maddie 𑣲⋆｡˚

When you opened the door, she'd looked a little troubled, with eyes wide and scarily focused on the mushroom colony that had taken the liberty of growing on your doorframe. She flinched, blinked twice, then immediately rolled her shoulders back to straighten her posture, adorning the natural pose one would assume of the Dandelion Knight. One that you frankly found endearing rather than intimidating, as it only reminded you of the little Jean you used to babysit whenever she'd play knights with Diluc and Kaeya.

She'd beamed at you then (though you could tell it was a little forced with the worries clouding her mind), and eventually, she'd spouted out enough words to finally reach her point.

Varka, who'd been away on expedition to the chilly faraway lands of Nod-Krai, had finally returned home to Mondstadt.

You weren't quite sure how to react. Was she serious? You wanted to slam the door on Jean's face and return to bed to dwell on it further, though you weren't sure if that would send the poor girl over the edge into a spiralled frenzy of mania. Instead, you opted to hug her, which she gratefully returned.

It made sense now, and explained all the fuss of the bells, the music, and the streets which were far livelier than normal. Of course Varka was the reasoning behind it. Who else? You knew that man as well as you knew yourself, and he'd find any excuse to throw a celebration.

You couldn't remember exactly when you'd met Varka. He'd always just... been there.

From the first time you'd lost a tooth and he'd spooked you with tales of Lord Barbatos sending prickly gremlins to pull out the rest; during an earlier birthday, he'd been the one to teach you of the limitless magic of wishes and dreams (then had stolen one of your candles to blow it out himself before you had the chance—you considered him lucky you couldn't hope for his downfall that day since now your wish was invalid); the time you first grazed the meadows of Starfell Valley. You'd appreciated the soft blades of grass between your toes and relished the sunlight kissing your skin, though the most pleasant feeling of all was the fluttering in your stomach when Varka had gifted you a beautiful handpicked Windwheel Aster.

He'd partnered his gift with a forward, boyish grin, proudly exclaiming his father had told him 'girls like this junk', to which you'd unceremoniously stomped on his boot and declared it wasn't junk in the slightest. Your mother had spoken something vaguely similar to you before, albeit in a more delicate, ladylike tone. While popular for its eye-catching amber tones, many of Mondstadt's citizens believed the Windwheel Aster to be a symbol of freedom and love, a traditional flower one would bestow to their partner with intentions to marry.

Of course, your juvenile heart had fluttered at the prospect, as you were a hopeless romantic just like your mother. You weren't entirely disgusted by the idea of marrying Varka, and it was something you clung onto for most of your childhood—until you grew older, the reality of Varka's responsibilities set in and you gradually realised that the both of you perhaps were better off unwedded to each other.

You weren't upset. The romantic you'd been as a child was mostly snuffed out as you grew and learned of the bleakness of the world around you. Still, that wasn't to say you were unhappy in Mondstadt; just accepting of the things in life that had a funny way of never coming true.

The only negative was that it left you feeling a little lonely.

You hadn't thought of that for months, however, and you certainly weren't going to now today. Varka, your best friend, was back, you processed as you released a dazzled Jean from your death grip.

You'd spent the rest of the day holding back—you hardly imagined you'd be able to find him within the crowds of the city's loyal, Varka-loving citizens, who would drink themselves silly at any opportunity much like their idol. While a party was usually your scene, you didn't particularly fancy your reunion to be witnessed and interrupted by hundreds of drunkards who had lost their ability to appreciate personal space. Instead, you readied yourself and all of the news Varka had missed during his absence; traversed through some of the new street stalls set up in celebration; treated yourself to a bottle of Dandelion Wine and a fresh bouquet of Cecilias, Calla Lilies and, of course, Windwheel Asters, and enjoyed the day's festivities from your balcony, content and brimming with excitement.

Upon nightfall, you aren't surprised to find yourself at the entrance to the Angel's Share tavern. You can hear the familiar buzz of chatter inside, loud before you've even opened the door, but you already knew it would be busy on a night like tonight. Anywhere else, the citizens would've drank themselves stupid during the day and knocked themselves into a coma by late afternoon—but not in Mondstadt.

The Angel's Share's warmth coats your cheeks in welcoming as you step inside, and you're surprised to see its visitors all relatively well behaved and in their seats conversing, fully expecting a party of sorts to be happening instead. At first, you wonder if you were wrong and the people had finally met their limits, but then you remember, while under Diluc's scrutiny as he works behind the bar, it comes as no shock that he has his customers orderly and tamer than normal. To drink in the Angel's Share meant to respect its owner too (not that Diluc wasn't already naturally respected by those around him).

Anyway, you aren't disappointed in the slightest at this turn of events—it means no battling to squeeze between a sea of bodies just to reach the bar, and it also means it's easier for you to spy the familiar shades of teal, charcoal and ashy blond, lounging back on one of the sofas in the furthest corner of the tavern without a care in the world. He is—shockingly—completely on his own, oblivious to those in conversation on the surrounding tables. His head is thrown back, his eyes are closed in utter bliss, and a smile adorns his weary features, so prideful it's as if he's won the lottery.

For a brief moment, you wonder if Varka had actually fucking fallen asleep in the middle of the tavern. You wouldn't put it past him.

You approach him with a goal in mind that, if he were actually asleep, you'd startle him awake in hopes of exposing his embarrassing, and frankly quite girly, scream to the Angel's Share's residents. He cracks one eye open before you can, and it's immediately on you, up and down, like he thinks he's hallucinating you. Suddenly, that small happy smile spreads into a wider, chuffed grin, and he stretches languidly like a cat across the sofa, though you're still sad that your plan didn't have a chance to be set in motion.

"I was wondering when you'd show up." Varka's voice hasn't changed. It's still gruff, irritatingly attractive and the epitome of manly. Nothing has changed about him in fact, despite the light stubble across his jaw, you notice. He's still in his typical uniform, bar the heavier, more protective armour he uses in battle, yet again, you're not astounded by his dignified refusal to take off the clothes that represent his home.

"You look comfy." You comment.

"'Cause I was dreaming 'bout you." Varka responds, too smooth for your liking. You're not sure why your initial thought is how many girls he's used that line on already.

He sits upright, balancing his forearms on top of knees while he addresses you with that puppy-dog look you know he shouldn't still be allowed to get away with at his age. His eyes are just as youthful as they had been when you were both toddlers, never once losing the intensity of optimism and adventure swamped in gorgeous icy shades of sapphire.

There's a short period where you simply look at each other, taking each other in, like time was merciful and had slowed down but would begin to move again if you so much as breathed—before you laugh and sink down onto the sofa beside him, practically throwing yourself at his side. He laughs too, spreading an arm to accommodate and land securely over your hip, drawing you in closer. With your nose nestled atop his collarbone, the vanilla tufts of authentic fur on his damned dramatic coat tickle the apples of your cheeks, and your arms drape over his shoulders in a vice-like grip, momentarily afraid he'd vanish again.

In this position, it's hard to tell why you ever gave up marrying Varka in the first place.

So to not dwell on it further, you detach yourself from him and tug the innocent strands of blond on the nape of his neck, hard.

He throws back his head again, flat against your palm. A low, guttural vibration sounds from his chest up to his throat, and a glimmer of something unrecognisable flashes across his eyes, though it's vanquished in true knightly fashion as Varka squeezes them shut and whines keenly like a dog, pushing your hand with dramatic force.

"Ow, ow, I told you to quit with that, woman!" You're pleased you still have some old, usable tricks up your sleeve. Cheekily, you turn your gaze forward and away, settling beneath the arm still gripping your hip.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Varka." You quip, all sass and badly suppressed smiles. His entire upper body moves under the weight of his chest rising and falling, sighing in a far too exaggerated manner. He mutters something about you not changing one bit—hah, touché—head still back and eyes still closed. Just like a goddamn cat.

"How much have you had to drink today?" Your question is cut off short by his free hand waving around halfheartedly at Archons knows what, dismissing your amused inquiry. He lolls his head to the side, lazily peering down at you beneath soft, honey-soaked lashes, a half-smirk adorning the lips you used to fantasise of.

"Too much. No, not too much. Still, too much. You don't wanna know, [name]. But if you do, well I—" he groans, cutting himself off mid-sentence to look upward again, though with his eyes open at least you can confidently say he's conscious. You fight the urge to snort. "I wouldn't even know where to start."

"Funny. I seem to remember you confident in handling your alcohol." He groans again at your words. "Certainly doesn't seem that way now, huh?"

"That's not fair! You know what today is. People kept handing me drinks, I couldn't not accept them! It was hard, truly."

"Oh, woe is me. Such a tough day you've had, hm, Sir Varka?" The tease is already on the tip of your tongue before you can register, and he huffs like a child. "I mean, honestly, this is– are you hungover on the same day?"

It was obvious. Despite his signature tankard sitting half-full and cosy on the table opposite, you could tell he must've been on break from the alcohol for at least a couple of hours. You cock your head, curious. You liked to believe Varka had purposely forced himself to sober up so he could enjoy a couple more drinks with you, since you'd clearly been expected that evening—but perhaps you were feeling a little too full of yourself.

