varka x fem!reader | 2.3k+ words
synopsis: you teach Varka how to braid wildflowers into a crown, your hands clumsy at first, but growing patient and familiar, together.
content: fluff, established relationship, varka being a yearning gentleman once again
It was in the earliest hour of afternoon, when the estate gardens lay almost lazily beneath the polite warmth of spring, that he found you among the cecilias and pale sweet peas, beneath the great willow that bent over the creek, a tree the villagers spoke of with lowered voices, for they claimed it had stood there longer than the house itself, drinking secrets from the water and keeping them in its roots. Children were warned not to linger beneath its branches at dusk, lest the willow take a fancy to them and follow them home in their dreams. Yet in the gentle light of day, it appeared harmless enough, its long green tendrils swaying like a curtain in the wind.
You sat there quiet as though you had always belonged to the place. The air was perfumed with new blossoms and damp earth, and the only sounds were the distant song of birds, the gentle babbling of water, and the soft, absent-minded hum of bees that seemed far too content with their own industry.
You were seated where the sunlight fell kindly, your skirts gathered neatly about you, and in your hands lay a small gathering of flowers, half-tamed already by your patient work. Stem by stem, you twisted them together with delicate concentration, as Varka thought, the world beyond the hedges, with its obligations, its gossip, and its endless expectations, could not possibly intrude upon so simple a task.
There were many things the Grand Master could endure with admirable composure: the sharp bark of command, the bitter insult of winter marches, councils that dragged on long past reason, and the company of arrogant knights. He had faced blood and steel with less hesitation than most men faced their own thoughts, and when duty called him toward some distant cold land, he had answered without complaint, surrendering glory as easily as another man might surrender a glass of dandelion wine.
But a quiet woman in a garden, braiding blossoms into a crown with hands so careful they seemed to soften the very air, was a far more dangerous affair.
He lingered a moment at the edge of the path, as though uncertain whether he had stumbled upon a sanctuary or a snare, before clearing his throat.
“Am I to understand,” he began, his voice pitched in that careful tone he reserved for battle reports and disobedient men, “that you intend to crown yourself Queen of the Garden?”
Yet the attempt at severity did not survive him. It softened at once, betrayed by the faint curve of his mouth and the warmth in his blue eyes. He stepped nearer, the light catching cruelly at the scar along his throat, and held out his hands with reluctant honesty.
“If so,” he added, lowering his gaze to the tangle of stems and petals at your lap, “I must confess I have never been trained for such duties. I hope you don’t expect me to be any help to you.”
You rolled your eyes, your mouth curving as if his earnestness were the most entertaining thing you had heard all day.
“For myself?” you echoed, glancing down at the half-finished crown in your lap. “No. Certainly not.”
The words were delivered too easily, too innocently, to be believed. You let them sit there for a moment, like bait, before looking back up at him with that mischievous spark in your eyes he’d learned to fear more than any blade.
And something in his expression shifted slowly as understanding caught up with him.
“Oh,” he said, the single syllable full of alarm.
His gaze fell again to the flowers, then back to you, as though hoping you might deny him the truth out of mercy.
“If you’re about to make me wear that,” he said at last, already stepping backward as if retreat were still an option, “I swear to the Archons, I’m leaving the nation.”
You laughed, soft and bright, and before he could commit to his escape, you reached for him.
“Sit with me, O’ Great Grand Master,” you murmured, your voice gentle as you wrapped your hand around his wrist.
He barely had time to protest before you tugged him down into the grass beside you. He landed with a disgruntled huff, all long limbs and wounded dignity, and you answered it with another giggle, quiet and delighted, as though you had won something.
He had faced men twice his size without flinching. He had stared down winter itself in a far-off frozen land. Yet nothing unsteadied him quite like the sound of your laughter, soft and sweet, lingering with warmth and surrounding him like an angel’s whisper.
You shifted closer, your skirts brushing the grass, and extended your arm toward him. Between your fingers, you held a small flower, one pale valberry blossom, delicate as breath, its petals trembling faintly in the breeze like it feared his rough hands.
He stared at it, clearly not sure what he was meant to do next.
Carefully, he accepted it, pinching the stem between two scarred fingers.
“You expect me to do something with this,” he said, eyeing you suspiciously.
“I expect you,” you replied, eyes gleaming, and before he could protest, you caught his wrist and tugged him a little closer, “to try.”
His mouth twitched, a smile trying and failing to stay hidden. “That’s just cruel.”
“And yet,” you murmured, leaning in so your shoulder brushed his, “you keep coming back.”
He let out a quiet exhale through his nose, somewhere between resignation and fondness, and held the flower up between you like he was inspecting evidence in a case he was already losing.
“Old wives claim flower crowns were once made to keep knights from being called back to dangerous expeditions and battles,” you added casually, as if you weren’t watching his reaction. “Like a charm. To bind them to peace.”
He gave you a flat look. Entirely unimpressed.
“Nonsense,” he muttered, though he didn’t hand the flower back.
You smiled, pleased with yourself. “There’s also a saying,” you continued, your tone softening on purpose, all innocent sweetness and trouble. “‘If a man lets you place a crown on his head, he’s already half yours.’”
He blinked once, like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or protest.
“That’s definitely nonsense,” he said, though the faintest flush betrayed him.
“Mm,” you hummed, leaning a little closer. “Still doesn’t seem to bother you.”
He stared at the flower again, then back at you, as if realizing he’d already lost.
“Very well,” he said at last. “Show me.”
