Chapter Text
The ruins were a mistake.
That was the prevailing thought in Wanderer’s mind as he stared, hollow-eyed, at the intricate, silvery tattoo that had bloomed across the plane of his lower abdomen. It was beautiful, in a cruel, arcane way—a lattice of intertwining vines and forgotten script that seemed to pulse with a faint, warm light against his puppet’s synthetic skin. He’d found it in a waterlogged chamber, a curious sigil etched into a crumbling altar. A brush of his fingers, a sudden flare of light, and the curse had woven itself into his very being.
The knowledge of its nature came to him in fever-dreams: a fertility ward turned parasitic. A curse from an era desperate for propagation, now a vicious latch. It couldn’t be cut, burned, or magically dispelled. The removal condition was absurdly, infuriatingly specific. He had to be… inseminated. Properly. The archaic magic demanded not just the act, but successful conception, the “seed taking” within a vessel never designed for such a function. It was a biological impossibility wrapped in an inescapable magical imperative. The curse would slowly siphon his energy until he was little more than a withered shell, a failed vessel.
Pride warred with primal survival. He’d told no one, but the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, Varka, had a way of knowing things. Perhaps he saw the weariness behind Wanderer’s sneer, the way a hand would unconsciously drift to his stomach, where the tattoo burned with a persistent, hungry warmth and sent Albedo to check on him.
Albedo, after a clinical examination, had arched a brow. “The curse is… symbiotic. It seeks fulfillment, not dissolution. It requires a specific… catalyst to become inert.”
“Which is?” the Wanderer had snapped, the chill in his gut a constant, gnawing companion.
Albedo had looked at him, utterly devoid of embarrassment. “A profound transmission of life. In layman’s terms, conception. The curse is a barren field. It demands to be sown.”
He’d laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. Impossible. A centuries-old puppet, a vessel of anger and hollow grace, playing host to a curse of motherhood? The irony was so vicious it stole his breath. But the curse did not care for irony. It grew. The vines crept upward, wrapping his ribs, the chill sinking into his core until his teeth chattered at night. He was a puppet freezing from the inside out.
He didn’t ask for help. He never did. But Grand Master Varka, returned from his expedition and smelling of snow and pine, noticed. He noticed the way the Wanderer hugged himself in the sunlit library, the unnatural pallor, the way his sharp eyes were clouded with pain.
Varka cornered him in the training yard one evening. “Out with it. What’s eating you?”
A sneer was the intended reply. What came out was a shuddering, humiliating confession, stripped bare and hissed through clenched teeth.
Varka listened, his booming laughter absent, his usual joviality replaced by a deep, thoughtful silence. He rubbed his great beard. “A life-for-a-life curse, eh? Nasty bit of work.” His blue eyes, usually crinkled with mirth, were serious. “And you’ve no other recourse?”
“Unless you know a god who specializes in undoing fertility magic,” the Wanderer muttered, looking away.
“Hmm,” Varka said. Then, with a practicality that was as staggering as it was simple: “Well then. Best get on with it.”
The Wanderer’s head snapped up. “What?”“You’re suffering. The solution is clear, if unconventional.
Wanderer had bristled. “And? I’ll handle it alone.”
“You won’t,” Varka stated simply, crossing his massive arms. “It’s a Womb-Binder Sigil. I’ve read the tales. It doesn’t care if you can conceive. It only cares that you try until its conditions are met. It will drain you dry trying to make the impossible happen.” His blue eyes were sharp, clear of their usual boisterous mirth. “I know the condition for breaking it.”
Shame, hot and corrosive, flooded Wanderer. He looked away, jaw tight. “It’s ridiculous. I’m not–”
“You are running out of time,” Varka interrupted, his voice dropping. “And I am offering. Think of it as a knight’s duty.”
The clinical term did nothing to soften the brutal intimacy of it. But the alternative was a slow, magical demise. Swallowing his shattered pride, Wanderer gave a stiff, nearly imperceptible nod.