"Ehh, so what? It's a trick of the mind, sweetheart; if I deal with the consequences now, it'll cancel out whatever shit I feel in the morning. See? Clever, huh?" His shoulder shrugs, moving your body with it, and you roll your eyes, entirely unimpressed, because you're sure it doesn't quite work that way. "Besides, makes it all the more worth it so I can actually remember you calling me 'Sir Varka'. Don't hear that from you every day."

You know he's only messing with you, but you swear you aren't crazy for hearing a subtle drop in his tone during that last part. Like he'd listed something pleasurable; something he wants to hear again.

"Well, I hope you cherished it enough when it happened, because I'm not saying it again."

"Is that a bet, doll?" Your stomach flips.

"I know better than to make bets with you in a drunken state."

"But I'm not drunk, [name], I promise! See? And neither are you!" Varka sits up a little, lips pouty yet bemused while he looks you earnestly in the eye; you wonder if he'll let you slap that expression off his face. "That's gotta change."

You turn towards him, straight-lipped and deadpan. "I know. It's worse. You're hungover."

His fingers lift to flick the side of your head, and you swat him away unceremoniously while he grumbles under his breath, "You're way less tolerable when hungover than I am."

"Hah! You haven't even seen me like that since we were teenagers, Varka." A shit-faced lie. "I know how to handle my alcohol. Far better than you ever did."

He only smiles, but it's one of pity rather than amusement. "That's cute. First round on me then?"

"What?"

"If you're so sure of yourself, sweetheart, prove it. We'll see who's right by whoever taps out first." You suddenly become acutely aware of how close Varka's face is to yours, the aroma of earthy musk and cedarwood and fucking Windwheel Asters overwhelming your senses. "Unless you're only talkin' a big game?"

You hesitate, slightly alarmed by the prospect of Varka, of all people, making you nervous. This hadn't happened in a long time, and while normally you would've dismissed the feeling with a faux laugh full of mirth or a plotting smirk to match Varka's own, you find your throat bobbing instead. Your eyes remain seized by the icy blue ones inches away, practically forgetting yourself in them, before you blink, breathe in and settle backwards subtly.

You have to look away. Look the fuck away, you idiot.

"Well, only because you're offering. I don't need to prove myself, Varka, but since you're so adamant on ignoring the truth, so be it." Frankly, you yourself are shocked by the unmatched confidence dripping like wine from your voice, despite your insides having flipped upside down moments before. A finger taps your hip once.

He mutters something under his breath—something along the lines of thinking that you didn't make alcoholic bets with him—before springing to his feet and meandering towards the bar. It's only once he's gone that the weight of your actions dawn upon you.

Said weight ultimately blooming from the notion that tonight was going to be a long, long night.

Of course, you'd expected drinks to be present during your reunion with Varka after so many months apart. It was practically your staple as a duo, after all (inwardly, you ponder if that is something to be proud of or not). You really hadn't been lying when you boldly claimed you could handle your alcohol (to an extent) earlier either. You weren't scared; weren't anxious to lose one bit. Because when had you ever lost a drink-off to Varka in the past?

During your teen years and onwards, you'd reigned sole champion of your personal bar competitions with your best friend, and though you'd grown a little out of practice since his departure, nothing could've changed that drastically.

Right?

Two glasses of Diluc's finest Dandelion wine are set on the table with dramatic force, tearing you away from your thoughts as Varka throws himself down next to you once more, looking far too chuffed with himself. You both toast; movements like clockwork, in exactly the same way you both make a performance of downing the glasses in seconds.

Show off. Judging Varka's lopsided mien, there's no doubt in your mind he's thinking exactly the same.

You chivalrously bring the second set of drinks over; a devilish concoction of Mondstadt's finest spirits disguised under blossoming flavours of wild berry and sweet orange. Varka chortles, because he knows. He's acutely aware of how dirty you're playing, bringing the strongest of the menu over first.

You're not surprised when he doesn't complain, though.

By the third, the delicious buzz begins to stir in your head, your chatter noticeably more bubbly as conversation of your endeavours during Varka's absence linger across your shared space. Oh, how you'd missed this feeling. It had been too long since you'd relished in the pleasurable highs of intoxication with your favourite person in the world—ah, though you'd have to put more effort into watching your tongue before you exposed your tipsy, sappy thoughts.

"Lisa's assistant, huh?" The tips of Varka's ears and cheeks glow rose red, an indication he was in a similar state to yours. It's utterly adorable, though you refrain from reaching out and pinching his skin between your fingertips. You aren't on that level just yet. "Didn't picture you to be the librarian type. Are you sure you know how to keep your mouth shut for that long?"

You push on his shoulder, though embarrassingly, he doesn't move as far as you'd planned. "I only talk a lot with you. You should consider yourself lucky that I spare the energy to bestow my wisdom upon you, Varka. Don't be rude."

"I'm not. You know I love your voice." He flashes you a grin, like he hasn't just sent your heart spiralling with such a simple comment. Archons above, he shouldn't make you feel this way so easily. You were over him. Over that stupid crush of yours you'd had when you were small. Behave, [name].

Of course, you don't want to. It isn't in your nature to. This is exactly the reason why when you brought over the fourth round of drinks, you press your thigh and hip firmly against his own once you sit down, his warmth so comforting it makes the hairs on your nape bristle in tranquility.

You blame the alcohol—blame the worsening dizziness that submerges your senses underwater; your vision blurred and morphing lights into halos above your head. Warmth spreads across your body like a wildfire, thoughts distorted and slipping past like the birds over Mondstadt—you could focus on them for a moment, though they never stayed long enough for you to fully grasp the idea.

However, one thought does remain clear in your mind. Annoyingly so, it refuses to leave, gnawing away at your skull like a tiny hoard of brain-eating piranhas—you want Varka. Bad.

It's dangerous, and you finally accept it as you sip absentmindedly on your fifth drink. At least you still had the sense to not take it any further than that.

You query about Varka's expedition in Nod-Krai, merely to distract yourself. It sounds harsh, strenuous, borderline traumatising—you're not sure you understand quite how Varka does it all.

As kids, you'd shown no interest in joining the Knights of Favonius that young Varka held so dear to his heart. While his goal had been to fight alongside those worthy and protect his homeland from threat within Mondstadt's walls, you had always been more enamoured with the adventure of exploring beyond them, visiting the prosperous lands Tevyat had to offer, and it would be an added bonus if you'd found yourself a lover on your arm to join you in your journeys too. You dreamed of summer getaways to the sunny plains of Natlan, studying in the embellished grand halls of Sumeru's Akademiya, or resting beneath Inazuma's rosy pink sakura blooms on an early spring morning.

Of course, all that had changed now. The prospect of Varka travelling far more than you ever had was hilarious.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Partly." You roll onto your side, cheek resting on Varka's outstretched bicep that had found a home along the back of the sofa above your head. You're outwardly laughing now, because irritatingly once you start, you're unable to stop in this state. Varka doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he's just as amused as you are, lazy grin stretched wider than usual as he studies your face from above.

"You seem ready to tap out." He comments, and it's alarming how quickly your expression drops into something sterner. With a quick shake of your head, you take another massive gulp from your glass, always ready to prove a damn point.

The world spins. For a moment, you're confused, because you don't remember this couch having wheels that could turn the tavern on its head in your vision. A sickly vertigo has you keeling over, cheek back on bicep and gaze back on the beautiful man by your side.

Varka is oddly silent. You're not sure why, but the urge to kiss him grows ten times stronger when you see his eyes already on you. Archons, those eyes. A galaxy of ephemeral shades of cerulean, glittered with constellations of cobalt, turquoise and sea-green, shimmer beneath the golden haze of the Angel's Share's lamps. They're eyes that have you shackled by the wrists and the heart, pinned to the spot like a butterfly on display. You imagine you could've gotten lost in them if you weren't careful, but that cliché is almost enough to make you vomit.

And it is also certainly enough to make you look away before you do anything daft.

Surprisingly, Varka does something dafter.

His fingers grip your jaw with intimate force, angling your head towards his own again, like he can't bear to have you looking away. His thumb toys with the plump flesh of your bottom lip, wet with anticipation, and he seems besotted with the sight of your lips parting to accommodate the intrusion. Holy fuck.

His thumb pushes in; abrupt and demanding, pressing down on your tongue in fascination, and your nails dig into the fabric of his trouser leg instinctively—before Varka is all smiles again, and his hand retreats to his side like it was never on your jaw in the first place.

Your mouth snaps shut immediately, eyes blown wide as you scramble to register if what had just happened, actually fucking happened, or if you'd unknowingly reached the drunken level of hallucinations already. With the way Varka faces forward, jaw clenched and entire body tense, almost as if he were battling to compose himself, you have your answer.

Oh my God.

You're mortified.

With a curt clearing of your throat, you sit up, ignoring how the swift movement sends your head reeling, your glass clutched between fingertips pressed so hard you're afraid it might shatter. You don't imagine you can look at him any time soon.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what I just—" A calloused, huge hand encloses around your shaking wrist, thumb splayed across your pulse point like a vice—the thumb that had just been in your fucking mouth! Another pries the drink from you, which is brought to peach-coloured, dream-like lips and finished without another word.

