MDNI ⋆˚࿔ sandwiched between fratboys suguru geto and satoru gojo ⋆˚࿔ m.list
a/n: if you guys actually end up liking this, im thinking of making a part 2 or maybe even a series w more plot.. just lmk in the comments pls :')
how did you, the smart, quiet nerdy girl who kept her head low and focused solely on her school work, end up here— naked in bed with the two hottest fratboys on your campus?
well… it all started with a simple conversation in the halls of your university.
“hey, you're smart, right? i mean, you know about numbers and shit?” satoru calls out from behind you.
the moment his deep voice hits your ears, you freeze— holding your books tightly against your chest and the white bow tied around your ponytail hanging loose, your heart already beginning to pound in your chest.
“what tweedle-dick here is trying to say, is that we could use some help studying for exams.” suguru calls out.
now you think you might just pass out— hearing suguru's velvety voice immediately sends shivers down your spine.
satoru gojo and suguru geto— the most popular frat boys on your campus, or hell, even in your city for that matter, are asking you to help them study?
you didn't even think they knew you existed, always sitting quietly in the back of the class and taking notes like the perfect little student you were, all while they would have the other girls in class fawning over them.
but to be honest, you'd been dreaming about this moment. is this a dream? is this actually happening? the same guys you'd been pathetically fantasizing about at night while using your little pink vibrator against your clit, were actually speaking to you?
“c’mon sweets, we could reaaally use the help.” satoru’s voice snaps you out of your trance as he circles to walk in front of you, suguru following behind.
“unless you have better plans, like studying all alone in the library on a friday night.” suguru leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his broad chest.
“oh no, i… i don't have any plans, actually… what time were you guys thinking? i mean, im free whenever, i can come to your dorm anytime and-”
you cut yourself off as you're blabbering, thinking one thing to yourself— damn bitch… were you really that easy??
well— apparently you were!
not even three hours later, you've found yourself completely naked in satoru gojo’s bed, sandwiched between him and suguru right in their dorm room, the two of them also void of all of their clothing.
suguru’s got a tight grip on your thighs, the pads of his fingers and blunt nails digging into the pillowy flesh as he places soft, wet kisses just below where you need him the most— all while satoru’s sitting behind you, your back pressed against his hard chest, droplets of sweat mingling between your heated skin.
“always lookin’ so pretty, wearin’ your little skirts and these cute hair bows.” satoru’s breath is hot against your ear, one of his hands kneading the heavy swell of your breast, the other tugging at the satin lace that's gotten lost in your damp hair.
suguru continues his relentless torture of slow, sloppy kisses against the softness of your thighs— biting and sucking, running his tongue along the marks to soothe the blossming bruises.
“dressing up for us, weren't you?” suguru murmurs against your thigh, long dark tendrils hanging loosely from his bun and tickling your sensitive skin.
“i-i don’ know what you mean.” you innocently whimper as you try to buck your hips against his tongue.
“ah-ah,” suguru slaps your thigh lightly, “be a good girl and be patient. you can do that for me, can't you baby?”
“mmph— suguru, pleaaase, want you to make me feel good.” you whimper, pouting your lip out.
“aw, cmon sugu, she's begging so nicely.” satoru smirks against your neck, one hand still caressing the swell of your breast while the other snakes down to your throbbing cunt.
satoru hooks two long fingers between your folds, gathering your syrupy slick and sticking them in front of suguru’s face.
“look at how wet we’re makin’ her, always acting so innocent, but now she’s dripping down my hand like a slut.”
your eyes widen and tummy tightens at satoru’s crude words, you’d never let a man call you that— but for some reason, hearing it come from satoru’s mouth… your pussy starts to leak more.
suguru leans up, sticking his tongue out and lapping along satoru’s fingers, licking every single drop of your essence clean from his long digits.
“guys, c’mon, please.” you squirm beneath them.
“mmm-” suguru releases satoru's fingers with a lewd pop before slapping your thigh again— harder this time, “please what, pretty girl? use that sweet mouth of yours and tell us exactly what it is that you want.”
“i-i want… i want you— both of you, please suguru and satoru, i need you both!” you’re voice comes out shaky, tears of desperation welling in your eyes.
satoru nips at your neck, his hand that's kneading your breast moves to pinch your nipple between his fingers, making you squeal.
“there she is.”
in one swift motion, suguru takes satoru's free hand and places it right at your pulsing hole, and he settles his face right at your clit.
“you can be good for us, can't you sweets?” satoru murmurs, voice rough as he slowly starts pumping those long fingers inside your dripping wet hole.
“a-hah- i’ll be s’good, promise!” you gasp out, back arching against satoru’s sweat slicked chest, soft breasts heaving and nipples perking as his fingers pump in and out with a torturously slow rhythm.
you can feel how hard satoru is behind you, his bare, hard cock throbbing and leaking pre against your back as he subtly ruts against it.
“such a good girl for us, aren't you?” suguru’s voice laced in silk and sin hits you straight in your core, more of your arousal coating satoru’s fingers and creating a messy web of sticky slick.
suguru leans down, hot breath ghosting your puffy clit before finally latching onto it and sucking hard.
he doesn't give you a chance to react— a chance to even breathe through the burning pleasure, his lips suctioned around the swollen bud and his tongue lapping around in quick circles as spit bubbles around his mouth.
his hooded eyes stay locked onto you, the way your full lips part and your nose flares slightly when you whimper, the way your tears glisten against your cheeks, and how your eyes are locked directly onto him as he makes out sloppily with that sensitive little bundle of nerves.
satoru bites and kisses along your neck, his fingers scissoring in and out before curling right at that soft spot— the one that makes your dripping cunt and gummy walls squeeze tight around his fingers.
“tch, think she's ready to cum for us already suguru. hm, does our sweet girl wanna cum for us?”
“hnngh- i-i- mmph!” you can't even form words, not when your getting finger fucked and your clit sucked by the two hottest guys you've ever seen.
“aw, thought you were such a smart girl? you can't even speak properly.” satoru’s sweat dampened hair brushes your cheek as he kisses along your jaw, all while suguru’s completey fucking lost himself in pleasing you.
something he's never done before, not with any of the bimbos he's hooked up with.
his hooded eyes stay locked into your face, his hips slightly rutting against the mattress as he sucks and sucks and sucks on your swollen clit.
“p-please, s’too— nngh- much!” you hiccup.
“s’not enough.” suguru mumbles against your clit, the vibrations only sending another wave of pleasure straight through you.
satoru bites down on your neck, marking you with another dark bruise as the pads of his fingers curl up again and again and again— putting so much pressure on your g spot you feel like you just might explode.
“milkin’ my fucking fingers, fuck you're so tight— can't wait to bury my cock in this sweet little pussy.” satoru muses between harsh bites and soft licks on your neck, his aching cock leaking an obscene amount of pre against your quivering back.
with a strained cry, some noise you've never even produced before, you squirt all over satoru’s fingers and down his wrist, all while he presses up against that fleshy spot to prolong your orgasm.
“mmm- f-fuck-” suguru’s eyes roll back as he feels some of your warm juices splash against his chin, and he groans as he finishes right there against satoru’s mattress.
but satoru's not far behind him— he continues pumping his fingers in and out of your soaked cunt, and he grabs your face with his free hand— swallowing your moans and whimpers with a sloppy, spit-filled kiss.
all of your moans intertwine like a beautiful symphony— heavy groans, pants, and whimpers filling the room along with the sounds of your squelching pussy.
with a few more ruts against your sweat-beaded back, satoru’s orgasm hits him hard as he practically tongue fucks your mouth— rivulets of thick, hot cum painting your back white— all while suguru watches, his tongue still swirling around your throbbing clit and his hips lazily rutting against the bed.
“sh-iiit— looks like we both made a mess.” satoru pants against your lips, his long veiny cock and your back dripping with his cum.
you finally come down from your mind shattering orgasm, panting and sweating, your eyes widening as you feel the wetness on your thighs and the damp spot underneath you.
did you just fucking squirt for the first time… in front of the two hottest frat boys on campus?
“looks like we made little miss innocent squirt all over my sheets-”
well fuck.
“-that was the hottest fucking thing i've ever seen. and i think i can say the same for suguru.” satoru raises an eyebrow at his flushed face friend who’s just came all over himself from sucking your clit.
suguru clears his throat, grabbing a t-shirt off the ground and covering his half hard cock that’s still leaking small spurts of cum.
“y-yeah… hottest thing i've ever seen…” his voice comes out a low, rough mumble as he avoids eye contact, almost like he's… embarrassed? nervous? something suguru geto has never been.
“tch, you owe me some new sheets, asshole.” satoru huffs with a sly smirk.
you lay there panting, breast slicked with sweat, bruises littering your thighs and neck, satoru’s cum dripping down your back.
satoru bites your neck again— all while keeping direct eye contact with suguru— almost like he's… staking his claim over you?
and you swear you see it, for just half a second, a twinge of jealousy or maybe even anger flash over suguru’s face.
but surely these two inseparable bestfriends, the two frat boys everyone wants to be or be with, aren't going to argue over you— the nerdy girl who’s never even had a boyfriend.
…right?
comments and reblogs appreciated! ♡
repost from my old account sytorusdoll
Imagine “borrowing” the left glove of your man’s super suit for a bit while he’s napping and stitching a small band of embroidery thread around the ring finger. The thread is colored only slightly darker than the original color of the fabric. It was so inconspicuous that no one who wasn’t looking for it would notice. In fact, it takes your vigilante fiancé about a week to find it himself.
He has to do a little double take, momentarily forgetting what he was doing in favor of inspecting his hand. It’s not an accidental loose thread or anything, it’s an intentional alteration to his uniform, meant to be there. And it’s very clearly supposed to be a wedding ring, so he knows exactly how it got there. He just doesn’t know when. Oh, hopefully he hasn’t been oblivious to your handiwork for long. The thought of you thinking he knew about it and just didn’t care was agonizing. He cares, baby! He cares so much you wouldn’t believe.
It makes him giddy. You’ve marked him. What an adorable thing to do.
He was planning to get the ring tattooed onto his finger already, so he wouldn’t lose the real one out in his dangerous life of fighting crime. But even that would be under his gloves, invisible to anyone on the streets of the city. This, however, announced it loud and clear: sorry, but this vigilante is taken.
When he makes it back from the mission that night, he finds you lounging in your shared bedroom. You’re too engrossed in whatever you’re doing on your laptop to notice him creeping in yet, so he gets a moment to just admire you. To his delight, he recognizes the fabric that clings to your body as one of his shirts.
You finally realize he’s there, lookin’ like the cat who got the cream,
“Hey Babe, was it a good night?”
“You want to marry me~” he croons.
“We are literally engaged,” you shake your head in fake-exasperation.
