۶ৎ Category: Established relationship, Fem!Reader.
۶ৎ Warning: Suggestive content. 18+ only. If you are a minor, please do not interact.
૮꒰ 𓈒. ݂ .𓈒ྀི ꒱ა ┊Hello! Strawberry here, this one comes in honor to Flins rerun and the first banner of our grand master Varka! This is my first time writing for Varka, so please be kind! I promise to keep improving my portrayal of him and other characters as well ૮₍˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა. I hope you guys like it! Let me know what you think; reblogs and notes are highly appreciated ♡.
۶ৎ Masterlist: Strawberry — Masterlist.
۶ৎ Requests: To make a request. (Closed).
۶ৎ You know he’s going to tease you, right? It’s practically a guarantee with him.
۶ৎ You stand under the cold water as it pours over the both of you. His long, bluish hair cascades down the length of his well-toned, pale back.
۶ৎ You can't help but stare at the way the droplets look like sparkling jewelry against his skin. Of course, Flins notices your gaze and offers you one of his signature, soft, elegant smiles.
۶ৎ "You seem quite fond of something. Does my lady like what she sees?" He knows your cheeks are heating up—not because of the water, but because of him.
۶ৎ It doesn't help your sanity, being this close... your bodies almost touching, bared to one another under the spray.
۶ৎ "You mentioned there was something you wanted to try..." Flins moves, grazing your skin in the process. He doesn't miss the way you tense up, but he simply hands you a bottle of shampoo.
۶ৎ "You remembered..." You smile and take the bottle, trying to ignore the frantic rhythm of your heart.
۶ৎ Flins leans down, giving you access to his silky, wet hair. Even then, you have to stand on your tiptoes to reach. "Don't look..." you whisper, conscious that from this angle, he has a perfect view of your chest.
۶ৎ It doesn't matter how many times you’ve been naked in front of him; you still feel a flutter of self-consciousness under that intense gaze of his.
۶ৎ "As you wish, dusha moya¹." Even if you don't understand the Fae words, his soft, melodic tone tells you everything you need to know: it’s an endearment.
︵ . ︵﹒︵୨ ꒰ Flins ꒱ ୧︵ . ︵﹒︵
You remained focused on washing his hair, the soft scent of lavender blooming as bubbles gathered over his silky locks. The blue of his hair looked even deeper, almost midnight-dark, under the cascading water. Your fingers traced the pointed tips of his ears—those well-hidden features that usually remained a secret, masked by his hair from the rest of the world.
As you followed the delicate curve of his ear, you were too immersed in the moment to realize the exact second his eyes drifted open to watch you. His well-toned frame suddenly straightened, making it impossible for you to reach the remaining suds in his hair.
"Flins? What are you doing?" you asked, straining on your tiptoes in a failed attempt to finish the task.
One of his hands slid firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left between you. Suddenly, the water didn't feel so cold; a rush of heat took over your body as his hand settled low, just at the small of your back.
"Very well..." His other hand slid through your own wet hair, tilting your head back just as he leaned in, until your noses brushed. "Is it my turn now?"
"Your hair is still—!"
His lips met yours, cutting off the words instantly. He claimed your mouth in a slow, deliberate dance. At first, it was soft and careful—the actions of the gentleman he proclaimed himself to be—but then, the rhythm shifted.
"You smell incredible," he whispered against your lips, the last traces of shampoo finally rinsing away. "Don't tell me you’re getting aroused over this? Such improper behavior for a lady..." His smile was teasing, and entirely too knowing.
Of course he noticed. He could feel every spike in your pulse, every shiver of emotion, —an innate ability of his kind— and It did nothing to help your poor, racing heart.
"What if I am? Are you going to take responsibility for it, my lord?" You decided two could play this game. Even if your body was betraying you, the way your legs pressed tightly together, the way you leaned into him, you wouldn't back down.
"Uhm?" He hummed, a vibration you felt in your chest as he nudged you further up onto your tiptoes.
His wet lips began to trace soft, lingering kisses over your throat. Then came the first nibble—a soft bite that made your breath catch—followed by the cool glide of his tongue as he licked the stray waterdrops from your neck.
A shaky exhale, suspiciously close to a moan, was the only response he needed. He pulled back just enough to murmur:
"It would be my pleasure."
﹒‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
¹Dusha moya: My soul.
۶ৎ Honestly, the fact that the idea came from you surprised him. He’s so used to taking care of others that being the one looked after caught him off guard.
۶ৎ But he could never say no—not to the idea of you giving him your undivided attention while you washed the day away.
۶ৎ Besides, the thought of his girlfriend's hands over him seemed like the perfect way to relax after hours of training, patrolling the city, and a mountain—a massive mountain—of paperwork.
۶ৎ The warmth of the water made his toned, powerful frame go slack, muscles finally unknotting under the steady spray.
۶ৎ His blonde hair grew damp and heavy from the steam, and then... he heard your soft laugh.
۶ৎ He looked down, and the height gap between you was as charming as ever. You often had to strain to meet those deep blue eyes of his, but right now, they were looking at you with pure, unfiltered affection.
۶ৎ "It looks like the paperwork was rough on you today," you teased, taking the bar of soap. The scent of Cecilia flowers and mint soon bloomed into a rich lather in your hands.
۶ৎ Varka didn’t know if it was the tenderness of your touch or the way your hand lingered on each of his scars—cherishing them rather than pitying them—that moved him most.
۶ৎ Your hand came to a stop against his pectoral, right over one of his marks. Suddenly, you noticed the sheer intensity of his gaze. The soft, pinkish flush on his cheeks made it clear that his heat wasn't just coming from the water.
۶ৎ "Jean is far too good at keeping me focused on my job... the boring part of it, unfortunately," he replied, his smile mirroring yours like a natural reflex. He caught your hand, bringing your palm to his lips.
۶ৎ That single, soft kiss made your own cheeks heat up. It wasn't about anything scandalous; it was just the overwhelming weight of how intimate the moment felt.
۶ৎ "Come, let me wash your hair," you murmured, trying to ignore the frantic thumping of your heart.
۶ৎ You took the bottle of shampoo, squeezing the liquid into your palms and waiting for him to bow his head so you could reach, but then...
︵ . ︵﹒︵୨ ꒰ Varka ꒱ ୧︵ . ︵﹒︵
It happened so fast that you barely realized what was happening. One of his powerful arms hooked under your thighs, and with the strength of a man used to wielding more than just a simple sword, he lifted you effortlessly.
"V-Varka?!" Heat crept into your ears and cheeks. Now, you were slightly above him, held securely in his arms. It wasn't just that you were naked; it was the way you could feel every taut muscle of his body pressed against your skin.
Oh, Archons... have mercy.
"I find this much better," he said, noticing your blushing face with a satisfied smile. "Don't worry, I won't let you fall." As he spoke, his other hand settled firmly against your back, making your breath hitch.
You simply nodded and began to wash his hair, the soft strands feeling like spun sunlight between your fingers. You couldn't hide your smile when you saw his expression relax; his eyes drifted shut, and a pleasant, contented look settled on his features. It was an expression of pure peace—one you usually only saw when he was enjoying a good drink.
Once the water finally rinsed the bubbles away, you couldn't help but place your hand over his cheek, thumbing a small bruise. The warmth of your touch made him open his eyes.
He simply observed you—his girlfriend, held close in his arms. You were the woman who had always been there for him, the one who waited faithfully until he returned from Nod-krai's expeditions. How could he not love you?