And when Varka leans forward to collect his tankard, and perhaps your dignity in the way he pulls you to your feet in one effortless swoop like you weigh no more than a rag-doll, you don't find yourself complaining.

Especially not when he drags you to the Angel's Share's exit, or when you're half-way home, eager and buzzing and stumbling like a lost lamb behind your best friend, who suddenly can't seem to keep his eyes, or hands, off of you. He doesn't seize your wrist anymore as he guides you, but doesn't hold your hand either—instead, he grasps your waist like he has every right to; like his hands belong there. Now, with just how right it feels, maybe they really do.

Impatience rolls off Varka like waves in a vicious storm—you wonder if it might kill you. He has you spinning and pressed to your front door before you can even get it open, hand spread against your shoulder with insistent urgency that would've worried you had you not been craving the feeling. He ensures you can't move, but you think you don't want to anyway.

His lips crash against yours with the force of Dragonspine's winds, and—oh. He's never kissed you before. This is real. This kiss is happening. A kiss that greedily sucks the air from your lungs, feasting on your lightheaded gasps like a wolf which hadn't eaten for days, and you'd offer more and more and more until your body gives out if he'd let you, providing your breath, your flesh, your heart if need be. Oh, how badly you want him to let you.

Fingers dig into the dip at your waist, moulding the skin beneath them like he's enamoured by how pliable it is. It's far more pleasurable to have Varka's hands and lips on you than you'd ever imagined, which is exactly why it takes every ounce of willpower in your body to break the kiss and pull back, knees weak at the way he follows like a man starved.

The look in his eyes is almost enough to make you pass out.

Hunger. It's pure, unfiltered, filthy hunger, that looks so foreign on your gentlemanly Grand Master, it steals what little breath you have left willing to offer. It lingers like Winter fog at night, consumes, because that's all it knows how to when it realises you're watching.

He wastes no time in attaching his mouth to your jawline, barely giving you enough chance to whine protests that fall on deaf ears.

"Varka, at least— can we at least go inside? Please." You hiss, though alarmingly you don't sound nearly as convincing as you'd like. Thank Barbatos the entrance to your home is tucked down one of the silent, empty alleys of Mondstadt come nightfall. For anyone to see you both in this state would be disastrous.

Not that Varka's hum of reluctance against your neck promises you he currently minds.

You're thankful, but also disappointed, when you're released, taking the opportunity to turn around and away from Varka's heated gaze because, Archons, you don't think you would ever make it indoors if he keeps looking at you like that. A scarred, firm palm grazes up and down the arm of the hand helplessly fumbling with your keys; a gentle squeeze to your bicep, a reminder, of Varka still rooted right behind you and still starving. He plants kisses along the helix of your ear; the nape of your neck as he brushes your hair to the side purposefully; trailing down what little bare spine is exposed beneath your blouse until—

The lock clicks open, and you're pushed inside your own home without so much as a second thought.

He only spares a brief moment to look around before his eyes are back on you, something reminiscent in the way the corners of his lips twitch before flashing you a smile so beautiful it almost winds you, and commenting, "This place hasn't changed one bit."

Your hands fumble with the collar of your blouse, all clumsy fingers and drunken miscalculations, until Varka decides you must look ridiculous and forces your hands away, directing them to his shoulders. You're thankful for it as he suddenly lifts your feet from the ground, regaining balance before you can make a fool of yourself. Your thighs bracket his hips with no other choice, his own hands cupping your ass shamelessly and slotting you so perfectly against him your mind spins with what-ifs like a damaged record of your favourite song, and you let him lead because, of course, he knows where to go.

"I like it how it is. Change bothers me." You hum, carding your nails through golden strands and using your newly earned height to your advantage by latching your mouth onto his stubbled jawline.

"Does this bother you, then?" It's cheeky, the delighted tone he uses because he already knows your answer.

Of course it doesn't.

You nip at his skin; a whine emanates from somewhere deep in his chest. "Depends if you make it worthwhile."

Your back hits your bed before you're able to spare another thought, and Varka raises an eyebrow like you've said something ridiculous, though you almost miss it when he simultaneously shrugs off his coat and tunic and braces both fists on the mattress on either side of your ankles. Somehow, he's rolled up his shirt sleeves without you noticing, but it's far from something to complain about.

You smile, shyer than usual, and Varka drinks in your expression before hanging his head and groaning lowly like you've pained him. Something ceases your ankle, and you realise far too late that your body is moving down the mattress towards him. You gasp, partly from the force, but also from the proximity of Varka's body now hovering above yours.

"Please don't look at me like that, [name]." You've never heard your Varka so desperate in your life. You're pretty sure you could've finished from that alone, with the gentle vibration sending chills spiralling down your neck as his drags his lips along the skin of your jawline. "Won't be able to fuckin' stop if you do."

It's in this position you're able to really process just how large Varka is. His hands swamp the space adjacent to where your head lays, practically big enough to smother your whole face if he wanted to. You can't see the ceiling over his shoulders, even without that huge coat on that you always take the piss out of him for, and something bubbles needily in your lower stomach as you realise he's able to hover above you, head to head, with his feet still planted on the floor at the foot of the bed.

Fuck.

You can't help yourself from running your hands up his torso, untucking the shirt from his trousers in the meantime, with a shaky breath exposing all your vulnerable want to alert ears.

"You think I want you to stop?" You would've laughed had you not been so breathless. Varka keeps his eyes pinpointed on your hands working to remove the fabric on his chest.

He hums once, low, like he's considering something you hadn't bothered to notice.

"I don't wanna hurt you, doll." His voice displays perfected concern, but there's something smug behind the slight upwards twitch of his lips. Egotistical bastard.

"I'm not made of glass, Varka. I can handle it." He doesn't really listen, you notice, since he huffs and practically hurls you further up towards the headboard, kindly finishing your job of undressing himself for you and treating you to the sight of his toned bare chest with a tilt of his head. You'd seen Varka shirtless countless of times growing up, though in this context, it feels new, different and deliciously sinful. You're sure there are several more scars decorating the expanse of his sternum than there had been before he'd left, and oh, how badly you want to trace every single one with your fingertips.

Or tongue. You aren't fussy.

"I know you will. But if I go too hard, you tell me, baby. Okay?" Oh. Baby. You wouldn't mind hearing that again. There's a hint of vulnerability in Varka's speech; your heart aches for it, heartstrings tugged and harmonising in the way of a harp's beautiful lovesick song. It's obvious he's afraid of his own strength, yet you trust without a doubt that he would never, ever place you in harm's way.

So you nod, pulling him back down towards you without another word to mould your lips against his, a kiss of reassurance Varka greedily swallows whole like it's all he needs. Deft fingers toy with the waistband of your shorts, slipping beneath the thin fabric of your underwear only by an inch, before pulling out and repeating the motion.

You wonder if Varka's goal is to tease you all night—which of course you'd be having none of—though when your hands slide downwards to help shimmy out of your bottoms, Varka grasps your wrist tightly and halts your movements. He breaks away from the kiss, offering you the mercy of a sly, lopsided smirk, before his figure begins to move and travel south of your body.

Your wrist is released so both of his hands can splay across the top of your hips, keeping you pinned in place. You can only curiously lift your head to follow his movement, your heart pounding twice as loud when his lips barely tease the valley between your breasts; delicate against your navel where your blouse has ridden up; then lightly on the inner flesh of your thigh.

"Varka—"

"Hold it, sweetheart. I'll get you there, I promise." He's quick to silence you, knowingly pressing his lips to the fabric between your legs and forcing you to choke on unspoken words before you can retaliate. He lifts his head at your reaction, tongue in cheek with a wretchedly conceited grin across his face. You're not as amused as he is. "I know patience isn't your strong suit, but you're gonna have to learn to wait just a little bit for me, yeah?"

You puff your cheeks, glancing upwards with a pitiful pout to show Varka your annoyance, though he must've only been joking with you, because your hips are raised from the mattress and your bottom half is stripped bare before you can even register a suitable reply. So much for waiting.

Varka mumbles something along the lines of approval, though you're not exactly sure what it is since his arms hook beneath both of your thighs, hoisting you closer, inches away from his face, and wiping all thoughts from the forefront of your brain. His breath is hot against your cunt, your thighs twitching against his grip when the strands of his hair tickle against your skin. He blows once, gentle—all to see you squirm.

And you do, with half the mind to reach down, curl your fingers harshly against his skull and force him against you if he hadn't already beat you to it.

He spreads his tongue flat against your folds; one agonisingly slow, long stripe up to your clit, like he was appreciating the first bite of a meal he'd been craving for a lifetime. You inhale sharply, back arched against the mattress in a way that makes you feel like a fucking cat in heat, because the feeling is so much more intense than you'd been expecting.

You aren't a virgin, however it has been far too long since anyone has had any business down there—in fact, you can't even remember the last time someone had even offered to eat you out. Especially with as much vigour and intent as Varka, his tongue pressing rougher than anything you've ever experienced. It's as if he wants to prove a point, and it has your stomach flipping and your head spinning, not just from the alcohol. The feeling only intensifies when he leans back in, the muscle toying with the circle of your entrance.