☀︎★
It was nothing like the clinical transaction Wanderer had bleakly imagined. Varka’s quarters were spacious, warm with the smell of woodsmoke and leather. There was no awkwardness, only a grim, focused determination in the Grand Master. He was startlingly gentle, his calloused hands mapping the curse’s silvery paths with a tactician’s attention. “The magic concentrates here,” he murmured, a thumb brushing a particularly dense knot of script. “It will likely react.”
And react it did. The moment Varka entered him, the tattoo ignited. It wasn’t pain, but a shocking, overwhelming surge of sensation—a feedback loop of desperate, ancient magic and immense, present vitality. Wanderer, who felt little in the way of physical pleasure, was utterly unprepared. A choked gasp was torn from his throat as his back arched. The curse wasn’t just accepting; it was devouring, latched onto Varka’s potent life-force like a parched root finding water.
What followed stripped away every last shred of Wanderer’s composure. Varka was a force of nature. His legendary stamina, the subject of tavern songs and campaign stories, was no exaggeration. He moved with a powerful, relentless rhythm, a sustained campaign that left Wanderer’s mind blank and scattered. The curse glowed brighter, hotter, singing under his skin, each thrust feeding it, challenging it, stretching the impossible magic to its brink.
Wanderer had come expecting a swift, impersonal ordeal. Instead, he was being slowly, thoroughly unraveled. Time lost meaning. There was only the solid heat of Varka above him, the crushing grip on his hips, the unbearable, building pressure of the curse reaching its zenith. He heard himself making sounds he didn’t recognize—broken pleas, sharp cries, all swallowed by the room’s thick air.
He was a puppet, a weapon, a being of enduring spite. But under this assault, he felt frighteningly, overwhelmingly mortal. His synthetic body convulsed around Varka, mimicking organic responses the curse brutally enforced. His vision starred at the edges.
And through the haze, a single, dazed thought crystallized, a fragment of pure, unadulterated awe amidst the ruin of his control:
‘How…how the fuck is he still going?’
It wasn’t just stamina. It was the sheer, unyielding abundance of him. Like he could go on forever, a tireless storm, and the cursed magic, for all its viciousness, was just a small thing trying to contain an ocean. The Grand Master’s breathing was heavy, but steady, his pace unflagging, a study in relentless, generous endurance.
The air reeked of sweat and sex—clinging to his skin as he braced himself against the bedpost for the seventh time that night. That damned pink tattoo pulsed under his navel, a relic of some forgotten god’s cruel joke, its glow deepening with every spill of Varka’s cum inside him.
"Fuck! again?" His voice cracked as Varka’s hands gripped his hips, pulling him back onto that presentationally obscene cock. The stretch burned, his swollen cunt protesting even as it dripped greedily around the intrusion. "Y-you’re supposed to… ah~ be exhausted by now"
Laughter rumbled against Wanderer’s spine, hot breath searing his shoulder. "Exhausted?" Calloused fingers dug into bruised thighs, lifting him effortlessly before slamming him down. The wet slap of skin echoed—a filthy counterpoint to Varka’s grin. "You keep clenching like that, doll, and I’ll never get tired."
His hips snapped harder, the bed frame creaking dangerously. "Besides," A sharp thrust punctuated the words, knocking Wanderer’s forehead against the wood "Someone’s gotta fill you properly. That little mark ain’t gonna remove itself"
The said mark burned brighter with each thrust, its luminescence tied to the depth of penetration and completion. Ancient texts (had Wanderer cared to read them) revealed its nature: a curse demanding full satisfaction, not pleasure. It wouldn’t fade until every drop of seed taken was truly absorbed, until his body—puppet or not—shook apart from overstimulation.
Which explained why, despite the mess between his thighs and the ache in his bones, Varka showed no signs of stopping. The tattoo pulsed, greedy—and so did Wanderer’s cunt, milking him deeper with a whimper.
"H-how? hnng. are you still hard?!" The question tore from him as Varka’s cockhead kissed his cervix again, that monstrous length splitting him wide. His fingers clawed at the sheets, torn between shoving back for more or fleeing the relentless stretch. "Y-you’ve come four times!"