He leaned in, his nose brushing yours in a deliberate, lingering way that made his intentions clear.
"May I...?"
"Yes," you whispered, not even letting him finish. A soft laugh vibrated through his chest—sounding almost like a purr against your body.
Then his lips met yours. It never ceased to surprise you how soft they were, or how caring he could be. He held you as if you were the most precious jewel in Teyvat. Your fingers buried themselves in his hair, the damp softness welcoming your touch as his lips claimed yours deeply.
His hands, as skillful as ever, shifted your weight until you were straddling him. He held you by your thighs, your back meeting the slight chill of the wall as he moved you just out of the direct spray of the hot shower.
"Don't you have a meeting at Angel’s Share?" you asked, though it was more of a breathless whisper than a real question. You were secretly praying to Barbatos that he’d forget the world existed and just stay with you.
"I'm sure they'll forget... the wine will help with that," he murmured, his nose traveling down to the curve of your neck. The scent of the soap against your skin made him close his eyes in bliss. "And besides..."
You couldn't suppress a shaky breath as his lips began to graze your skin. One of your hands curled into his hair while the other traced the powerful lines of his back. You let your head rest back against the wall, completely undone by him.
♡. Si-eun first noticed you because you were everything he wasn’t. Loud laughter, quick emotions, and a warmth that seemed to follow you wherever you went. He didn’t understand you at first, and it lowkey annoyed him how you could just say whatever you were feeling so easily.
♡. You, on the other hand, found him fascinating. Calm, composed, and almost infuriatingly blank at times. Si-eun was like a puzzle you wanted to figure out.
♡. When you two started hanging out more (mostly because you forced yourself into his space, sitting next to him at lunch, dragging him into random conversations). Si-eun realized you weren’t just reckless, You felt everything deeply. But somehow, that didn’t make you weak; it made you strong in your own way.
♡. You love poking at Si-eun just to get any reaction out of him. Tugging his sleeves, mimicking his serious expressions, leaning way too close when he’s trying to study. Half the time he just blinks at you like "are you done yet?". But sometimes you catch the tiniest smirk before he hides it.
♡. You had no problem dragging Si-eun into chaotic adventures sneaking off-campus for snacks, last-minute study sessions that turned into you ranting about life, and even stupid bets like who could stay quiet longer, which are always his idea. (you lost every time, but he secretly liked when you talked).
♡. Speaking of, Si-eun secretly loves hearing you talk about your day, even when you ramble about random, pointless things. He won’t always respond with full sentences, but he listens so intently it makes your heart hurt a little.
♡. He doesn’t always know how to comfort you when you get upset. If you cry, Si-eun sits there awkwardly for a second before offering his hand or wordlessly pushing a snack and drink toward you. He’s trying, okay?
♡. Si-eun is the type to wordlessly fix your jacket if it’s slipping off, or move you to the inside of the sidewalk without saying anything, and press his hand lightly to your back when he feels you getting overwhelmed. No big gestures. Just quiet, constant care.
♡. He tries not to show it but seeing you upset messes him up more than anything. He’ll stay awake texting you, walking you home, or sitting quietly by your side, anything just to be there. Even if he doesn’t know what to say.
♡. You're the reason he starts carrying extra band aids or mini-med kits easy to carry. Not for himself: but for you. Because you keep scraping your knees, bumping into things, and somehow managing to get minor injuries doing the most ridiculous things.
♡. The first time he calls you "reckless," you grin and say "And you love it." without missing a beat. He looks like he’s about to argue but just sighs and looks away.
♡. Si-eun always pretends he’s not worried about you when you get yourself into stupid situations, but the way he shows up without you calling, and the quiet one or two word lectures he gives you afterward: kind of gives him away.
♡. When you’re feeling restless and impulsive, for example: "Let’s go on a midnight walk!" "Let’s dye our hair!" "Let's prank Baku!" Si-eun sighs.. but 95% of the time, he goes along with it. Quietly, Grumpily, But he’s there. Always.
♡. You once tried to teach him how to take silly selfies. He just stared at the camera like O_O the entire time. You love him for it anyway. (that exact photo became your home screen wallpaper.).
♡. He doesn’t say "I love you" first. Instead, it’s you blurting it out in the middle of a heated moment. Si-eun just blinks at you before replying in a small, quiet voice like it's the most embarrassing thing in the world: "I know. Me too.." Which is honestly more then you expected in that moment.
♡. People wonder how the two of you work so well together. What they don’t realize is that You don’t fix each other. You just make the hard days softer, the lonely days warmer, and life a little more bearable, together.
If anyone wants more maybe ill write it but for now enjoy this random semi song inspired oneshot
His Game
Summary: 🔫 🤡 🦇
Warnings: blood, violence, horror themes and elements, strong language
Word count: 2000 something
You suck in a deep breath, lungs shuttering as the sharpness in your ribs attacks you once more. You could do this. It's a matter of life and death.
Your hand settles on the grip of your weapon. It was a small gun, just large enough to keep on your person through your day to day activities. Illegal? Very much so. But living in Gotham made that very easy to overlook in favor of a surefire method of self-defense.
It was especially helpful in your current predicament. You cursed yourself for ending up here to begin with but distract yourself by wiping the blood snaking down your brow away. Nothing to be done about it now, no use bitching. Not that it was even really your fault to begin with.
You push forward, peeling your sweaty back from the wall to peek around the corner. While it had seemed like his maniacal laughter was rapidly drilling holes through your mangled sanity, you quickly discovered it was far worse not to hear it. He could be anywhere.
When you note the hallway before you is clear, you step forward, your bare feet finding the small spaces between broken shards of glass on the filthy linoleum. Forgoing your shoes had been an easy decision; the clack of your heels would have given you away in a second. Now, the lingering thought of possible infections prodded at your psyche, but if you survived this, then you would deal with the consequences. For now, this was your best option.
You slide your feet across the ground, toes down first, then heel to ensure every step is as quiet as possible.
There's a throbbing in your skull that you're forced to ignore. Infections, concussions, you could deal with it all after you got out of this hellhole.
Suddenly, a voice crackles over the intercom, pitched and ringing through your ears. His voice. The voice.
"Let's play a game, me and you," he lilts, then laughs. The sound breaks over the speaker system, piercing into your brain and intensifying the throb that had started to dull.
"Let's see if Bats gets to you before I do. If he finds you, then you're saved," he taunts, his voice ensuring his excitement shot your every hair to stand on end. "And if I get you first..." He chuckles, deep and menacing. Suddenly, his tone wasn't so light.
The intercom clicks off, your heart racing. The boom of it drowns out all other sound. You would play his little game. But you would play it your way.
Your finger snakes around the trigger. Your bra held a couple of extra bullets but you doubted he would give you the time to load them. So for now, you'll make do. All your time at the range cements itself at the forefront of your mind. You steel your nerves, even as your body shakes.
You would not miss. He grabbed the wrong bitch from that stupid fucking Wayne gala you hadn't even wanted to go to. You would take this fucking clown down even if it's the last thing you do.
You thumb the safety off before creeping down the hallway further. The obvious destination was the front entrance. But you weren't that stupid. You knew he would expect that. Unfortunately, this little trap was worryingly well thought out. Each of Arkham's windows were plastered with thick metal bars that ensured no easy escape. Even in its pitiful state, you aren't stronger than the building itself. So you're going to have to get creative here.