And then, something snaps, and you're both done; he, in the way he tugs your whole lower body off the bed and firmly against his mouth, his tongue fucking into you at a pace you hadn't even known was humanly possible; and you, with your breath stolen straight from your lips and your heart forced to skip a beat at the surprise and sheer urgency behind his actions.

You're rendered helpless, only able to grind your hips in time to his tongue, and whine uselessly in utter pleasure. You lift your head to say something, anything, but relax back into the pillows with a thud because you're sure you wouldn't be capable of intelligible speech, and there's truly no stopping Varka once he has his mind set on something. And that something is you.

Your hand slaps against your mouth when he finds a particularly sensitive spot of your walls, your mind scolding you for your mortifying volume, while your body praises the intrusion of Varka's tongue and has your other hand tangle in his platinum strands to press him impossibly closer.

Varka notices. Of course he does.

There's vibrations against you when he hums twice in objection; a shockwave of blinding white, scalding hot pleasure igniting each and every nerve in your body. It's a nuisance when your hand is pulled cruelly away from your lips, freeing the gasps you'd tried so hard to suppress.

It's even more of a nuisance when Varka breaks contact and pulls off of you, even if it does give you a second to breathe. He tilts his head, panting against your clit, his lips glossy with your slick. The image is so obscenely inappropriate you're surprised you don't cum then and there.

He speaks with the weight of a man possessed.

"I'll make one thing clear for you, [name]. You don't ever hide your pretty moans from me, alright?" He kisses your clit once. "I want to hear every sound—" And again. "—every whimper—" A finger prods at your entrance, already loose enough to welcome it in with no resistance. "—every whine while I fuck you so hard you can't think straight."

His finger pumps into you lazily, the icy azure hue of the moonlight casting in-between your curtains and down on his expression evidently admiring you for all your worth. "You got that, baby?"

You nod, and he smiles with mirth.

And adds another finger alongside his first.

"Fuck, Varka." You curse under your breath, immersing yourself in the touch with closed eyes, blissfully content. He's big; you knew this, though you're reminded of just how big when you realise the two of his fingers equivalate to four of your own—which you rarely ever treated yourself to unless you were particularly wound up.

He works you open with the two digits; litters your bare thighs with numerous feather-light kisses, before ultimately deciding that is nowhere near good enough and pressing his tongue flat against your flesh with one goal in mind. He sucks—hard—so hard you know it'll leave a bruise, yet somehow, with his fingers working you closer and closer towards that orgasmic high, you don't really care.

In fact, you hope he does it again. Over and over and over, his tongue a crimson fixture of ink that glides across your skin and departs with gifts of tattooed marks that would never fade.

Thankfully, Varka is your best friend, so he naturally reads your mind with an amused huff, nips lightly at the forming bruise leftover with pointed fangs, and moves onto the opposite leg which appears far too bare than what is allowed.

His fingers suddenly curl in the exactly the way that has your back forming a sharp curve off the mattress, an embarrassingly abrupt moan informing Varka exactly what he needs to know—ah, so that is where you need it. With a chuckle you're barely able to acknowledge, he repeats the motion again. And again. And again.

Shit. You're close now—so, so close.

"Varka, don't— don't stop, okay?" You're not sure why you feel the need to reinforce your wishes; with the way your best friend pistons his fingers into you in a machine-like manner and laps at your cunt like a dog, you're sure he has his mind set solely on making you cum. He smirks against your clit, tugging it gently between his teeth before releasing it and lazily lifting his head to raise his eyebrows at you.

"Never planned on it, sweetheart." A heavy palm splays firmly across your abdomen, roughly pressing you against the mattress as his fingers pick up speed. "Relaaax."

You listen, and the moment you do, your release floods through you like a wave. Your walls clench around his fingers, still pumping in and out, in, out, milking you of everything you have to offer. The cry on your lips is broken; tainted on your tongue as each press of his digits against your walls forces another moan from between your lips.

Varka murmurs something between your legs, stormy eyes, round and as glassy as the slick coating your inner thighs, locked onto your face. Anyone would think he'd just been awarded a full caseload of Dandelion Wine; the stars in his pupils shimmer bright enough to blind your senses and almost make you cum around his fingers a second time.

"Don't look at me like that." You whine, reaching down to clumsily push his face to the side. Between the simmering buzz of the multitude of alcoholic drinks you'd indulged in that evening and the lingering effects of your orgasm still plastered to the front of your mind, you think the heat of Varka's gaze may explode you.

You laugh because it's ridiculous, and there's no denying now that Varka still has the ability to make you nervous. Easily.

His ministrations slow to a stop before you can complain about oversensitivity, chuckling low and from the heart, velvety vibrations against the palm of your hand. Then, he regards you with a handsome grin, frankly looking snobbishly pleased with himself.

"Like what? You're beautiful." You rest your head limply against the mattress under the pretence of catching your breath, though really you're too embarrassed to look directly at him. He snorts rudely. "Even when you're cumming like you're trying to drown me. I mean, seriously, doll, that much on my fingers alone?"

Suddenly, you aren't that tired anymore, and you slap his bicep in warning as his fingers slip out of you and he readjusts his position to hover over your body again. His teeth dig into his lip, doing his best to stifle his laughter, but you suppose Varka is still an irritating kid at heart, and there's no way you'd live the moment without a little teasing on his behalf.

A swift hand catches your own as you pull it away, bringing the skin of your knuckles to wet lips. He presses soft kisses up the expanse of your arm.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry." They're delicate and apologetic against the curve of your shoulder. "It was hot, baby. You're really fucking hot." Sterner and more possessive on the dip of your collarbone. "I want you to do it again. Cum so fucking hard for me, sweet girl. Hell, next time, you don't even have to stop."

He nips lightly at the skin beneath your ear; you release a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding. "I want you to give me everything you've got, and I'll give it all back to you, [name]. Can you do that for me?"

His belt clinks as he slips it from its hoops, fabric shuffling to bunch at ankles, before he kicks it off with narrowed eyes scorching with impatience. The image makes you smile; it's a staple reminder that while your Varka is a formidable figure of Mondstadt whose name has the ability to strike both joy and fear into the hearts of others, he is still, in this moment, your Varka. Clumsy and reckless and so, so familiar.

Familiar, except for the cock hanging above the apex of your thighs. You practically choke when you see it; solid and lengthy, with enough girth to make you wonder if it'll even fit. It's a stupid cliché, one you genuinely never thought you'd unironically question before, though it's a given that Varka is a big man. It only made sense that...

Never mind it all. If you keep thinking about it—Archons, staring at it, even, you'd be here all day.

That is the last of your wishes when what you want is right fucking there.

All you can manage is a simple nod, followed by an impatient verbal agreement when Varka tilts his head, waiting for more. He smiles, satisfied, before it contorts into something more sinister, and he doesn't give you a second to react before hoisting your body downwards.

His cock sinks into you with force that has you gasping for air. He's merciful enough to meet you half way, forearm strained against the mattress beside your head as he hovers his mouth beside your ear. His body swamps the space above yours, chest weighing down against your own, clearly at odds with himself to either take it slow and let you adjust, or sink fully into you already.

He curses—low, like he's been struck, and the grip on your hip tightens tremendously as you clench around his dick because, fuck, he's swearing right in your ear and it's the hottest thing you've ever heard.

"[Name]." You aren't sure if it's a warning; by his tone, it certainly sounds like one, but then it morphs into something gentler. "Is this... Are you alright?"

"I'm okay. I can take it, I swear." You breathe, because even if he is stretching you further than you've ever experienced before, the ache is pleasurable and something you'd definitely rather welcome than reject at the door.

He huffs beside your ear, something akin to an impressed laugh, before pressing a quick kiss to your cheek and dipping a little lower, slowly. You moan, loud and unfiltered, hands instinctively clinging to his bicep and digging your nails into the muscle. It's the best way to ground yourself, you realise, while also basking in the pleasures of caressing the arms you've had dreams about.

"That's it. Hang on to me, baby, I've got you." With enough sweet words to liquify your brain to mush, he eventually buries himself to the hilt of his cock. He takes a moment to breathe (you both do, though you're less unhurried in the way you wiggle your hips for more, because what the fuck is he tired for when you're the one with a literal log in your cunt!?). His groan is loud, before he jams his lips to your ear again.

"Don't be a brat now." The hand beside your head cards softly through the strands of your hair, tugging lightly at the hidden ones on your nape. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, Varka, just—" The speed he drives his hips against yours has stars floating in your vision, close enough to map every detail, but too far to catch them. He steals the words straight from your lips, and your breath along with it. A thief of your pride, who only rubs it in further by snickering smugly against you.

"Yeah. I know."

Varka fucking into you is unlike anything you've felt before. If the stories the Church of Favonius promise of Heaven are true, then you imagine this to be the closest experience to it Teyvat has to offer.