“I found your little gift,” he gives you the clue to why he’s got hearts in his eyes.
“Oh,” your smile gets bigger, “that.. I take it you like it?”
He takes your head in his hands, thumbs gently brushing the tops of your cheeks, “it’s perfect,”
He presses a cute little kiss onto your nose. He laughs as you open your eyes and whine about having expected a real kiss. Well, he’ll just have to give you one of those too, then… or maybe a few…
❝ it's been two years since you and shoko have seen the group that made up your friends in college- satoru, suguru, sukuna, kento, toji, shiu, hiromi, and choso. on a whim, satoru decides to host an exclusive halloween bash at his totally-not-spooky cabin in the woods. he promises all the best; free booze, good times, hot tubs, and the best costumes money can buy. what could possibly go wrong?
well- maybe the killer instincts hiding among your once tight-knit group of friends. ❞
꒷꒦꒷ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. inspired by your typical slasher film/game, please expect all the typical warnings of the genre. graphic descriptions of violence, blood, gore, injuries and death, sometimes played off in a comedic way. use of knives and guns. use of alcohol and cannabis. mentions and implied use/peddling of harder drugs. costumed killers. monsters. serial killers. reader needs to get her priorities straight. smut. piv. oral (m! and f! receiving). handjobs. fingering. biting. marking. monsterfucking. manhandling. size kink. voyeurism. praise. degradation. thigh riding. sex at inappropriate times. each ending will be tagged accordingly.
꒷꒦꒷ wc ; 90k estimated.
welcome killers and survivors alike to my 2025 halloween event! please read the intro here and choose your romantic interest to pursue for the night at the bottom of this post.
each route has a different killer- or killers- although you'll see recurring themes throughout each one should you choose to try your luck with each man!
main masterlist || ao3 || wattpad
Cozy, Satoru had called it.
Tucked within a pocket of trees just up the hill from where you had parked, his cabin sits slightly askew on uneven land. You scrutinize every detail of the worn wooden outer walls of the structure as the word echoes in your head. Acorns and Pine Cones decorate the fall ground, crunching beneath your sneakers as you shift.
Cozy.
You’re not so sure the wooden building fits that description. You suppose it’s fitting for Halloween, but it does make you feel as though you’re five minutes from stepping into some cheesy slasher film.
You would say the vibe is a bit more… like a run-down cabin that needs a little TLC, but you suppose maybe the outside is just weathered. After all, your old friend did mention that his parents have owned it for a while.
Still. What an oversell.
As you skeptically peer up at the structure, you’re so caught up in your thoughts that you don’t hear the sound of fallen pine needles and leaves crunching beneath heavy footsteps.
“Hey, doll.”
You jolt, turning to face your old friend-turned famous football player, Toji Zenin- scratch that, Toji Fushiguro- who you’re shocked to find actually made it. He’s sporting his signature jersey and a couple of black stripes across each cheek, just about the most half-assed attempt at a Halloween costume you’ve seen. Still, he did manage to make time for your old group, which you’re admittedly grateful for.
“Toji!” You grin, greeting him with a polite hug. He returns it with enough fervor to make you squeak under his strength. Just as you pull back, you spot his closest friend-turned-manager coming up the hill behind him.
“Do I need to remind you that I’m not your caddy, asshole?” Shiu spits from around the cigarette settled between his lips, an unimpressed look on his face as he dumps Toji’s bags beside the brute unceremoniously. Before the football player gets a chance to reply, Shiu’s brow is raised as his eyes find you. “Well, shit. Look who it is,” he greets you with a side hug.
“Hey Shiu!”
“Lookin’ good, love the cowgirl costume. Very classy,” he compliments your cute pink attire, his eyes shamelessly trailing on the plump of your ass that your shorts barely cover. “I’m a fan.”
You laugh, dipping your hat gratefully at his compliment off as your cheeks warm. “Thanks, Shiu. I love the uh- salaryman attire?” You make your best guess, but in truth he’s just in a suit.
He chuckles, moving his cigarette to his fingers. “Nah. We just got off a plane from Toj’s press conference. Sorry to disappoint.”
“No, you both look great,” you grin.
“You seen anyone else yet?” Toji inquires, giving you a light nudge.
“Not yet, but I got a text from Hiromi right before losing service. He’s almost here.”
Toji hums thoughtfully. “You keep up with him after graduating?”
“Not really,” you sigh honestly. “I kinda fell out of touch with everyone aside from Shoko. Kento and I try to meet up every now and then, though.”
“The reality of life,” Shiu shrugs. “I hear from Sukuna and Choso every so often.”
You wince at the mere thought. “Sukuna’s coming?”
Shiu smirks knowingly. “He is. Sorry, doll.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine! Water under the bridge,” you sheepishly reply, trying to set aside thoughts of seeing your former situationship once again. You’re both adults and it’s been three years. You can just avoid Sukuna if worst comes to worst. There’s enough people here to keep your attention away from that asshole and his inability to commit.
Besides, his little brother Choso was always sweet to you, junior to you by only a year. There’s no reason for you to be so wary about seeing him, at the very least.
You can just keep Sukuna at arms’ length.
Speaking of the devil, an obnoxiously large Jeep with a black matte wrap rolls up entirely too fast for your comfort, barreling up the hill Satoru specifically warned you all to walk up. The bass pumping from the vehicle shuts off as Sukuna and Choso hop out.
They both look good. Choso has put on a lot of muscle, filling out his baggy clothes with new piercings decorating his face. Sukuna rounds the car with a joint held between two fingers, carrying the bravado of a man entirely too cocky for his own good. Safe to say the one man you’re not so sure about hasn’t changed one bit. So, that’s just great.
“You haven’t changed one bit, huh?” Toji grins at Sukuna in spite of his mocking tone. He extends his fist to Sukuna, who bumps it without a word, silently offering a hit of his blunt.
Brushing his pink-dyed hair back with long fingers, Sukuna puffs out a sigh, smoke spreading before him. “Damn, was this a costume party?” He carries that same aloof expression as he stares down at his dark denim jacket and baggy torn jeans.
Snorting, Toji nods. “You two forget?”
“Yeah. Busy,” Sukuna excuses himself with a shrug and no regard for the party.
Honestly, you’re shocked all four of the men at your side were able to make it at all. Satoru and Suguru were a given, Kento and Hiromi could be convinced, Toji and Shiu had the excuse of travel, but Sukuna and Choso? You’d just figured they couldn’t give a damn enough to be here. They’d always been a bit on the outskirts of your group, mostly by choice- they prioritized their weed side-hustle more than you, something you had learned the hard way.
Sukuna’s disinterested and mildly stoned crimson irises sweep the cabin once, before turning to settle on you. There’s a slight twitch in his eye as his gaze drinks you in and you find yourself shivering as goosebumps raise along your arms. You’re not sure you care to know what he’s thinking.
“Alright, well I’m goin’ inside,” Toji decides as silence stretches on. He and Shiu begin their bickering as the former Zenin snarkily tries to get his manager and friend to take his bags, only to get a swift kick to the shin.
Choso quietly observes before leading the way up to the door. He tests the handle and pushes inside upon realizing it’s open. As Toji and Shiu sort themselves out and head in next, you trail after them. Tugging your bag up over your shoulder, you just barely catch a familiar baritone voice calling out for you to wait.
Flipping in place, you catch the warm smile of a very tired law student in his final year. His hair is longer than when you last saw him, a few stray brown strands falling across his forehead. “Hiro!” You grin as he jogs up to you.
Letting the door shut behind you, you step back out to hug him. He fixes you with a kind smile, his sunken gaze taking in your appearance. “Your costume is cute,” he speaks matter-of-factly, not daring to let his gaze linger too long like your friends with far less decorum. Always polite, he takes a step back to show off his own.
“I’m glad I’m not the only one who put in a bit of effort,” you laugh, admiring his cheesy Superman- no, Clark Kent- costume. It’s fitting for him, and the Superman tee beneath has a certain cheesy charm to it. “That’s fun, I love it Hiro.”
“Thanks,” he smiles, averting his gaze for a brief moment. “Am I the last one here?”
“I think we’re still waiting on Ken,” you muse. “I haven’t seen Shoko, Sugu or Satoru yet, but I heard them inside.”
“Hopefully I didn’t keep anyone waiting too long.”
You shake your head, pushing the door back open for him. “No, I just got here and everyone else literally just headed inside. You’re barely late.”
“Ah, good to hear. So, that means you saw Sukuna?”
“Don’t remind me,” you groan. “I’m just looking forward to a stress-free fun night of booze and beer pong and forgetting that guy ever existed.”
Amused, the almost-lawyer blows air out of his nose in a hint of a laugh. “Well, if you need time away from him, give me a shout.”
“Thanks, Hiro.”
Pushing into the cabin, you take in the sights as you drop your back to the ground beside Hiromi’s. You’re pleased to find that with the fireplace lit in the center of the large living area, the cabin is considerably cozier inside. The slasher vibes seem to end at the front door.
Thank god.
Classic cabin attire decorates the large open living space with three couches surrounding the crackling fireplace and a TV hung over the mantle. Red plaid blankets and pillows are tossed carelessly across the furniture and a stuffed bison head hangs just before the entry to the kitchen. A large staircase can be found at the back of the room, leading up to the seven rooms this place apparently boasts.
Light floods from the door that you assume leads to the kitchen just as Satoru and Suguru make their way out from the kitchen.
“You all made it!” Satoru grins, greeting each of you with a tight hug. He’s grown considerably, no longer the twig he was back in your early college days. He fills his shirt out nicely, the material pulled taut around muscular shoulders, though you can barely tell under his plastic chainmail. There’s a hint of dark circles forming beneath his eyes, but you chalk that up to life as an adult. Or maybe costume makeup.
Probably the former.
Suguru, on the other hand… he looks a lot happier, and healthier for that matter. Maybe that’s just the part of you that’s still attached to your ex-boyfriend, doomed by distance after you moved overseas. With no bad blood between you, he offers a soft smile as he stands aside to let Satoru greet everyone first. As Satoru launches into chatter with Toji, Suguru slips through the crowd to approach you.
“Hey,” his smooth timbre remains low as those golden eyes slowly take in your appearance. “You look great.”
“Thanks, Sugu,” you keep your voice low as heat creeps up your neck, reaching the tips of your ears. You’re forced to avert your gaze from the attention his presence always seems to demand, completely effortlessly. Finding your footing, you can’t fight your smile any longer as you take in his costume.
A baggy white shirt hangs loosely from his shoulders with a vest tied tightly over it. An eyepatch dangles around his neck that you assume he got sick of, while his hair is half-tied up.
“You make a good pirate,” you compliment him.