You wondered briefly if he actually even had some motive for this. He had to have grabbed you at random, right? You couldn't imagine a reason for Gotham's 'Clown Prince of Crime' to snatch you from that party. But to take you here, to make you escape from Arkham Asylum of all places... It just felt like there were obvious pieces of the puzzle you couldn't see.
You hoped Batman would be here in time, but you didn't bother to depend on that idea. How many people had the Joker killed because Batman was late? You held no delusions that the Dark Knight would be here in your time of need. Sometimes, he was just as useless as the GCPD.
You don't waste another thought on it as your eyes land on the sign at the top of the wall to your left. Room 8D it read. Your first priority is to find out what wing you're in and to get as far away from it as possible.
You'd woken on a filthy, springy mattress in one of Arkham's abandoned cells, parts of your dress in tatters. The remains of the sleeves only got in your way so you slid them down your arms and tied them around your waist. Your heels were ditched soon after ensuring your gun was still strapped to your thigh. If the clown wanted a fight, you would deliver one.
His eerie laughter had been what woke you. The smell of mold and the stale thickness of the salty air as well as the decrepit scenery told you where you were before he did. Arkham had been abandoned a few years ago. The GCPD said it was because it was outdated, but everyone knew it was because of the frequent escapes. If those fucking villains could get out, then so could you.
His voice crackles over the intercom again. "We're a lot alike, you know." His voice skitters over your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. What the hell did he know about you?
You realize rather quickly that he must be talking to Batman, not you. He and Gotham's most prevalent vigilante were known for their rather... odd relationship. The Joker is obsessed with him. You personally didn't understand the fascination. What good was it to stop criminals if you weren't really stopping them? Just putting them in time out until they did it again?
"I was hoping this little rendezvous would bring us closer," he practically purrs across the system. Definitely talking to Batman, you think as you shudder.
"I mean, why would you want to stay around those uppity billionaires when they could never understand you?" You choke on your breath, your eyes swinging around wildly. What? No, wait, was he talking to you?
"Not the way I understand you, doll," he rasps, his twisted voice sounding all the more threatening through the crackling of the failing technology.
Your fingers squeeze around your weapon, tucking it close to your body. He... couldn't be talking to you, that didn't make any sense. Why would he be talking to you?
You swallow, your throat dry and rough. You had to get out of here, no matter what.
You slip forward carefully, peering around the next corner with your gun at the ready. If you saw the bastard, you'd fill him with lead at the first opportunity.
Around the corner are two staircases, one leading down and one leading up, as well as another hallway that leads past them. You had to play this smart. He would know where you woke up. So he would know this is the first staircase you'd find. You had no idea what wing you were in, but you expected he did.
The expectation would be for you to go down, right? To the entrance.
You eye both staircases. Going down could be your way out but it could also be an obvious trap. Up was risky because it would be easy to get cornered and there was no guarantee there would be a way out that way.
Fuck it. You slip past the staircases and into the next hallway, gritting your teeth and trying not to glance back. You couldn't take either chance. You had to be unpredictable.
You would move to a different wing entirely and then you would find your way down. That's the plan, at least. You keep your eye out for the cameras in the corners, ducking beneath them and hoping they don't still function just in case.
As you reach the end of that hallway, you find another sign at the top of a wall. It's covered in dark green foliage, so you reach up and brush it away. The thorns prod into your fingers. You hiss at the pain, but clamp your teeth down over your tongue. In the grand scheme of things, this pain was nothing. Your head still rang like a bell and your ribs shuddered with every inhale. A few more cuts were nothing to you.
You finally reveal the metal sign, grime in the embedded lettering making the words all the darker.
West Wing ⬅️
North Wing ➡️
You breathe a sigh of relief. Excellent. Goodbye West Wing, hello North Wing.
You press forward but a loud clattering has you plastering your back to the scummy, damp wall as you point your gun towards the sound. As you do, a monstrously large rat races down the hallway towards you, a metal cart sent flying in the opposite direction.
Reluctantly, you lower your weapon a tad. The sound could give you away, you remind yourself. You move further toward the North Wing, your feet moving slightly quicker this time. You had to be out of here before it got any darker. You didn't have any kind of flashlight and you doubted the Joker would be turning on the lights for you.
The night air blowing through the bars on the windows has you shivering, every step against the floor freezing cold. You consider putting your sleeves back on but worry they may get in the way. You force your thoughts back to your escape. Comfort could come later. After survival.
You only stop when you find the end of the hall. You peer out the windows at the corner. It looked like you were on the third floor. You could see the edge of the island from here, smell the Gotham Bay. You'd found the North West corner of the building, so now all you had to do was find your way down and to some kind of exit.
You turn the corner again and to your luck, find a set of stairs. Your heart flutters wildly in your chest. This was all going too smoothly so far. You were sure you hid from every camera but what if he still knew where you were? What if he was playing with you? Just waiting until Batman showed up so he could kill you and make a spectacle of it? That idea sounded a little too real.
You step forward onto the stairs, but it gives way under your weight. With quick reflexes, you snag your free hand on the handrail and throw yourself back onto the top step, but the handrail snaps too. You land on your ass, the stairs crumbling in an avalanche of drywall and wood, the rusty metal handrail still grasped in your hand.
Shit. There's no way he didn't hear that, you think as you release the handrail. The sound still echoes through the empty halls, reverberating your mistake back at you. You shuffle quickly to your feet. You didn't have the time to make any more decisions, you had to just move. And fast.
Even though it was a terrible idea, you eye the crumbled mass on the floor below you. You could probably lower yourself down, even though it's risky.
Without sparing another thought, you flick the safety on and secure your gun back into your thigh holster. You hike up your dirtied skirt over your thighs and shuffle to the edge of the top step. Releasing your skirt now, you grasp onto the top floor under the broken handrail, slowly sliding yourself over the edge on your back, your feet reaching out desperately for the top of the mess of stairs.
You gasp when your ass finally slips from the third floor. Your feet catch you clumsily, but your weight is too much. You barely notice as you twist your ankle because the crumbled stairs slide out from beneath you, toppling to the ground. Your arms, the backs of your legs, your exposed back, all of your skin scrapes against the surface as you ride the second avalanche to the floor.
Fuck. You bring your shaky hand in front of your face, eyes glued to the layers of skin missing from your wrist and forearm, red rising to the top. No time to think about it, you tell yourself. Escape first.
You push onto your feet, but stumble as pain rockets up your ankle. No. No no no, this is bad. You lean against the wall, its moisture on your back dismissed as you eye your foot. Placing it flat on the ground again, you shift your weight to it, pain shooting up your leg again. Why was your luck so shit tonight?
Tears spring to your eyes. You didn't even want to go to that stupid gala or wear this stupid outfit. Now you're here, fighting for your life as Gotham's most terrifying and unpredictable villain plays with you like a toy.
You bite back the tears, blinking hard and ignoring the wet trails they paint down your filthy cheeks. A concussion won't stop me. This won't stop me. I'm going to live. You're not sure if you're reassuring yourself or if you're giving yourself no other choice.
You push your skirt out of the way, retrieving your gun and turning the safety off again. That clown will pay for this.
You limp away from the rubble, your free hand braced on the wall and your other hand at the ready. You were going to shoot him right in that painted grin.
You slide into the nearest room, pushing yourself into the farthest corner and slumping to the ground. You place your other hand over the one on the gun, raising them and aiming directly at the doorway.
If he appeared, he would find himself full of bullets. And if he didn't by morning, you would find your way off this godforsaken fucking island.