His fingers had been big, but like this, he's able to reach everywhere. He thrusts into you, animalistic and methodical, like he's wiped everything from his mind again with the sole intention of making you cum. If he fucks you any harder, you think you'll join him in that brainless haze.

Breathless yelps spill from your lips, no longer jailed behind gritted teeth because Varka had said he'd wanted to hear every pretty noise, and you're quite sure you wouldn't be able to hold them back, anyway. The hand on your head curls deeper into your hair, splaying protectively across your skull as he tucks you into the nook of his collar. You don't waste a second in attaching your mouth to the bare skin there, appreciating the curve of every muscle, the line of every scar, like artwork of his you wish to commit to memory, and artwork of your own you wish to depart him with by sucking marks up his throat.

The other hand on your hip moves boldly, its destination already in sight. It slips beneath your shirt; traces your navel up to your sternum. He cups one of your breasts and squeezes like that's his way of grounding himself, before tweaking a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The feeling is electrifying, voltage beams shooting straight to your cunt while you arch into his touch.

"Shit, you're—" He groans suddenly. "—you feel so much better than I ever imagined, [name]." His hand switches between each of your breasts and your stomach, like he can't decide where he wants it and he might die if he doesn't figure out a way soon to touch you all over at once. You moan as he finally settles his palm on your lower abdomen, pushing himself in deep enough to kiss your cervix. He presses down, applying hot pressure to your stomach where there must be a fucking indent of his cock because, holy shit, he feels massive.

"You've imagined this?" You're supposed to tease, though you're alarmingly breathless and nowhere near as smug-sounding as you'd planned. Varka exhales sharply, rocking his hips a little in time with massaging the skin of your abdomen with his thumb.

"Are you joking?"

"No?"

He hovers his handsome face above yours, amused with his tongue poking into his cheek. "Obviously. You're always a welcome sight, sweetheart. Easy on the eyes. Very."

You find yourself rolling your own eyes just as Varka's pace begins to pick up again. "So poetic with your wording." You mumble sarcastically, aiming and failing to keep your voice steady as your guts are practically rearranged.

"Do I not live up to your standards?" His foot kicks your ankle, demanding more space for him to slip between your legs. "I can be more blunt if you'd like. I've wanted to fuck you for ages, [name], because you're stupidly hot and my dick gets hard when I think about you beneath me and all the noises you'd make for me." He punctuates each word with a thrust, lowering his head beside your own again. "I fantasise about how you cum, what it takes and how I'll give it to you. I've wanted you on your back, your front, your knees— fuck, folded in half on this damned bed ever since the day I helped you move it in. I needed you real fucking bad."

Varka pauses, before adding without shame: "Even if you are just my closest friend."

He kisses your jaw, fucking into you relentlessly, while all you can muster is a disjointed 'oh'. His honesty wipes every worry in your head besides the one that screams hoarsely for you to finish already, until you're already welcoming back the feeling of your orgasm he's so graciously acquainted you with. It bubbles low beneath your navel; steams hot every time Varka hits your cervix. Your lips part—a particularly feeble attempt at informing him you're close when words seem to escape you and instead, you're moaning louder into the space of your bedroom.

Oh, fuck. Just a little longer and—

The room spins before your mind has a chance to process. Varka flips you both with expert pressure on your hips, your knees instinctively drawing up to straddle beside his waist, and a sinful cry is let loose when gravity tugs you down fully onto his dick. You pant against his chest, palms splayed across his shoulders to keep yourself upright and swear—loud, with Varka lodged so deep inside of you.

He's grinning, ridiculous and adorably so, when you finally find the energy to look, and yet again he greets you with that starstruck mien. The puppy dog eyes worshipping every fibre of your being were only capable of holding the honest truth; that your best friend wants you, and you want him.

He certainly shows it as he wastes no time in bouncing his hips against the mattress, and subsequently you along with it. He's almost violent in his manner; your weight is evidently no bother to him as he bucks you up, then down, in his lap. His palms splay across your hips to support you, and you're both quick to realise you'll struggle to keep up with his pace like this, so perhaps he'll be merciful and lend you a helping hand.

It's no matter, really. Not when you're already so close to finishing, and you've leant down to seal your lips against his and clamp around his cock tightly. You release just as he does, his throaty moan that vibrates directly against your tongue firing trembles down to the base of your spine like bullets. It's only when you're physically lifted and a whine of pitiful complaint is ripped from your throat that you realise maybe you'd been clenching a little too tight.

It's an odd sensation without him inside you anymore, but even in your half sober, half drunk, and one whole state of dumbed horniness, you're thankful he doesn't finish inside. That would be a discussion for another time.

You collapse your head against his sternum, appreciating the stable rise and fall which feels akin to lying on a boat at sea. You picture Varka there with you, sailing aimlessly because all you have to worry about is each other, and surprisingly don't battle the urge to scrunch your nose due to corniness.

He huffs suddenly like he's reminding you of his in-person existence, very much naked underneath you.

With a satisfied sigh, you angle your chin up, lifting an eyebrow when he laughs fondly.

"We should get drunk more often."

"Agreed. You weren't too bad." You mock with an easy smile. A finger flicks your forehead unceremoniously.

"Right. Not too bad, huh, baby?" It's hard to ignore the way his gaze narrows to the damp evidence still coating the surface of both Varka's thighs and your own, and the sheets you both rest on. Luckily, you don't have to adorn the sheepish smile for long as Varka rolls you both until your side hits the mattress, and he slinks over you to stand, departing you with a soft kiss to the bare expanse of your shoulder.

"Water would be nice." He snorts at your pert suggestion, in exactly the way he's done since he was a child.

"A towel or something as well, your highness?" You're content to listen to Varka's footsteps pad across the floor of your home, the sound vaguely familiar, yet domestic and very much welcome. You call out instinctively to inform him of the whereabouts of your bathroom stock, dipping a leg beneath your creased sheets absentmindedly.

"The second drawer on the right—"

"I got it." And you know he does.

∧ ,,, ∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) . ݁₊ ⊹ . thank you for reading ! ᝰ.ᐟ / づ♡

Maybe it had been because of your unusual demeanour. For a fifteen year old, you were particularly headstrong. Though you'd been young and orphaned, pathetic and emotional when you'd enrolled, many had mistaken you for naive as well—a weighted mistake, indeed. To call you naive, in your mind, was like them begging directly for death; hands clasped tightly together, kneeling at your feet beneath your brutal, murderous stare as if you're the Reaper who could grant them their demise, because—even if you were only fifteen—how dare they assume you clueless?

Every belittling comment infuriated you, and your anger was best taken out on the first of many battlefields.

You, thankfully, were a natural. You possessed an innate affinity for conflict; one which proved, despite your age, amazingly useful in the Fatui's missions. Your fellow subordinates grew to rely on your wit alone; awaited your orders patiently because you always knew exactly where to lay that snare, which paths to avoid, when to rally the troops, and when to discharge them.

In the span of five months, you'd gone from answering to your superior without unnecessary complaint, to working alongside them with equal brutality and will—perhaps, scarily, even more. The subordinates who had once taunted and prodded at you for your age, would now polish the dirt from your boots, silent with regret. Of course, you grew to adore it; adapted over the years to suit the description of the Fatui's ideal soldier; allowed your youthful innocence to be stripped bare and fed to the wolves, whom you so delighted in pleasing.

Yes, you'd been somewhat of a child prodigy in the Fatui, which now, seven years later, saw you dispatched on countless of grim missions that, really, you thrived in—like this one.

It was a simple heist: infiltrate one of Nod-Krai's illegal underground auctions and rob them of their token sale of the night (and their pride in the meantime, as an added bonus). Your target was a Fontainian slaughter machine, said to eliminate foes with beastly precision and leave no trace of mercy in its wake—Archons knew what the Second Harbinger wanted with that.

(On second thought, you could hazard a guess.)

It hadn't been until you arrived and caught wind of the identities of the attendees and hosts who were so infamous in the underground scene, even you had heard of them before, that you realised your mission wasn't simple at all. These were criminals at the top of the food chain you were dealing with! Perhaps, when your leading Officer had explained your task, he meant it as easy for you, and you alone.

This only worked to frustrate you more, with your assignment hijacked, limbs restrained and eyesight stolen because, fuck, if it weren't for whoever this loser is who'd kidnapped you, it would've actually been a breeze!

You don't hear much. A black fabric, itchy and thick, is tied in a skilful knot behind your skull, concealing your whereabouts from view and forcing you to rely on your secondary senses instead. Your head spins like you've been tossed side to side vigorously, most likely a lingering effect of whatever your kidnapper had drugged you with, but at least the darkness offers some semblance of mercy in allowing you to balance yourself and control the urge to vomit.

So far, you've kicked and punched, squirmed and tugged at whatever your hands and feet could find purchase on, sadly to no avail. There's little to do in this position—a position you aren't so accustomed to at all. You'd always been the one standing at the foot of the chair, wielding a bloodied knife as whoever your unlucky victim is squirms like a fish in exactly the way you are doing so now. (The image makes you cringe and you immediately stop moving.)