Those calculated golden eyes you once fell so hard for slide down the length of your body, the fire beneath his smirk scarcely hidden. “You make a gorgeous cowgirl.”
You have to chew on your lower lip as you sheepishly thank him. When you look up, you catch a glimpse of blonde behind Suguru’s large form, alongside Shoko. Your eyes light up at the sight of your best friend and the only other member of the group you’ve succeeded at keeping in touch with.
“Satoru, I already told you, just because I’m dressed as a chef does not mean I’ll cook for you,” he gripes, mild irritation laced within his voice as he shoots the white-haired business mogul a frown.
“C’mon Nanamin, I was just saying hi,” Satoru groans, a mischievous glint in his eye as he uses Kento’s most loathed nickname. “I’ll be right back!”
You turn your attention back to Suguru briefly. “I’m gonna go say hi. Catch up later?”
Suguru gives you a warm nod with a soft ‘take care’, murmured only to you as you slip past him.
“I can’t believe you didn’t wanna drive with me,” you poke fun at Shoko despite the fact that she’d given you a perfectly reasonable answer when you’d asked earlier.
She pulls you into a hug despite having seen her yesterday. “You know how far the hospital is from us,” she retorts, indulging your teasing. Pulling back, you take note of her scrubs and narrow your eyes as you scrutinize the red drops across her sleeve.
“Please tell me these are clean.”
“They were until Satoru pulled out red food dye,” she shoots a snarky side-eye his way.
“Thank god.” Her scrubs are still about as half-assed of a costume as Toji’s, but at least they’re clean.
Turning your attention to the patient man off to the side in a cute chef’s hat, you grin. “Ken, hey!” You greet the blonde with a bear hug, who welcomes you with open arms.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” he hums, pulling back from the hug to briefly remove his glasses. He rubs at his eyes before replacing them on the bridge of his nose and adjusting his apron. “I thought I arrived in a timely manner, but I was far too early and have been stuck as someone’s personal chef since then,” he shakes his head.
“The asshole immediately put us to work,” Shoko groans in agreement.
“Sorry to hear it,” you giggle. “In Satoru’s defense, Kento is dressed like a chef.”
“For Halloween,” he states dryly.
“I like it, it suits you.”
“I appreciate that,” he sighs, “still not Satoru’s chef,” he adds, taking a step back to look over the filled room as everyone begins to fall into conversation.
“Alright, alright!” Satoru beams, rubbing his hands together like an eager fly as he gathers the group’s attention. “Nanamin and I are just finishing up dinner-”
“We are not-”
“- so! Make yourselves at home. There’s seven rooms and a bunch of couches so pick your poison. Nothing’s off limits. All the alcohol’s in the wine cellar, but be careful down there, the door gets stuck sometimes.”
With that, Satoru’s totally normal cabin Halloween party commences.
which survivor, killer, or potential victim would you like to test your luck with?
꒷꒦꒷ a/n ; hello!! thank you so much for reading <33 i'll be trying to get every chapter out over the course of october, but please bear with me if i run over since all chapters have gotten longer than expected :) you'll see a lot of horror movie and game inspiration coming from things like until dawn, saw, friday the 13th, scream, scary movie, classic monster movies, as well as knives out. i hope you enjoy!
i'll only be doing a 50 person taglist + my permatags.
#ode's-overture |☆| varka x fatui! reader "they say that a man who yearns is a man who earns, and varka is more than ready to cash it out. aka: a persistent push and pull between two foolish ex-lovers becomes mondstadt's most entertaining gossip to date!"
#tags-and-cw |☆| hurt/comfort, yearning, close friends to lovers to exes, miscommunications, varka is emotionally intelligent and mature, reader is an avoidant bum, black cat x golden retriever trope, MUTUAL yearning, reader is a fake idgafer, varka genuinely losing his mind, FRUSTRATING AS HELL, he wants that cookie so bad it hurts, implied suicide attempt (by reader)
the tsaritsa must've lost her damn mind.
. . . or lost it even further, if that was possible.
to think she'd personally assign you to mondstadt of all places – she knows damn well what went down a couple years ago with dottore. yet here she is, sending you to an early grave.
maybe the blizzard finally made its way to her head than just her cold, cold heart.
mondstadt itself wasn't the problem. it's a lovely place, filled with good alcohol and even better people.
it would've been a peaceful vacation if not for the fact that those same people absolutely hate your guts and everything the fatui stood for.
they'd burn you at the stake if they could.
being a high-ranking cog in the fatui's machine had its pros and cons. the pros being that you get a lot of money and authority; the con was that, once in a while, you get bullshit missions like this.
seriously, who thought it was a good idea to send a fatui captain to mondstadt where she personally helped il dottore of the harbingers conduct his experiments on the townspeople, resulting in casualties, and became the target of ire from the whole nation?
the tsaritsa, apparently.
it's even worse now that mondstadt's grandmaster is back and still kicking.
you honestly never thought you'd see the man again after parting ways all those years ago.
you had prayed to every deity there is that you'd be out of here by the time he came back, but it seems the gods hated you enough to decide that – yes, let's bring back your ex-lover who you were madly in love with but ran away from because of persistent guilt and insecurity. great.
you had genuinely considered leaving mondstadt.
like reaaally thought about it the moment you heard the news.
but that would just put a target on your back, and given that you had three months left before the mission finished and you'd be transferred back to snezhnaya, you didn't think it was worth the hassle.
so you decided to swallow your worries and do your best to fake a facade of nonchalance.
and hell, you were doing a pretty amazing job.
until varka himself walked up to you, with a lopsided grin and your favorite beverage in hand. your gut was telling you to run and hole yourself up in your office at that moment.
"hey! lookin' gorgeous as ever,"
the grandmaster of mondstadt, being buddy-buddy with a high-ranking fatui executive?
preposterous.
but at the same time. . . not really. some already knew of your history with him. they were there when you two laughed with your arms linked together, strolling through the streets with obvious hearts in both of your eyes.
luckily, most have already forgotten about you.
you shiver just remembering those old memories of your shameful youth.
"how've you been?"
he acts as if everything is perfectly normal, as though your parting words hadn’t broken something in him when you walked away.
varka doesn't even glance at the drink he places in front of you, behaving as if this is just another ordinary day from back when you were together – when he'd buy you a drink after knightly duties and ramble on about his day while the two of you shared a warm meal.
you look at the drink in front of you, "fine. mostly."
'he remembered, of course he would.'
you ignore the heat creeping up your chest.
varka lingers beside you, smile twitching, like he wants to say something else, but he decides against it and sits across from you instead.
the wood creaks when he plops down, adjusting himself until he finds some semblance of comfort. varka has always been too big for things; too broad, too tall, limbs hanging awkwardly past the edges like the chair was never meant to hold someone like him.
no matter how uncomfortable, he doesn't give it much thought. varka lifts his mug to his lips, taking a few small gulps, clearly trying to savor his time with you.
usually, he'd just guzzle it down in one go.
you stare at the people and stalls beside you, trying your best not to look at him. initiating eye-contact with him would mean an automatic loss, you knew this from experience.
"not gonna drink?" varka asks, taking another long sip of his own beverage. likely beer or dandelion wine again.
you hum, not even bothering to look at him properly when you answer.
"no, i'm alright."
he laughs, though it comes out stiff and forced. it doesn’t sound like him, and that bothers you more than you’d admit.
is he forcing himself to talk to you out of politeness? maybe. he’s always been that sort of man — the kind who can’t just walk away from people. that’s how rosaria ended up in his orbit. it’s how you did too, whether you wanted to or not.
"you sure? it's your favorite. you really gonna waste a good drink on a nice evening like this?
your reply is icier than dragonspine's mountain peak, "my tastes have changed over the years. it's not something i'd enjoy drinking now."
it's a jab at him. an obvious 'go away, you don't know me anymore. we aren't close like that'— just said in a more roundabout way.
varka is a gentleman, a knight through and through. he wouldn't bother a lady who clearly doesn't want his company.
but this isn't just any lady.
it's his lady.
— or at least, you used to be.
he knows you better than the back of his hand. knows that if he leaves just like that then it's truly over. you'd find some way to leave mondstadt as soon as possible, throw yourself into danger outside the city gates just to never look at his face again.
for as long as he'd known you, you've always had this bad habit of running away from problems. deep emotions never came easy to you, so you never knew how to handle it like how people nornally do.
varka would be a fool to not notice. and, really, he'd always been a fool for you, willing to stay ignorant so long as you'd be there to wrap him around your finger.
but you left him in that cold winter all alone without a jacket, didn't even bother to look back while you continued on with live your life.
as if varka was nothing but a passing memory in your life, something you can easily walk away from.
his unfair, traitorous, and peppery beloved.
there he was in nod-krai, tracing your eyes among the stars, sighing like a mournful widow while he downed another cheap imitation of his homeland's liquor — and you never even bothered to write back.
he'd send you letters, anytime he could, talking about the mundane and not-so-mundane. there was probably a few very private information in there that he shouldn't have told to a fatui, lucky (or unlucky) for him, you didn't read any of them.
three long years.
not a single letter back.
three long years, of letters consistently sent to your home address in mondstadt.
three long years, where he hasn't seen or even heard from you.
three long years, without closure or explanation as to why you abruptly ended the relationship.
now that he can finally see you in the flesh, he feels relieved, it's as if the crushing weight on his shoulders had finally dissipated.
you're alive. safe and sound.
he was so worried back then, thinking you got yourself into trouble because you wouldn't write back. logically, he should have known you wouldn't answer because of, well, the break-up but those sort of things were irrelevant.
you two were close friends after all, even before the romance and late-night escapades. if you found him bothersome, you would have sent even a small piece of paper saying: "fuck off, varka." because you have done that before, and he kept that note on him ever since.
through the lonely hours of his expedition, he’d find himself staring at that scrap of paper again and again. it told him to fuck off. nothing more. nothing kinder. but it was written in your hand and somehow, that was enough for him to keep it.
maybe varka really did have a few loose screws. or maybe it's just when you're involved.
rather than write reports about the expedition, varka found himself asking jean if she'd seen you recently, asking how you were doing, and if you said anything about him. he found out late that you've completely left mondstadt, sold your old home, and went somewhere without anyone knowing.
typical you, running away again.
he can tell from the way your lips purse a bit before you smooth out your expression, the way you fake indifference by biting on the inside of your cheek. and he sees how your fingers twitch whenever he even slightly moves in his seat.
you're alert. very alert, and very much ready to run.
varka can't have that, not after so long. you'd dumped him right before his expedition, made him nearly lose his mind right after.
but for the sake of his people, he steeled his resolve and pushed through the heartbreak. he threw himself into the battlefield with a heavy heart and crawled out with it.
under the moonlight, varka dreamed of many things:
his home,
his family,
his fallen comrades,
and most of all – you.