A particularly brutal snap of hips stole his breath. His vision whited out briefly, body convulsing around the intrusion—but the tattoo glowed, thrumming under his skin like a second heartbeat. "F-fuck! Fuck! It’s still not enough?!" His voice cracked with desperation, thighs trembling as another orgasm ripped through him.
"Didn’t you say," Varka growled between gritted teeth, his rhythm faltering for just a second—just long enough to flip Wanderer onto his back, pinning his wrists above his head, "that ugh- it won’t fade ‘til the seed’s taken?" His grin was feral, sweat-slicked chest heaving as he sheathed himself to the hilt again, watching Wanderer’s stomach bulge obscenely. "Maybe," he punctuated with a roll of his hips, "it’s not just you it’s fucking with." A sharp thrust, "Maybe I can’t stop ‘till you’re dripping with it."
The bedframe cracked under the force, wood splintering as Wanderer’s back arched off the mattress. Varka’s laugh was dark, breathless. "Guess we’ll find out."
"I don’t- hnnn- I don’t want to get pregnant by the end of this," he sobbed, legs locking around Varka’s waist, heels digging into the small of his back pulling him deeper. The contradiction was lost in the haze, his body begging even as his words protested. "V-Varka! More!"
The plea shattered into a broken moan as Varka obliged, slamming into him with a force that rattled his teeth. His cunt spasmed around the thick intrusion, squeezing like it was trying to keep him there—like it needed it. The tattoo burned brighter, its glow seeping through his skin, casting lurid pink light across their tangled bodies.
The moment Varka’s hips stilled—buried to the hilt, his release flooding Wanderer’s womb for the fifth time—he caught the puppet’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. "Wouldn’t mind it," he panted, thumb smearing precome from Wanderer’s lip. "Would take responsibility."
His grin was wolfish, sweat dripping from his brow onto Wanderer’s flushed chest. "Gonna marry you," he promised, voice rough with exertion, "Gonna be the prettiest damn wife in Mondstadt."
A slow, filthy thrust—his cock still hard, still twitching inside him—"And our kids? Fuck." He groaned at the thought, biting Wanderer’s shoulder. "Gonna be pretty like you."
"I ah! hate you," Wanderer gasped, but his body arched into Varka’s, thighs trembling as another wave of pleasure crashed over him. His fingers tangled in Varka’s sweat-damp hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
The tattoo pulsed hotter searing into his skin like a brand. His cunt clenched, greedy, milking Varka’s cock for every last drop. "F-fuck!" His voice broke, tears streaking down his cheeks. "I-I can’t do this anymore!"
But he could. And he would.
Because the curse and Varka wouldn’t let him stop until he was full.
"My pretty wife," Varka growled, his teeth grazing Wanderer’s nipple before biting down hard; hard enough to bruise, hard enough to make him shriek. "The prettiest in all of Teyvat."
His hips snapped forward again, driving his cock impossibly deeper, his release spilling hot inside him. "Gonna put a baby in you," he promised, his breath scorching Wanderer’s skin. "Gonna see you round with it."
A sharp thrust "Those tits would swell to feed" Varka’s hand groped Wanderer’s chest roughly, pinching a nipple between calloused fingers "and I’d help milk them with our baby," he snarled, his hips never stopping, his cock still pounding into him. "And when they start getting smaller again"
A brutal thrust, knocking the breath from Wanderer’s lungs."I’d put another baby in you." His grin was feral, his blue eyes wild. "Gonna keep you full. Gonna keep you mine."
And then he bit Wanderer’s neck—hard—as his release flooded him again.
"I—do," he gasped, his voice wrecked, his body shaking with pleasure, his cunt clenching around Varka’s cock like it was trying to keep him there.
His fingers dug into Varka’s back, his nails drawing blood, his legs locking around his waist. "Do want—hah—your baby," he sobbed, his hips rolling against Varka’s, his body begging for more. "Do want—hnng—you to—ah!—fill me."
His voice broke, his tears mingling with sweat. "Do want—fuck!—you."
And then he came—hard—his cunt milking Varka’s cock for every last drop.
The tattoo pulsed, its glow blinding—and then it faded, its curse broken.
But Varka wasn’t done.
And neither was he.
"Again."
His thighs trembled around Varka’s waist, heels pressing into the small of his back—forcing him deeper, deeper, until he swore he could taste him at the back of his throat. "Fuck me until your cum reaches the other end," he gasped, voice raw, "until everyone knows you put a baby in me—"
A shuddering breath.
—until even she would know.
His creator. The one who wouldn’t remember him. The one whose memories he’d erased.
The thought twisted in his gut before Varka’s growl shattered it.
"Don’t think about anyone but me," Varka snarled, flipping him onto his stomach with a rough yank of his hair. His knee forced Wanderer’s thighs wider, his cock slamming back in with a wet smack. "A good wife listens to her husband."
A brutal thrust—his hand smacking Wanderer’s ass hard enough to leave a welt. "And you?" He leaned down, teeth grazing the shell of his ear. "Disobedient wife."
Another thrust—deeper, harder—his fingers digging into Wanderer’s hips. "Gonna remind you who you belong to."
His voice dropped to a growl. "Every. Damn. Day."
"W-we aren’t married, you idiotic ah! man!" His protest dissolved into a keening whine as Varka’s hips snapped forward, that monstrous dick spearing him open, stretching his pussy wide around the thick intrusion. His cunt clenched greedily, milking him, begging for more—betraying him with every pulse of slick heat.
A broken sob.
"Harder," he gasped, nails raking down Varka’s forearms, his hips pushing back against him. "Fill me up! fuck!"
His body arched, toes curling—coming again, his pussy squeezing tight around Varka’s cock like it never wanted to let go.
The rhythm was devastating. A relentless, grounding cadence that was slowly, methodically, erasing the curse’s cold from his bones. The Wanderer was a puppet unstrung, his usual sharp edges sanded down into a gasping, pliant thing. He was floating on a tide of sensation so potent it bordered on agony, his vision blurred at the edges.
Varka’s hands were braced on either side of him, holding him steady as the world shook. The Grand Master’s breathing was a low, steady storm in his ear, a counterpoint to the Wanderer’s own ragged cries. He was being unmade, and Varka was the sole, unwavering architect of his ruin.
Then, a deep rumble, cutting through the haze of his pleasure.
“Marry me.”
The words didn’t register at first. They were just another vibration in the sea of them. The Wanderer whimpered, his body arching into another deep, claiming thrust, his mind white with need.
Varka stilled, just for a heartbeat, forcing him to feel the impossible fullness, the searing connection. He lowered his head, his beard scraping the sensitive skin of the Wanderer’s throat. “I said,” he repeated, voice thick with a possession that went far beyond the physical, “marry me. Be my wife.”
The fog cleared, shattered by sheer, blinding shock. The Wanderer’s eyes flew open. “You’re… insane,” he gasped, trying to twist away, but Varka’s arms were an unbreakable cage.
“Am I?” Varka growled, and began to move again, a slow, deliberate roll of his hips that stole the breath from the Wanderer’s lungs. “Look at you. Like this. This… is mine.” He punctuated each word with a thrust that felt like it reached his soul. “This sight. These sounds. The way you come apart.” He leaned closer, his blue eyes blazing with a fervor that had nothing to do with knightly valor. “I won’t have it. I won’t have anyone else see this. This… is for my eyes only. Forever.”
The confession was more intimate than anything their bodies were doing. It wasn’t about chivalry or saving a life anymore. It was raw, selfish, all-consuming hunger. Varka had tasted something—the absolute vulnerability, the addictive, perfect surrender—and he was claiming it, hoarding it, with the same finality he would claim a dragon’s hoard.
“You look addicted,” the Wanderer breathed, the realization dawning alongside another crashing wave of pleasure.
“To you,” Varka admitted, no shame, only stark truth. “Like this. So, you’ll marry me. You’ll wear my ring. You’ll carry my name. And everyone will know you are mine, and that this…” He drove deep, wrenching a shattered cry from the Wanderer’s throat. “…this divine, wrecked pleasure is my right, and my right alone to give.”