Frankly, you're worried your boredom alone might send you into psychosis, though on the bright side, it does make you realise first-hand how effective of a tactic it would be to leave your future victims like this just to get them to talk.

Huh. Very useful.

In the silence that wraps its claws around your throat, all you can do is think, though you're not sure if that actually worsens the situation. How in Teyvat had someone managed to catch you off guard? They must be highly trained—perhaps an assassin of sorts, though if that were so, why were you still living with your flesh unharmed and heart intact?

Maybe one of the auction's guards? No, no way would one of their lackeys ever get the better of you. You'd studied their mannerisms prior to invasion on their base and knew every little detail; from the training they'd followed for years up until now, to where their armour and weaponry had been originally sourced. Besides, kidnapping and drugs? That wasn't their style—they much preferred brute force if they were to ever catch an intruder.

Irked, you rack your thoughts and mind for any minute hint available. Before it'd happened, you'd first laid eyes on your target; approached the contained box with expert stealth, until a rough toss and tumble by the unexpected perpetrator had the consciousness then robbed from your system, sooty ashes clouding the depths of your vision until you'd awoken somewhere cold and lonely.

So... someone else more cunning? Is it a challenge from your leading Officer? Or another heist which had interrupted yours on accident? A total, embarrassing shut-down by the Curatorium of Secrets? Nod-Krai's police force? A Knight?

For a long, annoying while, you're stuck, with  ideas buzzing round your mind like a bothersome gnat too fast to squish—until finally, finally, you hear movement. A lock is switched open, clicking deafeningly through the quiet of the room. In trods a pair of footsteps, slow and methodical, like whoever it is is assessing the space before anything else. Hm, so you're dealing with someone sentient. How annoying. They're likely to remain quiet and give little away to your strained ears.

Then, it's like your assumptions are dismissed with a simple flick of the hand, clearing the foggy smoke of your thoughts as the individual begins to hum. The melody is cheerful and delicate, one you'd mistake for a ballad you'd hear in childhood—mistake because there's something uncanny about it. A chord progression in minor key. Something uncomfortable, that collars you with a chain and tugs until you're hooked at the edge of your seat even as anticipation grows and you feel danger near. It keeps you rooted in place, vulnerable to stop it closing in until you're crushed between Death's jaws.

Either that, or your kidnapper was incredibly horrible at maintaining the correct notes. You hope for your sake the latter is truer.

You hear shuffling; piled papers, the uncontrolled rolling of metallic objects across wood, the clinking of crystal glass, the tell-tale unsheathing of a blade. You don't flinch, no matter how loud your body screams at you to. You were trained for this; it's fine.

You won't die.

Maybe only bleed.

Somehow (in your mild panic), the darkness seems to expand, like an oil cloud over your senses. You think if it grows any thicker, your trachea will be breached, ghostly gloom would swell inside, and you'd choke. Maybe it's a warning from some divine intervention, to be a little more wary of this man since he'd already proven himself different to the rest? Funny—it feels more akin to a taunt, because what in Teyvat could you possibly do now?

Then, just as you believe the darkness may swallow you whole, there's an effulgent light, like an angel offering you their hand of mercy.

If said angel had fallen and bore the title Lucifer, who would grip your hand tight as they drag you to the rotten pits of Hell with them.

The man is careless in the way he removes your blindfold. He begins slow, a sharp tip akin to a needle pressed to the space between your eyebrows. You would've winced as the moonlight's lustre seeps into your vision and has you wanting to cringe away to adjust, had your breath not threatened to remain wedged in your throat due to worries of higher concern. You're eye to eye with his sterling blade, a mere millimetre away from piercing the irises you most certainly need.

The weapon's curved tip hooks to the fabric; roughly peels the blindfold from your eyes to hang loosely around your neck like a bandana (or a noose), and you want to complain that he could've nicked your skin with that daft thing, though you're not sure he appeared the type to care.

You don't recognise the man; not even when the flat edge of the knife is tapped lightly against the supple flesh of your cheek twice—solely for your attention—and he pulls back into the ardent beams of the moon, allowing for a clearer image of his face.

Well, you'd been right about one thing. Without a doubt in your mind, this man has to be a Knight of sorts. If you were to guess, you would bet on Favonius. He's all royal indigos and oceanic teals; with leather boots adorned in burnished gems and a crisp ivory dress shirt tucked into the hem of his trousers. He's less groomed compared to what you've heard about the Knights of Favonius—younger, too, with mint, windswept bangs that frame the face of unusually delicate porcelain.

You're aware Mondstadt's factions had stationed themselves in the chilly lands of Nod-Krai for almost a year now, marshalled boldly by the fierce Grandmaster you'd only ever heard tales about. It came as no surprise that they must've also caught wind of the illegal auction under the very roots they patrolled, and sent some of their best knights to disband it.

That much made sense, of course. What leaves you a little more perplexed is that you'd worked so hard to conceal your true identity; it was a top priority in every mission you undertook, to remain obscure in the shadows and never let slip what organisation commanded you like a puppet. There is absolutely no way your kidnapper has a clue who you are.

It begs the question—what did he want with you?

You're dragged away from your thoughts as he spins the weapon between deft fingers and grins, wide and maniacal, with a derisive chuckle.

"Oh! You're actually conscious! Impressive." His stare is brutally analytical—up, then down, then up again, criticising your whole body. It gives you the impression he'd fancy drugging you further to investigate just how much more you can take.

You're not a fan of the idea.

He doesn't regard you directly for long, already distracted by several of the trinkets scattered across the dented oak workbench stained in all sorts of matter your stomach churns to think about. You can't place what room you're in, despite having studied the auction's layout prior. With the space's minimal light, you don't have much to work off of either.

You think it may be a storage room. Along the slate walls lavished in cracks and peeling paint, there are lines of shelves, piled high with chests and boxes and technological compartments you don't even recognise. Tables are dotted sporadically around the room, an assortment of trash and discarded tidbits sprawled across them in a manner of chaos. There's only one door ahead of where your captor stands; a single escape route. Oh well. You suppose a little challenge never thwarted your fun before.

He's probably noticed your critical evaluation of the room, because he makes a show of drawing your attention away from your formulating escape plan to the pistol now clutched between his fingertips. With a flick of the wrist, the gun is twirled around his index finger, eyes locked onto yours with frightening intensity—before his shoulders vibrate with the force of his child-like giggle, and his form is lost to the shadows of the deeper part of the room where moonlight dare not touch.

Your eyes squint, only slightly unnerved because you won't allow yourself to feel any more than that.

Which is odd because, when he speaks again, you flinch like prey backed into a corner.

"The dosage I gave you is a combination of Sombus Resin, Chloroform and grounded Sumerian Padisarah. Mixing their contents produces a desired sedative effect strong enough to knock out, hell, a Saurian!" Even with his back turned and concealed by the darkness, you know he's smiling sickly. "Pretty sweet, right? My own design—though somehow, it doesn't apply to you."

He pauses, and you know there are eyes on you. Perceptive, calculating; a glance over his shoulder to study your form, like you're a butterfly pinned to his board, scrutinised beneath a glass prison.

He hums once, and you despise how the first thing you note within the dimness of the space is the wicked grin he fixes you—fascinated, but cold like Snezhnayan ice. "Guess you're one tough cookie to crack, huh? I don't mind. It's a lot more satisfying this way."

"Who are you?" Beneath the restraints, your limbs twitch, aching for freedom. Your words taste slightly sour on your tongue, as if you already knew they'd be pointless, and he tuts sympathetically.

The magazine on his gun suddenly releases across the table, sending ammunition scattering loudly across the surface. You recognise the glint of one of the bullets he grabs, tossed carelessly in the air, before it's caught and housed cosily back into the pistol's magazine, a familiar click! as it's closed into place.

A click representing your most likely fate, even if there is only one bullet. You swallow as he laughs.

"Oh, no, no, sweet thing! That isn't how this is gonna go. Surely you're clever enough to know the reason you're here, right, lovely?" His footsteps are heavy as he stalks the room, but his voice is light and airy before he sighs. "Well, if not—as adorable as it is when you act all naive—I suppose I'll indulge you. You're here to answer me. The little auction you're guarding is my duty to shut down, and if I'm to make it back before sunrise, I'll need a fewww little boosters to get me going."

Outside, a crow screams and takes flight as if someone has aimed a bullet its way. So you are likely on the East border of the facility, adjacent to the forested area of Dreadshade Mire. It doesn't help much in putting your whereabouts entirely into perspective, especially when your mind is more focused on relating to the bird, the only difference being you are tethered to the branch.

"So, I ask and you talk, capiche? Unless you want your pretty brains splattered all across this room." You think he might've laughed after that, though it comes out more akin to a pleased hum. It's probable the sick bastard is taking perverse pleasure in the image (you ignore how well you're accustomed to the feeling too, when you aren't the victim in the firing line).

There's a bitter taste on the tip of your tongue; it lingers like spoiled milk, clings to your taste buds like the leaves in Erinnyes Forest to a branch during a merciless Winter storm. It's something you can't quite place your thoughts on, like you'd met this boy before, though that is impossible.

Ah. Of course.

