” He quirked a brow in question, not that she could see. “What do you mean?” He felt her lean back further into him. “Like…” Explaining her exact feelings was hard, but Chan was overjoyed that she was finally opening up about her thoughts and feelings. “Like I’m drowning? But not in water, in something more… Difficult? Like struggling won’t help.” She leaned her head on his shoulder, staring straight ahead at the shut-off TV, her own dark reflection staring back. “Like quicksand?” He tilted his head, eyes meeting hers through the screen. “Yeah! Exactly like that!” Her voice came out surprisingly loud, bringing a smile to Chan’s face. He missed her voice. “Like, right now I’m almost halfway in, with nothing to grab on to.” Chan nodded, understanding what she meant. He turned to look at her, catching her already looking up at him. He leaned down, pecking her temple. “I know what you mean. Like there’s no way out, so you just watch yourself die slowly.” He knew all too well how it felt. As if heavy weights, like the group, being the leader, producing new songs, constantly being the caregiver, were tied to his ankles, dragging him down in the water. All while he was fighting for air. 

Meeting Tamara didn’t magically bring him back to the surface, but she took some of his weights, tying them around her feet. Sharing the weight meant they could reach higher together, advancing towards the sky together, hand in hand. But in Tamara’s case, it wasn’t that easy. Sure, Chan could jump into the sandpit with her, but what good would that do? All it would do is make him drown with her. He had to think of something else. “Yeah.” She replied, her voice snapping him out of his daze. “We’ll figure something out. Together. Yeah?” Another slow, loving kiss to her hair. She took one of his hands in hers, bringing his knuckles to her lips. She then sandwiched it between both of her hands, the action bringing comfort. Chan wrapped his free arm shoulders from the front, holding her even closer. “Yeah?” He repeated, needing to hear it back. “Yeah.” She breathed out. “Good.” Another lingering kiss to her temple, right over the area that was pulsing painfully. 

Tamara suffered from migraines. Not as frequently anymore, thankfully. But when they did hit, they hit hard. Despite the intense pain, she kept going. Never letting it shut her down. There was so much to do. Chan admired that about her. How, even when hurting, both mentally and physically, she didn’t give up. He always handed her a bottle of water and some pain medicine when he saw she was struggling. She never outright said she wasn’t feeling well, but Chan noticed. He always did. He noticed everything when it came to her. So when she squeezed one eye shut when Changbin was being loud, or when she pressed two fingers to her pained temple, Chan would walk to the kitchen quietly, take a bottle of water and hand it to her. He would sneak her away to his bedroom amidst the chaos, letting her take migraine pills in quiet serenity. 

He did the same thing now, too, reluctantly letting her go so he could reach the bottle on his nightstand. “Thank you.” She whispered when he handed it to her. She extended an arm forward, grabbing the pills from her side. She swallowed two, shuddering afterwards, their bitter taste not to her liking. Chris wrapped his arms around her waist, fingers lacing under her chest. His chin rested on her shoulder. She set aside the bottle, covering his hands with hers. “This is nice. You’re nice.” He smiled at her words. “Yeah? I’m nice?” His tone was slightly teasing. Her cheeks tinted pink, eyes dropping to their hands, where she was messing with his bracelets. “Yeah?” He repeated, beginning to pepper kisses all over her face. She yelped in surprise, a laugh escaping her. A real, genuine laugh. “Stop!” She whined, grinning brightly. No way in hell he was stopping now. Not when she was finally giggling and smiling. When her hands reached up to push him away playfully, Chan curled his fingers around her wrists, lowering them back to her lap. He had both in one hand, the other coming to cup her jaw gently. He turned her face to meet his, capturing her lips in a sweet kiss. She melted into it, fingers relaxing under Chan’s grip. He let her go, her arms reaching up, wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. Her fingers threaded through his soft, dark locks. Oh, how she loved his natural colour. The way it highlighted all of his beautiful features: the dark lashes that rested on top of his pale cheeks anytime he closed his eyes. The blackness of his hair also brought out the gorgeous dark chocolate of his eyes, the plush of his pink lips. The same lips that were now pressed against hers. He parted them slightly, hoping to deepen their kiss. Tamara reciprocated, letting him lead. 

Chan wanted this time to be different. To be comforting, loving, caring. He wanted Tamara to feel safe with him. He wanted more than just sexual satisfaction for both of them. He wanted emotional safety. For Tamara to be engulfed by love and security. Her hands travelled down his shoulders, to his sides, sneaking under his black tank top. Nails grazing his sides, making his muscles twitch reflexively. Chan was the one to set the pace, deciding how to continue. He tugged at her sweatshirt. Taking the hint, she broke their kiss, raising her arms in the process. Chan lifted her top, taking it off and tossing it to the side. That left her bare in front of him. While her instinct was to try and cover herself, she learned that never worked with Chan. He always guided her hands to his shoulders, letting them rest there. This time was no different. He threw his tank top over his head, dropping it somewhere behind him. He brought his hands to her biceps, gliding down the smooth skin until he reached her knuckles, leading them to his broad shoulders. They then slid up and down her forearms comfortingly. Her grip on him tightened, needing to feel grounded. His palms went to her back, pulling her into him. Her chest was flush against his, his lips crashing into hers. 