he's dreamed of you so many times that varka never forgot how you looked despite the years. he calls it photographic memory, but it's really just delusions and grief.
coming home to mondstadt felt like a dream back then too. he'd spent hours mulling over his life and decisions, staring at the campfire with a look of melancholy which he'd promptly replace with a carefree grin once his soldiers came to check up on him.
but he'd done it. he came back safely, into the arms of his family and his people.
when he first spotted you in the crowd — that same eternal frown carved into your face, that same couldn’t-care-less attitude wrapped around you like armor — his body started moving before he even realized it.
like something inside him had already decided where he belonged.
he wanted to reach for you. to run his fingers through your hair, to pull you close and kiss you until you were breathless and angry and real again.
his chest had ached sharply, ribs pressing tight around a heart that suddenly beat too fast, too hard.
but you weren’t looking at him.
you were busy talking to someone else, scowling like everyone had personally offended you.
he could already imagine the sound of your voice — sharp, impatient — and the quiet click of your tongue that always followed.
you were just as beautiful as the day he lost you.
time seemed to treat you better than him. in fact, he'd say you aged finer than the best dandelion wine dawn winery could ever produce.
which, coming from him, was a big compliment.
suddenly varka felt a little insecure about his growing stubble and unkempt hair. he'd turned around to hide his face, a little shameful of his rugged appearance but kept his posture straight for the others who surrounded him, congratulating his return.
back then, you used to take care of that for him. tidying him up before he went to work. your gentle hands would brush against his cheek while you carefully slid the razor downward.
swipe.
and the stubble would come off, leaving a foamy residue on the razor.
you'd wipe the foam off his face with a softness reserved for him only, fingers lingering for a few more seconds necessary.
it had become his favorite time of the month – whenever you decided his beard had become too much of an obstacle to your kisses and promptly respond in kind with a pout and a threat to shave it off by noon.
but his veins turned ice-cold when he saw you in that uniform, the familiar fatui symbol on your jacket and the other fatui soldiers beside you.
varka thought you'd left it for good. you promised him that, for as long as you loved him, you'd never go back to the fatui. dottore had taken so much from mondstadt that it made you feel disgusted whenever you talked about your old occupation.
he had to confirm it for himself – that you didn't love him anymore, that what you two had was truly gone forever. maybe then he'd sleep a little easier instead of tossing and turning, thinking about what he did wrong and the things he could've done to salvage it.
"never thought you'd go back to your old job though. kinda weird seein' you in that coat after so long,"
he chuckles, gaze scanning you from head to toe.
"'doesn't suit someone as sweet as you."
your head automatically translates his words: so is it really over? no take backs?
it goes without saying that varka missed you —dearly, if he may add. if you didn't seem so annoyed, he would've already jumped across the table to embrace you in his arms.
"it's. . . " you trail off, unsure of how to answer. you wanted to say 'yeah, so what', but the words died in your throat once you finally took a proper look at the man in front of you.
since when had varka looked so. . . worn down?
it's pretty obvious he tried to clean himself up to the best of his abilities. he's (kind of) cleanly shaven, and his hair no longer resembled the bird's nest it did during his arrival. his coat is freshly cleaned too, leather polished to perfection, and the wolf fur sewn into it was brushed and unmatted.
the icy blue irises that resembled snezhnaya's famed ice lakes — an enchanting gradient that darkened whenever he's focused.
now they've turned into a dull and murky ocean; you could hardly see his pupils.
varka looked as handsome as ever, even when consumed by exhaustion. muscles more toned, new scars lining up beside old ones, wrinkles now a tad more noticeable than all those years ago.
this is why you didn't want to look at him.
you're already losing, feeling your resolve crumble to pieces. although you managed to salvage your expression, it felt like your heart was going to leap from your chest.
you decided that staying was too dangerous.
"sorry, i have to go." you stand up abruptly, almost tipping your chair over in the process.
varka panics, fumbling towards you, he manages to catch your hands by lunging on top of the table like an idiot, "stop running, please."
you flinch at his accusation, "i'm not, i simply have work to do. something a slacker like you would never understand."
varka chuckles, but the way his grip tightens says a lot, "i know, i know. . . 'm sorry for being allergic to paperwork,"
he finally stands properly, dusting his front while still holding onto your wrist, "but jean's given me a week or two to 'acclimate' back into mondstadt. so how 'bout we make use of it to finally have an actual conversation?"
varka knows if you wanted to rip his hand off yours, you definitely could. and he'd let you, of course, he'll try again tomorrow if that's what it takes.
but you dont. you stand rooted on the spot, glancing at varka with a look of shame. people are starting to stare, wondering what's going on with their troublesome grandmaster again but quickly avert their eyes when they realize the scary fatui captain was also there.
"varka, i. . ." your head lowers in embarassment, face burning hot.
the knight of boreas, patient as ever, leans closer while he waits for you to continue. he wants to personally hear it, every small whisper you could muster.
he doesn't need apologies, varka knows he's not entitled to such things. he can already feel himself bristle at the mention of 'varka' on your lips, missing the way you'd call out his name.
"can we do this another time?"
it shatters whatever expectation he had a few seconds ago.
varka sighs, low and trembling. his shoulders sag a little when he lets go.
for a moment you think that’s it.
that he'll step aside like the gentleman he is and let you disappear into the crowd like you always do. he knows how much you hate conforntations, he practically had to wrangle every small 'i love you's' from you back then, and he'd done them easily.
you’re already halfway turned when he speaks again.
"another time," he repeats slowly.
you pause.
". . . yeah."
he scratches the back of his neck, eyes drifting somewhere over your shoulder like he's carefully choosing his words – a rare thing for him to do.
"alright, yeah, got it. . ."
that simple agreement makes your stomach twist.
varka has never been the type to push you into corners. even back then, when you two fought, he would give you space to breathe. space to think. space to come back on your own terms.
because for him, loving things means setting them free. truly a man of his home, to bring mondstadt's teachings even in his love life.
you hated him for it sometimes.
because it meant he trusted you to return and this time. . . you weren't sure you would.
"i'll wait," he says, lightly as if it might harm you if he spoke even an octave higher.
your brow furrows. "for what?"
he flashes you a grin that feels far too familiar, warm and radiant as the morning sun.
"for that 'another time.'"
you stare at him, incredulous. the audacity of this man never fails to leave you shocked, no matter how many times you've seen it for yourself.
". . . are you serious?"
"totally serious, swore it on barbatos just now," he admits easily.
a small gust of wind passes the two of you, as if the wind itself was answering to his oath. it carries along the smell of wine, pastry, and home – mondstadt, whether you liked it or not, has always been home.
varka had been here, in this windy city, after all.
the smile softens, turning into something more intimate, "i'm always willing to wait for you, i think you know that already."
of course he is.
varka has always been annoyingly patient when it comes to you.
you click your tongue and pull your hand away fully, forcing a disgusted expression on your face, hoping it would hurt him enough to back off.
"well, don't wait too long. you might die of old age, grandmaster."
"worth the risk." he laughs, the sound rumbling from his chest and echoing into yours. it makes your stomach twist, heart aching from nostalgia.
you shoot him a glare before turning away again, this time actually leaving.
you don't look back, you didn't have to.
you can feel his eyes on your back the entire way down the street.
the rumors start the same day.
mondstadt is terrible at keeping quiet about anything, especially when it involves their beloved grandmaster.
you've known these people for years, back when you were still naively in-love and looked at the world through rose-tinted glasses. you made an effort before; you wanted to be more sociable like varka but people found it obvious how much you hated being bothered. so in the end, you gave up.
they say you two were an opposites attract sort of couple, and you had to agree. many told you it felt like an overexcited large dog was walking with a stoic black cat whenever the two of you strolled the streets together.
on your way to the market, you notice the stares first, then the whispers.
a pair of knights stop talking when you walk past, trying to sneakily glance at you.
one of the merchants near the plaza practically leans over his stall trying to listen whenever you pass by.
by the third day, someone had finally gained the audacity to ask you directly.
"so is it true?"
you pause mid-step, slowly turning towards a brown-haired bard leaning against the fountain. he had a face that screamed troublesome and nosy, lips that curled like it's ready to spread the next big scandal at some tavern.
a typical gossipmonger.
". . . what is?"
the bard grins even wider.
"that the grandmaster's been sniffin' around you again."
your eye twitches, "he's not a dog."
"debatable," the bard shrugs.
with the way varka acts, it definitely is.
you consider stabbing him, instead you settle for a deadpan stare, "mind your business, can't you see i'm a fatui diplomat?"
"hey, i'm just curious!" he raises his hands defensively. "whole city's talking about it."
of course they are.
mondstadt thrives on gossip like plants thrive on sunlight. also the people here genuinely have nothing better to do.
unlike in liyue where they talk about market values and recent price changes first before gossip or sumerians who'd rather debate and discuss academic papers – mondstadt had been too quiet and peaceful.
which means, even something as trivial like the grandmaster of mondstadt chasing after someone is suddenly important news.
"people say you broke his heart," the bard continues, strumming his lyre.
you freeze, lips twitching down to an even deeper frown. great, your day was ruined by some nobody and now you've become the talk of town.
". . . people assume a lot of things."
"yeah," he hums thoughtfully.
"but they also say the poor grandmaster's been lookin' like a kicked puppy every time you walk away."
you scoff and turn on your heel, "then he should stop following me."
the bard laughs behind you, lazily waving at you.
"oh, he definitely won't."
unfortunately, the bard is was correct. maybe he was also secretly prophet of some sort.
as expected, varka does not stop.
he doesn't corner you again, he doesn't grab your arm, nor does he demand answers. instead, he simply. . . appears.
sometimes he's leaning against a wall when you're fresh out of a meeting, that same scowl prominent on your face.
sometimes he's chatting with the tavern owner when you step inside, and he'd immediately brighten the moment he sees you.
once you nearly ran straight into him outside the city gates and he just blinks down at you like it's the most natural thing in the world.
just like everyone else in mondstadt, of course he'd have nothing better to do too. what were you expecting? for him to leave you alone? yeah right.
it's wishful thinking at best.
people here would latch onto anything interesting, trying to alleviate the boredom of the nation's quiet evenings.
and mondstadt had always been a city that thrives on three things: wind, wine, and gossip.
lately, however, the wine industry has been facing stiff competition.
because nothing – absolutely nothing – has been more entertaining than watching their beloved grandmaster try to court this terrifying fatui captain who was clearly ready to punch him in the face.
the rumors had started small as they always do, from the quiet corners of mondstadt's walls where knights had nothing better to do but talk.
and talk they did.
someone from the tavern swears they saw varka buying two drinks at the bar.
which would be normal, no one would be surprised by his large appetite when it came to alcohol. he is considered mondstadt's biggest alcoholic, next to a certain green bard.
except he doesn't usually sit across from a fatui captain who looks like she'd rather jump off stormterror's lair than share a table with him.
the bartender watches the whole thing unfold, completely absorbed to the point he forgot he had customers he should be serving.
varka's smiling.
you looking like you’re planning his funeral.
he leans over to charles and whispers, "five thousand mora says they used to date."
charles snorts.