The minutes tick by slowly, pain thrashing its way over your whole aching body, lulling you into an exhausted stupor as the adrenaline seeps from your system. But you don't lower your hands and you don't relent your laser focus.
The minutes slip into hours. Sitting there. Waiting. The thick scent of Arkham's putrid air permeates your soul. Maybe you'll never leave, maybe you'll never escape, you think passively.
But as soon as you do, a shadow fills the doorway, blocking out the moonlight.
You right your hands, finger tempting the trigger. Your eyes focus on the figure, but... it isn't the Joker. The Joker doesn't wear a cape, doesn't have pointy ears at the top of his head.
*CHOKES YOU*/POS STOP MAKING SUCH GOOD FICS HGRHRGRGEE,,,,,,r<<,,,,/silly
okay,,,,,,, 2 in one day ?? eyebrow raise maybe 3 if i cry hard enough ???? yeah sure
ANYWAYZ !!!!!! i have come to request againm,,, a roblox myth gasps be prepared for a shit tone of these bc phew,,, wipes forehead it sure does get hot in hyperfixation land
CAN yu o write an alonetraveler x reader where like reader is like i can fix him and alone is like oh shit you're right you can
stares at u with my autistic eyes
LMFAOO TYYYYYYYYYYY
of course i will :o)
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Alonetraveler x reader
A warm sunset trickled through the clouds onto the rolling hills. You hummed softly, crossing through the tall grass. As you walked along the cobbled stone pathway in the empty world, you noticed Alonetraveler sat crossed legged, alone on a hill. Next to him, a single tree stood from the soil, it's branches hanging low, giving him shade from the sun.
You perked up and quickened your pace, waving to Alone in an energetic manner.
He blinked softly away from his daydream. As he watched you with a neutral expression.
"Afternoon, Alone" You smiled as you reached him, seating yourself next to the myth.
"Ah, salutations" He murmured back in response.
A glint of determination struck across your face as an idea came to your head. You leaned your head to the side, smiling brightly at him.
"What's the look for?" He asked.
"Nothing, friendo!" You grinned, Alone rose a brow, cringing.
"You're creeping me out" Alone frowned.
"Wha! Don't you like the new nickname?" You asked jokingly.
"Yes." He blinked.
You blinked back, snorting, giving a snort roll of your eyes.
"Daw, alright." You sighed dramatically, laying back on the grass. Looking up at Alone, he stared solemnly before sighing and laying next to you. Silently, you cheered to yourself and rolled over, grinning at him.
The sunset washed over the blue sky, turning the clouds a soft pink and orange. Both you watched the sky in a soft silence.
"Ah, the air is so nice"' You hummed, closing your eyes as the soft afternoon wind picked up, the grass ticking your legs and arms.
Alone hummed in agreement, closing his eyes aswell.
'You were going to be friends, I'm gonna fix you, no matter what'. You thought to yourself, smiling.
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GAHHHH sorry, its so short :sob: (( having some writers block, but it okey!!! ill find inspiration :o) ))
Jenna: I know this is a little unorthodox, but I thought given everything that happened with Conner that I should at least check on him. Is he doing alright? Survive the mortification?
૮꒰ 𓈒. ݂ .𓈒ྀི ꒱ა ┊ Hello~♡. I won't yap for long since this is a big post, but I applied Fae lore to Flins to show his darker side a bit more while keeping his charming personality. Keep that in mind while reading, pals ♡. Let me know if you liked it, leave a heart, and reblogs are always appreciated. Bye-bye for now~ ૮₍ ྀི∩៸៸៸∩ ྀི₎ა .
۶ৎ Masterlist: Strawberry — Masterlist.
۶ৎ Requests: To make a request ⋆˚࿔. (Closed)
# Strawberry's note: Whenever Flins speaks in the tongue of the Fae, the letters will appear in bold violet.
૮꒰ 𓈒. ݂ .𓈒ྀི ꒱ა ┊ POV:
You didn't know your origins, and you certainly didn't know the monster hiding behind his perfect face. Not until his obsession forced the truth down your throat, shattering the reality you thought you owned. He thinks he can claim you—but is he ready for the fire he’s started? Can you endure being the core of his obsession?
﹒‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
۶ৎ Flins knew there was something profoundly unsettling about your presence. It was a phantom itch under his skin, a resonance in his blood that whispered of kinship. He knew you were one of his own—or at least, that a potent, dormant part of you was—yet you moved through the world with such a convincing human frailty that he almost second-guessed his own ancient instincts.
۶ৎ It was the way you perceived the world around you—almost instinctively, as if a hidden, second nature were guiding your every step through the veil.
۶ৎ On the nights the two of you patrolled together, he could see the way your soul reached outward, a quiet, desperate begging to finally be free, to finally rise up and claim its true shape. Yet, it was the way you looked so... normal, that truly dragged him under.
۶ৎ That soft, vulnerable skin, the delicate lines of your face, even the way your hair caught the moonlight—it was a constant, cruel game played against his mind and senses. You were a living paradox: seemingly too human to belong to his world, yet far too unsettling to ever truly belong to your own.
۶ৎ However, that doubt vanished the second he glimpsed the cold iron necklace resting against the pulse of your throat. To his eyes, it was a brand, a jagged scar against your delicate skin, and a primal part of him ached to reach out and wrench it away, regardless of the sear it would leave on his own palms.
۶ৎ "That is a most uncommon piece you have there," he would have remarked one day, his voice a polished mahogany of elegance and feigned curiosity. However, you wouldn't have missed the way his eyes lingered on your neck, his eyes blown wide with a dark, flickering fire—a simmering resentment that bordered on a ravenous physical hunger.
۶ৎ Faes loathed iron; it was the antithesis of their being, turning their vibrant magic into something gray and sluggish—like mud clogging a pristine spring. To Flins, the mere proximity of the metal felt like the screeching static of a dead radio frequency, a sudden, jarring silence in a world that should have been singing with enchantments. But his hatred for your trinket ran deeper now; he loathed it because it acted as a physical barrier, a wall of cold salt that prevented him from ever drawing truly close to you.
۶ৎ Flins was a man of calculated intellect, a predator who preferred the silk snare to the iron trap. He tried to coax you into removing it, deploying the soft manipulation his kind had perfected over eons. His words were as thick and sweet as raw honey, designed to slide past your defenses, yet they crashed repeatedly against a stubborn wall of human determination.
۶ৎ "It is a family relic," you told him time and again, your hand reflexively flying to your chest to shield the metal. You never understood why the Ratnik was so obsessed with your jewelry, but because it was the final gift from your late grandmother, you never dared to unlatch it. Her parting words had been a frantic command: Never, no matter what, never take it off. It will protect you.
۶ৎ Oh, but poor, oblivious thing—you had no idea that he was utterly consumed by you. Faes possessed a natural, hoard-like attraction to things they deemed beautiful; Flins himself kept a legendary collection of rare gemstones that he curated with obsessive care. Little did you realize that for his kind, there was no distinction between a priceless emerald and a person who caught their eye. You were simply the crown jewel of a collection he had yet to claim.
۶ৎ He watched you from the safety of the shadows, a silent sentinel in the darkness of your own home, though you remained blissfully unaware. His attempts to force you to see the "real" world—the shimmering, terrifying reality of your heritage—were fueled by a determination so singular it would have sent chills down your spine had you seen the look in his eyes when you turned your back.
