If chaos was a productivity method.

Just twenty more minutes.

His blue eyes never dared to leave the round face of the wall clock. He tuned out everything else around him, including the unfinished email that needed to be sent by yesterday.

He cannot find the right word to continue this one sentence… he’ll finish it tomorrow.

The quiet ticking sound, the way the red hand glides so agonizingly slow, it all put him into a trance.

It may be the lack of sleep talking, but the clock resembles his life in his eyes and he is the red hand. Mindlessly spinning around and around in an endless loop, hoping that reaching twelve is the finish line, only to end up right back at one.

When will his clock finally stop ticking?

Just ten more minutes.

The heaven-sent phrase that gets him through the day, hell, the week, even: “Just make it to friday,” “Just three more days,” “Just 9 more minutes.”

Nothing motivates Illuga more than going home to his crappy one-bedroom apartment every night.

Although he has just as much fun at home as he does at work, at least there’s no more useless social interaction, work, emails, or clocks to distract him.

He will finally get to be with his bird and the love of his life after work. His only motivation to keep himself breathing every day.

He has to live for them.

If not, who else will?

You have just as much family as he. None. You cut them along with your friends off when you moved out 4 years ago. Your only other relationship is Illuga, and he wants to keep it that way.

Now it’s 5PM.

Just like everyday, Illuga quickly collects his things and walks right out of the office building. He doesn’t spare anyone a passing glance, his coworkers do the same. Everyone is just ready to get the hell home.

Earlier today he heard talk of a brunch meetup in a few days. He was invited and spared no time to decline.

Why would he have a meal with a bunch of people he disliked? It’s not like he would order anything in the first place.

Speaking of food, What am I going to eat tonight?

He has only eaten half a slice of bread today and that was eight hours ago. He’s so hungry that he feels nothing in his stomach but a dull aching pain.

Does he have enough money to go get something?

He does, but he doesn’t feel like indulging in any more unnecessary social interaction.

I hope I have food in the fridge.

Does Aedon even have enough food? And what about you?

Maybe he should pick something up from the store… tomorrow.

He should make a list.

Pulling out his phone, right as Illuga opens the notes app someone calls him. Of course someone is calling him.

There are only three people who would be contacting him, his old man, Flins, or his boss telling him that he’s fired.

Unfortunately it’s not the latter — it’s Flins. His only friend.

Flins, although he may not show it, has always been a close friend to Illuga. He stayed by his side during the most unfortunate thing to ever happen to him: the death of his parents in that house fire. The day that shaped the outcome of his life forever.

Flins had noticed the change in Illuga as they both watched his childhood home collapse in a fiery hell before them both, along with his dear mother and father.

It felt like a dream, a hellish nightmare that could never happen to anyone in real life, let alone himself. Sometimes Illuga can’t even remember his parents faces, their names or that the event even happened.

He shivers.

Ever since that day Flins kept an eye on Illuga (after being told to do so by his adoptive Father Nikita). His friend notices everything: how less Illuga genuinely smiles, how he doesn’t go out anymore unless it’s for work, how he doesn’t sleep, how he barely eats.

Illuga used to be so respectful, so kind, so helpful, but now he’s only an empty shell of his former self.

It’s gotten to the point where Flins doesn’t know how to help him anymore.

“Hey Flins,” the man smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes nor his tone.

Flins tried to pay it no mind, “Look who decided to pick up this time!”

“Haha, yeah… I just got off work.”

“I knew it was the right time. What have you been doing recently? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

Illuga briefly stops walking. What has he been doing other than work, go home, sleep, repeat?

Uhh… lie! Lie! Just lie.

“I’ve had lots of plans recently so it’s been hard to pick up the phone, you know?” Not entirely false, not entirely true.

“I totally get it, so have I.” He bought it. probably. “How has your fiancée been? You two still plan on getting married?”

His eyes grow wide, red dusting at his cheeks, “Y- yeah! Of course! We just had to delay it a few months because of some… reception difficulties.”

“Really?” Flins asks, “Well I sure hope that gets sorted out soon.”

Illuga unlocks his apartment door, ready to get off the phone. “Same here. Uh, Flins, I have to go now. Bye!”

