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When you, Lohen, realise that the sun has sunk beneath the ground, the knife that is drenched in human blood has stopped dripping. The crimson smears that were on your cheek are visible to see, a stark contrast to your pale countenance and dim eyes, the same shade that is on the ground underneath your boots. The tell-tale of sunset gives way for the dark and the artificial lighting to take place on the road not far from the place you were hunting on, but still the light doesn’t touch the shadowy shade of the tall tree, making you and the corpses surrounding you hidden from the worldview.
The wind is mild, a balmy weather, befitting the summer breeze; too good for a murderous evening. It’s a touch too warm on your cold skin—the effect of possessing the Cryo Vision is that your body temperature would fall below normal—something that you don’t prefer, so it’d be best to just go back and be huddled in the coldness of your room as usual.
Though, you take a brief respite. A minute, a long sigh, before your body returns back to its prior state, vigilant and aware.
You let go of the knife, no longer sharp and useful. The lightless eyes watch the blade fall, clattering in dull thud when the handle hits ground first, the blade laying flat on the blood-covered mud. You use your Cryo power to freeze the blade, then immediately crushing it to pieces. You don’t want it to be found by others, for you want this scene to be a passing brutality of a wandering band of Cryo Abyss Mages, even if the scenario itself is nigh impossible with how precisely you stabbed those mugs of the criminals with your protruding icicles.
Still, the adrenaline doesn’t stop instantly too, you feel, crawling beneath your skin, like an impulse waiting to be enacted. There is nothing left to kill here though, or to do, exactly—all of your duties have been accomplished. The air and the restlessness become the main reason you want to hurry home, not the waiting report and the practical tests you have to administer the next morning.
You were about to step away, when your foot touched a gun laying on the ground near the corpse. It’s still intact, a pretty one with an white ivory grip, its main frame adorned with engraved vines and a single Cecilia flower, a few tourmaline gems thrown on the barrel too; a tad too precious to be used as a weapon for a band of lowly criminals. Maybe they got it from their previous act of thievery and plundering, because honestly, you’d think this is something that an aristocrat would have instead.
With half of a mind giving it a check to see if it works, you decide to just carry it back with you.
While putting the gun away, you realise it glints against the glittering light. Your eyes then gaze to the distant streetlight, unable to tear away from it. It feels awfully out of your character to step into it almost, especially with this look—torn sleeves, tattered coat, blood on every surface where the eyes can see; clinging on your skin, on the fabric, on the leather straps and thigh-high boots. The only saving grace is your choker, still nestled snugly on your unblemished neck. Your finger was about to trace around it, feeling it and the mark underneath, but you refrain yourself from doing that, from soiling it with anonymous blood on your dirty fingertips.
You take a moment to gaze outward, to the streetlight illuminating the path.
The light actually, randomly, reminds you of the table lamp on the Grand Master’s office table—how you accidentally shattered it to pieces when you were fooling around with Varka. You remember the light fizzling out on the ground, the silence that comes after the glass shattering is only for a brief moment, because then, Varka laughs humorously, awfully entertained by the sudden sobriety. You don’t really know why you remember that moment—or his laughter in particular, ringing inside your ears like a constant bell—maybe because you were thinking about him and the mark he puts underneath your collar. Hah, thinking about it doesn’t really help the adrenaline to tone down, worse, it spikes it up even more.
Alas, you elect not to stay here for a moment longer and walk slowly against the shadow, carefully avoiding the light. It’s an extra act and dramatic to boot, but for some reason, being exposed to light makes it hard for you to not think about your dearly beloved Grand Master—his handiwork on you and his antics.
You drop into Varka’s office without prior stop to clean. The only tell that you’ve tried is the smudged crimson on your face and the loss of your gloves.
Of course, the man looks up to you like a deer in the headlights, with a small amount of confusion in his furrowed brows and amusement glinting on his aquamarine eyes. He knows you were up to clean a band of bandits and lowly criminals, but what he didn’t expect is for you to return without stopping by to tidy yourself up.
“That was fast.”
“Efficient is my middle name, remember?” You quip, sitting down across his desk, on the sofa. The plush jumps a bit on the sudden weight, the blood that clings immediately stamped on the surface. Varka doesn’t comment verbally on your action, but you can hear him sigh.
Too many paperwork stacked on his table will get him to pardon almost anything he deems unnecessary to fuss about. Including roughing up the sofa with some leftover specks of crimson. He can ask someone to clean it up later anyways, or if the stain doesn’t come out, throw it out in favor of a new one.
Well, at the cost of your wage being deducted, perhaps, but you don’t really care about that.
“Now,” You begin, hands propping up your chin as you lean down on the armrest, “Tell me what sort of reward I’m getting for my handiwork this time, because for what I know, an emergency criminals clean up isn’t in my list of jobdesk.”
“I won’t ask you to clean after your mess on the sofa. That’s one of them.”
Gleefully, you laugh, “Fantastic. Then? What’s next? Will you grant me the honour of sparring with you for the next few weeks?”
The scritch-scratch of quill fills in the air as Varka contemplatively hums. “That can do but I have a better idea.”
You raise a brow, “And that is?”
“Why don’t you decide on your own what you want as a reward from me?”
Varka speaks of that as if it was a matter of picking dinner; giving the choice to you is usually never the best idea there is, but here, as you listen to the constant flip of papers and scrawling sound of a pen, Varka is offering you a chance of a lifetime.
To pick something he will have to grant you.
“You really want me to choose?” You make sure that once more with him and you find yourself a little bit surprised that Varka nods at it.
“You heard me right, Lohen.”
“You’re crazy, Grand Master.” Because that’s a recipe for disaster, because you have always been denied of what you wanted for fear of disastrous havoc, always did what you’ve desired without anyone saying yes to it, with a modicum of sense—a controlled menace, someone who wants to mess it all up but within limitation.
“Well, what you’ve said is true, the job wasn’t supposed to be yours.” He comments, eyes fleeting from his paperwork once to your direction—the unerring gaze is enough to give you a flash of desire, unearthing something vile in you, “So, choose and I’ll grant you what you want.”
“Anything? Even if I asked for all the money Knight of Favonius have?”
On that silly notion, Varka clears his throat, “Within what I can do.”
That— That is enough for you, because something creeps in your mind the moment Varka said he will grant your wish. Something that only he can make it come true. Something that will help with this pumping adrenaline and the sound of your blood rushing in your ears.
“Then,” You can’t hold back the smile creeping out on your face, the tilt of your head as you innocently ask for your much deserved reward, “Play a game of Snezhnayan roulette with me, Varka.”
It’s insane, it doesn’t make any sense, but it’s very you—an idea that is unthinkable by others when they find an antique, usable gun, but somehow, you muse to yourself along the way; the idea of you and Varka playing in the risk of instant death.
You get up from your seat and immediately, saunter to stand right in front of Varka who watches you the entire time with a blank expression. Yes, he hears it right, you want to play a game of Snezhnayan roulette, with the gun you found earlier; a game that is considered banned almost everywhere, only played by some lunatics in search of fun amidst boredom and anhedonia. You take out the gun from where you kept it and put it harshly on top of the small pile of paper, right in front of Varka. You follow his gaze, falling downwards to the Cecilia-engraved gun, with his eyes slightly open.
He doesn’t saying anything, opening his mouth only to close it again, and for some reason unexplained to you, he tips his head back and begins to laugh outloud.
That gets you to smile beautifully. Oh, the paperwork had corroded his brain, perhaps, you think, or he’s in the mood to entertain the idea of death with me.
“You rascal.” He remarks, eyeing on the gun. It glints again, against the light, the tourmaline gems sparkling. Pretty little thing, so sad it will be a future murder weapon. “Where did you get that?”
“The criminals earlier. Must’ve stolen it somewhere from a noble.”
You’d think Varka would deny him this reward, but you changed your mind the moment he picks up the gun—small and almost weird in his large hands—because you remember that Varka doesn’t like doing paperwork and will jump at any chance on avoiding it, including this moment.
Then again, you don’t think Varka is all that righteous, despite how he brings himself around others. There must be a time where suspends his honourable belief, a time where he indulges in this thrilling madness, the same can be said when he fucks around with someone half his age.
So, it’s not all surprising for Varka to agree, even if the odds were against you.
“There’s one bullet left there. I’ve checked.” You mutter, excitement barely contained, “You know how to play it, right?”
“I’ve heard about it.”
You watch with keen eyes how Varka clicks out the cylinder, to check if what you said is correct. You see one bullet nestled in one of the empty slots and you hear him hum unexpectedly. He spins the cylinder once, then clicks it back in place with an easy flick of his wrist. Now, neither you nor him knows where the bullet is and that is the whole purpose of the game—to see who finds the bullet and who drops dead by it.
“You’re handling this better than I expected.”
“I did say I will grant you a reward that’s within my capability.” He nonchalantly comments, gesturing for you to sit back on the sofa, as he stands up from his seat. “And this is certainly within it.”
You take that gesture to heart and act on it, returning back to your spot on the sofa. You see the blood smears on the surface after all, but you pay it no heed, resuming to your stance earlier; a head propped on your palm, your elbow resting on the armrest.
“You who keep warning me to not die futilely, playing this game—I should’ve known you’re a hypocrite.”
A taunt that burns a fire inside Varka’s aquamarine irises, a mysterious scoff that can mean myriads of things—whether he is dismissing your claim or agreeing, who knows. He walks with firm steps to sit on the sofa across, face to face with you. In his hand, the gun remains, and you watch with fascination as he gazes upon you.
“You want to start first? Or should I?”
He offers the revolver, but you gesture for him to take the first chance. You don’t hesitate to take Varka up to the potential gallows and walk him through it. If the bullet is in the first slot, then you will inevitably be a murderer tonight; a murderer to the Grand Master of Favonius. That in itself is thrilling. You don’t care about the soon-to-be criminal status if you killed Varka with this game. All you care is about how your loved one willingly take the gun up to his temple and poise himself to shoot, how the sight in your imagination has been given form like this.
“You know what they say—” Varka speaks as his thumb pulls on the hammer, the muzzle so close to the side of his temple.
His index finger is ready to pull the trigger and he did so without an inch of a doubt. You brace for the impact, the loud bang, the splattering of blood and brain matter.
Click!
“—that the Archons favored the bold.” Varka finishes his line.
You find yourself sagging slightly against the sofa when the click reverberates in your ears, this signifies an empty chamber, meaning that Varka has dodged 1 in 6 chance of death.
Crazy. This is insane. Maddening. The blood in your vein rushes to your face and south, a blush spilling across your crimson-smudged cheeks, your adrenaline shoots through you as if you are going to battle an entire battalion of Abyss creatures. Your teal-blood eyes hardly tear away as Varka lowers down the gun and hands it to you the second time around.
You breathe, an audible gasp that ghosts the entire room.
“You’re enjoying it way too much.” Varka says, smugly.
You follow his gaze that goes downward, to your crotch area where you realise you’ve been pressing your thighs together, in hope to get some friction along with the thrill. It gets you to laugh in a manic way, smiling widely in the process.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been imagining this.”
That makes Varka chuckle lowly, “For me to murder myself?”
“For you to follow my whim.”
On your feet, you walk slowly, licking your lips in the process. To where his legs are, you proceed to sit on his lap, lovingly. To where the gun is on his hand, you proceed to guide it, let it be aimed on your chest, where your heart is. The intensity of his stare can be felt, burning into you like the warmth of a hearth.
“For you to listen to what I want.” You continue, breathing heavily as your face gets closer to his. “For you to shoot me and splay me open, just like this.”
“I’ve been listening, mein kleines Häschen.”
“Hah!” You scoff lightly against his lips at the nickname, in which you can feel him smile too at your reaction. “Rarely you’ve done so.”
“Yet I am right now, following through what you want, however crazy it is.” He quips back, holding back from rightfully attacking you there and then, “Shouldn’t that be enough?”
“No, it isn’t enough.” You murmur against his lips, gesturing to him to hold the gun steadily. He obliges through what you wish without words, using one hand to hold the gun, and the other to pull you in closer by the waist. “Not for me, no.”
Varka grins, kissing a tender one on your lips. “Greedy little bunny.”
You take it a notch higher, using your tongue to poke through the seams of his mouth. He retaliates, meeting halfway with his own and you find yourself being devoured thoroughly in the kiss, with nothing left unexplored by his tongue.
You set the gun while making out, however trembling your fingers grow. Once you know the gun is set to shoot, you proceed to hold the gun in reverse to Varka’s grip, your thumb hooking over the trigger, overlapping his index finger.
Reluctantly, for a brief moment, you separate yourself from him, muttering, “Whenever you’re ready, mein Sonnenschein.”
It feels like a command. A death wish. A plea that falls sweetly in between tender kisses you share again with Varka. He doesn’t give you an answer you can hear, his mouth is distracting you from the situation at hand, but he replies with what you can feel; his index finger ready to listen to your words, to pull the trigger and shoot your heart.
The anticipation is high, your heart beats loudly against the cold metal of the muzzle. You hope the sound of your heart doesn’t leak, doesn’t give notice to Varka how nervous you are, even as you are chasing it away by focusing yourself on the sensation of being dominated in the physical exchange. You wait and wait and wait some more, your mind racing into a panicked state when you don’t know when Varka will pull the trigger.
And when he does pull, you think you’ve been killed by him, that the bullet is out in the second slot. Your wanton keen is involuntarily drawned out, as you release yourself from the kiss, jerking your hips once against him. Varka doesn’t relent with his administration, nipping against the side of your neck, with you craning your neck subconsciously as your mind catches up with the fact you just dodged death.
Your head doesn’t feel like it’s there. It’s floating somewhere you can’t identify, a haze filling your eyes, making the bluish streak overwhelmed by the crimson in your irises. Half-lidded eyes stare at Varka, who now is staring at you, with no understanding of what is happening and want at the same time; you don’t even realise you’ve soiled your pants with copious amount of slick you produced or the small gasps you unconsciously making as you grind your lower half against Varka’s own arousal.
“Again.” You whisper, wanting to keep feeling the high. “Again.”
Varka shakes his head solemnly, “ … What am I going to do with you, Lohen.”
The tone he adopts is of affection and he heeds what the bunny wants. You find yourself a little bit too late that Varka has pinned you down on the sofa with his large body. His hand that holds the gun moves, pointing the muzzle to your side, nudging your face slightly up. You look up, gulping down once when you hear the hammer being pulled down and the cylinder turns to load another one.
He had settled a slow death for you. A death that bleeds all over, like how you killed those criminals earlier. The shiver doesn’t go unseen, visible in the way your moan goes out shakily as you wait in anticipation.
That’s right, kill me, you stare down on the muzzle that digs your skin. He’s going to kill me—
Instinctively, your hands curl around the barrel, dragging it closer so the front is locked on to your skin. It’s exhilarating and intoxicating in ways you cannot explain. The thought of being killed by your lover is romantic, something you wish to be able to be done if you happen to fall in the front line, but right now, the thought fills you with enough elation and arousal.
“Please,” You don’t usually beg, but with unshed tears, you do, sweetly, looking up to him. “Please.”
This isn’t a game played by two anymore; it’s your murder waiting to be pulled. You no longer need Varka to engage with your antics, he just needs to help you release this winded tension by pressing the trigger button. The wait is atrocious, not to mention Varka has begun to toy around with the outline of your cunt against your pants. The touch is fleeting, light, not enough to burn but maddening for you. It gradually picks up, fortunately, with him caressing the outline to kneading the puffy lips with his thumb.
“Var—ka,” Your voice breaks apart, “Please—”
“Archons, Lohen—” There is a heavy want in Varka’s tone, his fingers moving to play with your clit. “You’re driving me crazy here.”
He speaks of that but he doesn’t forget that he’s holding your life in a line; Varka foregoes giving you a warning, like the previous one, opting to pull the trigger right there and then, at the one moment you least anticipate. It goes without any fanfare, the gunshot. A loud bang! reverberates in your ears, and it registers a tad bit late that he had shot you. He shot you for real this time.
“Ah, mmhn—!”
You don’t scream aloud, a muffled sound, biting your lower lip so hard it draws blood. This is it. End of the line. The pain will settle and death will come thereafter. At that, your eyes roll back, your sight flickers like a faulty light. Your lower half spasms as you squirt right on Varka’s hand, your hips moving to ride out your orgasmic high.
Your ears don’t pick up the way Varka threw the gun away or the way he goes down on you and licks up the remaining liquid on your sticky thighs. He hears you sob and keen openly, other words unable to be uttered other than his name.
“Varka, ah—”
Once he deems you clean enough, he gives one last kiss, a gentle one, on where the gun had been placed. There is no damage whatsoever, despite the bullet itself was shot. Varka had stopped it with a dense layer of Anemo, so that it won’t even pierce your skin, only tearing up your shirt. He knew what you’re after is not the endgame of death, but only the thrill of it. That’s why he agrees to it, because he can stop it from happening.
But you don’t get to hear that from him in this time, the whole thing is sapping your energy away, enough to lull you to unconsciousness, sated at the thought of dying in his hand.
“I hope the reward is good enough for you, Lohen.”
“Mmhm.” You hum in retaliation, nuzzling closer to the only source of warmth you have.
Afterwards, Varka had carried you to his quarter, cleaning you up to the best of his ability. By the time you are conscious, you are on a big plush bed, with his aquamarine eyes staring at you fondly.
“You didn’t get to do anything for yourself.” You remark, closing your eyes. “I should return the favor.”
“No need.” He replies, gently patting your head, “I’ve taken care of that myself.”
“Hah, that’s kind of sad, old man.”
“It was, but at least, your expression was enough to drive it home.”
“So, you were enjoying it too.”
Varka unexpectedly chuckles, pulling his bunny closer to him. “That, I did, mein Hase.”
The silence settles, only for a moment before you open your mouth to speak.
“When I sleep again—” You hesitate a bit, but against your better judgment, you speak, “—you can use me.”
“Lohen.”
“Use me.” You command, “Or better yet, kill me for real.”
“You rapscallion—”
When you grin, Varka only sighs. He doesn’t even object to it, doesn’t reply to you with words of refusal, and you take it as a win; a sign that you’d be sore—or even dead, who knows—for days later.