۶ৎ He had even attempted to ensnare you in a particularly potent glamour, a weave of ancient enchantment designed to bypass a human’s will and turn them into a pliant doll. He wanted to play with the architecture of your mind, to rewrite your desires until they mirrored his own... but the iron chime at your throat sang its dead song, shattering his spells before they could even take root.
۶ৎ "Have you ever felt... muted, my lady?" he asked during one of his frequent, uninvited visits. You struggled to grasp his meaning until he leaned in closer, his scent like crushed violets and ozone. "As if the world around you is muffled by a heavy shroud? As if you are standing just out of reach of a great, thrumming music?"
۶ৎ "I... no," you responded, your voice wavering with uncertainty. "I mean, aside from the constant fatigue and the bouts of insomnia, I feel fine. I suppose I just have a weak constitution." You truly believed your own lie, unaware that your "illness" was merely your magic choking under the weight of the iron.
۶ৎ It drove his senses to the brink of madness to see you so oblivious. You thought him eccentric, perhaps a bit macabre because of his humor, but he saw the truth: the iron was poisoning you, masking the vibrant creature beneath. If he could only strip that metal away, he knew you would see colors that didn't exist in the human spectrum, smell scents a hundred times more intoxicating, and feel a touch... far more sensitive than any mortal could endure.
۶ৎ But Flins could not touch the iron. The one time his fingers had brushed the chain by accident, his reaction was so violent—a searing, visceral rejection—that his human glamour nearly shattered. He had felt his true, jagged form threatening to rip through his skin, a revelation that would have ended his game far too soon.
۶ৎ And then there was the selfish core of his obsession. He claimed he wanted you to be free, but in reality, he wanted you to be his. He wanted to witness the moment your eyes adjusted to the blinding brilliance of the otherworld, his world, but more than anything...
۶ৎ He wanted to finally touch you. He craved the sensation of your warmth against his unnaturally cold, porcelain-slick skin. He wanted to taste the impossibility of your lips and finally inhale your true scent—not the floral notes of your shampoo, but the heady, wild musk of the Fae blood singing in your veins.
۶ৎ He fantasized about marking you, leaving bruises with his lips that would bloom like dark flowers on your skin. He wanted to watch you squirm beneath him as he introduced you to pleasures no human man could ever conceive, pushing your mind into a blissful, static-filled void.
۶ৎ He wanted to possess you so thoroughly that your thoughts would become a monologue of his name, until his scent was the only air you breathed. And then, an opportunity arose—one as dangerous as it was perfect.
۶ৎ The forbidden fruit. Fae fruit.
۶ৎ He knew the legends were true: a full human who consumed the fruit of his homeland would spiral into a permanent, hollow madness, their soul effectively burned away by the intensity of the magic. The pure power running through their blood would act like a lethal intoxicant, leaving them either a mindless puppet or a corpse.
۶ৎ A human... a complete human would break. But you were not whole, and that was the gamble he was willing to take. There was only one thing in existence that iron magic could not suppress.
۶ৎ Fae magic at its most primal, ingested source. Once inside your body, the fruit's power would be so overwhelming that the iron would no longer be able to mute your spirit. You would either succumb to his every command, or your dormant side would wake with such ferocity that you would rip the necklace off yourself just to stop the internal pressure.
۶ৎ When you finally tasted it, the reaction was more exquisite than he had dared to hope. The scent of you—the real you—erupted, filling his senses like a thousand gardens blooming in an instant. He watched, enthralled, as gold and silver sparks flickered in your pupils while your human consciousness struggled to process the influx of power.
۶ৎ "Oh, how terribly unkind of me," he murmured, his voice a low purr as he caught your swaying form. His arm coiled around your waist like a serpent, steadying you. "To have offered such a delicacy without explaining the... profound effects."
۶ৎ "Wha..." You could barely draw breath. Your nervous system was screaming, every nerve ending firing at once, but the epicenter of the agony was your throat. The skin beneath the iron was turning a violent, angry red. With a surge of strength you didn't know you possessed, you shoved him back, gripping the edge of a heavy table for support. "What the hell did you give me?" you demanded, your voice trembling with a fury he had never seen.
۶ৎ It felt as though something inside you was trying to claw its way out, to shred your skin and manifest in the air. "Fuck..." Your voice cracked. The pain was astronomical. Even the friction of your clothes against your skin felt like tongues of flame. "It burns! It hurts!"
۶ৎ You reached for the necklace, but the moment your fingers touched the metal, it felt like grabbing a live wire. The iron was fighting the magic now, and you were the battlefield.
۶ৎ "Ah, yes. My poor, Milaya¹," he whispered. In less than a heartbeat, he was behind you, his body pressing yours firmly against the table, pinning you in place. "I would tear the very sky asunder to finally bring your true self into the light." He began to speak in a tongue that sounded like grinding stones and melodic glass, a language you couldn't understand but which vibrated in your very marrow. His voice seemed to fill the room, the walls, the very air in your lungs, making escape an impossibility.
۶ৎ "Stay away..." you gasped, but it was a pathetic, broken plea. Your fingernails dug into the wood of the table until they almost bled. You knew it was the necklace; you knew he wanted it gone. But the defiant, human part of you clung to your grandmother’s warning, even as your skin felt like it was being flayed alive by the awakening power within.
۶ৎ "I see," he began, and that soft, polite smile of his twisted into a glint of teasing and cheekiness you had never seen before. You could have sworn the thunder began to manifest outside at his very whim, the cold rain dropping furiously against the windows as if the sky itself were weeping in anticipation. "You are incredibly stubborn; I admire that, but..." His long, cool fingers hooked beneath your chin, tilting your head back until his eyes found yours—eyes that drank in the human fury he seemed to enjoy so much. "Take it off."
۶ৎ Your hand flew instinctively to the necklace, ignoring the searing, white-hot sensation against your palms. It was as if your soul—that fragile, lingering part of your humanity—could no longer ignore the gravity of his command. It was as if the magic now roaring through your blood had no choice but to obey or tear your very vessel apart.
۶ৎ And then... it happened. The sharp, discordant snap of the iron breaking filled the room like a gunshot, and then...
¹Milaya (Милая): My sweetheart/my dear (femenine).
²Dushamoya (Душа моя): my soul (femenine).
︵ . ︵﹒︵୨ ꒰ Obsession ꒱ ୧︵ . ︵﹒︵
The world had become far too much.
The sound of the rain was no longer a rhythmic patter, but a thunderous, rhythmic drumming that vibrated through your very marrow. The rush of your own breath sounded like a gale, and the frantic staccato of your heart against your eardrums was deafening. Even the colors of the room had sharpened into something jagged and blinding; it was as if the light you had perceived with human eyes had been a mere imitation—viewed through dirty, clouded crystals that could never hope to capture the true, searing brilliance of the world.
You could no longer bear the weight of it. Your pulse raced with a terrifying velocity, and the scent of the wet earth from the cemetery outside—mingled with the sudden, heady musk of your own awakening essence—swirled into a sickening vortex. It made you nauseous, a physical vertigo that threatened to shatter your mind. Your human vessel was finally fracturing under the strain, unable to contain the raw, ancient power of a soul that had been caged for far too long.
"Hu...rts..." The word was a broken sliver of sound, barely a ghost of a whisper, but it was more than enough for his perfect, predatory ears to catch.
It was then that you felt it—the ghost of a soft, lingering kiss pressed over the bridge of your nose. His lips were unnaturally cold, yet as soft as the finest silk. His fingers, which had been anchoring your chin, slid upward to cradle the salt-slicked skin of your cheek. You were crying, the tears hot and heavy, though you hadn't even realized when the first sob had broken through.