“Bye—!”

He lets out a dramatic sigh. That was way more talking than he wanted it to be. He’s just glad that it’s over with for now.

He walks over to his bird cage, “Hey, Aedon!” His golden bird happily chirps at him and gently flutters his wings. Illuga takes note of his empty bird feeder and shakes his head.

“You hungry?” He walks over to where he keeps his bags of bird food only to find it empty. “Shit.” Maybe he should have went to the store.

“I’ll get you something tomorrow, I promise,” he makes his way over to the kitchen. He walks past the overflowing trash can, not bothered by the garbage piling up around it.

It stinks of rot and is surrounded by ants and flies. He’ll deal with it tomorrow.

Illuga opens the fridge door and immediately closes it in disappointment.

He opens it again.

On the middle shelf was a carton of Milk that had expired two months ago, a bottle of ketchup, and cheap take-out from a local Liyuean restaurant that’s been sitting in there for two-three weeks.

There was also a half-empty water bottle on the door, but he thinks that belongs to you so he won’t touch it.

Moving onto the pantry, there were unsealed potato chips that are probably stale, a half eaten packet of Oreos that expired three months ago, moldy bread and- moldy bread!?

Knowing that he had eating that bread this morning was enough to make him feel sick. Ironic, isn’t it?

You know what, he isn’t even hungry anymore.

He shuts the pantry and walks to his bedroom. His jacket slides off his shoulders and silently hits the ground. Illuga spots you lying in bed, the very same spot you sleep in every night.

There you are, his beautiful fiancée, the reason Illuga hasn’t gone mad with loneliness.

“You’re already in bed, dear?” Illuga asks you as he gets into bed. You look at him and smile gently, sincerely, “How was work, Illu?”

“Work? It was… the same as always. Boring.” He laughs half-heartedly. Illuga’s hand gently caressed up your arm, your cold flesh soft under his fingertips. His cheeks flush red when he leans in and presses a quick kiss against your lips.

One his hands find yours and intertwines your fingers with his, “I missed you so badly today, I couldn’t wait to get home and see you again. Did you miss me too?” Illuga kisses you again, this time with more passion. He bites and sucks on your bottom lip, you whimper into his mouth.

You sound so pretty.

Just how he remembers.

You gently push him away, your hands resting on his face, “Are you alright, Illu?” You frown, “Have you been getting enough sleep lately? You look… sick.”

You feel his forehead with the back of your palms. He laughs and gently places it right back at your side. “Yes, yes, I’m okay-“

“Have you been eating enough?”

Illuga freezes, swallows, and opens his mouth, “I skipped lunch today… but I swear I’m fine. I’m not hungry, I had toast for breakfast!” He holds your face in his hands, his blue eyes filled with adoration. “Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m doing perfectly fine.”

You decided to drop the topic when he rests his head against your chest, right on the reddish-brown spot on your blouse. He really needs to wash that stain out. He can do it tomorrow.

His hand delicately caressed down your body, trembling as he grows closer to your inner thigh. He gently ran his fingers along your slit through the thin fabric of your soiled panties, still a bit damp and sticky from last time.

Illuga’s breath grew heavier, his heart beating faster, as did yours. His hand slipped into your panties, one of his fingers slipping inside, then he adds a second.

Desperate moans left your pretty mouth, growing louder when he adds a third finger and hammers against that spongey spot deep inside you. Tears welled in the corners of your eyes as you felt his thumb rubbing mean, tight circles into your clit.

“I can tell you’re almost there,” He whispers, now kissing down your neck. “Come on, cum for me, dear.”

You wasted no time following his directions. 

Slowly, Illuga pulled his fingers out of you and put them in his mouth. He shivers at the taste.

“Good night. I love you.”

He swore that the feeling of your cold skin pressed up against his and your soft breaths were the realest things he’s ever felt.

There’s no way it is just a figment of his imagination.

˚₊‧ ꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Illuga lies next to you, tired yet restless.

He hasn’t been able to sleep for the past few nights.

Was it his guilty conscience?

His grief?

Does he feel sorry about what he’s done to you?

Illuga thinks about it as he stares at your peaceful face, feeling your delicate, paled skin beneath his fingertips. His eyes fall onto the deep wound in your chest, on the left side, right where your heart is.