He turned her body around, bringing her to sit on his lap. She could feel him pressing up into her clothed core, but he didn't take it further just yet, relishing in the moment. His hands were everywhere, her back, her hair, her sides, occasionally cupping her breasts. They parted when air was due, but always came back for more. Tamara’s breathing was heavy as she bore into his eyes. She saw how much he wanted her. How badly he wanted to show her that she’s not all the negative things she thought she was. “You’re so beautiful.” He murmured, knuckles tracing her cheeks. She blushed, pushing away the hairs that fell over his forehead, palm remaining on his cheek. She leaned in, pecking his nose. He smiled, exhaling the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “You’re one to talk,” her gaze fixated on his forehead, “Mister Fendi ambassador.” The tips of his ears reddened. For two people who loved words of affirmation, they were so bad at receiving them. His head dropped to her shoulder, chuckling softly. His hands travelled to her shoulders, pulling her in for a hug. Her arms went around his back, face buried into the crook of his neck. “You smell good.” She inhaled his scent. Feeling risky, she brought her lips to the point where his neck met his shoulder, nipping at it gently. The action took Chan by surprise, earning a pleasured grunt from him. She pulled away only when she felt satisfied with her work, smirking at the new mark she left on him. “Now, you’re mine.” He raised an eyebrow, “And before, I wasn’t? Hmm?” Accent heavy. She rolled her eyes fondly. “You know what I mean!” He laughed, enjoying seeing her slowly return to her normal self. A little bratty, but she was his brat. And he loved taming her. 

The foreplay continued until Chan couldn’t take it anymore. He needed her. Now. He also wanted this to feel different. For their connection to feel deeper. He flipped the two of them delicately. Now Tamara was on the bed with Chan hovering on top. His touch was tender, reverent even, when he took off her sweatpants, taking her bottoms along with them. He trailed kisses up her thighs, missing her aching core completely, and went to her stomach. He advanced upwards, reaching her chest, then collarbone, shoulders, jaw and the corner of her mouth. Only then, he kissed her lips. Only after he showed love to every other part of her as well. He didn’t have to use words to show her he admired her. Every kiss was a promise. That he was there for her. With her. That they’ll get through this. Together. That he was never letting her go. Or slip away through his fingers. That he loved her, through everything. Her hands went to his hair, brushing it back so she could maintain eye contact as he planted loving pecks down her body. His eyes were locked onto hers, enjoying the way she was getting more and more breathless. Chan slid his own grey sweats down his thighs, letting them drop on the floor, at the foot of the bed, boxers falling alongside them. He groaned in delight as he stroked himself, finally reliving some of the tension. He crawled on top of her, bringing one hand to her palm, intertwining their fingers. The pressure made her fingers curl around his. 

Chan wanted to test the waters before proceeding. He brought his fingers to his lips, coating them in saliva before inserting one into her. Her moans caught him off guard. She was never really vocal in the bedroom, so hearing her cry out in pleasure was like praise to him. Another finger followed, stretching her deliciously. His pace quickened, and Tamara arched her back off the mattress, head falling backwards in bliss. She could feel an orgasm coming, Chris’ name falling from her lips. He kept at it, giving her everything she wanted. He could feel her clench around his fingers as she gushed on them. He whispered gentle praises to her, giving her time to come down from her high. Once she did, he aligned himself at her entrance. “You okay?” She nodded, “Yeah.” Voice slightly shaky. “Okay.” He slid in easily, the earlier play helping. Both of them groaned as he went further, bottoming out. His hips met hers, and he stilled, giving her time to adjust. Tears prickled at the corners of her eyes. Chan leaned down and kissed them away. No amount of finger prep could ever compare to the real deal. “It’s okay.” She broke the silence. He nodded, starting to thrust in and out slowly.

Chan had incredible stamina and great endurance. He kept the rhythm steady, even without a direct grip on Tamara. He had one hand in hers, from earlier, still clasped tightly. The other cupped her chin, tilting her face to meet his, lips leaning to meet hers. His palm slid to her cheek, then into her hair, settling on the back of her neck. He applied gentle pressure, helping her rise into a sitting position. He let go of her other hand in favour of resting it on her waist, keeping her steady. Both of hers were in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. He chased her lips when she pulled away for air, eyes fluttering open. He helped her bounce in his lap, keeping the pace steady. She rested her head on his shoulder, chest flush against his. That way, the jumping didn’t hurt her breasts. Chan began thrusting up into her, meeting her halfway. Her arms were tight around his neck, moans muffled into the crook of his neck, right where the hickey she had left was placed.

His rhythm was growing sloppy as he was nearing his edge. His grunts were the hint. “I’m close too.” She breathed out into his ear. He kept going, hips stuttering once, twice, as he came inside her. He didn’t stop, though. He kept up with his thrusts, overstimulating himself until he felt her clench around his length. That alone would have made him orgasm again if he could recover that quickly. She cried out as she reached her own climax.

The two collapsed forward, Tamara’s head falling on the pillow, Chan’s landing on her chest. His weight felt comforting on top of her. She ran her fingers through his curls, wiping away the beads of sweat that pooled at his temples. His breathing slowly evened out. “Hey…” She cooed, “Channie…” voice so gentle it was almost like he imagined it. His arms tightened around her body, nuzzling further into her. “It’s starting to burn.” She frowned. He was up in an instant, sitting up so he could pull out properly. Both of them groaned at the action. Their mixed juices immediately leaked out of her, onto the sheets. “I’ll be right back, okay, Angel?” Her favourite nickname. She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. She’d be worried about Chan going out naked, but it’s nothing Jeongin hasn’t seen before. Suddenly feeling overexposed, she wrapped her arms around herself, eyes locking in on the ceiling lamp. Chris returned a couple of minutes later, a towel and some wet wipes in hand. He used the towel on her, being extra careful around her tenderness. He wiped it all away, cleaning her with expertise. He used the wipes on himself, feeling better once he was all done. “No shower today?” She shook her head, a childlike “Mm-mm” escaping her. He chuckled. “Okay, Angel.” He reached forward, both hands on her waist as he lifted her up, setting her on the floor gently. Her eyes widened in surprise, hands gripping his shoulders for dear life. “Sorry, Love, gotta change the sheets. Can’t have my baby sleep on something dirty, yeah?” He let her go, bending down slightly to tug at the sheet. “Do you need help?” He kissed her cheek, “No, thank you, My Love.”