"Please focus on me, Dushamoya²," he murmured, and then came that sensation again—the ghost of those soft lips pressing against your feverish skin. It felt as though your body had become a blank, open page, every touch so vivid it seemed to pierce through the surface to brush directly against your raw nerves. You couldn't have known how utterly hypnotized he was, how deeply he was reeling from the sheer, intoxicating reality of having you finally unchained.
The scent of your true kind was rising from you now, drowning out the world. He listened to the frantic drum of your human heart—a mere vessel for the brilliant, unearthly soul you carried. His eyes, like twin pours of molten sunlight, traveled down to your throat where the iron had left its mark. The sight of that angry, weeping redness taining your skin made him furious; it was a sacrilege that such a horrendous thing had ever been permitted to touch you.
Flins stared at you, watching your eyes remain squeezed shut, your eyelashes clumped together with the weight of the tears still rolling down your cheeks. Yet, the agony was no longer tearing you apart; it had begun to melt into a heavy, rhythmic thrum. "Open your eyes, my dear."
"I can't..." you replied, your voice a fractured thing. Everything was still far too loud, far too bright. "I feel too much... everything—what have you done to me?"
You felt one of his long, unfairly elegant fingers hook behind your ear, brushing your hair aside to fully expose the ruined skin of your neck to his gaze.
"My apologies," he began, his free hand finding its way to the first button of your shirt. You felt the fabric shift under his graceful movements as he worked the fastenings, eventually peeling the collar back to expose the curve of your shoulder. Goodness... the skin was a scorched crimson, and he could still smell the lingering, bitter tang of the iron. He wanted to scrub every trace of it away—to erase anything that reminded him of the moments when you weren't entirely his. "Allow me to make your senses finally focus on one thing."
He tilted your head back with a slow, cat-like grace. First came his breath against your skin, unnaturally cold and smelling of winter air; then, the velvet softness of his nose brushed that sensitive hollow of your throat. Your body instinctively surged, wanting to both recoil and lean into him. Finally, his lips met your skin—damp and impossibly soft—pressing directly into the bruised path where the iron had damaged you only moments ago.
"...?!"
It wasn't painful. Instead, it was as if a phantom feather had brushed your skin—as if the unnatural coldness of his lips was simultaneously a soothing ointment for your bruises and a trail of liquid fire ignited within your nerves.
He felt it instantly: the sharp, sudden tension in your frame before the involuntary surrender of your body into his hands. A teasing, predatory smile curved his lips as his nose explored the column of your throat. With a bold, possessive movement, he took the soft skin of your neck into his mouth, sucking with an intensity that made his intentions agonizingly clear. And then, he heard it.
"Ngh...!"
That soft, broken sound—an involuntary whimper that made him want to turn you around and tear you apart right there on the table.
"I dont want you to open your eyes," he whispered, his voice vibrating against your skin as he admired the blooming redness of his most recent mischief. He pressed a kiss into the hollow of your ear—that agonizingly sensitive spot—eliciting a shuddering reaction from your body. One of his hands moved to shield your eyes, keeping you submerged in darkness, while the other anchored you in place, exactly where he wanted you. "You aren't yet ready to see the world as it truly is."
He lashed his tongue against your skin in a slow, deliberate stroke, and your back arched instinctively. In this newfound sensory overload, you could hear the thrum of his heartbeat—steady and ancient—and then, that smell.
It was an intoxicating musk that seemed to coax your senses out of hiding. You couldn't tell if the scent belonged to you or to him, but it made your head spin. Even though your mind was a chaotic blur, your body was reacting with a primal urgency to something you didn't yet fully understand.
You felt the biting cold of the table as your elbows leaned over the wood, your chest pressing against the surface to steady yourself. The sensation helped ground you in the darkness, making it feel as if all your remaining senses were attuned solely to him—to the precision of his touch, the soft intent behind his kisses, and the way his tongue explored the line of your neck. His kisses trailed downward to your shoulder, where he caught the skin in a sharp, sudden nibble.
"You..." He pressed a final, lingering kiss to your shoulder, right beside his most recent decoration—a flush of pink that was already deepening into a dark, telltale mark. "You make me want to stop playing the gentleman, my love. You make me want to force the night, the moon, and every star beyond the sky to watch as I become a sinner just for you."
When he finally uncovered your eyes, lifting you until you were perched upon the table, the world rushed in. The swirling magic within you had finally begun to settle, cooling into a steady hum. Everything was impossibly bright, but now you noticed something more: a deep, ethereal blue aura clung to him like a shroud of quiet fire, the very manifestation of his ancient soul. His hand reached out, a single finger poised to brush the bruised, angry skin of your throat, but...
Slap!
Perhaps you weren't entirely in your right mind, or perhaps the Fae blood in your veins had finally woken up with a vengeful spark. You didn't care that he was clearly something far beyond human; you lunged forward, fist bunching in the fine fabric of his clothes, hauling him so close that his intoxicating scent nearly drowned you.
"I don't know what the hell you think you’ve done to me," you began, your breath ragged and hot against his face. The heat wasn't just blooming in your cheeks; the lingering ghost of his kisses felt like a brand on your skin. "But you’re going to finish exactly what you started, and you’re going to do it now. Then, you’re going to explain what the fuck is going on before I lose my temper."
Flins studied your face, captivated by the volatile cocktail of fury and determination. He saw the desire you were trying—and failing—to hide, and the part of you that was still utterly terrified by the crumbling of your reality.
"I will," he whispered, his hand lingering over the cheek where he had earlier wiped away your tears. He was incredibly serious now, his voice a low, sacred vow. "I promise."
"You better." you retorted, refusing to let go, your forehead pressed against his as you breathed over his lips.
A slow, teasing smile curled his mouth. He was clearly savoring the way you were now unashamedly demanding to be consumed by him and his flames. "Whatever am I going to do with that mouth of yours?" He began to trail kisses along your jawline, his lips following the delicate curve until they fell back onto the sensitive skin of your neck, where the redness was already starting to fade as your body’s new, accelerated healing took hold.
He pressed one last, lingering kiss there—a deep, possessive mark that made your back arch deliciously, forcing a sound from your throat that sounded dangerously like a moan.
"Such an unashamed lady," he murmured. His hand pressed against your chest, guiding you back until you rested on your elbows. He looked down at you, relishing the defiant hunger in your eyes as the marks of his kisses bloomed across your skin like dark, bruised roses in the moonlight.
You watched as he finally drew his gloves off, cast aside as if the mere barrier between his skin and yours had become an unbearable sacrilege. It was as if he physically needed to feel the feverish heat of your pulse against his own preternatural cold, direct and unyielding.
You weren't sure what was more devastating: the suffocating, torturous slowness with which he began to undress you, or the way he systematically tested every soft, aching curve of your body. His touch sent tremors through your frame, forcing your back to arch against the hard wood of the table as he drove your mind and soul toward a jagged edge. All the while, the remaining magic of the fruit continued its work, peeling back the mundane film from your eyes until you finally began to see the world as your true self always should have—vibrant, terrifying, and beautiful.
He stole a lingering kiss that seemed to draw the very breath from your lungs. You could still taste the phantom sweetness of the forbidden fruit in his mouth too as he swept you up, his powerful hands anchoring beneath your thighs to carry you toward his bedroom. Your arms wound tightly around his neck, grounding you as his kisses made you lose all track of time and the fading world outside.