No. 

He doesn’t feel sorry.

Illuga couldn’t let you leave just like everybody else he cared about. You were the only person that made him feel alive, you’re the reason he is alive.

He will do whatever it takes to keep you by his side forever.

Even if he has to stab you to death in his own apartment.

“Illuga?” Your soft voice catches his attention, taking him right out of his thoughts. Or is he still in his mind?

For a dead person you sound so alive, so real.

“Yes dear?” He caresses your hair.

“Don’t you need to buy Aedon some food today?.”

“Oh crap, I forgot!”

˚₊‧ ꒰ა ♱ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s been so long since Illuga last left his home on the weekend. He usually rots away in bed all day, not getting up unless it was 100% necessary and this is one of those times.

Illuga didn’t notice the all too familiar person standing right at his doorstep until he gets halfway up the flight of stairs.

“Illuga!”

Startled, the man stumbles back, almost falling down the stairs. He meets eyes with the one person he really doesn’t want to see right now — other than Nikita.

“…Flins?” He tried his best to sound enthused, but it came out half-assed.

Illuga hasn’t been face to face with him in so long. He had forgotten how tall he was.

“Don’t get too excited,” The taller man jokes. Illuga runs the rest of the up the stairs, tripping on his own feet.

“Wh- What are you doing here?” He drops the heavy bag of bird seed, “Don’t you live six hours away??” 

Flins places a hand on his shoulder, “Yes, but I came to visit someone and decided to drop by your home. Although, I did not expect to find you outside.”

“‘My home?’” Illuga can feel the nervous sweat on his brow. “Why- why would you want to go in there?We can’t meet anywhere or anything?”

“We are already here. Might as well.”

Illuga grabs the bag again and unlocks his door, “Uh, my house is a mess and- and I have to feed Aedon so-“

“I won’t be that long.”

Illuga sighs. He knows theres no way to change his mind, hut why is he being so pushy? Was it Nikita that made him do this? Illuga doesn’t need a babysitter. He’s a stable grown man with a job and fiancée-

“Not to be rude, Illuga,” Flins starts. “But what is that smell?”

“Oh? That?” Illuga’s eyes drift to the trash can. “Don’t worry about that.”

After filling Aedon’s bird feeder, Illuga turns around to find Flins approaching his bedroom.

And the door is wide open.

“Is that-!?”

BANG!

Flins’ body fell to the ground with a muted thud.

Over him stood Illuga, panting, in his hand a dirty frying pan. It was the closest thing he could get his hands on.

“You know, Flins, I gave her all of me. All of my time, all of my love, all of my soul… and she still tried to leave me.” The frying pan clatters onto the wooden floor. “A month before our wedding too, can you believe that??”

“But I cannot let you walk away knowing what I did to her. I won’t let you call the cops and have her taken away from me.” He grabs the extension cord plugged into a nearby outlet.

“And I will make sure of it.”

sorry the ending is ass i started to loose motivation and i didn’t want this to end up with the rest of my unfinished wips

you could say this is a bit inspired by cemetery girl by icp but that was unintentional

His palms weren't just warm; they were perpetually radiating a deep, dry heat, as if his internal thermostat was set ten degrees higher than the rest of humanity. It was the body’s way of keeping his sweat primed, his metabolic engine forever idling, ready to ignite at a millisecond’s notice. Your fingers traced the texture of his hand. The pads of his fingers were covered in thick, hardened calluses from a lifetime of controlling detonations. Along the edge of his palm and trailing down his wrist, the skin felt different—tighter, slightly rigid. Faded silver scar tissue from surgeries and ruined muscle fibers, the permanent receipts left behind by the battles he used to find himself in.

As you ran your thumb over the thick muscle beneath his thumb, Katsuki shifted. A low, gravelly grunt vibrated in his chest—a dry, morning sound. Even unconscious, his body reacted. Against your cool skin, his palm twitched, and a tiny, faint tink popped in the air between your hands. A micro-spark, no bigger than a fleck of dust, releasing a puff of warm caramel scent before disappearing into the sheets.