You knew of a man like this already. Battle-hungry, deadly, an insatiable lust for fresh blood splatter, to rip the flesh right from their opponent's neck themselves and bathe in the crimson streams it produced.

Yes, this man was much alike to your notorious Eleventh Fatui Harbinger.

Notorious in such ways for developing a reputation that warned others to maintain a clear distance, lest they want to lose their lives.

Huh. It was likely the same could be said for the individual who currently had you tied to a chair and a gun twirling around a lithe finger as if it were nothing more than a toy. Perhaps you are more screwed than you initially thought.

You swallow, throat dry.

Then finally, his form prowls towards you. You don't understand how, but his eyes appear to glow, even when concealed by the shadows. They're irises of iridescent crimson, that remind you of the Devil that creeps among the citizens of Teyvat and drags its claws along vulnerable napes like your own right now. The man is so uncanny in this view, so alien, you briefly wonder if he's human at all.

"I suppose the only question now is—" Moonlight seeps across his face again as he steps into view, brandishing a rusted, traditional stopwatch in his left hand, and the pistol, loaded with a single bullet, in his right. "—are you going to cooperate?"

What is he playing at?

When you furrow your eyebrows, his finger slips, starting the timer that only leaks dread like a vapour into your lungs. For him, it is probably a countdown of how long you have left to breathe. For you, it is a countdown of how long you have left to escape.

You most certainly won't go down without a fight.

You huff as he tosses the stopwatch to the table, unflinching now that magenta eyes, glued to your body like a magnet to steel, had your hackles raised and shields braced. Your laughter that follows is amused, but your expression is one of fatal deadpan.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not the guard you're looking for." The man only cocks his head, eyes narrowed in an effort to search you for a crack in the truth.

"Hmm? No?"

"No. I'm here to infiltrate, much like you!" Your tone is unnaturally jolly compared to the horrific tension of the situation, akin to somebody who'd tell a joke at a funeral. "Until somebody drugged me unconscious and dragged me away from my mission. Oh well! Mistakes happen, don't they? I'd be willing to forgive and forget if you could loosen the restraints and let me get on with it."

To emphasise your discomfort, you tug against the rope ensnaring your wrist to the chair, beaming with so much faux enthusiasm, you think it may drain your energy to uphold it for any longer. The man snickers like a petulant child, and your smile almost does drop.

"How do I know you aren't lying to me, huh?" You expect his cadence to be suspicious and concerned because, wow, how you must've sent his plans spiralling! Instead, he is frustratingly, and confusingly, calm, with a simple smile on his pale, scarred lips. You almost wonder if smacking him would be enough to rid him of the expression, or if it'll remain afterwards to taunt you.

"Isn't it obvious?" You bite back, with a little less of the feigned eagerness you had previously. "You tackled me as I was approaching my own target. I was doing anything but guarding."

"Funny. It looked like you were patrolling to me." The simple smile has morphed into a shit-eating grin, that tells you everything you need to know—he's lying, and using it to mock you. Bastard knight.

You're about to spit a curse when he takes a step towards you, reminding you of the weapon still gripped carelessly in his fingers and forcing you to hold your tongue for a moment. The second he realises it's caught your attention again, his index finger curls around the trigger in silent warning.

Did he want you to yield? For what reason? It still made no sense to you why he'd want to hold you captive; if he was clever, he would've released you the moment you informed him of his fault, in order to give himself as much time as possible to find somebody else to interrogate. You despise how cryptic he is more than anything.

You're talented when it comes to reading others, but you were truly struggling with this one, and you hate it.

So, you propose a deal, because bargaining is your next best asset.

"You're a Knight of Favonius, aren't you? You want the auction disbanded and the big sale of the night impounded." He raises an eyebrow, as if amused you're still trying.

"Clever girl. What gave it away?" Truthfully, if it hadn't been for the uniform, you wouldn't have a clue who this man works for. It's strange and unnerving, and if you think about it for a little too long, your skin would start to prickle and your thoughts would spiral into panic.

For a Knight, he's incredibly utilitarian. He hadn't sugarcoated your situation; instead, he appears fond of unorthodox means to obtain necessary information, at the expense of traumatising the citizens you know that silly Favonius oath had him promising to protect.

You'd never been fond of the Knights and their snobbish chivalry, even if this one has the chivalry of a whore house regular. It's especially obvious in the way he stalks you now; each passing second of your silence an opportunity for him to close in on you with calculated footsteps.

Yes, if not for the uniform, you wouldn't pin him to be a Knight at all. He's more of a Harbinger, if anything. You could make that comparison well.

"Intuition." You lie, avoiding his eyes. He grins. "With my help, you can clear the facility in half the time. There's details I know which will speed things along for you massively. Let me go and arrest as many guards as your heart desires, and I'll deal with the cargo."

There—the bait had been casted. There's no reason for him to refuse when your offer reaps more benefits than drawbacks; you'd even gone to the effort of presenting it to him on a polished silver platter, served alongside treats and delicacies of whatever the fuck he wanted. All there is to do now is wait for him to bite.

"Are you striking a deal with me?" The way he tilts his head reminds you of a puppy, but the expression of sheer sympathy as he regards you from above feels much more similar to a starved wolf.

You're hyperaware of how close your captor draws. Every centimetre; every step; every breath taken is noted, until he stands within an arms-length of distance from you. This close, your eyes can trace each scar drawn across the expanse of his wrists not concealed by his gloves; how they dip and dive between mauve veins and pattern all the way up to his neck, peeking from behind the smooth, leather choker.

You're also painfully aware of how the pistol is raised above his hip, aimed at your skull, and how your heart pounds beneath your ribcage like a beast demanding freedom.

"Yes." The word is short, but it feels like it's lasted a lifetime before the man utters a response.

"Cute, but no, thank you. I have my own plans for the selling device." Something sinister shifts in both the way he looks at you, and the tone he speaks in. "And you."

As if to clarify his point, the barrel of the gun is pushed firmly to your temple. The metal is cool, though you still feel like it may scald you with its promise; a permanent brand fixing your fate in place, and all of a sudden, your situation feels far too real.

Your ankles twitch against the rope restricting them; your body's instinctive plea to run, but, of course, you can't. Poker face, [name]. It would be disastrous to let slip he is succeeding in worming his way beneath your skin.

"Besides, it seems I've hit the jackpot!" He exclaims with eyes that twinkle like the embers of a forest fire. Eyes that delight in the carnage, and bore through your skull because he wants to see you on fire next. "By the sounds of it, you know far more than any of the regular guards of the auction. You're a lot more prepared than me in that respect. It makes me wonder who you answer to."

There's a frigid breeze from the open window, which bites at your cheeks and nestles beneath your hair. You find it as comforting as it is jarring, since the cold is far more welcoming than where you are sat now. Your captor cocks his head above you, ever so keen on analysing you. His mien is fox-like and devilish, like he's discovered a missing puzzle piece that fits what once was foggy and ambiguous together flawlessly.

Like he already knows the answer to his query.

"My father is a merchant—"

"Don't lie to me." You're silent instantly—stunned by his speed and tone, void of his previous humour. For the first time in your life, you tremble, electricity weaving up your spine like a python. It settles at your nape, curls itself around your throat and constricts your airway until you're paralysed enough for it to strike.

How could he tell you weren't telling the truth? It isn't possible—you'd mastered the art of deception; knew of every little trick that had never failed you until now. Something was undeniably, horrifically wrong.

"Well? If I wanted you silent, I'd gag you." That monstrous gleam in his eye tells you he still plans on it eventually, anyway, but you'd sooner bite off each of his fingers before you allow him the opportunity. He sighs and presses the metal a little more harshly to your head. "No? Nothing? Don't tell me I've broken your pretty mind already."

He whines obnoxiously, shoulders slumping in an effort to exaggerate the pathetic pout on his lips. You think you may develop whiplash at how fast he seems to switch attitudes—from sullen, aggravating child to demented, terrifying murderer, and then back again. Perhaps it's a tactic, because it certainly makes your head spin with nausea, and distracts you momentarily from his figure slipping past you.

He circles your chair like a predator; a wolf enclosing a lamb. The gun remains lodged to your temple, until he's positioned directly behind you, and only then does he tauntingly drag the barrel through the strands of your hair, aim orbiting your skull like a thorned crown.

"Hm. Well, I guess I'll start off by crossing out the obvious. You're no Knight, are you?" He trails the metal mouth behind your ear, its coolness kissing your lobe with contrasting gentleness. "You have the insightfulness of an assassin, but your aim is the machine for sale tonight rather than a human target. A treasure hoarder, maybe?"

You flinch with the addition of pressure to your shoulder; slender fingers clawing their way into your flesh like a vice. He taps your collarbone once, before he snorts rudely. "Nah, you aren't sloppy enough. You've put a lot of thought into this, haven't you, dovey? You're clever."

Your chest tightens with each boastful murmur, and you're worried that it may reduce the space for your lungs to expand adequately. Each syllable penetrates your skin like a gunshot already, there's no need for the very real pistol to be used as well.

As if you'd spoken your thoughts aloud, the barrel is pulled away to prod at your thin scarf; worn, ragged and as scarlet red as the eyes glowing down at you, and the blood they wish to harvest from your veins. "You don't wear a uniform, and because you're a smart girl, that means you have one, but choose not to wear it. How am I doing?"

Your shoulder is released, and by the time he rounds to your front again, he's sporting the most conceited grin you've ever laid eyes upon.

You bite your tongue and fix him with a furious scowl instead of offering him the courtesy of a worded response.

"I'd pin you for one of Miss Nefer's girls, but that's not right either, is it?" Just when you think he's about to continue his pursuit around the room, his form pauses, steady and domineering in front of you. Your scowl doesn't hold out for as long as you hoped it to, his own expression so perverse, basking in your discomfort as he unravels your identity like a threaded stitch, you have to look down. "No. There's something else there."

His weapon traces your jawline like a lover's caress, and tilts your chin upwards to lock your gaze in place. "Darkness. Just like mine, hm?"

He coos, leaning over to inch his face closer to yours, pupils dilated into lifeless onyx pearls—black holes that absorb your dismay hungrily—before his smile turns wicked again, his eyes widen and he clicks his tongue like he's ready to reveal something he's known all along.

"Oh! I think I've got it!"

Steel braces against your pulse point.

"The Fatui?" And your heart stops (at least you hope it has).

He purrs like a cat, delight trickling down his chin in the manner of insatiable wine, and his eyes narrow, crimson illuminating like rubies despite the shadows casting overhead. His smirk is lazy and deceptive. "How immoral."

For a short moment, you're convinced he winces, eyes narrowed into slits as a faraway thought consumes him—one you hope doesn't involve you and death. It vanishes as soon as you notice it, and you don't waste energy on decrypting its meaning; not when his index finger twitches against the trigger because of the memory, and your pulse spikes like a parasite beneath your flesh. Not a fan of the Fatui then, huh? You don't necessarily blame him—not many are.

It is exactly why your enemies aren't supposed to know who you are.

You think he may answer your wishes and pull the trigger, but surprisingly, he's shrugging and pulling both the pistol, and himself, away. He saunters towards the table as if he has all the time in the world, gloved fingers sliding across the chipped oak while he taps the muzzle against his chin in exaggerated thought. "Well, you Fatui are an open-minded bunch, right? How do you feel about a little game?"

You've misheard him. Surely.

"A game?" Your response is resentful; barely comprehensible behind your gritted teeth. "Why would I ever want to play a game with you?"

"Ah—sorry." He grins impishly. "That was rhetorical. You don't actually have a choice."

You lunge instinctively, tired of being the ant who's poked at and taunted with a stick, only to instantly recoil against your seat, skin stinging where the rope's teeth bite at your flesh. He laughs, wild and unashamed, because he most certainly had been waiting for a reaction, and now you'd just given it to him without challenge and informed him of how well his dickhead moves are working.

You curse under your breath.

"What game?"

Even with your highly refined skills, you can't keep up with the speed he exhibits in such a short time.

Before your eyes, he rips the gun from where he'd momentarily rested it against his chin, and greets the barrel with his own skull, in exactly the way he'd done to you. There's no hesitation when the trigger is pulled, and no hesitation when bile threatens to accumulate in your throat. You think that may be it; it's over, and the daft idiot has killed himself for nothing, and you have to stomach sitting in a brain-painted room until you find a way to worm out of your restraints.

You would've even, maybe, screamed, if the shot had fired and the bang you knew well had cracked across the space like a whip.

Instead, there's wretched silence. Your kidnapper stays standing; gun still levelled in his grip and the gleeful smile of a psychopath etched proudly onto his lips, very much alive. When you take a deep breath and relax your squared shoulders, you come to the certain realisation—you are dealing with an absolute nut-job!

With your attention diverted to a variety of things, you'd forgotten he'd opted to load his pistol with one bullet. Typically, pistols of his design could house up to ten rounds per chamber, and even though you couldn't determine the exact number for sure, to wager your life on a one in ten chance of failure seems to be the epitome of insanity!

Just when you believed yourself at the edge of uncovering the man's intentions, he somehow always succeeded in surprising you further. You've never been so cautious in your life, and it battles tooth and nail to emphasise the nerves fluttering within your stomach.

To your left, a device rings—the stopwatch he'd started earlier. He hums—that same, jubilant melody—as he silences it and brandishes it towards you.

"Perfect timing for my little demonstration! You—" In his other hand, he aims the gun in your direction again. "—have until the timer runs out to answer my questions. When it does, I pull the trigger."

His boots thud against solid timber flooring, a distinct reminder that all you can do is sit and wait as he approaches your front again. He hovers above you, and is rough in the way he forces your back against the seat with the barrel of his pistol shoved to your chest. You wince, but only slightly, to avoid gifting him the satisfaction.

"Six chambers, one bullet, beautiful." Your vision seems to blur the closer he is to you—something bitter breaching your nostrils and the cavity of your mouth. It's stuck between your teeth like gum, as if his presence alone is enough to drug you senseless.

Or perhaps, what's more distracting, is the fact he calls you beautiful.

Sick, perverted bastard.

The muzzle traces your collarbone; kisses the skeleton like a thorn on a rose would a delicate, vulnerable finger. It travels across the expanse of your sternum, and dips boldly between the valley of your breasts. You're sure he traces your nipple on purpose; adores the way your breath hitches even when you strive not to, before finally settling a little to the left—above your unguarded heart. "Your odds are down to one in five."

The silence in the room feels more deafening than the rifles belonging to the Fatui Skirmishers, or the roar of your Second Harbinger's machinery as he conducts his experiments. You recognise quickly that you aren't used to it; that the quiet ties you to a Wheel of Death and spins you round until you're nauseous, while it shoots knives of mockery your way. It doesn't miss for very long—a blade, embedded in your stomach, putting you out of your misery when the man resets the stopwatch and your ears soak in the consistent ticking.

"How good's your luck?" Shielded by dark, gorgeous eyelashes, you're regarded with those mulberry irises. When you refuse to answer, he sneers. "Shall we start?"

"You're a fool to think I'd tell you anything."

"You're a fool to think I won't pull this trigger right now. I wonder if your heart beating looks as pretty as it sounds." He flashes you a glimpse of his fangs, as if threatening to tear your chest open and satisfy his queries with his teeth.

"And learn nothing?" You press, despite fear shrieking and yelling and screaming at you not to.

"You're so much prettier when you're being mouthy." You know it's bait—an attempt to coax you into argument. For you to waste time and skip to the exciting part, where either bullet or mercy would be lodged into your chest, and indulge his disturbed fantasies at the same time.

You feel the metal run back up your chest, to where it had lingered on the column of your throat. It doesn't stop there, however. He continues, tracing the tender skin beneath your jaw; the point of your chin; the supple flesh of your lips. You kiss the muzzle unwillingly, and it flashes like headlights in your brain that maybe, just maybe, your captor wants more than only answers.

It's especially obvious when he presses firmly, and your lips part to accommodate the intrusion of the barrel, cold against your tongue. It tastes of metal and grime and pleas for pity, and while you would've ideally spat it out in complaint, you know better than to test the patience of an insane man with your life in his palms.

He hovers closer, bracing his free hand against the back frame of your chair, with breath hot against your cheek. You haven't even realised your denial to inhale until your lungs begin to ache, though it's far more comfortable to appreciate the burn for the moment. When he's this close, he's all you can smell, and you want to keep as much of him out of your system as possible.

Which is contradictory, with his gun wedged between your lips like a mutt slobbering over a toy.

"It's a shame your chatter is so useless. I said I'd gag you, didn't I? I don't want you silent, but I'm just trying to help." Help? He has a hilarious way of showing it.

And when he pulls back an inch or two, sliding the barrel from between your lips to press its saliva-coated muzzle to your cheek, you know for sure he's lying through his teeth about helping. The expression he adorns is one of utter disdain, as if you'd been the one to beckon the gun to your mouth, begging for it.

You blink, twice, because you're sure his constant switch in attitudes will be enough to send you reeling. Had you been begging for it?

You don't have time to dwell on it, because the pressure on your cheek increases; firm enough you know it'll leave a mark, though it's nothing compared to the hole it'll leave if the next round contains a bullet.

"First topic: venue security. Go on, sweet girl." He coaxes you so gently, it's almost enough to soothe the ache in your cheek and indoctrinate your brain into complacency. You aren't surprised the Knights had administered him for a job most likely involving interrogation.

Even if his interrogation methods involve unusual means of fear mixed with hints of arousal. You're worried it'll prove effective the longer he carries on—especially with the way he leans in, mouth settled against your ear and lips stretched into a monstrous smirk that'll drag you under, cadence low with sultry promise.

"Tell me everything, and I swear I'll have you craving my gun like a bitch in heat. And I'll give it to you, baby. Whatever you want." He mouths at your lobe and tugs it between sharp canines.

Perhaps, at this rate, you may let slip a little more than you initially planned.

∧ ,,, ∧ ( ̳• · • ̳) . ݁₊ ⊹ . thank you for reading ! ᝰ.ᐟ / づ♡