It felt as though he had physically transported a piece of his snowy, ancient homeland into the room with you. The air grew sharp and charged with the scent of frost and magic as the bedroom door clicked shut, the sound final and heavy.
And you knew, as his gaze locked onto yours with a terrifying, blue-fire intensity, that you couldn't escape anymore.
The moment the last of his clothes touched the floor, it was as if your newly awakened senses snapped into a singular, sharp focus: him.
Inevitably, your eyes traveled downward, lingering for just a heartbeat, and you felt a fresh wave of heat creep as rapidly toward your hairline as he gracefully climbed into the bed with you. Flins didn't miss the deepening flush or the way your gaze had stuttered over his form; as he settled between your thighs, he offered only a knowing, dark glint in his eyes, choosing to let the observation pass without a word—for now.
His lips claimed yours, and you responded with a hunger that felt entirely natural, yet terrifyingly potent. Perhaps it was the way his unnatural body made your own feel everything ten times more intensely, or perhaps it was the raw intimacy of the way he held your hand, anchoring you as he began to sink inside. He moved with a torturous slowness, as if he wanted you to feel every agonizing second he had spent waiting to finally savor you, until at last, he was seated completely within you.
"Ah...!" You couldn't stifle the sound that escaped your lips, muffled against his mouth. Your back arched instinctively, a visceral reaction to the sheer, overwhelming tide of pleasure that no human touch could have ever provoked.
He shifted his weight onto one elbow, while his other hand clamped firmly onto your waist, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. He began to move, a rhythmic, purposeful glide that made the world tilt on its axis. As his breath brushed against your ear, he whispered a string of low, melodic words in that ancient language you still couldn't understand, though your soul seemed to hum in recognition.
"You feel divine," he murmured, pressing a kiss over that aching, sensitive spot on your neck and stealing another sharp gasp from your lungs. You could hear a soft, dark laugh escaping his lips, a sound of pure, predatory triumph as he watched your body squirm beneath him. "I could spend an eternity unraveling you, and it still wouldn't be enough to satisfy my hunger over you, my treasure."
You tried to respond, you truly tried to... but between the sensation of his skin against your, him deeply buried over you and... and the way the world around you seemed to react so naturally to what was happening in that room, the way you felt the room slightly colder, the way a soft unexplainable wave of electricity traveled through your skin, touching all of your soft spots at once and the way he was so natural in taking you, drinking you in, tasting every one of your reactions as if those were the better jewel he ever got.
"More... Ng—Ah! Don't you dare stop," you breathed out, the words half-command, half-moan. Your mind was a blur of mindless heat, but you still found the strength to sink your hand into the deep blue, silky strands of his hair, giving a sharp, impatient tug to bring his lips back to yours. "Is that all you have? More—ah!"
His hand on your waist slided unashamedly over your lower back, exploring lower until his palm covered the cheek of your ass. Then he began to move as if he wanted to steal every sound you could produce, not from your mouth, but from your soul instead.
"Oh, Celestia..." A low, shuddering groan escaped him as he gave in to the rush, his body vibrating against yours with a terrifying tensity. His voice was dark, heavy with a desire that felt thick enough to touch. Even with your heritage finally surfacing, you felt small, caught in the storm of a soul far older and hungrier than your own. "At this rate, the deads will rise from their tombs just to witness you, my unashamed, beautiful treasure."
It wasn't until you were suspended over the very edge of the abyss, your senses sinking into a deep, crushing wave of pleasure, that you realized you could barely take any more. Thick tears—born of feeling too much, of being too carefully handled and too thoroughly possessed—welled in your eyes. But his lips never let them fall; he kissed your cheeks with such a desperate, worshipful devotion that the intensity with which he was taking you felt almost like a holy contradiction.
Then, the world finally shattered.
As he buried himself deep within you with a final, soul-shattering stroke, his glamour—that perfectly crafted mask of magic—flickered and broke. And you saw it...
Wings.
They weren't solid, but made of a raw, pulsing light—a celestial bleed of deep violet and electric blue that carved through the shadows of the room. They were massive, terrifyingly beautiful, and humming with a power that made the very air vibrate.
Your body was ruined, trembling and spent, yet your hand moved on its own. You reached out, fingers ghosting against that impossible light. The contact didn't feel like feathers or skin; it was a violent jolt of pure static, a rhythmic thrum that centered right in your chest. The wings arched under your touch, fluttering with a sharp, sentient shiver—as if his very soul was recognizing yours—before the light snapped shut. In a heartbeat, the brilliance was gone, swallowed back into the darkness as if they were never there, as the facade settled once more.
His weight remained heavy and warm over yours as the sheer scale of the night’s events finally began to settle into your bones. Your eyelids felt leaden, barely fluttering open when you felt the ghost of his lips against the corner of your mouth.
A Fae… All this time, that was his secret.
You forced yourself to look at him one last time before surrendering to the pull of the dark. Those beautiful pools of light—his eyes, stripped of their human mask—stared back at you with a terrifyingly pure devotion. His fingers, cool and steady, tucked a few stray strands of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that made your heart ache.
"You have a lot to explain..." you managed to murmur. Your voice was a mere rasp as he shifted, moving his body beside yours with a fluid grace that proved he didn't feel even a hint of the exhaustion currently crushing you.
"Rest, my dear," he whispered. His lips pressed against your forehead, a touch so soft it felt like a benediction, as he pulled you flush against his side. "Let the night take you once again."
As if his words were a literal enchantment, your consciousness began to slip away against your will. The manic rush of the fruit had finally bled out of your system, leaving only the hidden side of the moon—the part of you you never knew existed—to finally shine bright into the silence of the room.
૮꒰ 𓈒. ݂ .𓈒ྀི ꒱ა ┊If Varka were a pet, he would definitely be a golden retriever. Imagine him turning into an animal after testing one of Sucrose's potions; because he’s the type to adopt everyone, he would have been all too willing to help. He’d end up as a beautiful dog, and of course, you wouldn't know it was him. You would simply take care of him because he’s such a handsome and playful dog that you couldn't just leave him. You’d feed him, bathe him, play with him, and watch his tail wag suspiciously fast whenever he sees you drinking.
Pet! Varka would love cuddling, letting you scratch behind his soft ears and kiss his head. But deep in the night, the potion wears off, and you wake up on the sofa—where the alcohol made you drift off—only to find soft blonde hair against your thigh. It’s no longer a dog, but the Grandmaster himself resting peacefully. With his head in your lap and his breathing soft, he is clearly content to have all your attention. Even in such peculiar circumstances, he seems to enjoy having you all to himself.
૮꒰ 𓈒. ݂ .𓈒ྀི ꒱ა ┊Idk if you guys would like this one... but I loved crafting it at my little alchemy table because Varka may have stolen my heart just a little—ehem! If you like it, please give me a heart, reblog, or comment; I would love to know what you think. Bye bye~! ໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ♡.
۶ৎ Masterlist: Strawberry — Masterlist
۶ৎ Requests: Requests ⋆˚࿔ (closed).
૮꒰ 𓈒. ݂ .𓈒ྀི ꒱ა ┊ Pov: What is it like raising Grand Master Varka’s children... when the two of you are clearly still in love with each other?
﹒‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦︶︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹
۶ৎ First things first... it may be obvious, but Varka is an incredible father. When his pair of blonde copies—his four-year-old son and daughter—see him return to Mondstadt, they sprint to him. He doesn't care if he’s in the middle of a formal knight salute or standing before the cathedral; he lets them shower him in affection, hoisting them up as if they were as light as dandelion seeds.