"Stop touching me, 's cold," he mumbled, his voice a deep, rough scrape against the quiet room.

He didn't pull his hand away, though. Instead, his heavy, scarred fingers slowly uncurled, stretched, and then folded completely over yours. His massive, heat-flushed hand swallowed you whole, trapping your cold fingers against the burning expanse of his palm. He pulled your joined hands down to his chest, trapping you against his side. The sheer contrast was ridiculous—his skin radiating enough heat to cure a chill in seconds, his grip heavy and absolute, but held with the exact micro-gram of pressure needed so as not to squeeze too hard.

"You're like a heating pad," you whispered into his collarbone, smiling softly, eyes half lidded with laziness.

"Shut up," he grunted into the pillow, his thumb making one small, deliberate stroke over the back of your hand before his breathing slowed back into the heavy, rhythmic rise and fall of sleep. "Go back to sleep."

His free hand moved to the back of your head, drawing you closer and tucking you against his chest, where the rhythmic beat of his heart slowly lulled you toward sleep. And you let it. The last thing you registered before drifting off was the warmth of his lips pressing softly against your forehead, a quiet promise that he would keep you safe.

There were days you found Katsuki going about his day, his hands handling each task with restraint he had to learn over the years. In combat, he could create spark-sized detonations to flick away debris or adjust a civilian's position without burning them. After work, you had learned that he's an expert knife handler in the kitchen, cuts vegetables with insane accuracy, and fixes gear by hand. Bakugou's version of gentleness isn't shy or soft-spoken. It's deliberate, because he was aware of how much destruction his hands could cause. So holding something delicate—a civilian's hand during a collapse, an injured animal, or someone he cares about—requires absolute, conscious intention.

When Pro Hero Dynamight reached out with a bare hand, he was actively suppressing the very essence of his Quirk. He held them without breaking or burning them. You always considered this his ultimate display of strength.

Then... there were days you'd catch him staring at his own hands.

The late-afternoon heat in the apartment was heavy, but the air coming off his skin was hotter. Katsuki sat on the edge of the low sofa, his forearms resting on his knees, head hung low as the quiet of a rare day off settled into his bones. His right hand was flexed open, fingers splayed over the coarse fabric of his sweatpants. Even at rest, they were broad, heavy things. The skin across the knuckles was thickened into pale, durable calluses—a lifelong trade-off for carrying nitrostarch through his pores. Faded, silvered lines traced the back of his wrists, faint mapped roads from surgeries and forced recoils that only a few people were ever allowed to look at for too long.

He closed his fist slowly, feeling the familiar, dull ache in the deep tissue of his palm. It was a dry, humming warmth—like holding a stone that had been sitting under a summer sun all afternoon.

Unbidden, a faint, rhythmic tink-tink-tink rattled off his thumb pad—micro-ignitions, harmless as static electricity, smelling faintly of burnt sugar and stale copper. He caught it immediately, his jaw tightening as he reined the spark back in.

Control.

He uncurled his hand again, reaching down to pick up a thin ceramic teacup left on the low table, a tea with dried jasmine you had left for him earlier. His fingers—calloused, scarred, built entirely for demolition—wrapped around the brittle porcelain with a precision so quiet it felt almost unnatural. No strain, no heat bleed, not even the whisper of a spark against the glazed rim. He lifted it, took a single swallow, and set it back down without making a sound.

He stared at his palm for a long moment, watching the faint pulse beneath the heat-flushed skin. The world called them weapons. But in the silence of his room, holding the quiet without breaking it, Katsuki knew better. They were just his.

The couch dipped under fresh weight, breaking the quiet. The sleeve of your shirt brushed his arm as you leaned back comfortably. Katsuki didn't turn his head, but his thumb brushed once against his palm—a reflexive check—before his hand dropped back onto his knee.

Your hand slid over his, soft and deliberately slow. The contrast was ridiculous. Where his skin was rough, calloused, and radiating that furnace-like thrum, yours felt cool. "You're burning up," you murmured, thumb tracing the thick, raised line of surgical pale skin that ran along the side of his wrist. "Did you skip the ice bath again after patrol?"

Katsuki let out a low, gravelly click of his tongue—that familiar, flat tch—but he didn't pull away. In fact, his fingers twitched open just enough to let you fit your palm squarely against his.

