Varka isn’t picky, a battle-hardened knight ready to eat whatever it takes to first have the strength to fight, and then simply to survive. but he swears that the meals you prepare have a unique, unmistakable flavor unlike any five-star dish. they taste like home, like comfort, like the kind of stability that is so fleeting for him. like Mondstadt, like your kisses from the inside.
the expedition sharpened his longing for what was familiar. for friends, for wine and cider, but also for your dinners. far from home, nothing is able to truly satisfy him, even though he had been prepared for the constant melancholy and the shortages in food rations.
so when he finally returns home, after so many years, one of the first things he does is cooking dinner with you. often he’ll steal a kiss whenever he decides the million before it simply weren’t enough. sometimes he hugs you when you have a moment to spare and gives you a playful pinch, yearning for the return of what once was.
and when the meal is finally ready, Varka makes up an entire week’s quota. he eats slowly, chewing every bite carefully, savoring your cooking. he wants to experience here and now, the feeling that for so long existed only as warm memories far away from home. he doesn’t shy away from praising it either. often, and rather loudly, but just as genuine as he is.
“mmm, I missed this so much,” he murmurs, finishing his third plate. “if you were a cook at good hunter, I’d go bankrupt in a week.”
“that long? is my cooking really that bad?” you tease, and he snorts.
“so bad I might have to get seconds. I have to protect Mondstadt from such terrible cooking, right?” he winks, already reaching for another helping.
“just don’t overdo it, big guy. so you’ll be able to roll out of bed tomorrow.”
“thanks for the concern, but nothing like that will happen. I need this — your cooking, I mean. I thought about it every day, even when our rations looked decent and were enough to fill us up.”
it’s impossible not to notice the nostalgia in his eyes. the bitter kind. the painful kind. and though you’ve seen it before, experienced his sadness and regret, now the sight of Varka, freshly returned home, being caught in such heavy melancholy doesn’t belong in your shared space. it sticks out like a splinter you need to get rid of.
“if I’d known you’d have such a wolfish appetite again, I would’ve made more,” you nod toward the pans and pots. “eat before it gets cold.”
Varka grins, the gloom evaporating instantly, replaced by a surge of love he has to let out somehow. he kisses the top of your head, and when you lean away to avoid the affection, his lips turn into a sad little pout.
“ah, ah, ah! no greasy kisses please. I washed my hair today.”
his wide, toothy smile returns. not giving you even a second to react, he plants a few more loud kisses on your head and pulls you closer so you can’t escape.
“ugh, and I wanted to prepare your lunch for work tomorrow. you’re walking on very thin ice, darling.”
“oh come on, my hair’s greasy too. we’ll just wash it together, like always.” he sits back down in his chair, pulling you with him so you end up sitting on his lap. for a moment he forgets about the cooling meal, focusing instead on showering you with kisses. heavy hands settle on your waist, gently kneading your sides, signaling a new kind of hunger.
and when the next day comes and he brings the meal you prepared together to his office, you can be sure he’ll be bragging about your cooking to everyone and at every possible opportunity.
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ughhh, Varka saying he wants the traveler to be bolder with him.
so imagine Varka letting you knock him down during sparring/roughhousing, thrilled by your determination to send him sprawling. he’s grinning like an idiot, panting slightly.
and then you straddle his stomach, his brain short-circuiting as blood rushes straight to the rock-hard boner. sparks of euphoria dance in the blue of his eyes, another traitor to his excitement being the ruby-red blush flooding his cheeks and ears because thats exactly where he wanted to be.
and if you pull his hair, making it clear that you’ve won, he lets out such a deep, raw groan that you have absolutely no doubt anymore what kind of thing gets him going.
fluff, established relationship, stubble varka cuz thats hot <3
before you can enter the knights of favonius headquarters, the guards stop you. the surprised look on your face is enough for them to hurry with an explanation.
“the grand master is in his office. he isn’t receiving visitors at the moment unless it’s urgent business.”
“and a partner bringing him lunch isn’t urgent business?”
they exchange awkward, uncertain glances.
“forgive us,” they say apologetically. “Jean’s orders.”
you barely stop yourself from smiling. of course Jean issued an order like that. you respect it, knowing how overworked that poor woman can be because of your husband.
this wasn’t your first rodeo bringing lunch to Varka, and every one of your visits during his working hours always ended the same way: Varka dodging work under the pretense of attending to his partner, because according to him, “there’s nothing more important in life than a happy wife.”
and truth be told, sometimes you did it on purpose, whenever your heart softened hearing his groans and laments about the mountains of paperwork in his office.
but seeing that you won’t accomplish anything more productive today and must abandon the idea of visiting your husband with the bitter taste of defeat, you hand the guards the bundle containing the still-warm meal for your partner.
“alright then, an order is an order. just give it to him. oh, and say hi to Jean for me!”
then you turn back towards the road home.
…
the sound of a heavy foot tapping restlessly mixes with the scratching of a pen on paper. drowning in piles of unfinished documents, Varka is slowly losing both patience and the will to continue signing and reading reports. hungry, thirsty, craving action, and above all craving to see you again, he’s already trying to figure out how to escape.
a knock on the door brings him a blessed distraction from his duties.
“come in,” he says, already setting the pen back into the inkwell.
when the knight enters, he salutes, holding a bundle against his chest. at the sight of the familiar thick cloth, unmistakably yours, Varka can’t hold back a smile. he doesn’t have to scheme anymore. opportunity has presented itself on its own.
“oh, what a wonderful gift,” Varka murmurs, reaching for the bundle. still warm and quite large, which greatly pleases his heart. “but why wasn’t it delivered personally?” if he had dog ears, they would probably droop to the floor in sorrow at the absence of your presence. he glances at the empty corridor trying to spot your hiding place. “where are they? I must personally thank my beloved for the meal.”
like a rocket he springs up from his chair, already intending to leave the office.
“grand master, please wait! they’re not in the headquarters! master Jean gave orders that only scheduled visitors are to be allowed in.”
at that, Varka’s brows lift in surprise for a second, but he quickly masks his disappointment with a wide smile. something flashes in his blue eyes, sparks of boyish excitement for action.
“huuuh, what a shame… Mika!”
the young blond man jumps from his chair like a spring.
“please take these documents to Jean.”
“grand master!” Mika calls out, despite the massive hand carrying the strength of ten men already resting on his shoulder and urging him toward the task. “I hope this isn’t an excuse to escape.”
“pffff, Mika.” Varka waves his free hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t leave this mountain of papers unattended. now go, and come back quickly.”
when Varka is finally alone, he wastes no time and immediately gets to work. clutching your gift tightly against his chest, he opens the window and glances around to make sure there are no witnesses to his little escape.
when he sees none, he jumps out without hesitation, landing neatly on the cobblestones below, his thoughts already filled with you and the moments you’ll soon share.
finding you takes him record time. the sight of you in the afternoon sunlight is like mead for his thirsty soul.
in a few long strides he reaches you and pulls you into a one-armed embrace, kissing all over your face out of longing, even though you saw each other this very morning.
“Varka!” you yelp when his short but already rough stubble scrapes your cheek. “weren’t you supposed to be drowning in paperwork today?”
“hey, there are important things and more important things,” he murmurs, placing one last kiss on your lips. “and it just so happens that anything concerning you carries the highest priority for me.”
“you snuck out and jumped out of a window, didn’t you?”
“pfff, please. that's too irresponsible, even for me,” he says, waving a dismissive hand.
“Varka…”
“I was going to take a break anyway,” he finally relents under the pressure of your voice and stare. “you just have impeccable timing, dear.”
he intertwines your fingers with his and starts guiding you towards the city gate.
“now come on,” he grins excitedly. “I know the perfect quiet spot for a picnic.”
the first thing Varka does after returning to your shared apartment is locating you. the second is dropping to his knees in front of you. and finally, he buries his head against your stomach, wrapping his arms tightly around you and sighing like a tired but content dog.
because there is no place more comfortable than here and now. with you, after a whole day of paperwork.
well...right after his creative napping spots when he’s dodging work. and his favorite chair at angel’s share.
true heaven begins and ends in your arms.
he lets out a heavy sigh, exhaling all his worries and releasing every burden. then hums in satisfaction when you begin working through his slightly tangled hair, affectionately yet carefully combing through the strands with your fingers. encouraged by your initiation of touch, he allows himself to sink a little heavier against you; comfort, your closeness, and the safety of your shared four walls already turning his brain to mush. far more powerfully than the alcohol he faintly smells of ever could.
“Varka,” you chide gently. even with that light note of reprimand in your voice, you sound unusually melodic.
“shhhh,” he murmurs. “let me rest for a moment. this is good.” he slurs slightly, though this time it isn’t from drinking.
“eat something first. archons know when you last had anything solid in your mouth.”
“mmm, dessert first,” he replies, refusing to budge.
you roll your eyes at that. heavy as a draft horse and stubborn as a mule.
but you know this is one of those rare, genuine moments, not one of his playful escapes, when the grand master can truly allow himself to relax. and above all, to be selfish for once.
so you don’t push further, letting him drink in and savor the moment while you continue stroking the blond bristles of his hair.
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“your bones are arranged in such aesthetically pleasing structure, i do not think i could rearrange it to make it any better.”
“… what?”
has your boyfriend been tainted by abyssal corruption? you reach up— it takes a significant effort to hold yourself back from chuckling when you see him immediately lean down in response, expecting headpats like a poor, touch-starved dog— and your hand lands on his forehead.
cold.
perfectly normal, then.
“your hands are very soft and warm, as always,” he hums, leaning onto your palm with a contented hum, “i have always enjoyed the feeling of them carrying me in my lantern form. perhaps the sense of safety is what a kitten feels when they are being carried by their scruff by their mother cat.”
“that’s an adorable analogy, but seriously, what's going on? are you drunk?” you snort and gave him a chaste peck on his lips. hm. nope, no scent of wine.
kyryll smiles. you blink and try to push the flowering blooms away from the edges of your vision. stop that, my mad(ly in love) brain.
“on your love? indeed, it seems i am.”
ah, you roll your eyes in full understanding, your adorable fairy was just trying to flirt. again.
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