۶ৎ In the eyes of Mondstadt, you are still the Grand Master’s wife. Even though you’ve corrected the rumors a thousand times, people just smile and nod. No one would dare disrespect the mother of the Knight of Boreas’s twins, nor would they overstep with a woman who clearly still holds the heart of their commander.
۶ৎ The way he looks at you makes the word divorced feel like a technicality that neither of you truly believes in.
۶ৎ Then there is your son, who insists on expeditions in the backyard. Varka will spend hours hunched over, teaching him the proper way to grip a wooden sword, his voice booming with pride.
۶ৎ It usually takes a very determined Jean, clutching a mountain of overdue paperwork, to finally drag him away from the "training grounds" of your garden.
۶ৎ His relationship with you is where his Grand Master confidence wavers. He is a total gentleman, always there to lend a hand even when it has nothing to do with the kids.
۶ৎ When he catches himself doing something domestic—like reaching over to tuck a stray hair behind your ear—he’ll cough and look away. "I’m very sorry... sometimes I forget we aren't together anymore," he’ll mutter, secretly loving the way your face flushes.
۶ৎ You both agreed to stay on good terms, but you still act like a married couple. Varka often returns to his house to find a warm meal waiting on the table because you never gave back your key, and he never asked for his. The muscle memory of caring for him is too strong to break.
۶ৎ On your most stressful days, he’ll whisk the kids away so you can have a night out with Lisa and Jean. But the melting point always comes when you return home.
۶ৎ You’ll walk into the bedroom to find this massive, legendary man sprawled across the kids' bed, a twin tucked under each arm, with an unfinished storybook resting on his chest.
۶ৎ Even from the distant, cold peaks of Nod-krai or beyond, his care reached you. You receive regular letters—not just about the kids, but asking if your coat is warm enough or if you’ve tried the new tea blend from Liyue because he knows how much you like their tea.
۶ৎ To Varka, you and the twins are the quiet, steady center of his chaotic world, and he ensures you never want for anything.
۶ৎ Seeing him help with chores is a sight to behold. There is something inexplicably cute about the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, a man who can slay dragons, standing at your small kitchen sink with his sleeves rolled up, carefully scrubbing dinner plates while humming a Mondstadt folk song.
۶ৎ Your shared nights are the hardest to move on from. You’ll sit on the couch with a bottle of Dandelion Wine, laughing about how dumb and impulsive you both were when you first started dating. But as the fire burns low, the laughter dies down into a heavy, comfortable silence.
۶ৎ Neither of you knows how to say goodbye; you just keep finding excuses to stay in each other's orbit, breathing the same air until the sun comes up.
۶ৎ He still treats your birthday like a national holiday. He takes you to dinner and orders your favorites without looking at the menu because your tastes are forged into his heart. And when you inevitably fall asleep on the sofa, he carries you to bed with a gentleness that belongs only to you.
۶ৎ Mornings are the warmest. Though he trains at dawn, he always circles back to your house to get ready for the day. He’ll sit at the breakfast table, the smell of coffee and iron hanging around him, telling the twins grand stories of his travels while his eyes linger on you, silently wishing he never had to leave the house at all.
︵ . ︵﹒︵୨ ꒰ Coparenting꒱ ୧︵ . ︵﹒︵
If you were being honest with yourself, every time the two of you ended up this way—on that couch, sharing dandelion wine and laughing about memories of the past—it only made your heart fall for him more.
It was a lovely thing to find that he kept those memories just as safe as you did, tucked away in the very depths of his heart. But that was the problem. He kept them there... just as much as you did.
You took a long, deep drink of the wine, letting the warmth of the alcohol invade your throat—a desperate way of distracting your thoughts. But when you looked to your side, those beautiful blue eyes, bright as sapphires, were already staring at you. He looked at you with an affection he didn't even dare to hide, making your heart spike dangerously.
"If it wasn't for the alcohol," he began, a contented smile spreading across his lips—Gods, how could he be so beautiful?—"I would say you are trying to distract yourself again."
"Me?" you asked, letting out a happy, dizzy giggle that you didn't realize affected him so deeply. "I could never..." You rested your head against the comfort of the couch, staring at a blank point in the room. "I am just enjoying my time now that our two little knights are sleeping." Even with your eyes closed, you could feel the smile on his lips at the nickname you gave the twins.
But then you opened your eyes. Your gaze found his, and it was as if the world itself had stopped. Nothing else mattered in that moment of silence, where the only sound between you was the crackle of the wood in the hearth.
You didn't notice when you got closer, or when he did. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the longing from his long absence, or maybe... maybe the facade was finally falling for both of you.
"I hated when you went to the expedition," you admitted in a whisper, your shoulder finally touching his as your faces drew closer.
"I know," Varka said. You could feel the vibration of his voice hum through your own body—a strange and delicious feeling.
"I didn't want to admit how much it scared me..." you finally let it out, looking up into those eyes. Your hand rose doubtfully before finally finding the soft, warm skin of his cheek. "That you might not come back."
His hand found yours, wrapping over it and making you feel small once again—not only physically, but emotionally. He pressed his lips, soft and caring, against the back of your hand, making poor hearts jump in your chest.
"I will always find my way back home," he said. You both knew what he truly meant:
I will always find my way back to you.
Your nose brushed his. A small, coherent part of you whispered that this was wrong—that you had gotten a divorce for a reason—but that logic was rapidly forgotten as you felt his lips over the bridge of your nose. It was a soft kiss that made you close your eyes until, finally, his lips found yours.
It wasn't hidden, and it wasn't shy. It was as if the two of you had never separated. His hand found the nape of your neck, keeping you grounded, his thumb stroking softly in circles while his lips moved against yours with a tenderness that could make you melt right there. Your hand buried itself in his hair, those soft blonde strands you had always loved to touch.
For a moment, everything was perfect. But when you finally broke the kiss and looked at each other, the soft pink on his cheeks—certainly not from the alcohol—contrasted with the heat reaching your own ears. It was almost funny.
"I..." you began, suddenly finding a random corner of the living room very interesting. "I’m sorry, I... I got carried away and—" You tried to put some distance between you, but he wouldn't let you.
One of his hands wrapped around your wrist while the other found its way under your chin, forcing you to look at him.
"I’m not."
Varka finally admitted it, watching the heat creep across your face. He laughed, a soft, warm sound that was music to your ears. "If I’m honest with you, it’s something I should have done a long time ago. Kissing you."
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to hide the shy smile beginning to show on your lips—the same lips he had just kissed so devotedly.
"The truth is, I have missed you deeply," his hands wrapped over yours. "And if you allow me, I want to court you once again."
"Varka..."
"I know, it didn't work the first time, but..." His smile only made yours grow. "We aren't as young or inexperienced as we were. To be honest, being so far from home made me realize how much I missed coming back to the only person who knows how to make Jean catch me for paperwork."
The sound of your laugh made him smile.
"You."
"It seems they were right..." you whispered, resting your head on his shoulder, a happy smile spreading over your lips that you didn't want to show him yet. When you looked at him again, his eyes were filled with profound curiosity.
"What is that?" he asked, his hand slipping around your waist and pulling you impossibly closer.
Finding courage in the remaining alcohol in your system—or rather, using it as a perfectly crafted excuse—you closed your eyes and let the masculine scent of him envelope you. You finally whispered in a tone of lovely, defeated surrender:
