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You were, by all popular consensus and standard definition, an absolute menace.
You were not born into the prestigious, high-walled estates of the Lawrence clan, nor did you carry the ancient, respectable lineage of the Gunnhildrs. You were a commoner, born and raised amidst the modest stone houses of Mondstadt’s lower residential quarters, surrounded by the daily scent of fresh bread from the bakeries and the distant, crisp aroma of brewing dandelion wine. You did not possess a Vision, no glowing glass orb hung from your hip to grant you the favor of the elements. You could not summon torrents of water like the mystical mages of legends, nor could you call down bolts of lightning to strike your enemies.
But you did not need a Vision to strike absolute terror into the hearts of the local populace. You had something far more lethal: a tongue sharp enough to slice clean through a Ruin Guard’s rusted armor, a pair of eyes that could freeze Cider Lake solid with a single glare, and a face so effortlessly, devastatingly beautiful that it was practically a safety hazard to the public.
It was a strange, contradictory curse. You possessed the kind of looks that street poets wrote clumsy, breathless verses about, thick, glossy hair that caught the Mondstadt breeze with a cinematic perfection, features carved with an elegant symmetry, and an aura that commanded the attention of the entire plaza the very second your leather boots clicked against the cobblestones. You were easily one of the most stunning maidens in the city of freedom.
And you were also fiercely abrasive, sharp-tongued, and possessed a legendary, unyielding attitude.
You had zero patience for nonsense, less patience for idiocy, and a profound, burning hatred for the flock of hopeless romantic suitors who constantly tried to invade your personal space. Over the years, you had inadvertently turned the art of courting into a brutal blood sport. The tavern regulars at the Angel’s Share actually kept a running tally on a chalkboard near the bar, tracking how many young men had confidently approached you at the fountain, only to retreat into the shadows minutes later, weeping bitterly into their flagons of beer.
There was Quinn, the local fruit vendor, who had spent three entire days meticulously polishing a basket of sun-settias just to present them to you. He had rehearsed a trembling, poetic speech about how your radiant cheeks rivaled the morning fruit. You had looked at the basket, raised a singular, perfectly shaped eyebrow, and told him with chilling calm that if he spent half as much time fixing his crooked teeth as he did polishing fruit, he might actually make a decent profit for once in his life. He had not looked you in the eye since, crossing the street whenever you walked by.
Then there was a minor noble boy from a lower branch of the Koenigs clan who thought himself a dashing bard. He tried to serenade you beneath your bedroom window with a rented lyre. You had opened the wooden shutters, leaning out into the moonlight looking like a literal goddess, only to promptly dump a bucket of dirty, soapy mop water straight onto his expensive velvet doublet, advising him to take his screeching back to the Springvale boars where it belonged.
You were not cruel for the sake of being cruel; you were simply fiercely, violently protective of your peace. You liked your quiet life. You liked sitting by the stone railings near the grand windmills, watching the white clouds drift lazily across the endless blue sky without some bumbling boy trying to awkwardly hold your hand or read you atrocious, rhyming sonnets. You had built an impenetrable fortress around yourself, lined with sharp thorns and guarded by your terrifyingly quick wits. Every guy in Mondstadt had eventually learned the golden rule: look, admire from a very safe distance, but do not approach unless you want your ego permanently dismantled.
Except for one glaring, infuriating, oversized exception.
"My Lady! I brought skewers! The ones with extra Jueyun chili, just so that terrifyingly sharp tongue of yours finally has a reason to burn!"
A massive, heavy shadow suddenly fell over your favorite stone bench, completely blocking out the warm afternoon sun. You closed your eyes, inhaling a deep, controlled breath through your nose as your left eyelid involuntarily twitched. You did not even need to look up to know exactly who it was. The boisterous, booming voice, the heavy, deliberate thud of oversized leather boots, and the sheer, overwhelming aura of chaotic, cheerful energy could only belong to one single person in the entirety of Teyvat.
Varka.
Even as a teenager, Varka was less of a human being and more of a walking natural disaster. He was ridiculously tall, already towering over the senior Knights of Favonius despite his youth, with a wild mane of unruly hair, broad shoulders that could block a doorway, and a smile so wide and bright it honestly made your head ache just looking at it. He was a prodigy of the sword, a loudmouth, a carefree spirit who regularly skipped his mandatory training sessions to chase after wolf-sized rumors in Wolvendom, and he was, unfortunately, your most persistent suitor.
You slowly opened your eyes, glaring up at him with a death stare that had sent grown Fatui diplomats running for cover. "How many times do I have to tell you, Varka? Get out of my face. You are blocking the sun. You look like a useless wooden pillar standing there."
Varka did not flinch. He did not stutter. He did not turn bright red and run away to cry in a corner like all the others. Instead, he let out a deep, roaring laugh that vibrated right through the stone bench beneath you. Without asking for permission, he slid his massive frame into the empty space right next to you, completely invading your personal bubble. He thrust a greasy paper wrapper full of smoking, spice-dusted chicken and mushroom skewers directly into your face.
"I knew it! You totally missed me," Varka explained cheerfully, entirely translating your harsh insult into a warm, loving welcome. He took a massive bite out of his own skewer, chewing happily without a care in the world. "Eat up, My Lady. Maybe the food will finally stop the smoke from coming out of your nose. You are prickly in the morning, snippy in the afternoon. If this keeps up, you might actually swallow me whole by midnight."
"In your dreams," you hissed, snatching a skewer from the wrapper anyway because, unfortunately, the grease smelled absolutely fantastic and you had skipped lunch. You took a vicious, aggressive bite, aggressively imagining it was his shoulder you were chewing on. "And stop calling me My Lady. It sounds ridiculous coming from a brute like you, and I have a perfectly normal name, you absolute idiot."
"But My Lady suits you perfectly," Varka cooed, leaning back against the stone railing and looking down at you with an expression that was terrifyingly fond. Before you could even swat his hand away, he reached out, his thick, calloused fingers casually brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. "You have this grand, aristocratic way of looking down your nose at everyone, like a queen ruling over a kingdom of idiots. I happen to like it. It keeps a man on his toes."
You rolled your eyes so hard it physically pained you, letting out a sharp, irritated click of your tongue. "You are completely insane. Tell me, are you actually immune to shame, or is your skin just naturally as thick as a shield?"
"A little bit of both, I think," Varka grinned, his eyes crinkling delightfully at the corners. He shifted his weight, his heavy claymore clinking loudly against the stone architecture. "The guys back at the barracks told me that if a girl snaps at a man, it means she wants him dead. But they also said that when I approach you, you might yell at me, but you always eat the food I bring. To me, that means I'm making great progress."
"I am eating this because the chef at the Good Hunter is a genius, not because it came from your hands," you corrected sharply, pointing the sharp, empty wooden stick of your finished skewer directly at his chest like a dagger. "The very second I am full, you are leaving. Do not even think about following me around the plaza later. I have to buy a dozen rolls of fabric for my mother, and I do not want you ruining my mood."
"Oh, perfect! You need someone to carry the heavy loads!" Varka clapped his hands together, his face lighting up like a child witnessing a festival firework. "I am incredibly strong, My Lady. I can easily carry ten rolls of fabric while walking backward, just so I can keep looking at your pretty, angry face. Free labor from the future Grand Master of Mondstadt. Come on, where else are you going to get a deal like that?"
You looked at his proud, beaming face, your chest tightening with an annoying, unfamiliar warmth that you desperately tried to suppress with a deeper scowl. He was a lunatic. A literal, thick-skinned, oversized puppy of a man who treated your sharpest insults like highest compliments and your death glares like a playful game. Every other suitor who had ever approached you had been looking for a fragile, perfect doll to praise, someone who would giggle at their bad poetry and smile at their cheap trinkets. They wanted a quiet, obedient maiden.
But Varka? Varka looked at the thorns, looked at the roaring attitude, and decided he wanted to climb right into the middle of the tempest just to see how loud the thunder could get. He did not care that you were a commoner. He did not care that you had a terrible reputation that made the neighborhood aunts shake their heads in disapproval.
"Do whatever you want," you muttered, turning your face away as a faint, betraying hint of pink dusted your cheeks. You focused your gaze on the sparkling waters of Cider Lake in the distance, trying your best to ignore the way his giant, warm shoulder was pressed comfortably against yours. "Just know that if you drop a single roll of fabric into the dirt, I will use this wooden stick to pierce your nose."
"Yes, ma'am, my commander," Varka laughed, his deep, resonant voice wrapping around you like a warm blanket against the chilly Mondstadt breeze.
And that was the terrifying, inescapable truth of your life: no matter how hard you kicked, no matter how sharp your tongue became, Varka was always right there, laughing off the damage and asking for more. You were a storm, yes, but he was entirely, stubbornly unmovable.
────୨ৎ────
The transformation of Mondstadt always happened overnight, like a sudden, violent burst of Anemo magic sweeping through the ancient stone gates. One day the city was its usual, leisurely self, merchants yawning behind their wooden counters, dogs napping lazily under the shadow of the grand windmills, and guards sluggishly patrolling the battlements. The next, it was a sprawling, dizzying labyrinth of vibrant crimson banners, towering wooden game stalls, and the heavy, intoxicating atmosphere of a city completely unchained.
Ludi Harpastum had officially arrived.
For fifteen consecutive days, the city of freedom would refuse to sleep. The quiet cobblestone streets you loved so dearly were completely overrun by a dense, rowdy sea of citizens, visiting traders from Liyue, and children sprinting through the alleys with wooden toys. The crisp autumn air was no longer pure; it was thick, sweet, and heavy with the suffocating aroma of roasted meats, sweet fruit pastries, and the sharp, fermented sting of freshly uncorked Dandelion Wine. Music echoed from every corner as bards strummed their lyres, their voices competing with the roaring, alcohol-fueled laughter spilling over from the open-air tavern patios.
You navigated the crowded lower plaza with a wicker basket gripped tightly in your hand, your brows knitted together in a sharp, fiercely defensive scowl. It was your armor against the festival madness. You loved Mondstadt, but you despised the suffocating proximity of the crowds, the way random drunkards would accidentally brush against your shoulder, and more than anything, you despised the venomous gossip that was currently spreading through the city fountain like wildfire.
"Did you hear? The Church sisters are still in a frenzy over who should be the Harpastum Maiden this year," a prominent neighborhood aunt whispered to her friend, her voice carrying easily over the sound of splashing water and the clinking of wine glasses. "They say a noble girl from the Gunnhildr clan is the only respectable choice. But Sir Varka is entering the tournament at dawn. If that wild boy wins, who knows what ridiculous choice he'll make?"
"Oh, please," the other woman chuckled darkly, swirling a cup of cheap wine. "Let's just pray he picks someone with proper modesty. Can you imagine if he actually chooses that sharp-tongued commoner girl from the lower quarters? She’s gorgeous, certainly, but she has the attitude of a feral cat. She’d probably curse the crowd instead of blessing them!"
You stopped dead in your tracks, your leather boots grinding against the stone. Slowly, you turned your head, cutting a razor-sharp, lethal glare sideways at the two women. The sheer, icy intensity of your gaze was enough to cut through the heavy festival heat. The moment their eyes met yours, their smug smiles snapped shut. The color drained from their faces so fast they looked like ghosts, suddenly finding the dirt beneath their shoes deeply fascinating as they awkwardly shuffled away.
You let out a quiet, irritated click of your tongue, your fingers tightening around the handle of your basket until your knuckles turned white.
"Gossiping old crows," you muttered under your breath, your pulse quickening with a mix of irritation and a strange, uninvited knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach.
Everyone in the city knew Varka was the favorite to win the tournament. Everyone knew he was a terrifyingly gifted beast of a teenager who treated life like a grand joke. And unfortunately, everyone also knew that the massive, broad-shouldered knight-in-training had been dogging your steps for months, entirely indifferent to your razor-sharp tongue and the warnings of the neighborhood elders.
The thought of him, of his booming laugh, his massive hands, and the way his eyes darkened with something intensely heavy whenever you snapped at him, made your chest feel entirely too tight.
Desperate to escape the suffocating heat of the plaza and the prying eyes of the gossipmonger, you turned sharply into a narrow, shadowed alleyway behind the Knights of Favonius headquarters. The air here was cooler, damp with the scent of old stone and climbing ivy, away from the roaring festival lights. You leaned your back against the cool brick wall of the library archive, letting out a long, shaky exhale as you closed your eyes, trying to soothe the frantic, angry pounding of your heart.
"Standing on a tower in a ridiculous dress..." you whispered bitterly into the quiet alley, your lips curling into a sharp scoff. "As if I would ever let him put me in that position. As if I'd ever give him the satisfaction."
You opened your eyes, staring blankly at the shadows of the alleyway, completely unaware of the massive, silent storm that had just tracked your scent straight into the dark.
You leaned your head back against the cold stone of the library archive, your chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. The noise of the plaza felt distant here, but the heat in your skin refused to cool down. Every time the townspeople gossiped about Varka’s inevitable victory, a strange, breathless frustration twisted tight in your stomach.
You hated how much space he occupied in your mind. You hated that you couldn't even look at the Knights' headquarters without remembering the terrifying contrast of his existence.
Just two days ago, you had been forced to pass by the upper training grounds to deliver a message for your father. You had stopped at the edge of the stone courtyard, hidden behind the shadow of a grand archway, completely frozen by the sight of him. Varka hadn't seen you. He was in the middle of a heavy sparring session with three senior knights at once.
That version of Varka didn't feel like the loud, bumbling idiot who brought you greasy chicken skewers.
He was bare-chested, his massive back muscles flexing and rippling under a sheen of sweat that glistened dangerously in the afternoon sun. His expression was completely blank, devoid of his usual smile, his eyes narrowed into lethal, calculating slits of steel. He wielded his massive claymore with a terrifying, heavy precision, the sheer force of his swings creating visible gusts of wind that cracked against the shields of his opponents. He looked like an apex predator, a god of war in the making, an absolute force of nature that commanded immediate, trembling respect. Your breath had hitched in your throat, a sudden, heavy coil of heat tightening low in your belly at the sheer, raw masculinity of him.
But then, the spar had ended. Varka had driven his claymore into the dirt, wiping the sweat from his brow, his gaze casually sweeping across the courtyard until it landed directly on your hidden figure.
In a literal split second, the terrifying predator vanished.
The moment his eyes locked onto yours, his face lit up like a festival firework. He had broken into a massive, breathless, goofy grin, waving his calloused hand wildly while shouting your name across the entire yard. The sudden shift had immediately broken your spell, replacing the heavy tension in your chest with absolute, raging annoyance. You had violently flipped your hair, thrown him an aggressive death glare, and stomped away, completely flustered by how easily he could make your pulse race.
"He's a lunatic," you muttered into the quiet alleyway, pressing the palms of your hands against your warm cheeks. "A bipolar, thick-skinned lunatic."
"Who's a lunatic, My Lady?"
The low, rumbly voice didn't come from the entrance of the alley. It came from right above you.
You gasped, your eyes flying open as a massive, solid warmth suddenly materialized out of the shadows. Before you could even register his movements, a heavy, calloused hand slammed against the brick wall right beside your ear, the solid thud echoing in the narrow space. A second later, another large hand braced against the stone on your opposite side, effectively trapping you in a cage of raw muscle, iron, and heat.
You looked up, your breath catching painfully in your throat.
Varka was looming over you, his broad shoulders completely blocking out the remaining evening light. He had just finished his final pre-tournament run; his chest was heaving beneath his tight leather training vest, the fabric stretched precariously over his heavy muscles. He was standing so close that you could feel the intense, radiating heat of his body washing over your skin, his scent, a intoxicating mix of leather, sweat, crushed dandelions, and cold steel, filling your senses until your head spun.
"Varka!" you gasped, your palms instantly flying up to press against his chest in a desperate bid to push him back. But your hands only met a wall of solid, unyielding muscle that didn't budge a single millimeter. "What is wrong with you?! Get out of my face! You're sweating all over my path!"
"Sorry, My Lady," Varka murmured.
His voice didn't carry its usual boisterous, golden-retriever pitch. It was low. Breathier. A dark, gravelly tone that vibrated straight through your palms and shot a sudden, dangerous shiver down the entirety of your spine. He didn't smile. Instead, he leaned down slowly, his wild hair brushing against your forehead as his gaze dropped to your lips, holding there for an agonizingly slow, deliberate second before rising to meet your eyes.
"I saw you from the upper balcony," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek, his eyes darkening with that heavy, intense predator look you had seen on the training grounds. "You looked like you were hiding. Were you hiding from me?"
Your heart was hammering so violently against your ribs you were certain he could hear it. The sudden shift in his demeanor, the deliberate, heavy seduction in his eyes, sent a wave of absolute panic through you. You felt entirely consumed by his size, trapped between the cold stone and his burning body.
"I—I wasn't hiding!" you snapped, though your voice lacked its usual venom, sounding entirely too breathless, too flustered. You bit your lip, your face burning a furious shade of crimson as you glared at him, trying to summon your sharp attitude. "I was trying to get away from the gossipmonger at the fountain! And from you! Now step back, Varka, before I scream and tell the guards you're harassing a civilian!"
Varka stared at you for a heartbeat, watching the fierce, angry blush creep up your neck, his gaze locking onto the way your lips trembled slightly under his scrutiny.
Slowly, the heavy, suffocating tension broke. The corner of his mouth twitched, and his familiar, cocky, golden-retriever smirk slowly spread across his face, completely shattering the dangerous atmosphere.
"Oh, come on, My Lady," Varka chuckled boisterously, his voice returning to its loud, playful tone as he bopped his nose against yours in a quick, teasing gesture. "The guards wouldn't arrest me. They all know I'm just checking up on my future prize. The Ludi Harpastum tournament starts tomorrow at dawn, and I needed my good luck charm."
"I am not your good luck charm, you absolute brute!" you yelled, your voice finally regaining its sharp, defensive edge as you used the sudden break in tension to violently smack his chest. "And stop leaning on me! You're heavy!"
Varka merely laughed, a deep, roaring sound that echoed through the alley, completely unbothered by your assault as he finally straightened his back, though he kept his hands braced on the wall, still keeping you entirely close.
The sharp sting of your palms against his chest did absolutely nothing to erase the phantom pressure of his lips so close to yours. Even though Varka had shifted back into his familiar, maddeningly cheerful self, the air between you remained thick, charged with a heavy residual heat that made your chest heave. Your heart pounded an erratic rhythm against your ribs, a telltale flutter that you desperately tried to mask by twisting your features into a look of absolute disgust.
"You think this is a joke?" you hissed, your voice tightly wound as you tried to flatten yourself harder against the cool stone wall. "The entire plaza is suffocating with gossip because of you. I can’t even buy groceries without hearing my name dragged through the dirt by the fountain gossipers!"
Varka didn't step back. He merely shifted his weight, his large hand sliding down the brick wall a few inches, his thick forearm now resting just above your shoulder. The proximity was still entirely too much, entirely too intentional. The faint scent of the training grounds, leather, iron, and a clean, masculine sweat, flooded your senses every time you took a breath.
"Let them talk," Varka murmured, his voice dropping into that lower, velvet register that completely caught you off guard. His thumb lightly traced a small circle against the rough stone, close enough to brush against the stray ends of your hair. "The townspeople always need something to obsess over before the festival. Besides, they’re right about one thing."
You narrowed your eyes, your defensive walls locking instantly into place. "And what is that?"
"I am going to win tomorrow," he said. There was no boastful shout, no loud laughter. He said it with a quiet, bone-deep certainty that sent an unfamiliar, thrilling jolt straight down your spine. His eyes darkened again, trapping your gaze with a heavy, magnetic focus that made your tongue feel suddenly tied. "Every single game. Gliding, archery, wrestling. I’m taking the champion’s wreath, My Lady."
You swallowed hard, your throat tight. You hated the way his serious face made you feel, how it stripped away your ability to think of a quick, devastating insult. You hated how effortlessly attractive he was when he wasn't acting like a complete clown.
"And why do you care so much about a stupid festival title?" you asked, your voice sounding a little too breathless, a little too soft. You gripped the edges of your wicker basket like a lifeline, desperate to ground yourself. "You already skip half your mandatory drills. Go brag to the Grand Master if you want a shiny medal."
Varka’s lips curved into a slow, intensely deliberate smirk. He leaned down a fraction of an inch closer, until his warmth completely enveloped you, his breath fanning across your cheek.
"I don't care about the medal," he whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips for an agonizingly slow, heavy second before locking back onto yours. "The Grand Champion gets to choose the Harpastum Maiden. The one who gets to stand on the Cathedral balcony, looking like a literal goddess, throwing the red ball to the crowd."
The realization hit you like a physical blow. The gossip at the fountain wasn't just mindless speculation. This oversized idiot had a deliberate, targeted plan.
"Varka," you warned, your voice trembling as a furious, burning flush rushed up your neck and painted your cheeks a violent shade of crimson. You reached up, aggressively grabbing the collar of his leather vest, pulling him down fiercely until your noses were almost touching. "Don't you dare. If you utter my name on that stage tomorrow in front of the entire city, I swear to the Archons..."
"You'll what?" Varka cooed. He didn't pull back from your aggressive grip. Instead, he seemed to relish it, his chest vibrating with a low, amused chuckle as he looked down at your fierce, flushed face. He was entirely unbothered by your threat, his gaze intensely fond, entirely intoxicated by the fire in your eyes. "Are you going to curse me, My Lady?"
"I will personally drag your massive body to the highest peak of Starsnatch Cliff and throw you off the edge!" you hissed through your teeth, your grip tightening on his collar. "I will permanently dismantle you! I am a commoner, Varka! I am not a noble girl who wants to be paraded around in a fancy dress for the amusement of Mondstadt!"
Varka stared at you, his smirk softening into something incredibly warm, something heavy with an emotion that made your stomach twist into tight, breathless knots. Slowly, he reached up, his large, calloused hand gently wrapping around your wrist, his thumb lightly stroking the sensitive skin over your pulse point. The contact was electric, sending a sharp wave of goosebumps down your arm.
"You're not just any commoner," he murmured, his deep voice wrapping around you in the quiet alleyway. "You're my lady. And you’d look more majestic up on that tower than any noble girl in this city. Let them see what a real storm looks like."
Before you could process the heavy, suffocating tension of his words, before you could scream at him or swing your basket at his chest, Varka suddenly released your wrist. The dangerous, seductive predator vanished in a flash, replaced instantly by a bright, roaring laugh as he stepped back, completely breaking the spell.
"Rest up tonight!" Varka shouted cheerfully, giving you a sharp, playful wink as he turned on his heel and began to sprint backward down the alleyway, his massive boots clicking loudly against the cobblestones. "Tomorrow, I’m winning a prize just for you! Don't be late to the front rows!"
"Varka, you absolute, thick-skinned pest!" you screamed after him, your voice bouncing off the brick walls as his booming laughter echoed through the lower quarters.
You stood alone in the darkening alley, your chest heaving, your hand trembling as you touched your burning lips. Your entire body was vibrating with a chaotic mix of lingering heat and raging annoyance. You wanted to kill him. You genuinely, deeply wanted to see him faceplant into the dirt tomorrow.
But as you walked back toward your house under the glowing festival lanterns, your heart refused to quiet down, the heavy rhythm of your pulse a terrifying reminder that no matter how hard you fought it, Varka’s storm had already pulled you in.
────୨ৎ────
The morning of the Ludi Harpastum tournament arrived not with a gentle dawn, but with a deafening roar of trumpets that vibrated straight through the stone foundations of Mondstadt. The sun had barely cleared the horizon, casting long, pale golden fingers across the canvas roofs of the festival stands, but the central plaza was already a boiling cauldron of human energy. The spectator stands had been built high, wrapping around a massive, circular dirt arena, packed to absolute capacity with citizens, visiting merchants, and roaring crowds. The air was thick, suffocatingly dense with the scent of fresh sawdust, spilled ale, and the sharp, metallic tang of nervous adrenaline.
You had genuinely tried to stay home. You had locked your bedroom door, buried your face beneath your pillows, and prayed to the Archons that the earth would swallow the city whole before the games could begin. But your mother had different plans, entirely unsympathetic to your plight, promptly handing you a heavy basket and pushing you out the door to secure festival groceries before the paths became completely impassable.
And that was how you found yourself trapped at the very front row of the spectator stands, your fingers gripping the wooden railing so tightly your knuckles were bone-white. You were squeezed between a group of overly enthusiastic junior knights and a row of screaming children, completely exposed to the elements.
Down in the dirt arena, the games were an absolute showcase of raw power. But more than that, it was a showcase of a terrifying, magnetic duality in Varka that made your stomach twist into heavy, breathless knots.
When the announcer called the brackets for the archery challenge, you watched Varka step onto the field. The moment his boots hit the dirt, the playful, bumbling teenager you were used to completely vanished. His expression went chillingly blank, his jaw locking into a hard, rigid line as his blue eyes narrowed into lethal, calculating slits of steel. He pulled the heavy composite bowstring back with a slow, monstrous strength, his broad shoulders flexing beneath his leather harness, his chest expanding in a calm, controlled breath. Three perfect bullseyes in rapid succession, the sheer force of his arrows splitting the wooden targets clean down the middle.
The crowd erupted into a frenzied scream. You sat frozen, a sudden, heavy coil of heat tightening low in your belly at the raw, dangerous masculinity radiating from his focused frame. Your breath hitched in your throat, your skin flushing a deep, traitorous crimson as you stared at the sweat glistening along the sharp lines of his collarbone.
But the exact second the round was called in his favor, Varka lowered the bow, his gaze instantly scanning the massive, crowded stands until his eyes locked directly onto your flushed face.
In a literal split second, the apex predator vanished.
A massive, brilliant, completely goofy grin broke across his face. He waved the heavy bow wildly in the air, winking at you with an obnoxious, flirtatious flair that made the girls in the row behind you squeal in delight. The sudden shift immediately shattered your breathless awe, replacing it with an intense, raging annoyance. You violently crossed your arms, throwing him a lethal death glare. You bit your lower lip, furious at how easily he could manipulate your pulse, how his gaze could make you feel entirely consumed even from across a crowded arena.
"He's doing it on purpose," you hissed through your teeth, your chest heaving against your fabric as you sank lower into your seat. "The absolute, thick-skinned brute."
As the hours bled into the afternoon, Varka tore through the tournament like a gale-force wind. In the gliding challenge, he executed sharp, terrifyingly steep dives that left the judges breathless, only to look up at your section of the stands the moment his feet touched the landing platform, flashing you a cocky, two-finger salute. He was entirely dominant, a force of nature that refused to be contained, shifting flawlessly between a lethal, untouchable warrior during the matches and a smirking, flirting puppy the moment he looked at you.
Finally, the trumpets blared a deep, resonant tone, signaling the ultimate event of Ludi Harpastum: the traditional Mondstadt Wrestling Tournament.
The circle of dirt was cleared. Varka stepped into the ring, having shed his armor vest, wearing nothing but loose trousers and the leather straps of his training gear. His bare chest and broad back were covered in a glistening sheen of sweat and dirt, his wild hair tied back loosely with a leather cord. He looked large, imposing, and entirely too magnetic.
One by one, seasoned challengers from the local garrisons stepped into the ring. One by one, they were violently dismantled. Varka didn't just win; he dominated. He absorbed heavy blows as if they were nothing, his massive muscles rippling under his tanned skin as he slammed an opponent twice his weight into the dirt with an effortless, heavy precision. Every move he made was deliberate, animalistic, and thick with an intimidating physical presence that made your throat go completely dry. Your heart hammered a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs, a suffocating warmth settling deep in your chest as you watched his chest heave with exertion.
"Is there no one left to challenge the titan of Favonius?!" the announcer's voice boomed through the plaza, the stadium shaking with the response of thousands of screaming fans. "Then by unanimous victory... the Grand Champion of this year's Ludi Harpastum is none other than Sir Varka!"
The plaza erupted into utter chaos. Banners flew, flowers rained down into the dirt, and a group of senior Knights marched onto the field, carrying a golden laurel wreath and a massive, heavy red cloth Harpastum ball, the symbols of the champion's ultimate authority.
Varka accepted the wreath, placing it carelessly over his messy hair, but his large hands immediately gripped the rough, red fabric of the Harpastum ball. He didn't wait for the announcer to prompt him. He didn't look at the judges. He took three massive, heavy strides toward the front of the stage, directly below the spectator stands where you were sitting.
The stadium slowly began to quiet down, thousands of people leaning forward in absolute anticipation. Every noble family in the front rows held their breath, their beautiful, polished daughters smiling sweetly, smoothing down their expensive silk dresses, hoping to catch the young prodigy's eye.
Varka didn't look at a single one of them.
He raised his massive, dirt-stained arm, pointing the heavy Harpastum ball directly through the thick crowd, his slate-blue eyes locking onto yours with an overwhelming, breathless intensity that entirely stripped away your ability to breathe.
"For my maiden," Varka’s loud, boisterous voice boomed through the entire plaza, entirely silencing the ambient noise of the festival. "The one who will ascend the grand tower and bless this city... I choose the most beautiful, sharp-tongued woman in Mondstadt! The one sitting in the front row, currently trying to incinerate me with her eyes!"
Every single head in the entire stadium whipped around in a synchronized, violent motion. Thousands of pairs of eyes landed directly on your rigid frame. The neighborhood aunts gasped loudly, clutching their shawls. The noble girls scoffed in absolute, raging disbelief.
Your entire body went stiff as stone. A violent, suffocating wave of heat surged up your neck, painting your face a deep, dangerous shade of crimson. You were trapped, completely exposed to the gaze of the entire city. Varka stood in the center of the ring, his bare chest glistening, his cocky, golden-retriever smirk firmly in place as he gave you a small, triumphant nod. He had done it. He had dragged you into the absolute center of the storm.
You slowly stood up from your seat, your fingers clenching into white-knuckled fists at your sides as your jaw locked. You didn't smile. You didn't wave to the crowd. You simply leaned over the wooden railing, looked directly down into his victorious, smirking face, and mouthed four very clear, very lethal words:
You. Are. Dead. Varka.
Varka merely threw his head back and let out a deep, ecstatic roar of laughter, his eyes sparkling with a dangerous, flirtatious warmth that told you he was entirely ready for whatever punishment you had in store.
────୨ৎ────
"Please, My Lady, stop pacing! If you keep tearing at the lace, the embroidery will completely unravel before you even step onto the balcony!"
"I don't care about the embroidery, Sister! I want to rip this entire dress into shreds and use the silk to strangle Varka!"
Inside the private dressing chambers of the grand Cathedral, three Sisters of the Church were currently in a state of absolute, sweating panic. You were standing on a raised wooden pedestal, surrounded by full-length mirrors, looking like a literal vision of celestial perfection. The traditional Harpastum Maiden dress was a masterpiece of Mondstadt craftsmanship, a flowing, elegant gown of pure white silk, embroidered with delicate silver threads that mimicked the intricate wings of a thousand dandelions. It hugged your figure flawlessly, accentuating the curves of your hips and waist before flowing behind you in soft, ethereal waves that made you look like a saint descended from Celestia.
But your expression was pure, unadulterated fury. Your jaw was tightly set, your chest heaving heavily against the tight bodice of the dress, and you were clutching the heavy, red cloth Harpastum ball in your hands as if it were a weapon of mass destruction.
"Sir Varka only chose you out of grand admiration," one of the younger sisters trembled, her hands shaking as she tried to smooth down the white silk of your skirt. "It is the highest honor of the festival... the entire city is waiting below..."
"An honor?!" you hissed, your voice echoing sharply against the cold stone walls. "He did this to publicly humiliate me! He knows I despise crowds! The very second I get off this balcony, I am going to break his legs, honor be damned!"
Before the poor sister could faint from your blatant blasphemy, the heavy wooden doors of the chamber creaked open. A senior Knight poked his head in, looking immensely nervous as he caught sight of your lethal glare. "The Cathedral bells are beginning to ring. It is time for the Maiden to ascend the balcony."
You took a deep, shaky breath, your fingers tightening around the rough, red fabric of the Harpastum ball until your nails dug into the seams. "Fine," you whispered through your teeth, your eyes flashing with a dangerous, chaotic light that promised absolute violence. "Let's give Mondstadt a show they’ll never forget."
You marched out of the room, the long white train of your dress sweeping majestically behind you as you ascended the dark, winding stone stairs of the Cathedral tower. With every step you took, the roaring sound of the crowd outside grew louder, a thunderous vibration that felt heavy against your chest. Your heart beat a frantic rhythm, a heavy mix of pure adrenaline and lingering, flustered heat pulsing through your veins.
Finally, you reached the top. Two massive wooden doors were pushed open by the guards, and you stepped out onto the high, sunlit stone balcony of the grand Cathedral.
The moment your boots clicked onto the balcony, an earth-shattering roar erupted from the plaza below. Thousands of citizens were packed into the square, a dense sea of upturned faces looking up at you in absolute awe. The late afternoon sunlight caught the silver threads of your dress, making you glow with a breathtaking, ethereal brilliance. For a single, suffocating second, the entire city held its collective breath, completely stunned into silence by the sheer, devastating beauty of the commoner maiden standing on the tower.
You looked down at the massive crowd, your eyes instantly scanning the very front row of the clearing.
And there he was.
Varka was standing right in the center of the open ring, his broad shoulders squared, his golden laurel wreath sitting crookedly on his wild, unruly hair. The moment he saw you walk out onto that balcony in that dress, his jaw practically dropped. His usual cocky, teasing smirk completely vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, unmitigated awe. He stared up at you as if he were looking at a literal deity, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths as his blue eyes darkened with an intense, magnetic focus. For once, he looked completely defenseless, entirely consumed by the sight of you.
But the moment passed, and his playful nature aggressively reasserted itself. He raised his massive arms, waving at you like a proud, bumbling lunatic. "You look beautiful, My Lady!" his boisterous voice echoed through the quiet plaza. "Throw it over here! I'm ready to catch it! Give your champion the blessing!"
The grand Cathedral bells began to toll, deep, rhythmic, and heavy.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
That was your cue. According to ancient, holy tradition, you were supposed to close your eyes, say a silent prayer to the Anemo Archon, and gently toss the red Harpastum ball high into the air, letting the gentle autumn winds carry its blessings into the crowd for a year of good fortune.
You looked down at the ball in your hands. Then you looked down at Varka’s big, handsome, expectant face.
Blessing? you thought, your lips curling into a sharp, terrifyingly beautiful smirk. I'll give you a blessing you'll feel for a month.
You didn't close your eyes. You didn't say a prayer. Instead, you adjusted your stance beneath the flowing white silk of your gown, planted your leather boots firmly against the stone floor, and took a deep, aggressive breath. You channeled every single ounce of your daily frustration, every single eye-roll, every stolen skewer, and every bit of rage from being publicly cornered into your right arm.
You locked your eyes onto the exact center of Varka’s forehead.
And with the perfect, lethal aim of a vengeful goddess, you threw the heavy Harpastum ball straight at his face.
BOOM!
The heavy, tightly wound cloth ball didn't float on the wind. It flew through the air like a cannonball, traveling in a straight, terrifyingly fast trajectory down from the tower. It made perfect, brutal, shattering contact right on the bridge of Varka's nose.
The impact was so incredibly loud it echoed off the stone walls of the headquarters.
Varka didn't catch it. He didn't even have time to blink. The sheer force of your throw sent the giant teenager stumbling backward three full steps, his hands flying to his face as his boots skidded in the dirt, the red ball bouncing uselessly into the dust beside him.
The entire plaza went dead silent.
It was a suffocating, terrifying silence. You could literally hear the distant wind rustling the leaves of the trees. The Knights froze in mid-cheer, their mouths wide open. The Sisters of the Church gasped so hard they nearly choked on their habits. The grand champion was currently clutching his nose, hunched over in the dirt. No maiden in the thousand-year history of Mondstadt had ever used the holy Harpastum ball as a projectile missile weapon against the Grand Champion.
You didn't care. You simply dusted off your hands with a slow, deliberate motion. You gave the shocked, silent crowd a cold, aristocratic tilt of your chin, flipped your glossy hair over your shoulder, and turned on your heel, marching back into the dark sanctuary of the tower without a single glance backward.
────୨ৎ────
By the time you managed to escape the frantic, weeping Church sisters, change back into your normal, comfortable clothes, and sneak out through the servant’s side exit of the headquarters, the sun had already set. The sky was a bruised palette of deep oranges, purples, and midnight blues, and the large festival fires were being lit across the city, casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls.
You walked as fast as your legs could carry you, pulling your wool hood over your head as you slipped into the quiet, shadowed alleyways near the residential windmills. You needed to get home before the Knights or the Church organizers mobilized a formal search party to arrest you for holy assault.
You finally turned into a narrow, completely deserted alleyway, letting out a long, exhausted sigh as you leaned your back against the cool stone wall. Your heart was still pounding, a residual mix of pure adrenaline and the memory of the way Varka had looked at you on that balcony making your skin feel entirely too warm.
"You know, for a commoner with no Vision, you have the throwing arm of a Geo Lawachurl. I think my soul briefly left my body when that hit me."
You violently jumped, your heart hammering against your ribs as a massive, towering shadow suddenly fell over you, completely cornering you into the narrow space.
There Varka was. He was leaning casually against the opposite brick wall, tossing the dirt-stained, bruised red Harpastum ball from hand to hand. He had taken off his laurel wreath, and right across the bridge of his handsome nose was a bright, swelling, comically large purple bruise.
"You deserve worse," you snapped instantly, crossing your arms defensively over your chest to hide the fact that your body was doing a stupid, frantic flutter at his sudden proximity. "I warned you, Varka. I told you what would happen if you put me on that stage. You brought this entirely on yourself."
Varka let out a deep, rumbling laugh, though he winced slightly, his hand flying to his tender nose. He stepped closer, his massive frame completely invading your space until you could feel the immense, radiating warmth of his body against the chilly evening air. He hadn't put his shirt back on properly; his leather vest was open, exposing the hard, defined lines of his chest and the heavy muscle of his abdomen, still hot from the arena.
"Oh, I'm not denying it," Varka cooed, leaning down slowly so his eyes were level with yours, a brilliant, dangerous mischief dancing in his gaze. He pointed a thick finger at his swollen nose, his voice dropping into that low, velvet register that made your throat go completely dry. "But here’s the problem, My Lady. You completely shattered holy tradition. The ball didn't float on the wind, it wasn't caught by the crowd, and it explicitly fractured the face of the Grand Champion. Do you know what that means?"
You swallowed hard, narrowing your eyes as you tried to ignore the way his proximity was making your knees feel terrifyingly weak. "It means you should go see a deaconess and stop annoying me."
"No, it means the ritual is completely invalid," Varka corrected smoothly, a triumphant, wicked smirk playing on his lips as he leaned in closer, his bare chest nearly brushing against your folded arms. "According to the elders, if the Maiden directly attacks the Champion with the Harpastum, she passes a terrible, year-long curse of misfortune onto him. I am officially plagued with bad luck, My Lady. My swords will break, my gliders will tear, and I'll probably trip over a slime tomorrow."
"Good," you huffed, tilting your chin up stubbornly, though your voice lacked its usual venom, sounding entirely too breathless. "Maybe a year of bad luck will finally teach you some manners."
"Ah, but there’s a catch," Varka whispered, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly tone that sent a sharp wave of electricity straight down your spine. He suddenly placed his large, calloused hand on the stone wall right beside your head, completely trapping you between his arm and his massive body. The intoxicating scent of him, leather, iron, and a clean, masculine sweat, flooded your senses, making your head spin. "The elders also say that if the Maiden creates the curse, the Maiden is the only one who can lift it."
You blinked, your chest heaving against his proximity. "And how, exactly, am I supposed to lift a fake curse?"
Varka leaned in even closer, his eyes locking onto yours with a warm, heavy weight that made your breath catch painfully in your throat. His gaze drifted slowly down to your lips, holding there for an agonizingly long, silent second before rising back to meet your eyes.
"Simple," Varka smiled, his thumb lightly brushing against the fabric of your sleeve, his touch sparking a wave of goosebumps down your arm. "To pay for the damage to my face and to lift the curse of misfortune, you have to accompany me on a date for the remaining fourteen days of Ludi Harpastum. One official, uninterrupted festival date for every single day of the festival."
Your jaw practically dropped. The sheer, unmitigated audacity of this man! "In your absolute dreams, Varka! I am never going on a date with you! Let alone fourteen!"
"Hey, it's either that or I walk right back into the Knight's headquarters and report a violent assault on a high-ranking officer-in-training," Varka teased, his eyes sparkling with pure victory as he raised his voice slightly, his smirk widening. "I can see the headlines now: Beautiful Maiden Arrested for—"
"Shut up! Shut up, you giant brute!" You quickly reached up, clapping your hand flat over his big mouth to muffle his loud voice.
His skin was incredibly warm beneath your palm, the coarse stubble of his jaw scraping lightly against your fingers, and you could feel the vibration of his silent, triumphant laughter pressing against your palm. Your face was burning so hot you were certain it was glowing in the dark alleyway. You glared at him, trying your absolute best to maintain your legendary, sharp attitude, but the sheer, overwhelming physical presence of his large body was completely melting your defenses, leaving you entirely flustered and exposed.
Varka gently wrapped his thick, calloused fingers around your wrist, slowly pulling your hand away from his mouth. He didn't let go of your hand, however. Instead, he kept his grip loose but firm, his thumb lightly running soothing, heavy circles over the sensitive skin of your pulse point, sending a jolt of pure heat straight up your arm.
"So..." Varka whispered, his crooked, handsome smile soft but entirely victorious as he looked down at your flushed face, his chest lightly pressing against your hands. "Am I picking you up tomorrow morning, My Lady? I hear the Good Hunter is serving special festival pancakes."
You stared at him, your chest heaving as you tried to find your sharp wits, tried to find an insult lethal enough to send him away. But as you looked at the giant purple bruise on his nose, a bruise he wore like a badge of honor just because it came from you, you realized with a sudden, terrifying jolt of panic that your impenetrable fortress had completely crumbled. You couldn't run from him. He was a storm, and you were completely caught in the center of it.
You let out a long, defeated, dramatic groan, rolling your eyes one final time as you looked away, though a small, inescapable smile finally threatened to tug at the corner of your lips.
"I hate pancakes," you muttered softly, your fingers lightly squeezing his massive hand back. "We're getting the extra-spicy skewers. And you're paying for every single one of them, Varka."
Varka’s grin stretched so incredibly wide it probably hurt his swollen nose, his deep, joyful laughter filling the quiet alleyway as he pulled your hand up, his warm lips pressing a quick, adoring, and lingering kiss against your knuckles.
"Extra-spicy skewers it is, My Lady. Your champion is at your service."
────୨ৎ────
The eighth night of the festival arrived with a torrential downpour that temporarily drove the rowdy crowds away from the open plazas and into the warmth of the taverns. You, however, found yourself trapped with Varka under the small canvas awning of a closed festival game stall near the side of the grand windmills. The rain fell in sheets, creating a thick, silver curtain that completely isolated the two of you from the rest of Mondstadt.
You were shivering slightly, your arms crossed tightly over the bodice of a simpler, dark festival dress you had worn for the evening. The air was biting, but the sheer physical presence of the man standing right beside you was doing everything to counteract the cold.
"Cold, My Lady?" Varka murmured, his voice cutting through the heavy rush of the rain.
Before you could snap a defensive reply, Varka unclipped his massive, fur-lined knight’s cloak and draped it over your shoulders. The heavy fabric instantly enveloped you, smelling intensely of him, leather, iron, and a clean, warmth that made your head spin. It was entirely too large on you, pooling around your ankles, making you look small against his towering frame.
"I didn't ask for your cloak," you muttered, tucking your chin into the high collar to hide the sudden, burning blush creeping up your neck.
"You didn't have to," Varka chuckled softly, stepping closer. The space beneath the canvas awning was incredibly narrow. To avoid the spraying rain, Varka had to press himself entirely into your personal bubble. He shifted his weight, his large, calloused hand flat against the wooden post right beside your ear, cornering you effortlessly.
You looked up to glare at him, but the words died instantly in your throat.
The low, flickering light of a nearby street lantern caught the sharp lines of his jaw and the now-fading purple bruise on the bridge of his nose. He had his hair down tonight, the wild, unruly locks damp from the rain, framing his face in a way that made him look impossibly handsome. His leather vest was unbuckled at the top, exposing the hard column of his throat and the heavy, breathing expanse of his chest.
"Stop staring, Varka," you whispered, your heart performing a sudden, violent somersault against your ribs as his blue eyes darkened, locking onto yours with an overwhelming intensity.
"I could say the same to you," he cooed, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that completely stripped away your ability to think.
He leaned down just a fraction of an inch to adjust the cloak around your shoulders. But as he did, his leather boots skidded slightly on the wet, muddy cobblestones. A sudden, heavy loss of balance sent his massive frame tilting forward. You gasped, your hands instinctively flying up to catch his broad shoulders as your back hit the wooden stall behind you.
And then, time completely stopped.
It wasn't a gentle brush. Because of the slip, Varka’s lips collided directly with yours in a sudden, breathless impact.
Your eyes widened in absolute shock, your entire body going rigid as stone. His lips were incredibly warm, parting slightly against yours from the sheer surprise of the crash. For a single, agonizing heartbeat, neither of you moved, the heavy rush of the rain the only sound filling the suffocating silence between you.
You expected him to pull back. You expected him to laugh it off with his usual golden-retriever grin, rubbing the back of his neck and making a stupid joke.
He didn't.
Instead, a low, ragged growl vibrated deep within Varka’s chest. The accidental contact broke whatever precarious restraint he had been holding onto for the past week. Before you could even process the shift, Varka’s large, calloused hand flew to the side of your neck, his thick fingers tangling fiercely into your hair to tilt your head back, locking you completely into the kiss.
He took control. The kiss turned deep, heavy, and intensely demanding, his lips moving against yours with a raw, dominant hunger that entirely stole the air from your lungs. Your eyelids fluttered shut, your fingers tightly gripping the fabric of his vest as a violent wave of liquid heat surged straight down to your core. Your body betrayed you completely, melting against his solid warmth as you let out a soft, breathy whimper into his mouth.
Hearing the sound, Varka’s control snapped entirely. He pressed his massive body flush against yours, pinning you brutally against the wooden wall of the stall. His free hand slid down from the cloak, his large, burning palm finding the exposed skin of your bare shoulder before tracing a heavy, possessive path down the side of your waist.
The fabric of your dress hitched upward as his hand traveled lower, his thick, rough fingers deliberately sliding underneath the hem of your dress. You let out a choked gasp against his lips as his scorching palm made direct, electrifying contact with the bare skin of your thigh. His grip was firm, heavy, his large hand slowly squeezing the soft flesh of your inner thigh, sliding higher and higher with a terrifyingly mature intent that made your knees turn to water. The sheer physical dominance of him was suffocating; you were completely trapped beneath his weight, your pulse racing at a lethal speed as the heat between your bodies threatened to incinerate the chilly night air.
Things were escalating too fast. The tension was thick enough to snap, the heavy friction of his bare chest against your hands making you dizzy with a desperate, unhinged desire you had never felt before. He was going to take you right here, against the wood of a festival stall, hidden by the rain.
But just as his thumb brushed dangerously close to the edge of your undergarments, Varka’s entire body suddenly went rigid.
He froze.
A sharp, ragged breath tore through his lungs as he abruptly tore his lips away from yours. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving violently against yours as he panted for air, his heart hammering like a trapped beast against your ribs. His large hand remained securely gripped on your upper thigh, but he completely stopped his upward ascent, his fingers trembling slightly against your skin.
You stood there in the dark, your eyes wide and unfocused, your lips swollen and tingling, your breath coming in short, erratic gasps as you clutched his shoulders for dear life. "Varka...?" you whispered, your voice sounding entirely broken, thick with a heavy, unfulfilled ache.
For a long, agonizing minute, the only sound was the thundering rain and his ragged breathing against your skin.
Slowly, deliberately, Varka slid his hand out from under your dress, carefully pulling the fabric back down to cover your legs. He took a deep, stabilizing breath, his forehead resting gently against yours as he looked down at you. The dark, predator intensity in his eyes was still lingering, heavy and suffocating, but it was fighting a losing battle against a sudden, fierce look of rigid discipline.
"I can't," Varka breathed, his voice incredibly gravelly, his jaw clenching hard as he lightly stroked your cheek with the back of his knuckles. "I shouldn't have done that."
"A knight-in-training doesn't treat the woman he's courting like a passing festival fling," Varka murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a profound, unyielding respect that made your stomach twist into a completely different kind of knot. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering, and entirely chaste kiss onto your forehead. "You're my lady. And I am going to court you properly, even if it kills me to stop right now."
You blinked, trying to clear the heavy fog from your brain. Your sharp attitude was completely failing to return, but as you stared up into his face, you caught it, a fleeting, very real flash of slight disappointment in the slump of his shoulders, and the way his eyes lingered longingly on the bare skin of your thigh before he completely drew his hand away.
Even as he tried to act like a perfect gentleman, the brute was clearly suffering from his own nobility.
A tiny, knowing smirk finally managed to tug at the corner of your lips. You crossed your arms under his massive cloak, tilting your head up to mock him through your uneven breaths. "What's the matter, Champion? Lost your nerve? I thought you said a hurricane keeps a man on his toes."
Varka let out a low, ragged chuckle, his chest vibrating heavily against yours. He caught the mocking glint in your eyes, and in an instant, his playful, desperate golden-retriever energy violently reasserted itself. He leaned his weight back against the wooden post, running a thick hand through his damp, wild hair as he let out a dramatic, soul-shattering groan.
"Oh, you have no idea the kind of torture I'm enduring right now, My Lady," Varka complained loudly, looking down at you with a comically pathetic pout that completely mismatched his massive, imposing frame. He pointed a finger at his unbuckled vest, then down at your skirt. "You know, if you just officially made me your boyfriend right now, we wouldn't have this problem. I could just carry you back to the barracks and we could finish what I started and fuck you, you'd like that would you?"
You scoffed, your face burning a furious shade of crimson all over again. "In your absolute dreams, Varka! We've only been on a few dates because of a fake curse! I am not giving in that easily."
He didn't lean in to seduce you this time. Instead, he reached out, his massive, warm hands gently but firmly cupping both sides of your face, forcing you to look directly into the sheer, unyielding gravity of his expression. The teasing smirk on his lips softened into something breathlessly intense, something so heavy with long-term certainty that it made your throat go completely dry.
"Marry me," Varka murmured, his voice dead serious, entirely stripped of his usual playful banter. "Say yes right now, and I’ll walk straight to the Grand Master tomorrow morning to declare it. I’ll buy the biggest house in the upper quarters, I'll carry your mother’s groceries for the rest of her life, and I'll officially make you the queen of my entire world. Just say the word, My Lady, and I'm yours forever. No more waiting."
Your heart didn't just do a somersault, it practically leaped clean out of your chest. The sheer, terrifying velocity of his proposal left you completely speechless. Other guys in Mondstadt stuttered and cried just trying to hand you a flower, but this absolute madman was casually demanding a lifetime commitment under a leaky festival awning in the middle of a rainstorm. He didn't just want a passing summer romance; the giant idiot genuinely, deeply wanted to marry you.
You stared at him, your chest heaving, completely overwhelmed by the raw, protective devotion radiating from his massive frame. You swallowed hard, trying your absolute best to summon a shred of your legendary, armor-plated attitude, though your fingers submissively curled into the fabric of his vest.
You rolled your eyes one final time, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips as you gently swatted his wrists away from your face.
"You are completely unhinged, Varka," you whispered, though your grip on his vest didn't loosen an inch. "We are teenagers. You haven't even finished your knight trials yet, and you're already talking about marriage?"
"Hey, a future Grand Master has to plan ahead," Varka grinned rowdily, his eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated adoration as he slung a massive arm around your cloaked shoulders, pulling you flush against his side. "So, is that a no for now, or a maybe after I get my shiny medal?"
"It's a 'get me my extra-spicy skewers before I change my mind and throw you into Cider Lake,'" you muttered under your breath, tucking your face into his chest to hide the massive, triumphant smile you could no longer suppress.
Varka’s booming, joyful laughter echoed loudly through the quiet, rainy alleyway, his arm squeezing you tight as he planted a fierce, lingering kiss right on the crown of your head. "Extra-spicy skewers it is, my future wife. Your champion is entirely yours."
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