"Didn't skip it," he grunted, his voice dry and raspy from a full day of barking orders on-site. "Takes time for the heat to bleed off. You know how it works."

You didn't answer right away, just pressed a little firmer, your fingers lacing between his scarred knuckles. "They're so heavy," you noted softly, more to yourself than to him. "And loud. Even when you're just sitting here, I can feel the pulse in your thumb."

Katsuki's chest heaved in a silent, slow breath. His crimson red eyes stayed fixed ahead, his jaw working as if he were chewing on the annoyance, but the edge of his shoulder leaned a fraction of an inch into yours. "They're built to blow shit up," he said, his tone deadpan, utterly devoid of his old high-school posturing. It wasn't a brag anymore; it was just a statement of fact.

"I know," you murmured softly. "Which makes it weird how careful you are with them."

That got a reaction. Katsuki’s gaze flicked sideways, eyes sharp and heavy under furrowed brows. He looked at your joined hands—his massive, scarred, heat-flushed palm cradling yours like a piece of thin glass. A micro-spark popped against the air—a tiny snap no bigger than a matchhead, smelling of sweet burnt sugar. "Don't say stupid shit," he muttered, though his grip didn't loosen an inch.

He turned his wrist, folding his fingers firmly over yours, burying your cool hand completely in his heat. He bowed his head and pressed a tender kiss to your knuckles, his touch lingering even after he lifted his gaze to yours. With a slow, lopsided pull at the corner of his mouth, he added, "I'm not gonna break you. Now shut up and let me drink my tea in peace."

He didn't let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.

A voice from behind is the only thing that stops you from thwacking him over the head.

“Come now, leaving so soon?” Jing Yuan hums, his voice a waking rumble in his chest as he shifts in the space behind you. “Surely it’s far too early for even you to start the day.”

“Let go off me, it’s too hot.” You huff, emphasising your words with another attempt to get out of his hold. “You’re not making it any better.”

Jing Yuan gives your waist a squeeze.

“Is that so?”

“Be serious, am I the only one sweating? You’re like a human furnace.”

The mattress appears to shift for a moment, and you’re sure if you had your eyes on the general right now he’d have shrugged. “A small price to pay.” His voice follows, proving you right with his smug response. “I find I sleep much better that way.”

“Well, I must tell you you’re alone in that regard.”

You try to shove an elbow back in rebellion, but when it’s met with a hard wall of Jing Yuan’s muscles and a slow, sleepy chuckle from the man behind you; you assume he couldn’t have felt it as anymore than a tickle.

“You wound me.” He breathes against your skin, making you shudder as he tucks you in closer. “Your feeble attempt to escape is noted but ultimately denied.”

“You’re torturing me here.”

“Torturing you, hm?” Jing Yuan murmurs, stroking his thumb beneath the damp fabric of your shirt. “Is that truly how one would refer to their current position?”

You lose your focus on how warm you are when Jing Yuan’s words are followed by his strong biceps pulling you closer to his bare chest, the movement allowing you to feel the way his cock is already hard and aching against your lower back.

His lips press just short of your ear now, tresses of white hair falling along your face as he presses you into the pillows.

“I have a few other terms in mind that you may find much more fitting.” His breath against your skin makes you shudder. “And you’re not exactly making it easy for me, are you? With all of your movements. I would consider you quite calculated, my dear.”

It’s almost involuntary the way you grind your hips back to meet him.

You find yourself wiggling yourself towards him, clutching at his forearm and despite the way you’re sweating against his form— his skin is warm and grounding. His fingers finally slide beneath the fabric of your shirt, and he digs his hands into the supple skin of your hips to keep you in place when he grinds up against you again.

“I’m sweaty though.” You murmur, pressing yourself back hard against Jing Yuan.

He’s busy pressing kisses down the length of your neck, the warmth of his hands only leaving your skin in favour of shoving down his boxers. “Is that supposed to deter me?”

“I of all people know nothing deters you, Jing Yuan.” You throw a half-lidded look over your shoulder. “Though I must admit you have a way of convincing people.”