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you shifted closer, settling into him like it was second nature, your knee nudging his, your side pressed lightly against his so he couldn’t pretend there was any space left between you. He didn’t move away. He never did.
Your hand slid over his, guiding it into a better grip. His fingers were rough compared to yours, but he relaxed into your touch almost immediately, like he trusted it without thinking.
He watched your hands more than the flower, his gaze tracking every small movement as you worked.
“Like this,” you said softly, leaning in so your breath caught against his cheek, “not too tight. You’ll crush it.”
“I am trying not to,” he muttered, voice barely a breath, concentration giving way to something quieter as his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your knuckles.
As you shifted in the grass, the fine lace strap of your dress eased down your shoulder, revealing a quiet line of skin beneath soft fabric. Varka’s eyes caught on it, lingering a moment too long before he looked away.
“Here,” you murmured, reaching for his hand again.
He let you take it, but his fingers stiffened the moment yours guided them into place. You adjusted his grip on the stem, turning it slightly between his fingers.
“Not like you’re fighting it,” you said, a quiet laugh already tugging at your voice.
“I’m not,” he replied, a little too quickly.
Your eyes narrowed in concentration as you studied the braid of flowers in your lap. Your shoulder rested against is as you worked. It was normal by now, the kind of closeness neither of you commented on, but he still went still for a beat anyway.
“Like this,” you said, guiding his hand again.
You shifted, resting your hand briefly on his forearm to steady his motion as you corrected him, and absentmindedly reached up with your other hand to brush a loose strand of hair from his face before it fell into his eyes.
“You always do that,” he muttered.
“Touch me like I’m going to fall apart if you don’t.”
There was no real complaint in it. Just observation.
You hummed lightly, still working the flower between your fingers. “Well, am I wrong?”
“You’re very distracting, you know that?”
You looked at him, clearly entertained. “Funny,” you giggled. “You seem very obedient to me.”
That earned you a look, like he was preparing a rebuttal… until it faltered. He let out a short laugh, shaking his head as a reluctant smile took over his face.
“Are you always this bossy?” he asked.
“Only when someone’s doing it wrong,” you laughed.
He gave a short exhale, shaking his head faintly, the smile still there. “Right. Noted.”
Then, after a beat, quieter: “You know I don’t actually take orders well.”
“I know,” you said softly, leaning back so the sunlight spilled across your skin in gold. “You like to be the one who gives the orders. But it seems that you always listen to me, even when you try not to.”
That shut him up in a way arguments never could.
After that, the conversation faded into something easier.
You worked in a comfortable silence, hands occasionally brushing, his movements growing steadier as he stopped overthinking it. Every now and then he’d glance at you instead of the flowers, like he was checking you were still there, still close.
Eventually, the crown was finished.
You held it up for a moment, inspecting it with exaggerated seriousness.
“Mm,” you said. “Good enough.”
“That does not sound like praise,” he said.
“It’s high praise coming from me.”
He snorted under his breath. “Right.”
Before he could protest further, you lifted the crown and placed it carefully onto his head.
He exhaled through his nose, long and suffering, but didn’t move to take it off.
“You’re ridiculous,” you said softly, tilting your head as you looked at him properly now. The crown sat slightly crooked in his fair hair, and somehow that only made it worse for him. “You know you’re very beautiful like this, don’t you? All blonde hair and pretending you’re not enjoying yourself.”
A faint flush crept up his neck, subtle but unmistakable, and for once he looked away like he had somewhere important to be. The willow above you shifted with the wind, its long branches brushing low like a curtain drawn around the moment, and somewhere beyond the gardens you heard the distant call of a lark rising and fading again.
You reached for the lapel of his jacket, gently cutting off his protest about being humiliated and turned into your unwilling floral display. Instead, much to your pleasure, all you heard was the deep murmur of your name from his lips as you captured him in a soft, slow kiss, like a soothing balm for the worries he had so carefully carried.
But soon enough, you didn’t hold back— couldn’t hold back now that he was within your arms, and with every touch of your lips to his, it was only making you need him more.
Varka met you in earnest, with the same delicate lock of your lips, all tender kisses. He lay you down on the soft grass with your legs around his waist and his hand cradling the back of your head.
The world above opened wide and endless, sky washed pale and quiet, drifting clouds moving like slow thoughts across it.
A weary sigh escaped you when he pulled back to study you.
There he was, that tender expression above you, as though he had never belonged anywhere else.
The flower crown still sat slightly crooked in his hair, petals catching on strands that the sun had turned nearly gold. Light gathered along the lines of him, across the strong slope of his shoulder, the scar at his throat softened by time, the easy weight of his presence under the blue. Even still, he looked built for motion, for battle, for something far larger than this quiet garden.
And yet, here he was, ruined by flowers and your gentle hands.
You reached out again, brushing a loose strand of hair away from his eyes, your fingers lingering for just a second too long, and the thought came to you without warning, strange and certain all at once, that he looked less like a man in that moment, and more like something the world had briefly decided to bless and forget.
Like a god who had wandered too far from his war.
Then, gently, you drew him closer, and he came with you as if he’d been waiting for it. His head rested against your chest, the tension in him easing all at once, like something in him had finally decided it was safe to stop holding itself together.
You brushed his hair back again, slower this time, letting your hand linger as if you had nowhere else to be. Varka’s presence felt heavy and real against you, grounding in a way nothing else ever quite managed, like a truth you didn’t need to name to understand.
And neither of you moved to break it.
The willow bent overhead, the light changed, and still you stayed, eyes drifting closed, like the world had decided, just for a little while, to leave you both exactly as you were.