"five thousand says they're still dating."
by the next day, the story has evolved.
a fruit vendor insists she saw the grandmaster chase you halfway across the plaza after you tried to leave, it made for quite a dramatic scene. straight out of fontaine's famous plays.
a knight swears varka vaulted over a merchant stall to catch up. he was laughing during it too, all while you tried to stop him from becoming the knight's embarassment.
"that man is pushing forty and still jumping over tables for romance," someone more sensible comments with a shake of their head.
"how inspiring."
"you mean concerning?"
inside the tavern, the knights are very invested. it is their grandmaster after all, why wouldn't they be a little nosy about it? in fact, it was the only thing they've been chatting about as of lately.
a small crowd has gathered around one of the tables.
rosaria sits nearby, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening. she remembers you well, and reckons that others might soon.
jean pinches the bridge of her nose, already looking more exhausted than usual. although she never planned on going out, diluc and the others had insisted.
meanwhile kaeya looks like he's having the time of his life.
"i'm telling you," one knight says, slamming his mug down, "the grandmaster is down catastrophic."
"define catastrophic." one asks, clearly drunk off their knockers.
the man gulps down his ale before sporting a serious expression, "he smiled at her while she insulted him."
another knight gasps, eyes blown wide.
"not the smile."
"the soft one."
"oh my barbatos. . ."
someone whistles.
kaeya leans back in his chair, nursing a cup of wine in his hands, "ah, young love."
jean looks baffled. "they're both over thirty."
"exactly, vice-grandmaster."
it gets worse when people realize something else.
the fatui captain?
she's the same woman who used to walk around mondstadt with varka years ago. back when he was still a young hot-headed knight who chased after battle and glory.
arms linked like you two would never part ways, laughing as if there's no tomorrow, the one who suddenly disappeared without a word.
suddenly, the entire city remembers.
"wait."
a florist nearly drops her bouquet.
"they're exes?!"
instantaneously, scenes of varka's annoying giggling everytime you two were together, and the way you'd smile shyly whenever he kissed you on the cheek or held you close by the waist had all came back in the citizen's memories.
now the gossip becomes unstoppable.
people began to quietly placing bets: how long until they reconcile?
three days.
a week.
someone claims they'll be married by windblume.
someone else says the fatui captain will stab him first.
mondstadt had become a mess, watching over the developing romance with a hawk's eye. some even tried to secretly help by mentioning your location to varka every now and then.
meanwhile, you are completely unaware of this massive development in mondstadt's social network.
your soldiers are too scared to say anything to you in fear of your anger and other people sure as hell won't say it to your face.
rosaria, on the other hand, finds the whole thing too interesting so she keeps quiet about it too, even if you two talk regularly.
so you've been completely left in the dark.
mostly because you're too busy trying to avoid the giant knight who keeps appearing everywhere.
the market.
the plaza.
the tavern, all of them.
once even outside your lodging.
completely coincidental, or so he says.
"'didn't think i'd find you here," varka says cheerfully when you walk out the door and nearly run into him.
you stare at him, "are you stalking me."
"nope."
he gestures vaguely, "i live here."
you narrow your eyes, ". . . this is the fatui's personal lodging."
"yeah well,"
he shrugs, grinning, "i got lost on the way."
'you have lived in mondstadt all your life, you got to be kidding me.' is what you shout in your head, but all that comes out of your mouth is: "oh, okay."
and unfortunately, everyone sees this interaction.
everyone.
a group of merchants nearby lean toward each other immediately, while the knights snicker in amusement.
"that's them."
"oh archons. . .
"look at how awkward they are."
none of these bother varka. if anything, he fuels their gossips with stories of his own. nothing too personal, just short anecdotes of his time with you.
like that time you two fought a dozen ruin guards together,
or that one evening where he caught you asleep on the couch with razor safely tucked in your arms,
ah, there was also a time when you would take rosaria out for shopping, spending his mora like it's dirt.
he's written so many letters about it, reminiscing the past like the lovesick fool that he is.
you hate to admit but you've always kept those pesky things – varka's letters, that is. though you never had the heart to open a single one.
it's mainly due cowardice.
on nights where you felt especially vulnerable, you'd take one out just to feel it on your palm, like it could solve all your problems. like it could alleviate your guilt. like it could bring crepus back.
you hated yourself ever since that incident with il dottore.
guilt had eaten you from inside out, turned you into someone unrecognizable. you avoided diluc religiously during your time in mondstadt, slipping away whenever he saw you. if you didn't, you might’ve just broken down in front of him.
kaeya was much harder to avoid, the cavalry captain was practically everywhere. so you just ignored him everytime he tried talking to you, or answered with quipped sentences.
indirectly, you contributed to crepus' death. killed the father of two wonderful sons. killed a man who was loved by many.
you helped raise those boys. crepus trusted you with them, even after he knew your occupation. acted likr you wouldn't hurt a fly.
a young fatui stationed in mondstadt, awaiting orders from a harbinger. that's who you were.
you joined for the money, the authority, glory, power. to be larger than what you really were.
the ragnivindrs welcomed you into their home, served you food, and gave you a room.
and yet you. . .
in the end, your conscience caught up to you. the blood on your hands were too red, reminiscint of his hair.
the others never blamed you for it, especially varka.
so you did it for them. you had loathed yourself to the point of near-death. not that you ever told varka about that specific incident, it would break him.
the cliff was especially windy that night.
you only backed out because of that weird bard who was taking a stroll at that time. venti, he was just varka's drinking companion to you back then, before you learned of his true identity as the anemo archon.
to think barbatos themselves would stop you, at least he didn't say anything to anyone. the bard respectfully kept his mouth shut, and you can appreciate that.
during his three year expedition, varka had sent a total of seventy-two letters, some with several pages based on how thick the envelope was, others that probably barely had three sentences.
you knew that because you counted every single one, like a fool.
they were kept neatly inside a small wooden box tucked beneath the false bottom of your luggage – a stupid hiding place, really, considering you checked it far too often for it to mean anything.
the envelopes had long since lost their crispness. the edges softened from being handled too much, the ink on some of the older ones slightly faded.
snezhnayan winters were unforgiving to paper.
sometimes you wondered if he wrote them while drunk.
sometimes you wondered if he stopped writing when he realized you weren’t answering but the dates on the envelopes told you otherwise.
two weeks. they always arrived every two weeks, sometimes more when he's in a particularly tough spot.
even when you moved away from mondstadt, even when you changed addresses, even when you made it very clear that whatever you had with him was dead and buried.
varka still wrote, persistenntly like the lack of response didn't bother him.
you never opened a single one.
not the first. not the seventy-second.
stared at it, sure but never more than that.
because opening even one meant acknowledging that he still existed in your life somehow, and that was too risky and dangerous.
dangerous for him.
dangerous for you.
dangerous for the fragile excuse you called moving on.
so the letters would stay sealed.
like nasty wounds you refused to clean because you were convinced you deserved to hurt for it.
the cathedral bell rings somewhere behind you.
you blink and mondstadt rushes back into focus around you — merchants shouting prices, the scent of apples and bread drifting through the air, the steady murmur of civilians who have no idea their city once nearly destroyed you.
your hand is still resting against a crate of fruit.
you don’t remember walking here.
“— hearin' me?"
varka’s voice again, closer this time.
you glance sideways.
he’s standing beside you, arms loosely crossed, watching you with an expression that’s softer than usual. not teasing. not amused.
just observing, taking you in with a reverent look on his face. it's as if he's making up for the times he couldn't see you, and this time he's burning your image in his memory.
you hate that look a lot, makes you remember the past too clearly.
“you zoned out,” he says casually, in that usual raspy tone of his. “been doing that a lot lately.”
you scoff lightly, turning away from the stall, “i always did that.”
“yeah,” he agrees easily.
then, after a moment, “not this bad though.”
you don’t respond.
instead, you pick up an granny smith apple, inspecting it like it’s the most fascinating object in the world.
anything to avoid looking at him.
anything to avoid the weight of that quiet attention.
varka doesn’t push, he never really did.
instead he glances at the apple in your hand, then back at you, "you used to hate green apples."
your eyebrow twitches. ". . . tastes change.”
“hm,” he doesn’t argue, just hums thoughtfully like he’s filing that information somewhere in his head.
the silence stretches between you two again – comfortable for him, agonizing for you.
then —
“you really never read them?”
the question lands gently this time. no accusations or bitterness.
just quiet curiosity, as if he’s asking about something trivial — the weather, perhaps — and not about the years he spent writing to someone who never answered, let alone read those writings.
you feel something tighten in your chest.
". . . no.”
you don’t look at him when you say it and for a moment, varka doesn’t respond.
he just takes it in.
the way a man might take a punch – steady, breathing through it, deciding what to do with the feeling afterward. doesn't mean the sting isn't there though.
“ah,” he says after a second.
no disappointment dripping from his voice, just quiet understanding.
you finally glance at him.
he's leaning against the empty stall with that sheepish smile you remember too well, arms crossed and shoulders light.
“well,” he continues, shrugging lightly, “that explains why none of my jokes landed.” he's laughing lightly, eyes crinkled like crescents.
you stare at him.
". . . you wrote jokes in those letters?”
“course i did,” he replies offhandedly. “can’t send seventy-two letters without at least trying to be entertaining,"
seventy-two.
"wouldn't want you to get bored and drop them halfway through. . . though i suppose that didn't really matter since you never read them."
he says it so casually.
like he didn’t just confirm that he kept count too.
you look away again, focusing back on the apple in your hand.
“. . . i really can't with you."
“yeah,” he agrees without hesitation.
then he grins, a little crooked.
“i was pretty desperate.” he admits, looking directly at you.
you almost drop the apple, a small but traitorous churning in your stomach – something dangerously close to elation.
varka laughs quietly when he notices.
not loud enough to draw attention, but warm enough that it sends a strange ache through your chest.
"don’t look so shocked,” he adds. “i’ve never been subtle.”
that part, unfortunately, is true.
subtlety was never varka’s strength.
back then he was the type to sling an arm over your shoulders in public, laugh too loud at your dry remarks, and proudly tell anyone who would listen that the scariest woman in mondstadt was his.
he leans slightly against the stall now, giving you space instead of crowding you, as if he's scared you'll retreat off somewhere again.
and somehow. . .that hasn’t changed.
“but hey,” he says after a moment, voice lighter, “good to know they didn’t end up in a fireplace somewhere.”
you hesitate, "i kept them.”
the words leave your mouth before you can stop them.
“yeah?” he says, chuckling like he can't believe it.
varka pauses, eyes widening for just a fraction. but then he smiles. a soft damning smile – relieved in a way that’s almost embarrassing to witness.
you nod once, stiffly, ". . . don’t read too much into it.”
“wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies immediately.
and you know he means that.
varka was always like this, he never forced meaning into your actions, never demanded explanations you weren’t ready to give.
he just. . . accepted what you offered.
even when it was very little, as long as it's from you. everything always made sense when he's with you.
the wind passes through the market again, rustling the banners overhead
you place the apple back into the crate.
"you’re not curious?” you ask
“about what?”
varka hums, thinking about it.
“why i didn’t read them.” your lips tremble lightly, hesitant with the way you talk.
then he shrugs, “i figured you had your reasons.”
simple as ever.
he pushes himself upright from the stall, stretching his shoulders like a man who just finished a long shift instead of someone reopening old wounds.
“besides,” he adds casually, glancing down at you with a grin that’s just a little too familiar, “you’re here now.”
you blink.
he gestures vaguely between the two of you.
“means we can talk instead."
your stomach twists, because that’s the problem, isn’t it?
talking.
talking meant explaining, explaining means admitting and admitting means facing the thing you’ve spent years running from.
varka watches your expression shift, and whatever he noticed, he doesn’t comment on it.
instead he picks up one of the apples, tossing it lightly in his hand. bright green, similar to the glazed pottery in his office. the one noelle got for him.
“y’know,” he says thoughtfully, “i always wondered which letter would’ve convinced you to punch me first.”
you shoot him a flat look.
"punch you. . . ?”
“yeah,” he says easily, “figured if you were mad enough to hit me, at least i’d know you read one.”
then you mutter, " you're an idiot.”
you stare at him, long and silent. stoic as ever.
for some reason, varka looks ridiculously pleased about that. because he's an idiot. because he loves you way too much to bear.
"you should really read them, i think it'd help in sorting out your thoughts."
you didn’t mean to open it.
that’s what you told yourself, anyway.
the box sat on the small desk of your rented lodge room, exactly where you had thrown it earlier that evening. the wood creaked softly under the weight of the letters — three years’ worth of them.
three years.
thirty-six months.
seventy-two envelopes.
every single one addressed in the same familiar handwriting – messy, large, and impossibly hard to ignore.
they say a person's handwriting shows who they are as a person. you think it's pretty accurate.
you stared at the parchment like they might bite.
the confrontation from earlier replayed in your head for the hundredth time.
"you should really read them."
you clicked your tongue irritably, an expression of storm crossing your face at the memory. you nearly clenched the paper in your hands.
"easy for you to say,” you muttered under your breath.
the room was quiet, comfortable. mondstadt’s night air drifted in through the open window, carrying distant laughter and music from the taverns below.
your gaze drifted back to the box, already feeling like you were gonna do something you'd regret.
your fingers drummed against the table, then stopped.
one letter wouldn’t hurt.
just one.
totally not because you care, just to prove to yourself that whatever he wrote back then didn’t matter anymore.
that was all. . . nothing more, nothing less.
your hand moved before you could reconsider.
you grabbed the oldest envelope, letting out a low exhale.
the paper was slightly yellowed now, edges softened from time and travel. the wax seal had the knights’ insignia pressed into it, it travelled through the official system, addressed specifically for you.
roasaria had kept them while you were gone then gave them to you when you came back. you had been confused then, wondering why the box was so heavy.
"i think you should read these," she had told you, with that monotone voice of hers.
like father, like daughter. she had grown to resemble him ever more as the years passed.
your stomach twisted.
for three years, that seal had remained untouched.
you stared at it for a long moment. then broke it, the sound of cracking wax felt far louder than it should have.
you slid the folded paper out slowly, biting your lip while tried to calm your beating heart.
the ink hadn’t faded, despite the yellowed margins.
varka’s handwriting was rough and messy — letters slanted and uneven, like he had written it quickly.
you unfolded the page our eyes scanned the first line.
to the love of my life,
hey!
i’m writing this while the horses are dozing and the campfires are still warm. we left mondstadt a few days back. the wind here doesn’t just bite, it feels like it's whipping me through my coat.
the men are in good spirits, all of them big talk and brash laughter. seems like they can’t wait to prove themselves out there in the battlefield. the world’s harsh out here though, you’d tell them that.
you always did enjoy pointing out when i was being dramatic.
HAHAHAHAHAHA! i can imagine it already!
also i know you're gonna complain about how informal this letter is but i'm more used to this with you. remember when you once sent me that "report" with just two sentences? heh, i'm chuckling a bit just remembering it.
i'm not gonna act like strangers with you and do the whole poetic letters thing, i think we're well past that.
anyway, i miss the sound of mondstadt at night. that odd little lull between the last laugh in the tavern and the faint music from the cathedral door. it felt safe. homey. you made it feel lighter.
i’m fine. truly. i miss you, but i’m fine. don’t let that worry you. i just wanted you to know this much, i’m always thinking of you and i love you.
forever yours, varka.
without realizing it, you have slowly started to smile.
you pick up another without realizing, tearing into it with a certain hunger – as if you've held back for far to long.
to [name],
today was hard loud. too loud. a confusing sort of problem you can’t talk your way out of with jokes. or alcohol.
i don’t mention it to worry you, you’re more capable than you give yourself credit for. you’d handle whatever this world threw at you with that indifferent expression and sharp wit of yours.
when it was quiet again, i found myself thinking about the time we hid from a storm under that half‑collapsed stone wall in windvale. you were so annoyed about the mud on your boots, but you laughed anyway. i think that was the first time i heard you laugh back then, i knew from then on that you've doomed me and my heart to be forever yours. did you cringe just now? hahaha...
i’m okay. the other soldiers are okay, some are lightly injured. i tried my best, i really did
i miss you a lot, i think i've started to hallucinate your voice when i was out cold earlier. the injuries aren't that bad i think.
write back when you can, okay? only if you aren't busy.
with love, varka
it must have been something serious for him to be this shaken up. maybe it was the reason he changed course.
not like you can ask the past.
you pick out a more enlarged envelope, it must've contained so many pages.
to the one i hold dear,
not sure why i’m writing this. probably because i can’t stop thinking about you. maybe because i miss mondstadt, maybe because the weather here is actually driving me insane and makes me feel like shouting your name into the wind (don’t worry, i didn’t, the men would call me crazy HAHA).
so, crepus. i know you blame yourself. don’t. don’t even start rolling your eyes at me, i can see it. you didn’t intend any of it. none of it. i know you feel responsible, i can feel it from here, and i’m not even psychic....or maybe i am? for you.
i know you carry more guilt than anyone should, and i’m not here to tell you to shrug it off. i know you didn’t intend what happened, and i know you tried to make it right however you could. but i want you to hear it anyway — you didn’t kill him. you weren’t supposed to be the one to save him, and if anyone deserved blame, it wasn’t you.
but really. you tried. you always try. hell, you’ve probably tried more than anyone else. and yeah i know, it still hurts. it's messy as hell. life’s messy. we all know that.
okay, let's start somewhere lighter.
today, some locals tried to teach me to cook this really amazing chicken stew. let me tell you, it was really bad. i mean, truly BAD. fire everywhere, soup that looked like mud, and me, i had stood there like a fumbling idiot and for a minute,i thought about you. about how you’d probably sigh, mutter something sarcastic, and then hit me lightly with your book for somehow fucking up soup of all things and i laughed. yeah, instead of helping wirh dealing with the fire, i couldn't help but laugh.
don’t tell fred, he was the most pissed about the broken pot.
i miss the stupid, trivial things with you. the way you ignore me half the time but i still feel like i matter. the way you chew your lip when you’re annoyed. the way you… well, you.
i can’t promise you that the expedition will end soon. can’t promise you anything really. except this though: you will always live rent free in my thoughts. i’m worried about you. i’m rooting for you. and if you ever want to... not talk, not answer, not forgive, not anything...i’ll still be here. maybe writing more ridiculous letters. maybe climbing more ridiculous mountains. maybe trying to cook more ridiculous meals and failing.
. . .
you stare at the page, the words repeating in your head. slowly, the tension in your chest eases. your shoulders slump, almost imperceptibly, as if you’d been holding a mountain there for years and it’s finally letting go.
the ache of guilt, that gnawing voice you’d carried through every mission, every night alone in your quarters, every time you saw kaeya or diluc and felt the shadow of what happened – softens and melts. and for the first time in years, you allow yourself to breathe without pain.
“…i miss you,” the letter rambles on, and yes, he’s laughing somewhere between the lines, trying to lighten the weight of his own words. “…i miss you like an idiot who forgot how to breathe properly. and yeah, probably like a fool who thinks you’ll read these letters and understand me better than anyone else ever could. probably correct. you always have been better at understanding than i am. smart girl, aren't 'ya?"
among the pages were badly drawn doodles of landscapes and other knights. a few notes here and there of the fauna and some pressed flowers.
passionate as he was with them, they've always looked more like something children would scrawl on the walls.
the expedition’s been long. longer than i thought it would be. there’s a lot of snow out here and not much else to look at, which leaves a man with too much time to think.
unfortunately for me, most of those thoughts end up being about you.
before you get mad. . . i’m not saying that to make you feel bad.
i just figured i should be honest.
you always said i talked too much anyway.
i keep that scrap of paper you gave me tucked in my coat pocket. it's the letter you didnt even bother to put in an envelope, just shoved it at me during the small expedition to the port.
the one where you told me to fuck off.
real classy message, by the way.
the knights laughed pretty hard when they saw it.
i told them it was the nicest thing you’d ever written to me.
…that part might actually be true.
still, it’s in your handwriting. so i kept it.
a ridiculous man, varka was. and yet you couldn't help but fall for him ever further.
i’ve written to you. . . i don’t know. . . fourthy? thirty-six? maybe more. i’ve tried jokes, i’ve tried being serious, i’ve tried being clever, and all i end up with is a mess of ink and tears. not that i cry. not in front of anyone. but,you make me feel like i could.
and he'll continue until the seventieth, would probably reach over a hundred if the expedition went on for longer.
i keep thinking of the old days. walking through mondstadt, you complaining about the the loud noises, me pretending to know what i’m doing whenever i'm with you, and you. . . just you. laughing, making sure i don’t make a complete fool of myself.
i miss that. i miss you.
sometimes i dream about grabbing you, threading my fingers through your hair, shaking you gently, and saying, “don’t ever leave me like that again.” sometimes i imagine you laughing, sometimes screaming, sometimes just glaring at me like you always did and i can’t stop thinking about it.
how much have you tortured this man during his expedition? to think he'd be this lovesick.
he seemed completely fine whenever the two of you bickered earlier in the market. and he'd been almost carefree with the way he treated you in the past week.
you never thought he'd be yearning this much for you throughout the years.
by the way, i heard from jean that you've left mondstadt.
without even telling rosaria or razor? do you know how worried they were for you?
listen, if you’re mad at me, fine. if you hate me, also fine. if you never want to see me or our kids again, i’ll survive. maybe. barely. but they won't.
at least let us know. at least don’t leave them in this limbo of imagining you somewhere out there, alive, safe, and completely unreachable. come back home
come back to mondstadt.
you're cruel and yes, i’m whining.
sue me, i guess.
so. yeah. if you ever decide to show up again, or write me back, or even yell at me through letters for being an dumbass (this one's likely), i’ll be here.
rosaria thinks you're being an idiot and complicating things in your head again, don't tell her i told you though. razor thought you had died or something, he looked for you in the forest everyday.
don’t make me climb dragonspine's peak for you. seriously. the climb is ridiculous. and the wind? don’t even ask.
…miss you.
don’t open this if it makes you mad. do open it if it makes you smile. do whatever you want, just know that you’re not alone.
sorry for rambling so much. not really though.
still infatuated with you, varka.
"our kids," you huffed, "did just fine without me."
you're not that cruel, you sent birthday presents and letters during special holidays to the two of them. never late. never forgetting.
also what's this about rosaria complaining to varka instead of talking with you? the favoritism is appalling.
she never even mentioned it when you came back!
razor too! why didn't he tell you about this?
they'd sided with varka all along in your kind-of divorce.
you laugh quietly at that. it comes out more as a choked sound than anything else, and you feel some of the years of silence, of self-loathing, slip away.
not fully, it's never that easy. but it doesn't feel as suffocating anymore.
your hand trembles over the letter. your eyes sting with unshed tears. and for the first time in a long, long time, the guilt doesn’t grip you. the blame isn’t yours. it was never yours.
and somewhere in the back of your mind, a thought slips in: varka. . . he never stopped caring. he never stopped watching over you. even across continents, across frost and snow and war, he never stopped.
you curl the letter to your chest, closing your eyes, letting the wind from the open window carry away the heaviness you’ve been carrying for years.
and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to hope.
hope that you’re not alone. hope that varka was right. hope that it’s not too late.
the city is quiet tonight, as it should be.
it's nearly midnight, barely anyone walked the streets by then. those who did were either drunks on their wobbly way home or people who had a lot on their mind.
like you.
you’re sitting on the cathedral steps when he finds you. it seems even the grandmaster took midnight strolls every now and then.
it's something you already knew and accounted for. after all, the two of you used to do it all the time. you'd drag him out for some fresh air when things got to stuffy, and he'd feel better right after.
varka doesn’t say anything at first. he just sits beside you, shoulder brushing yours, like he used to.
"did you? y'know – read them?" he says eventually.
you stare at the moon, "i read your letters."
he exhales slowly, "yeah. figured."
then you say the thing you've avoided for three years – ". . . i didn't leave because i stopped loving you or anything stupid like that."
varka’s head turns, eyes focused. he's leaning a bit lower now, wanting to hear everything. the things you've withheld for years.
you keep looking straight ahead, afraid to look at the man beside you.
"i left because i didn't deserve to stay."
"you idiot."
another long pause, you feel your shoulders tense at the way he stays quiet. then varka laughs, softly. like it's being whispered to the wind and not to you.
"you decided that on your own?"
you finally look at him and he’s smiling, sad and warm all at once.
"yeah," you murmured, feeling your face heat up. for all the times you called him immature, you had ended up doing something more stupid.
he leans back against the steps, thinking.
"well."
". . . well?"
he glances at you, blue eyes steady.
"next time you ruin my life, at least talk to me about it first."
you blink, ". . . that's it?"
"what were you expecting?"
"definitely not something like this. i had, at least, expected something more emotional for our official reunion."
you're scowling now, clearly displeased at his lukewarm response.
he nudges your shoulder lightly,
"i already did the dramatic suffering thing for three years, in foreign lands too."
he really did.
aside from usual dreams of past memories, he'd also get small flashes of what-if's and could-be's, one where you had completely moved on with another man. where you built a home without him in it.
he hated those the most, varka would wake up in an irritated mood, take it out on training, and pretend the woman he loved wasn't several hundred miles away and actively ignoring him.
the injuries he sustained didn't feel quite as real compared to the hollowness of his heart when you'd left him. even as the distance between you two got larger, he only grew more impatient to be reunited with you.
and out of every absurd ambitions he had over the years, from slaying a dragon to becoming mondstadt's hero, there was one that he could never hope to throw away – a wedding, with you as his bride.
it's childish. you called it stupid back then, saying that a marriage wasn't necessary as long as the two of you had each other.
but varka had truly desired it from the moment he'd seen your eyes twinkle at the mention of a wedding. nothing grand. just something for you, him, and family.
you've always thought loving someone as capricious and bland as you would be a chore. that varka would find you tiring to deal with, and leave you alone one day. because of that, distance had become your shield and ruin, building walls so high it could rival starsnatch cliff.
but the knight of boreas wouldn't have gotten this far without being persistent.
a devoted man through and through. for him, loving you was easy. too easy. he was almost concerned how effortless it was. no distance, lack of communication, or dramatic break-up could ever stop him from adoring you.
varka had never loved you because it was just that – easy, effortless, and undemanding. in between the cracks of your heart, he found something worth fighting for, worth taking care of, someone worth all the pesky troubles and headaches.
he'd found you.
his love was simple but enduring. more than casual attraction, akin to pure adoration and endless devotion, just as he'd do anything for his beloved nation. people can call you heartless all they want, but even the sting of your glare could warm up his clumsy, beating heart.
you could carve it out and he'd thank you.
you already did, actually.
mondstadt’s wind was warm now, sunlight peeking through the walls. it carried the smell of dandelions, wine, the faint sweetness of cider drifting out of the tavern when the doors opened. sometimes music too.
"you staying?"
your chest tightens, ". . . maybe."
'yes.'
varka smiles. not big or triumphant.
just relieved.
"good enough for me."
the cathedral bells chime behind you once again, this time signalling a future you've dreamed about for far too long.
#conductor's-afterthoughts ☆ dont @ me, ive been hacking away at this for a week now and ive nearly given up halfway through. . . this actually hurt my head so bad. . . can you tell i completely threw away my original plot at the end and just started to ball it out.
theres something awfully romantic about being so infatuated by a person who cant help but run away from everything when it gets too much, you'd chase after them and think, 'why am i not getting tired of this?' and realize it's something you won't mind doing for the rest of your life.
i think i like those romances the most. i am a flawed person after all, so for someone to accept and cherish these flaws without it affecting them mentally would be a dream.
ANYWAYS. was this good? i was genuinely losing my shit guys. i took 30 minutes to proofread it this time, thats right! i actually read through the whole thing! proud of me? u oughta be. i had like several hundred searches just being "synonym for [word]"
✦ Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader
✦ Genre: Fluff | Jealousy | Comfort | Established Relationship
✦ Word Count: 1.8k
✦ Summary: When someone from your past gets too friendly at an Avengers party, Bucky’s quiet possessiveness surfaces. He’s never loud or mean just gentle hands, sharp eyes, and soft whispers that remind you exactly who you belong to. But beneath it all? A little boy afraid you’ll realize you deserve someone better. Not on your watch.
─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ ✦✦ ─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─ ✦✦ ─ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─
The Tower was loud tonight.
Some Stark-hosted charity gala with too many rich people and not enough food. You looked beautiful wearing a silky deep-red dress Bucky helped you zip up. You’d caught his reflection in the mirror when he did. His hands lingered at your waist. His eyes had softened like butter.
“Gonna need to stay near me all night, doll,” he’d murmured against your skin. “You’re dangerous lookin’.”
And you had, mostly. Until now.
Bucky had gone to grab drinks. You stayed behind to answer a few questions from a reporter when he appeared. Dressed sharp. Smug. The kind of face that belonged to a time before Bucky a time you barely thought about anymore.
“Y/N,” he greeted, smile too confident. “Wow, you still look good enough to ruin my week.”
You blinked. “Hi… Nate. That’s flattering and weird.”
He laughed. “What, I can’t compliment an old friend? Thought I was forgiven for… everything.”
“I never said that,” you deadpanned.
He stepped closer. “Still feisty. Makes me think maybe we had something good—”
Before you could even open your mouth to respond, you felt a presence behind you. Strong. Quiet. Warm.
Bucky.
He slipped his arm around your waist and pulled you gently back against his chest.
“She has something better now,” Bucky said, calm but unmistakably protective. “So you can stop thinking.”
Nate blinked. “Woah, man. Just catching up.”
“You don’t need to catch up,” Bucky replied with a small smile one that didn’t reach his eyes. “She’s doing great.”
You placed your hand on Bucky’s chest, heart thudding at the tension you felt in him.
“It’s fine,” you whispered to him.
“It’s not,” Bucky murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. “He doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”
Nate shrugged awkwardly and left with a muttered “whatever.”
But Bucky didn’t let go.
Back upstairs in your shared suite, Bucky was oddly quiet. His hand never left yours, but he wasn’t his usual soft, goofy self. He sat on the bed, undoing his tie with a distant look in his eyes.
You walked over slowly, cupping his face. “Hey. You okay?”
He nodded too quickly.
“James.”
He looked up at you. His jaw twitched. “I know I shouldn’t get like that.”
“Like what?”
“Possessive. Jealous.” He glanced away. “He used to know you. I’m not— I mean, I’m just…”
You raised a brow. “Just what?”
“I’m not easy to love,” he said quietly.
Your heart cracked. “Bucky—”
“I know I’ve got you now, but people like him he can smile and talk pretty and not worry about the damage he’s done. Me? I’m always scared one day you’ll look at me and realize I’m too much work.”
You sat down next to him, curling your hand around his metal fingers. “Do you want me to list every reason you’re my person?”
He gave a tired smile. “You’ve done that before.”
“I’ll do it every day if I have to,” you said, curling into his lap. “But I need you to understand something.”
Bucky blinked down at you, arms wrapping around your waist.
“You’re allowed to be protective,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. “You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t make a scene. You just held me like you were afraid to lose me. And that? That’s love, Buck. That’s not ‘too much work.’ That’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”
His grip tightened. “I don’t want to share you. Ever.”
“You don’t have to.”
“You looked too pretty tonight,” he mumbled into your neck. “I should’ve kept you in sweats and a hoodie.”
You giggled. “You helped me pick that dress.”