His chuckle is a slow release, accompanied by his aching cock springing free behind you and smearing beads of precum along the skin of your thighs when you grind back to meet it.

“I have years of negotiations beneath my belt, my dear.” Jing Yuan reminds before his hands return to your skin, and in one smooth motion he lifts up your thighs enough to pull your damp panties to the side. “Though I would consider this one to be amongst the utmost important.”

Jing Yuan’s lips are back against your ear before the press of his aching cock slides its way through your glistening folds. It’s followed by a slow, languid roll of his hips as the heavy shaft drags along the glistening slick of your pussy, soaking him to the base as the blunt head catches on the hood of your clit and it’s gentle enough to make you twitch.

Your head drops back against Jing Yuan’s chest, and you spread your thighs wider when he pulls you back again. His cock presses against your tight hole now and your voice appears to catch in your throat. “I don’t think Fu Xuan will be happy to hear you take this more seriously than your duties.”

That makes him chuckle again, but he doesn’t respond immediately— too busy placing a few open-mouthed kisses along the dip of your shoulder before he’s suddenly sinking up into you.

“Perhaps it’s best we don’t tell her this one, hm?”

It’s all so lazy but deliberate, the way Jing Yuan groans against your throat while one of his hands move to rub soothing, slow circles into your clit as your pussy clenches around him. Accompanied by the stuffy heat in your bedroom, and how deep he already feels, you feel dizzy and full— arching back against him as you attempt to take even more into your flexing walls.

Until you feel him glide past the soft spot that makes your whole body twitch, and you manage a weak, dreamy whine when he eventually bottoms out. His heavy balls press tight against your ass, and when your pussy flexes again— you suddenly find it easier to ignore the wet press of your back against the general’s chest.

You feel Jing Yuan’s jaw clench when you relax against his body once more, feeling his large, warm palm return to its place beneath your shirt as he takes a slow handful of your breast. A thin layer of sweat meets him there, but instead of cringing away— it appears to allow the soft, lazy back and forth swipe of his thumb over your nipple to feel that much more gentle.

“Shall I consider this negotiation a success then, my dear?” Jing Yuan asks after a moment, his voice sounding much more dazed from where he now rests.

And if you didn’t find yourself equal parts full and comfy all of a sudden, you would surely find that previous fire to thwack him would come back.

But instead you wiggle your hips a bit more, enough to make Jing Yuan’s cock throb from where he’s pressing up against your walls and when it’s enough to make him take a sharp breath. You consider that a victory in itself.

“Atleast offer me a fan to cool down next time.” You tease before settling down again, eyes fluttering with sleep.

“Oh, I am sure that would be no trouble at all.” He responds in kind, his voice rougher with drowsiness but still as sly. “You need only ask.”

If your eyes weren’t closed, you would roll them.

“Go to sleep, Jing Yuan.”

It is clear you are burdened , and you are reluctant to disclose such details towards anyone, let alone him. Despite being fellow Ratniki comrades in arms, despite having shown no harm towards you, you still keep him at a distance.

He knows it's a shield you overtly rely on. Like a child stubbornly clinging onto their toy, he does not think it is no longer possible for you to even willingly let go now; because you think so long as you do not let anyone into your heart, build walls that reach as far as the moon, then nothing could hurt you, and no loss or grievances could topple you over.

Such a cold, and precise individual you were, turning down all of his invitations (offerings) for some warm tea and food after another day's of work.

You were still a human running on the last of their fumes though.

It has taken him a while, breaking you in such a gentle and tender way that has you coming to him one night.

The tea he has poured you is warm.

"It seems whatever is on your mind has been troubling you for quite some time now."

You look down at your reflection of the still surface, deliberating.

Hesitating.

Every nerve inside your body screamed to get out of his abode. That you were only damning yourself. It was as if your survival instincts knew better — because how else have you survived when compared to others who have long come before you?

Something was terribly wrong with Flins.

Yet you remain seated in his lounge, holding onto the teacup for a semblance of tethering.

You wet your lips, voice parched. "If…If I drink this tea." You ask, "What will to happen to me afterwards?"

A beat of silence. Deceptively calm he blinked slowly. "An odd question if I may say so myself."