It was done in under five minutes. Fresh bedding. It smelt faintly of laundry detergent mixed with Chan’s scent. A comforting combination. Even though he said he didn’t need any help, Tamara walked around the room, gathering all of their discarded clothing. She placed all of it on his office chair. Afterwards, she got into her pyjamas, which tonight were underwear and one of Chris’ oversized black t-shirts. Chan pulled a clean pair of boxers from his nightstand drawer and put them on. He got under the covers, opening his arms for his girlfriend. She crawled into them lazily. “Here, drink.” He handed her the same bottle from earlier. She did as told, gulping down water. She left him some, giving him the open bottle. He finished it with ease, taking the cap from her fingers and dumping both of them in the little trash can next to the bed. The plastic joined the dirty wipes that were thrown earlier. Tamara slid down the mattress, lying her head on his chest. The steady rise and fall of his abdomen, along with the rhythm of his heartbeat, and mixed with the exhaustion, all made her fall asleep that much faster. “Goodnight, my Sunshine, I love you.” She couldn’t see it, but Chan absolutely lost it at the nickname, burying his tomato face in his hands. It worsened when he felt her lips on his pec, right over his heart. The beating of his heart quickened, but it already didn’t matter to Tamara, who was sound asleep by now, drooling onto her boyfriend’s bare chest. “Goodnight, Sweetheart.” He whispered, leaning down, kissing the crown of her head. He wrapped both arms around her, keeping her steady as he lowered himself onto his pillow. He kept her tucked into him, chin resting on the top of her head. He shut his eyes, the soft sound of her breathing lulling him to sleep. He smiled, knowing that she was here. That she wasn’t going anywhere. 

The next spiral, surprisingly, wasn’t Tamara’s. Chan has been on the edge for weeks, and today, he reached his breaking point. When he entered his apartment after another long day at the studio, his shoulders slumped. His backpack slipped from where it was hanging on his left side, down to his forearm, weighing him down. He sighed as he took off his sneakers, feet sliding into his slippers. He dragged himself to his bedroom, passing by his girlfriend without a word. She raised an eyebrow from where she was sitting on the living room sofa. That was unusual. She got up and followed him to his room, shutting the door after she entered. Chan dropped the bag by the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat down. “You okay?” She knelt beside him on the floor. He ran his hands over his face, trying to calm himself down before he broke down completely. She hesitantly reached out, placing a hand on his knee, thumb running over the area soothingly. He took her hand in both of his, bringing her knuckles to his forehead gently as he sighed loudly. “No.” Quiet, but certain. “Wanna talk about it?” She never forced him, always waiting for him to be ready. “What I really want, is to shower. Wash away all of today.” The Australian accent was heavy in the way he spoke. “Okay,” she nodded, “we can shower.” She lifted herself, offering him a hand. He smiled softly, his first real smile of the day, and put his hand in hers. He felt her squeeze gently, a sign of comfort. He stood up and followed her to the bathroom. They passed by the third roommate, Jeongin. Tamara smiled gently, her eyes shining. He smiled back. Chan, on the other hand, kept his eyes on the floor, avoiding all eye contact. The maknae’s eyes ran across his leader’s face, his smile fading into confusion. He watched as the two of them entered the bathroom, Tamara closing the door after Chan entered. Her eyes met I.N.’s again for a brief moment. “I got this.” She mouthed to him. Jeongin nodded, stepping away from the scene and going back to his room.

Inside the bathroom, Tamara turned around and caught her boyfriend already shirtless, the t-shirt in his hands getting dumped into the dirty laundry hamper. He was hunched forward, feeling totally and utterly defeated. Before he had the chance to strip further, he felt gentle, warm hands envelop him in a tight hug. One hand running up and down the curve of his back, the other on the back of his neck, fingers scratching the skin softly. She pushed him into her, his chin resting on her shoulder. He shut his eyes tightly and let himself be comforted. Her voice broke the silence in gentle shushes. Chris wrapped his arms around her middle, holding on as if she was the only thing keeping him together, which, honestly, she kinda was. Before he could understand what was happening, all of his anger and frustration poured out of his eyes in the form of tears. The hand she had on the back of his neck went up into his hair, fingers spreading on the top of his head. She kept tracing comforting patterns on his back, hoping it would help in calming him down slowly. His tears ran down his face, then dripped onto the soft cotton of her hoodie. The black Starset hoodie she adored. The only piece of merch she owned from her favourite band. 

They stood like that for another few minutes, mostly in silence, except for Chan’s soft sniffles. Tamara released Chan from her grasp, hands coming to cradle his face, thumbs wiping away the fresh tears that escaped. Her lips pressed to his forehead, the sensation grounding him. He rested his hands on her sides, fingers slipping under the plush material of her top, thumbs running over the soft skin. “Sorry.” He looked down, their feet coming into view. “Today was just… Bad.” He let out a humourless laugh. With his face still in her palms, she forced it up, making him meet her eyes. “Don’t be sorry, okay?” He nodded, and she hoped he meant it. “Let’s wash up, yeah?” Her voice was tender, like she was saying the words directly in his head rather than out loud. “Yeah.” He whispered back, untangling himself from her.

The two stripped down to nothing, throwing everything into the laundry pile. Tamara stepped inside the shower booth first, the coldness of the tiles making her shudder. Chan followed suit, taking the shower wand into his hands. The water came out cold at first, but was slowly warming up. Chris immediately aimed the stream at his girlfriend after deeming the temperature worthy. Tamara sighed in relief, relishing in the warmth. He rained over her head, wetting her hair. Her hands ran through it, making sure it was washed properly. “Gimmie.” She reached forward, taking the wand from him. She tested the temperature with her fingers. “Let me know if it’s too hot, okay?” He nodded, and she aimed at his feet, testing the least sensitive area. “Okay?” He nodded, “음.” (eum.) He shifted under the spray, not really looking at her. She slowly raised her aim, getting more and more of him under the water. “Turn around.” She instructed softly. He did as told, his tone back now facing her. She raised both hands, one using the handle to dampen his hair, the other running through his locks, brushing them back. 

Once satisfied, she handed him the wand back. Their fingers brushed as Chan took it, aiming at his feet. Before getting any product in his hair, Tamara pressed the pads of her fingers to his temples, massaging in slow, comforting circles. Chan all but moaned in response. He could feel her rubbing away the tension from him as her hands lowered to his shoulders, fingers pressing harshly into the muscles. She then grazed her nails up and down his spine, not painfully, just… being present. “How’s that feel?” She leaned in and kissed the curve of his shoulder. “Heavenly, thank you, Angel.” His head dropped, eyes fixated on how red his feet were from the hot stream. “Anytime, Baby.” She didn’t call him that often, reserving it for when he was the one in need of caring. She wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her chest to his back. His hands covered her wrists, the water hitting both of them now. Her lips connected with his neck, trailing kisses upwards. To his jaw, then behind his ear, then his temple. He hummed in response, eyes closed, loving the feeling of being pampered once in a while. Her hands ran up and down his bare torso, Chan’s abdominal muscles flexing unintentionally. She covered his pecs, pressing her cheek to his back, hugging him tightly. “I love you.” She mumbled, barely understandable due to the squish in her lips. Chan smiled softly, eyes fixed ahead on the rack, and all of the different brands it held. “I love you too, Angel.”

With a final kiss to the nape of his neck, she pulled away, shower wand in hand. She rained over him again, drenching him once more. Chris handed her his products one at a time. She massaged each one into his scalp carefully. Chan, without noticing, tilted his head back, instinctively aching to be closer to her. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, mouth hanging open, eyes shut. With the final product in her palms, she reached up and delicately spread it into his hair, making sure to coat every curl. “Now it’s your turn.” He said when she finished washing his hair for the last time. His voice was gentle. “But what about body wash?” He shook his head, “Later.” He turned around to face her. “Okay.” She smiled, giving in. “Turn around.” He repeated her earlier words. He repeated more than just her words. The back massage? Check. The loving kisses all over her body? Check. His arms around her middle, tightly pressing her back to his chest? Check. His lips were practically glued to her cheek? Double check. “Channie…” She whined, growing slightly dizzy from all the steam. He kept her steady, washing her hair with such tenderness. Even as he raked his fingers through her messy strands, rinsing away the hair mask, he did it painlessly. The feeling was so relaxing she almost fell asleep right then & there.

Chan washed her body first, soaping her up just right. Hands tracing every curve, not missing a single piece of delicious tanned skin. The water brought comfort as he washed it all away. “All done, Love.” He smiled. She returned the favour, using his vanilla-scented body wash. Her hands lingered on his sides, thumbs brushing the area between his ribs. A goofy smile played on her lips as she leaned in, kissing him softly. No more than a second passed before she pulled away, rinsing the soap off his body. She shut off the water, returned the wand to its place, and stepped out onto the fluffy carpet. Chan followed, handing her a large towel before taking one for himself. Not thinking earlier, the two went to shower without bringing any clothes to change into. Tamara flushed, feeling embarrassed. Thankfully, the steam covered her. Chan poked his head out, not seeing Jeongin anywhere. “Coast’s clear.” In his best spy voice. She chuckled, wrapping the towel around her body. Unlike her, Chan dashed naked from the bathroom to the bedroom. Tamara followed close behind, feet in slippers as she tried not to slip and fall. She closed the door after she entered, feeling slightly breathless.

Her boyfriend was already dressed: a black t-shirt with a random doodle and black basketball shorts. “Today was bad,” he began, looking her way. She was just finishing pulling her bottoms over her butt and turned to face him. Chan’s breath caught in his throat. An ass man through and through. Her action made him lose his train of thought momentarily. He shook his head, regaining it. “I felt like Han and Changbin were useless ALL day. Like, I was the only one trying to make any kind of progress.” He paced around the room, hands thrown in the air as he gestured towards nothing in particular. Tamara nodded as she pulled one of Chris’ old sweatshirts over her head and got under the blanket, pulling her knees to her chest. “I just…” He sighed, stopping in front of the bed, blocking the television. “I’m just tired.” He frowned. “I know, Baby. It’s okay.” She always validated his feelings, making him understand that he had every right to feel that way. He had one hand on his hip, the other running through his slowly drying locks. “I really hope you guys can take a break soon. The songs you write keep showing how much you need it.” She was referring to tracks like Ghost and Holiday, which spoke about falling apart and desperately wanting to get away. “I hope so, too, but I doubt it.” His frown deepened. She opened her arms, inviting him in. That made his lips curve into a tiny smile. He accepted her offer, getting into bed. His head came to rest on her chest, arms wrapping around her torso. She had one hand in his hair, brushing away from his face softly. The other was tracing mindless patterns on his back. “I think I understand better what you said before. About feeling trapped in quicksand.” He spoke softly. “Life sucks sometimes.” That made her smile, a small, heartfelt smile. “Yeah,” she breathed out, “but at least I have you.” He looked up and met her eyes. The furrow in his brows relaxed, and his lips matched hers. “And I have you.” He kissed her over her clothed heart. She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. She then reached for the remote, turning on the TV.

They watched Psych for a couple of hours, until Chan’s breathing had evened out, and he fell asleep to the sound of Tamara’s heartbeat mixed with her fingers through his hair. It was a tad shorter now; his split ends were gone. It looked good. But everything looked good on him. His grip on her tightened in his sleep, holding her close. Just like how he spoke about cuddling with his large Wolf Chan plushie in bed, he was using his girlfriend in the same way. She smiled at his resting form, mouth slightly open as he struggled to breathe. She kissed the crown of his head softly, lips pressed to the now dry, raven hairs that adorned his scalp. She reached to the side, using the remote to shut off the television. Tamara stayed like that for a little while longer, not wanting to disturb her boyfriend’s rest. He barely got any as is, so she cherished small moments like these. Where he felt safe enough to let go completely, letting her take care of him. Falling apart entirely, knowing there’s someone who will piece him back together. Crashing down, knowing she would be there to catch him. His brows furrowed in concentration, tongue running over his lips, as if he was about to say something. His voice came out incoherent, a string of weird, mumbled and barely audible whispers. Tamara’s gaze broke from her phone, eyes dropping to where her boyfriend was softly sleep-talking. He coughed once, twice, and then his eyes fluttered open with a loud gasp for air. He sat up immediately, coughing almost violently. Tamara’s hand patted his back comfortingly, helping him to let it all out. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, his body’s natural reaction to choking. Gentle shushes fell from her lips as he slowly came to his senses. She reached for her nightstand, took her half-empty bottle of water, and handed it to Chan. He drank it down in long, loud chugs, exhaling hard after, the sound low and rough. Water droplets glistening on his bottom lip, dripping down his chin. The empty bottle crumpled in his fist, Chan unconsciously crushing it with his immense strength.

“You okay?” She reached up and wiped the water off his lips using the sleeve of her sweatshirt. Not trusting his voice at the moment, Chan simply nodded at his girlfriend’s question. He looked around him, slowly coming back to himself and figuring out his surroundings. Tamara’s hand was still on his back, tracing patterns up and down the area. His chest was rising and dropping rapidly, heartbeat racing. When he finally turned to look at her, his eyes were wide, slightly fearful. His mouth hung open as he inhaled deeply. Her free hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye, wiping away the tears that threatened to fall. His fingers curled around her wrist, grip tight, but not painful. He lowered her hand to his lap, both of his coming to toy with her fingers, folding and unfolding. He coughed a couple more times, more to clear his throat than anything else. He sighed, eyes locked on his messing around in his lap. “At least I got to sleep a little.” He joked, trying to lighten the mood. “I’m sorry that happened, Lovie. You deserve to rest properly.” He smiled softly at the nickname. “Maybe someday…” Voice small, insecure. When he looked up to meet her concerned gaze, his own orbs were shining brightly. A little hopeful, a little desperate. 

Her hand on his back paused its movement, coming to rest on his shoulder. “It’s all gonna be okay.” Said more like a promise than just empty comfort. “Yeah?” He sounded hopeful, like he really wanted to believe her. “Yeah.” She confirmed, smiling gently. She freed her hand from his grasp, both coming to cradle his face tenderly. She pulled him to her, lips landing on his forehead. “I love you.” He sighed again, but this time with content. “I love you.” She never said ‘I love you, too’; that ‘too’ has felt wrong for her ever since her dad told her, in her native tongue, not to use it, but to say ‘And I love you’ in response. Chan noticed, and the cute little backstory made him ‘Aww’ so loudly that Jeongin came bursting into the living room, confusion evident on his face. Tamara blushed, hiding her face in her hands when Chan translated the story to the maknae. He, too, Aww’d loudly. It’s something that stuck with them for a while after.

“Wanna go to sleep? Or sit for a little longer?” “-I wanna sit for a little bit more. With you.” He practically pleaded. “Okay.” She smiled, opening her arms for the second time that night. He crawled closer, and she tucked his head under her chin, shielding him from the cruel world out there. She peppered kisses on the top of his head cutely, while he nuzzled further into the crook of her neck. He inhaled her scent deeply, loving the way she smelled. Natural, no perfume, just her mixed with body wash. Chris wrapped his arms around Tamara’s middle. “Can we just talk?” “-Of course, Baby. Whatever you want.” Her voice was gentle and loving. Chan spoke about anything that came to mind: tracks that he was currently working on, lyrics he was stuck on, future plans, things he wanted to do with her. The talk about eventually going public came up. Both of them wanted to delay it as much as possible, valuing their privacy more than anything. Chan also knew that, no matter how hard he’d try, he couldn’t shield Tamara from all the hate that was to come. It was inevitable. The thought of her having to eventually deal with it in the future made his arms tighten their grip around her. “Do you still wish you were dead?” The question made her seize her current action of threading his fingers through his hair. She pondered over it for a short while. “Sometimes,” she finally said, “it comes and goes, you know?” She felt him nod against her chest. “Yeah…” He swallowed, “I get that.” He frowned slightly. “It’s okay, though,” her voice came out confident, “we’ll get through this.” “-Together.” He finished her sentence.

And so, even if she felt herself drown in a pit of endless sand. Even if she thought she was beyond saving. Left to drown slowly, Chan was her shining glimmer of hope. He ran around her puddle of quicksand, desperately searching for something. And then, he saw it. An abandoned tree branch. He rushed to her side quickly, extending it for her to take. He showed her that no matter how lost and hopeless she may feel, he’d be there to pull her out of it. By force, if he had to. Her eyes shone as she looked at her lover’s offering. Her arms were already halfway in, but now? Her real struggle began. She fought hard to free her arms. With Chan’s soft words and encouragement, Tamara managed to break free and grab onto the wood.

Just like how she carried some of his weight underwater, Chan helped Tamara fight against the pit of despair that threatened to take her away for good. It was a relationship built on mutual trust and affection. Built on being there for each other. Even when things got hard, they always managed to push through. Their love was stronger than the pain. And everything they went through, they did so together.

[kombuchaaaaa]

Yo anyone remember Slugterra ? That show about them shooting different powered slug thangs ??? That shit was peak childhood tv

[red-velvet-throne]

Omg i thought that show was a fever dream I'm so glad someone else remembers 😭

[kombuchaaaaa]

Chaol when he realised that the assassin that he fell in love with assassinates people:

[red-velvet-throne]

This is literally what happened fr

[tamarastevie]

Another Life

hiii, it has been a hot minute since i posted anything original. i have been writing a lot of stuff for myself, instead of reader insert, as it's what i wanted. and i wanted to test the waters by posting this. bang chan is my new hyper fixation <3 the fic is very heavily based on the song lyrics. it gave me such inspiration that i had to do it

word count: 3.7k genre: angst

Today, he touched down in L.A. As he was passing through the mass of people exiting the plane, that’s where he saw it. Her favourite hoodie. On a stranger at the gate. The black cotton, with the white embroidery on the sleeves and the big heart on the back. He almost reached out to that person. Almost. But he knew it wasn’t her. This girl was shorter, and her hair colour was wrong. She was also brunette, but it was a different shade of brown. His girl had the nicest hair in the world. This woman was… Plain… Wrong… Not her. She will never be her. 

He sighed, his steps growing smaller and the distance between him and his bandmates growing wider. “You okay?” He suddenly heard his friend’s deep voice next to him. Slightly startled, Chris’ head twisted to meet his Aussie brother’s eyes. He relaxed instantly, shoulders dropping, eyes falling to the floor once more. “Yeah, yeah,” his voice came out quiet and uncertain. He felt his friend’s hand pat his shoulder comfortingly. “I know you miss her. We all do. But it’ll get better, I promise.” Felix tried to lift his friend’s spirits, but it fell on deaf ears. Chan simply nodded along, not really paying attention. “Thanks, Lix.” He replied, not looking up to meet his mate’s gaze.

Felix was talking about Chan’s girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, more accurately. However, he didn’t refer to her that way. Chris still spoke of her as if they were still together. He couldn’t believe it ended. Refused to accept it. He thought about her all the time. Always present in the corner of his mind. Both of them knew how hard it would be when they first entered the relationship all those years ago. They truly believed they could beat the odds. They said they would be the one exception. Forever without an ending. 

Chan shook his head, picking up his pace to catch up with the rest. They had a busy day ahead, and he needed to focus. He could fall apart in his hotel room later.

The eight of them were split between two vans. Chan, Han, Seungmin and Jeongin were in one, while Minho, Changbin, Hyunjin and Felix were in the other. Chris sat in the back, behind the driver’s seat. They were driving down the PCH. He leaned his head against the window, the vibrations semi-lulling him to sleep. But the smell of salt and sea brought back the memories he couldn’t erase. The two of them were at the beach, bare feet in the sand. She was ahead of him, holding her sandals and the hem of her dress in her hand. She was looking back at him, smiling widely. He was looking back at her, eyes incredibly soft, nothing but love in them. He had a small smile on his face, his long, dark locks swaying gently in the wind.

But it was all gone now. Dark, long hair replaced by short, blond spikes. They say hair holds memories, so Chan got rid of most of his. But it was all a lie. His hair was gone, but the pain and the thoughts of her still stayed. He sniffled loudly, reaching up to wipe his nose with the sleeve of his zip-up. Everyone in the car heard it, but no one commented. The guys all knew he was struggling with the breakup, but they couldn’t force him to talk about it. All they could offer was silent support. Han, who was sitting next to him in the back, turned to look at his hyung. His eyes held sympathy, but they soon turned back to look at his phone. He let out a small sigh, shaking his head with disappointment. Aimed at himself for not being able to be there for his leader. His leader, his friend, who was always there for him. Always there to pick him up when he fell down. His hyung, who was struggling immensely right now. Han felt useless for not being able to help. But in his defence, all seven of them felt that way. It didn’t help that Chan rejected any offers made for him. He’d shake his head, lie that he was fine and that he was holding up, when all of them knew the truth, that he was falling apart right in front of their eyes.

Chan closed his eyes, hoping to get some rest before the long schedule they had ahead. His dark Fendi beanie hid his hair; his face was bare, and his earrings swayed carefully as the car moved forward. He let out another small sigh, drifting off slowly. Jisung glanced at him again, gaze softening when he saw his leader sleeping peacefully.

All seven of Chan’s bandmates shared his previous faith that the two of them would stay together despite the difficulties. That someday they’d stand at the altar, at their wedding. Hearing their favourite couple make the sacred promise of forever to one another. So, when Chan sat them down one evening and broke the news that he and Tamara had broken up, they couldn’t believe it. Refused to. Calling it a heartless prank. But when Chan’s eyes glossed over, and his tears spilt, they realised he wasn’t joking. All of them asked what happened, how it happened. Chris was honest and pointed at himself. They understood immediately. He meant his career. His busy idol life finally caught up to the two of them. The news devastated Chris’ entire inner circle. Everyone really believed that they could do it. What hurt the most was that the love was still there. And there was so much of it, too. He doesn’t believe he’ll ever stop loving her. She will always carry a piece of his heart with her. But his heart still remained whole. Why? Because he’ll always carry a part of her, too.

By now, it’s been almost a year since the breakup, and he really thought he was doing better. Moving forward with his life. And he thought about her less, too. At least, that’s the lie he kept telling himself. He just kept himself busy. Constantly overworking. Wearing himself to the bone. Anything he could do to stop himself from spiralling. As it was the only way he could keep going. The only way he could stop himself from crumbling down and falling apart completely. The lyrics to Stray Kids’ song ‘Leave’ kept replaying in his head. Changbin wrote it years ago, but it was only hitting him now. He sat in the studio, alone, in the middle of the night. Just him and the screen of his laptop. The editor stared back at him. Playing and replaying a snippet he recorded earlier. He was writing another love song. Another song about the life he wished he had. Another song expressing his feelings for his former lover. Without meaning to, the chorus spelt out her name. Every sentence begins with a letter from her first name. He shut his eyes, feeling the rhythm in his bones. He hummed along, singing the chorus slowly, a constant reminder of what he had lost. 

“The love I wish we had, And even now, Many years later, I still love you, A caress away, Refusing to let go, Always waiting for you.”

He hadn’t meant to spell her name, but his heart longed for her. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. He was starting to get sleepy, but he felt like he didn’t deserve the rest. So he shook his head semi-violently and went back to work.

When he finally finished for the day and went back to his dorm, he felt heavy. Like his clothes were weighing him down. He wanted to shower and get into bed as soon as possible. He stripped down to nothing and got in the shower booth. He twisted the knob, letting the water rain over him. He closed his eyes, face toward the ceiling. His Adam’s Apple bobbed as he swallowed gently. He raked both hands through his hair. His dark roots were showing by now, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to dye his hair again or grow out his natural colour. Tamara always said she liked his raven colour better. He shook his head again, water droplets flying everywhere. He thought that if he’d turn his head enough times, she’d get out of his head. But it was to no avail. She was there to stay. 

After the shower, he was in bed. Mind replaying all of their happy memories. It was his nightly routine every day since the breakup. Sometimes he’d cry himself to sleep. Other times, he’d smile softly, as if he was reliving the scenes in his head. Today, unfortunately, felt like the former. Chan hid his face in his hands, resisting the urge to scream out his frustrations. He used to believe they were a match made in heaven. “So-called soulmates…” He muttered, scoffing to himself, turning to lie on his side. He shut his eyes, hoping for a dreamless sleep. When he closed his eyes, he would see her face. He couldn’t handle seeing her in his dreams again. He was so tired. Waking up with tears in his eyes on a daily basis. On the one hand, he wanted to forget everything that ever happened, erase all memories of her from his mind, so he could finally feel at peace. But on the other hand, he loved that time in his life the most. He was the happiest when he was with her. And he wasn’t ready to let go. 

Stray Kids were on the road again, in Europe. The final leg of their tour. On stage, he acted like everything was fine. Laughing and joking with the guys. In SKZ codes, talkers and vlogs, he behaved like he was okay. But his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and his laughter wasn’t always genuine. He tried really hard, but his mask kept slipping. Fans were worried about him, but he played it out like the lack of sleep was affecting him, along with his muscle pain and whatnot. He texted his usual bullshit on Bubble, and STAY were buying into it like they did every time. 

Chan was in the same seat again. Looking out the window again. Painful memories creeping up again. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the final shared one that they had. Their breakup. He thought about the months leading up to the end. The endless schedules, the time differences, the empty promises. Even when they were physically together, it was hard. Something came up. Always. They could barely be together without an emergency popping up. He always apologised. She always understood, with a soft smile on her lips. But at some point, it felt like too much. She knew he loved her, but she could never compete with his job. That’s why she never forced him to make that choice, mainly because she knew which one he would pick. But also because it wasn’t fair to him. To make that choice. So she made the decision herself. But they’ll be damned if they were accused of giving up. They gave it hell to get it right. 

It was almost Christmas by the time the tour wrapped up. He knew she was in Seoul for the holiday. He wondered if he’d run into her. He knew exactly where she was. The same place she was always at, anytime she visited. A small, cosy Airbnb by the Han River. It was in a great place. Chan loved being there with her. The apartment was tiny. It could barely fit one person, let alone two. The former couple always had to squeeze into bed together. Legs tangled, his head on the one pillow the bed offered, her head tucked comfortably under his chin. He wondered how the place felt without him. Does the extra space make her uncomfortable? Is she thinking about him anytime she’s cooking up something in the kitchen? Remembering all the good times they shared in that place? And when she goes to sleep, does the bed feel empty without him? Does she freeze without him there to cuddle her and keep her warm? All these thoughts were running through his head as he boarded the plane. Finally, on the way back home. It was December 23rd. He wondered if he could make it back before the 25th. If he makes it back for Christmas, there’s a chance he’ll see her face. He sighed as he took his seat on the plane, by the window. He shut his eyes and lay his head back, hoping to sleep through the flight.

Chan did make it back before the holiday. It was Christmas Eve, and Stray Kids had a performance at Seoul’s annual Christmas celebration show. It was a major K-Pop event. A lot of different groups were going to perform. When it was their turn, Chan and his members walked out onto the enormous stage. Loud cheering erupted everywhere. Huge grins broke out on all eight boys. This is what they loved to do. This is where they felt the most alive. The first couple of songs were good, nothing unusual, but during the second chorus of ‘Divine’, that’s when it happened. They locked eyes. She was there. She was there the whole time. Watching him the entire time. Chan froze. Just for a split second mid-choreo. He hoped nobody noticed. But she did. Her eyebrows shot up in shock as it happened. Slight concern was taking over her features. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. His outro was approaching, and the show must go on. He sang beautifully. His voice was stronger, more solid. Like he wanted to prove something to someone. 

After the song ended, he caught her eyes again. She was relatively at the front. He could see the softness her gaze held. Along with something else, too. Pride, mixed with love and adoration. All for him. She nodded at him softly, a small smile on her lips. He gave her a tiny nod back, hoping nobody but her would catch it. His features softened as he smiled back. A barely there, just for her, twist of lips. He then turned around and walked off stage, keeping their distance. He would have said that seeing her at the show undid all of his progress, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. He hadn’t made any progress. He still missed her. He still loved her. He still wanted her. And by the way she was looking at him earlier, she felt the exact same thing. Maybe sometime, somehow, someday, they could try again. Make it work this time around. Delusional.

Over the time they spent together, they grew to have mutual friends. That’s how Chan found out she moved back home. Back when they dated, she always spoke about wanting to get away and move somewhere better. They used to talk about her moving to Korea, to be closer to him. He also knew she used to work in Seoul and planned to move permanently. So when he was told that she quit and moved back to her home country, he was surprised to say the least. He really wished that she were doing well.

He hoped she always knew he kept the letter that she gave to him. Her words of encouragement always helped him when he was struggling. Tamara gave Chan the letter on a random Tuesday night. There wasn’t anything special about that day. No anniversaries, no holidays or birthdays. It was a ‘just because’ type of thing. The letter contained everything she loved about him. How proud of him she was. How proud she was to stand by his side. Her hopes for their joint future. He usually skipped that part. She also spoke about how happy she was with him. How his stupid jokes always cheered her up. How his hugs were the best. He could recite the paper word for word by now. It hurt him to change all the present tenses to the past tense. He didn’t know why he did it to himself. Reading the letter, seeing her handwriting only hurt him. But he kept coming back. Every time. As it was also a source of comfort for him. It was messed up, but that’s just how life was.

The next time he ran into her was far from home. Well, far from her home. It was in Osaka, Japan. She was walking down the street, laughing softly at something her friend had said. When she turned her head back, she stopped dead in her tracks. Expression shocked, eyes wide. He was wearing a mask and a beanie, hiding himself from the general public. But she still recognised him. Because of course she did. She knew the shape of his face by heart. She used to trace the outline of his jaw every night they shared together. Her friend paused as well, getting closer to ask what was wrong. Tamara simply shook her head, and the two kept walking. Chan and Tamara kept their relationship a secret, so she couldn’t tell her friend that she just ran into her ex. As she was approaching where he stood, it hit him. This is where they got together. And now she was acting like they weren’t in the place where they said they’d be the one exception. It was years ago, but now the wound has reopened. Both of them knew it. They could see the hurt in each other’s faces. Their eyes spilt everything. Even if their mouths kept themselves shut. As the two girls walked past him, Chan had to hold himself back from reaching out and taking her hand in his. He clenched his fists tightly at his sides, fingernails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. His eyes were glued to her back as he watched her walk away.

He thought about reaching out to her all the time. A text. A phonecall. Just to hear her voice again. But he respected her decision too much to ever do such a thing. No matter how much he missed her. What he didn’t know was that she thought about him just as much. What came as a surprise was his phone ringing at 10 a.m. Her contact name, still unchanged from before the breakup, was on his screen. A quick calculation meant it was the middle of the night for her. Chan excused himself, exiting the practice room. “Hello?” He answered quickly, concern in his tone. He hoped she was safe. He heard sniffles on the other end. “Hi.” Shaky voice, as if she was crying. Chan walked to his studio in the JYPE building, knowing it’d be empty. Good for privacy. “Are you okay? What happened?” He was worried, and it only made her sob harder. “I’m sorry,” she cried, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Repeated an unhealthy amount of times. “Okay, breathe. Please. Can you do that for me, Angel?” The nickname slipped out. It was his former habit. Calling her his Angel, as she was always there for him. That only made her cry harder, and he cursed himself for it. He tried to calm her down by asking her to breathe, but it wasn’t working. He could hear, over the phone, how frantic her breathing was. She was having a panic attack. “Breathe with me, okay? In…” He inhaled deeply, listening as she did the same. “And out…” He exhaled. She followed his instructions. “Good job, I’m proud of you. Now, again.” His gentle praise was working. They repeated the process until Tamara calmed down, her heartbeat returning to normal. “Better now, Love?” The petname was enough to send her spiralling again, but she held back. “Yeah,” she breathed out, “thank you.” “-Of course.” He smiled to himself, feeling comforted that he managed to help her. “Are you okay?” He asked again. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just…” She paused, taking in a deep breath. “I miss you.” She finally said. He could hear the frown in her voice when she spoke. Chan could swear he could hear the audible crack his heart had made. “What?” He couldn’t believe it. “I miss you.” She repeated. 

Was she drunk? No, couldn’t be. She doesn’t drink. So where did this come from? And why now? Over a year later. “I miss you, too.” He replied, all feelings and no thinking. He could hear her sniffle again. “I-” She stuttered, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.” And just like that, she was gone again. All of his questions will remain unanswered forever. Chan lowered his phone slowly, his lock screen mocking him. Did he just fuck up by speaking without thinking? He wasn’t sure what just happened. He took a seat at the office chair near the recording equipment. He replayed the phone call in his head. She called him, apologising frantically. He then helped her through an anxiety attack. They both admitted to still having feelings for each other, and then she called it a mistake and hung up. He sat here, staring at the ceiling, contemplating his life. At least that’s what he did until Changbin found him and pulled him back to reality. Chan explained what happened and got sympathy from his friend. As much as he would have wanted to wallow in self-pity, he had a job to do and a group to lead. With a final sigh, he stood up and followed his mate back to rehearsal. 

The more time went on, the less he thought about her. She was still there, present in a secluded corner in his mind. But her place in his head was getting smaller. By now, it was almost spring. He knew her birthday was somewhere during the season. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact date anymore. He knew it was in March, somewhere close to Hyunjin’s, but that’s as far as his memory went. He used to believe they were soulmates. Now, he doesn’t remember her birthday. He used to see her face any time he closed his eyes, but now it was just blank. Engulfed by emptiness.

Right person, wrong time. It’s what he kept telling himself. Like a mantra. He knew that if he didn’t run into her sometime, somehow, someday, he’d see her in another life. 

[red-velvet-throne]

💐✨

[red-velvet-throne]

The Strongest

[red-velvet-throne]

Saw this on Pinterest and my brain immediately said "Sanji" so i answered the call of the abyss.

Waist is a lil too long but I'm trying my best-

[exhosionn]

fem ace blink blink

i imagine ace being like ladies ladies one at a time

[red-velvet-throne]

This is everything.

[red-velvet-throne]

The before and after of Itadori Yuji is devastating

[red-velvet-throne]

I saw the season 3 movie premiere and it was absolute cinema

[red-velvet-throne]

Tried my hand at a hat pose

[red-velvet-throne]

Sabo and Ace :)

[red-velvet-throne]

Yamato sketch i did at school (one piece seriously took over my life)