“I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“I like clingy Bucky.”
He groaned, then pulled you back against him on the bed, his arms caging you in, face buried in your neck. “I’m not letting go.”
“Good,” you whispered, brushing his hair back gently. “Because I’m yours. Always. No matter who shows up at some party.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just kissed your shoulder and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all night “Mine,” he murmured. “You’re mine.”
summary: The county fair is all fun and cotton candy, until a few men mistake your wedding ring for decoration. Lucky for you, your cowboy husband doesn’t take kindly to competition, and he’s more than willing to remind you just how loved you are.
pairing: cowboy!clark x reader
tags: 18+, cowboy clark, wife reader, porn with plot (explicit, fingering, penetration, public-ish setting, sexual activity in a vehicle), jealousy and possessiveness, jealous clark, harassment / unwanted flirting from strangers, lots of aftercare (bathing, cleaning), gentle clark (of course)
w.c.: 2k (this is kinda long ik lol)
more cowboy!clark fics here
The county fair had always been your thing. Neon lights, the dust kicked up by passing boots, the faint hum of generators powering rides that probably should’ve been inspected twice. But this year felt sweeter, maybe because Clark’s hand was warm in yours, his thumb brushing over your wedding ring every few steps like he couldn’t help reminding himself it was there.
Your cowboy was a sight: worn denim hugging his hips, sun-bleached flannel rolled to his elbows, hat tilted just right to shade those baby-blue eyes. And every time he smiled at you, that soft, lopsided grin he only ever gave his wife, your chest fluttered like a loose Ferris wheel bolt.
The sun dipped lower, bleeding gold into the fairgrounds as the temperature slipped with it. A cool breeze rolled across the open field, brushing goosebumps up your arms. Clark noticed instantly, of course, he did. He always noticed you first. “You cold, sweetheart?” he asked softly, thumb pausing where it circled your ring.
“A little,” you admitted.
Without missing a beat, he squeezed your hand. “Stay right here. I’ll run to the truck and grab my jacket for ya.”
You nodded, watching the confident, easy stroll of his retreating back: broad shoulders, steady gait, that little hitch of his thumbs hooking into his belt as he walked. He looked unfairly good from every angle.
While you waited, you wandered toward the cotton candy stand, breathing in the sugary air. Pink spun sugar glowed under the warm bulbs like it existed just to be eaten under fair lights. You were debating between pink and blue when a voice cut in behind you. “Well, hey there, darlin’. You here all by yourself?”
You turned to find two men, locals, probably, mid-twenties, leaning in a little too close. The first one gave you a grin that tried a little too hard, and the second let his eyes travel lower than they should have. Your wedding ring glinted under the lights, but neither bothered to look.
“No,” you said politely, stepping back. “My husband’s—”
“Ah, c’mon,” the first guy drawled, “no harm in talkin’ a bit. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be waitin’ alone in the cold.”
You barely had time to exhale before a familiar warmth slid in behind you. Clark.
His presence folded around you like a shield, quiet, tall, immovable. He stepped just slightly in front of you, not shoving, not rude, just… blocking their view. His jaw clenched tight beneath light stubble, and his hand found the small of your back with a quiet, unmistakable claim.
“Evenin’,” Clark said, voice low and calm but carrying that unmistakable edge that meant he was seconds from breaking a fence post in half.
The men stiffened. “We were just talkin’ to her,” one muttered.
Clark’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “She wasn’t lookin’ for company.”
You felt him tuck you closer, fingers pressing between your shoulder blades. You swore you felt his breath warm against your temple as he added, softer, only for you: “Got worried when I didn’t see ya.”
That alone almost made your knees buckle.
The guys mumbled something and drifted off when they realized they were outmatched, not just physically, but in the way Clark’s entire soul tilted toward you. When they were out of sight, Clark draped his jacket over your shoulders, pulling it snug around you like he was wrapping you in part of himself. It was warm, smelled like cedar and sun-worn cotton, and the second you slipped your arms into the sleeves, Clark kissed your temple.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yes,” you whispered. “Are you?”
He huffed a small laugh. “Tryin’ real hard not to throw ’em into the corn maze.”
You rose onto your toes and kissed the edge of his jaw. “My big, jealous cowboy.” He tugs you close until your chest presses against his. “Always.”
He bought you cotton candy, pink, and fed you pieces off his fingers, each one stolen with a teasing brush of his lips, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth every time you giggled. His arm stayed around your waist the rest of the night, hand slipping into his jacket pocket with yours inside it, keeping you warm.
By the time you made it back to the truck, the fair glowing behind you like a cluster of dying embers, Clark opened your door, helped you inside, and leaned in close, close enough that his hat brim brushed your forehead. “You know,” he murmured, voice dropping to a low rasp, “watchin’ other men look at you like that… might’ve made me a little crazy.”
Your breath hitched. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.” His lips grazed your cheek, slow and hungry. “Gonna have to work it off, sweetheart.”
He shut your door, circled around, and climbed in. The second his door clicked shut, he reached over, tugged you into a bruising kiss, then pulled back just far enough to growl, “Seatbelt, darlin’. Then hike that pretty dress up for me.”
You obeyed, trembling, bunching the fabric to your hips and spreading your thighs. Clark started the truck one-handed; the other slid straight between your legs, pushing your soaked panties aside and sinking two thick fingers deep inside you without warning. The engine rumbled to life the same second you cried out his name.
He kept his eyes on the dark country road, jaw tight, but his fingers moved slowly and relentless, curling just right, thumb circling your clit in steady, maddening strokes. Every bump in the gravel sent those fingers deeper; every curve in the road made his palm grind against you.
“Clark—” you whimpered, head falling back against the seat, hips chasing his hand.
“Shh, baby,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint. “Twenty minutes home. You’re gonna come on my fingers every single mile, Understand?”
You could only nod, breathless, as he added a third finger and fucked you slow and deep the entire drive, drawing three shaking, sobbing orgasms out of you before the porch light of your farmhouse finally came into view. The second he rolled to a stop in the driveway, engine still ticking, he killed the lights, yanked the seat lever, and reclined all the way back. “Come here, Mrs. Kent.”
You scrambled over the console, straddling him in one frantic move. He shoved his jeans down just enough, lined himself up, and pulled you down onto his dick in one smooth, possessive thrust. You both groaned, loud and broken, at how perfectly he filled you.
The windows were already fogged from your earlier panting. Moonlight spilled through the windshield, painting silver across his cheekbones as he gripped your hips and guided you to ride him exactly how he liked, slow, deep rolls that dragged every inch of him against your walls.
“Love you,” he whispered against your lips, reverent, desperate. “I love you so damn much it hurts.”
You kissed him through the words, moving faster, chasing that edge together. His hands slid up under your dress, palms spread wide over your back like he needed to feel every inch of skin he could reach.
When you came, it was with his name on your tongue and tears in your eyes; when he followed, he buried his face in your neck and pulsed deep inside you, holding you so tight you could feel his heartbeat against your own.
After, he didn’t let you go far, just tucked you against his chest, fingers stroking lazily against your back while the crickets sang outside.
“Think the neighbors heard?” you mumbled, sleepy and sated.
Clark chuckled, low and warm, pressing a kiss to your temple. “If they did, good. Let the whole county know my wife’s cherished.”
He carried you inside a few minutes later, still unwilling to separate even for the length of the porch steps, because some nights, Clark Kent simply couldn’t stand an inch of space between him and the woman he’d sworn his forever to.
Inside, the house was dim and quiet, lit only by the soft glow of the kitchen night-light and the moon through the windows. Clark nudged the door shut with his boot, still holding you close, his hands warm beneath your thighs. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way he was still breathing a little harder than usual, that post-pleasure looseness in every slow step he took.
He carried you straight to the bedroom, brushing a kiss to your hairline. “Just sit tight, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Gonna get you cleaned up.”
He set you gently on the edge of the bed, hands sliding down your hips like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t keep touching you. Your dress was wrinkled, straps fallen, hair mussed beyond repair, but he looked at you like you were the prettiest thing the fair had offered all night.
The bath faucet turned on with a low, steady rush. Steam filled the room, the scent of the lavender bath soak you loved curling up in warm tendrils. Clark tested the temperature with his wrist, because of course he did, then added more hot water until it was perfect.
He slipped off your shoes for you, placing them neatly by the dresser, because even after fucking you senseless in the truck, Clark Kent was still Clark Kent. He eased your dress off next, careful not to snag the zipper.
Clark kissed your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth, slow, lingering, sweet. “There she is,” he murmured. “My girl.”
When the tub was full, he returned to you, lifting you with easy, careful hands. He stepped in first, settling into the warm water, then pulled you in with him, guiding your back against his chest like he wanted you as close as physically possible. His thighs bracketed yours, his arms slipping around your waist under the water.
You felt him exhale against your shoulder, breath warm on your damp skin. “There we go,” he whispered, kissing right where your neck met your collarbone. “Just relax for me.”
The water soothed your trembling muscles instantly. Clark reached for a soft cloth, soaked it, and dragged it gently over your thigh, up your hip, along your stomach. Slow, tender strokes. No rush. No pressure. Just the kind of care that made your eyes sting.
“You hurtin’ anywhere?” he asked softly, that same gentle drawl he only used after nights like this.
You shook your head. “Just… floaty.”
His arms tightened around you. “Good. Means I did somethin’ right.”
He washed you with reverence, wiping along your arms, your shoulders, your neck. Every so often, he pressed a little kiss to your temple or cheek, as if he couldn’t help himself.
“You did so good tonight,” he murmured against your jaw, voice low and soothing. “So damn good for me.”
Eventually, he stood and helped you out, wrapping you immediately in a fluffy towel, then carrying you to the bedroom with your legs dangling and your face tucked into his throat. He set you on the edge of the bed and helped you into one of his soft, worn T-shirts. It hung halfway down your thighs, smelling like laundry soap, hay, and him, then tucked you in.
He slipped under the blankets with you, pulling you into his chest. Your head rested over his heartbeat, his hand stroking slow, lazy lines down your back. “Still mad about those guys?” you asked, voice thick with sleep.
“No,” he murmured into your hair. “Not mad. Just… reminded I’m real lucky.” His thumb rubbed small circles over your spine. “Lucky you chose me. Lucky I get to bring you home. Lucky I get to hold you after.”
Your throat tightened. “Clark…”
“Hm?”
“I love you.”
His whole body seemed to melt around you. “I love you more,” he whispered. “More’n any cowboy’s got words for.”
He kissed the top of your head, tucked the blankets around you both, and held you close, so close you felt his warmth seep into your bones. Outside, the fair sounds faded into the distance. Inside, the only thing that existed was Clark’s arms around you, the hush of his breath, and the steady rhythm of two heartbeats pressed together.