"Still, I suppose the tea would warm your chest — it is a cold night after all."

He then continue to play innocent, "Though really, I suppose it depends." He said, a faint smile ghosting his lips as he turned your question back on to you.

"What is it that you want to happen?"

He was so close. You were just a grasp away. Offering yourself to him on a silver platter so wonderful in a way that just screamed you. All he had to do now was push you a little further past your breaking point. Lower his voice down to a soft, gentle murmur.

"What is it that you wish to forget?" Flins asked you.

And you finally confessed, breaking down—

"Everything." A whisper you dare not raise further in fear of your admittance. "…if not, then briefly, just for a little while...Please."

His lips curled into an enigmatic smile.

"Then if you truly wish to forget it all, all you need to do is drink."

You don't remember much afterwards.

True to his promise, your world does end up being much softer then as to before. Even more so in his lap while he cradles you to rest your face into the crook of his neck, his long fingers carding through your hair, your insides being cored out with every motion, only to be replaced with something warm and sticky. Gooey and pleasant that made your tongue heavy and slow.

A part of you still intact clung on though, resisting him, turning away from his neck, trying to break through the thickness of the fog—

But you could feel his teeth smiling against your skin, the gentle thrums of his voice reverberating through.

"Shh." He would not have none of it though. "Close your eyes now."

And soon the world fell under. Now finally quietening down to something more bearable, you watch with half-lidded eyes his hand growing ever so closer, his touch barely perceptible when his fingers stretched out to close your eyelids for you.

You try, and fondly fail, not to laugh. The sound alone makes him slightly more alert.

Large scarred fingers move like those of a child when he drowsily rubs the sleep from his eyes. Exhaustion seeps from their corners, or maybe sluggishness borne from boredom, but so does relief when he sees it’s you and not someone expecting anything from him, be that signatures on paper or battlefield heroism.

Not that he would mind if you asked him to play your hero.

He allows himself a gentler expression, forgoes alertness, and forgets the halfhearted alibi he was just beginning to form. Instead, he gives you a boyish grin. It is a wonder that he manages to look boyish at his age, but you suppose that true charm never fades.

He rests his elbows on the desk, ignoring the scattered papers that require his attention. They’re no more than makeshift pillows beneath him.

“Came all the way here to see little ol’ me again, did you?” His mouth teases, but his eyes are fond and gentle.

“I had my concerns about bothering you at work,” you reply, leaning your hip against his desk, “but I guess I should’ve been more worried about interrupting your dreams.”

Varka leans back in his chair and looks up at you, amused. “It’s impossible for you to interrupt my dreams when none of them are complete without you.”

A snort or a giggle escapes your lips. Some sound in between. Regardless, he sees it as a reward and smiles wider.

“How long have you been waiting to use that line?” you ask, because it’s hard to believe he can improvise such suavity. Skilled and smooth as he is on the battlefield, the Grand Master is not as debonair a flirt as many might expect, for he is more adept with a claymore than with flowery flirtations.

“Ages,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Is it too much?”

Your lips twist in a thoughtful expression, seriously considering the degree of sweetness of his words. “Well, no. But it’s obvious that you came up with it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Never mind that.” You wave a hand with a grin, and he smiles back helplessly while messing his hair up with his hand in a careless attempt at fixing it. That shaggy hair of his makes him look out of place in an office. That and his entire person.

“I see that you’ve barely made a dent in this,” you say as you pat a stack of papers, pushed to the far corner of his desk, likely from Varka just resisting the temptation to throw it off completely. “It looked like this yesterday.”

He groans. “Yeah. Well. You visited yesterday, and you left behind that floral perfume scent—it stayed here for hours. I could smell you every time I breathed in. How was I supposed to focus?”

“You’re not a wolf, Varka. My scent is not that strong, and neither is your nose.”

“I always say not to underestimate me,” he replies, crossing his arms playfully. “But you also shouldn’t underestimate yourself. Or your perfume. That stuff is strong.”

You push off of his desk and try to emulate Jean. His work matters, after all. “Not strong enough for you to use it as an excuse.”

“Then you’re underestimating my love for you. Just a tiny whiff of you and I’m a goner, you know.” He looks proud of himself for that.

“Where on Teyvat are you getting these corny lines?”

another pause commenced, this time he can hear you trying to come up with a response, stuttered vowels spoken in broken sounds with sheer fluster and bashfulness.

it's a shame he couldn't see it himself.

"i didn't want to just kiss you out of the sudden!" you finally quipped, voice a tone higher.

"then you should've told me like you just did now."

"i was nervous, okay! stop pressuring me!"

scaramouche could literally see the pout on your voice, a soft thump on your side of the phone letting him know that you might have plop yourself on your pillow. "why don't you ask me, huh? bet you'd be too shy to do so too!"

that's it, that's enough talk. he needs to move his ass.

"give me twenty."

"what?"

the call ended.

and there you spent a while vibrating with anxiousness and if you were to be completely honest, excited beyond reasons. in fact, you were pacing so much in the living room in circles you might have made a dent on the floor, staring at your screen where you can see the panicking messages you sent him after he hung up.

he can't possibly be going through all the efforts to get to you, can he? just for a kiss? shut up, it's not just a kiss. he just got home after dropping you off at yours when the two of you started the call. he was, he denies it though, unable to go through a night without hearing your voice after a day well spent with you—his beloved you.

maybe you shouldn't have told him shit in the first place.

or better yet, maybe you should've just grew the balls and kissed him right after dropping you off at your door. by doing so, you could've saved yourself from this unnecessary feeling of anxiousness. perhaps the two of you might even spend the rest of the night on your couch kissing and kissing and kissing–

"eek!" you squeaked at the sudden rounds of urgent knocks on your door.

he took less than twenty minutes to get here.

standing in front of your door, your hand hesitates to turn the knob. oh, is your palm sweating? was it just you or is it a little hot in here?

"i know you're right there, open up."

"okay, okay.” with a huff and a quick prayer to the lord above, you pull the door to reveal a pouty scaramouche, arms crossed over his chest and his foot tapping the ground impatiently. his hair is in disarray, probably from how he haphazardly tossed on his hoodie over his head in his rush to get to you.

"you didn't have to go all the way here."

"i wanted to."

with an attitude huff, he welcomed himself to your house, kicking the door shut behind him before reaching over your waist to pull you close—the corner of his lip twitched up in a smug smile at your silent gasp.

"t—this is a little too close."

"hm?"

you couldn't stop the shiver that you felt when his breath warms your cheeks, the tips of your noses brushing against each other at close proximity and the gentle squeeze of his arms around your waist, chest pressed against yours. it's not to say that he hasn't been this close before, you've latched yourself on him a couple of times, but you've never been this intimately close to the point of kissing.

"you literally smother your face on my neck when you demand your cuddles, i don't see how this is different."

"shut up."

"make me," he grins at the starstrucked look on your face. “i'm pretty sure you know just how to do that."

"you little shit."

with a sharp tug on his collar, your lips crashed like the rushing waves in the river against a rock. it's incredibly warm, the nerves that you felt when his lips touched yours with a little force and slightly clumsy pace. not just because his lips are warm but because suddenly your heartbeat started pounding aggressively against your ribcage, blood rushing through every nerve in your body whilst your lips melted against each other in a messy frenzy.

scaramouche felt no different from you, perhaps more. he feels too light headed to process that the both of you are still at the entrance hallway and that his hands are clawing around the back of your shirt, his nails digging a little across the fabric, eliciting a gasp from you that only excites him more. he took the chance to press deeper, his tongue almost electrified when it touches yours for the first time and he resist the urge to moan out loud.

god it felt too good to separate from you, he curses the irritating restriction of human nature to desire oxygen as he slowly pulls away from your swollen lips, warm breath mixing together.

your eyes follow the way his tongue peeks out to lick his lips.

"why didn't you do this earlier?" he groans, hot lips tracing warm kisses along your cheeks, jaw and neck. "could've saved us from wasting time on nothing."

"i know, i know." you sighed contentedly, brushing your hand through his hair and completely melting in his arms when his teeth nipping on a particular spot on your neck. "but you're here now."

"yeah," he cups your cheeks in his hands, eyes, flickering back and forth your lips and your eyes. he whispers lowly before closing the gap once more.