It was a demand, a proposal, and a branding, all at once. The curse was a distant memory, its cold fire utterly drowned in the inferno Varka was stoking. And the worst part—the most terrifying, humiliating truth—was that it worked. The absolute, barbaric possessiveness of it speared through the Wanderer’s defenses more completely than any kindness ever could. He was wanted, not just for a task, but with a ferocity that mirrored his own inner storms.
He was being consumed, and a part of him—a deep, hidden, starving part—wanted to be consumed.
He couldn’t form words. All he could do was let his head fall back, a silent surrender, his body accepting the devastating rhythm and the even more devastating promise.
Varka took it as the answer it was. His control splintered. “Good,” he rasped, a man securing his greatest treasure. “My wife. Gonna get you pregnant," Varka groaned, his thrusts growing sloppier, his rhythm faltering—his cock twitching deep inside Wanderer’s womb as another wave of release flooded him."
His hips jerked before he stilled, buried to the hilt, his cum spilling hot and thick into him. "Fuck," he panted, his forehead pressed against Wanderer’s
The final crest was catastrophic. It wasn’t just a physical release; it was a capitulation. The transformed tattoo on his abdomen blazed with warm, verdant light as Varka’s claim was sealed deep within him, a different kind of seed taking root.
After, as they lay tangled in the sweat-slick furs, Varka didn’t let go. One massive hand splayed possessively over the Wanderer’s stomach, over the mark that was now as much a brand of belonging as it was a cured curse.
“We’ll have the ceremony soon,” Varka murmured, his voice already thick with sleep and satisfaction. “Before you start to show.”
The Wanderer, boneless and utterly claimed, could only stare at the ceiling.
Varka barked out a laugh as he finally pulled out slowly watching his cum gush from Wanderer’s swollen cunt in thick rivulets. His thumb swiped through the mess, smearing it across the puppet’s trembling thighs before shoving two fingers back inside with a wet schlick. "Gotta keep it all in there, doll," he murmured, reaching behind him to grab a heavy, jeweled plug—teal and black, just like his coat.
With a cruel twist, he pressed it in, stretching Wanderer’s oversensitive hole wider as it clicked into place. "Perfect," he growled,before leaning down to bite Wanderer’s earlobe.
"Gonna get a ring on this finger tomorrow morning," Varka growled, catching Wanderer’s limp wrist and pressing a filthy, cum-slicked kiss to his knuckles. His grin was feral, sweat dripping from his brow onto the puppet’s flushed chest. "Can’t live without you or this fucking perfect pussy."
"What a possessive man," Wanderer huffed—but his voice lacked its usual venom, trembling instead with exhaustion and something dangerously close to affection.
”Can’t let anyone else have you” the blond shrugs
The puppet’s gaze flicked to the plug, then back up at Varka, his lips curling into a weak, wrecked smirk. "Hmph. As if I’d let anyone else touch me after this" A shudder ran through him as Varka’s cum shifted inside him, the plug pressed deeper. “You ruined me for anyone else anyway,"
"So you better take responsibility." Wanderer muttered uncharacteristically shy as he hid his face in the crook of Varka’s neck—but not before the taller man caught the blush creeping across his cheeks.
Varka threw his head back with a booming laugh, shaking them both with the force of it. "Will do," he promised, grin wild as he crushed their lips together in a messy, breathless kiss. "Please accept my proposal, dear wife," he murmured against his mouth before biting Wanderer’s lower lip hard.
The silence that followed was thick, but it was a different kind of quiet. The earlier tension had been scorched away, replaced by the heavy, languid heat of aftermath and a shocking new reality.
Varka’s declaration hung in the air, a bell that had been struck and now vibrated in the very marrow of the room. *Wife.* The word was absurd. Gnarled, ancient, and utterly foreign to a being forged for vengeance and emptiness. Yet, it had been planted deep inside him, as tangible and irrevocable as the warmth now pulsing where the curse’s ice had been.
A slow, incredulous breath hissed through the Wanderer’s teeth. He turned his head slightly on the furs, just enough to spear Varka with a look that had once made Fatui agents flinch. Now, it likely just looked… well-used. And furious.
“Hmph. Idiot.”
His voice was ravaged, scraped raw from screaming, but the disdain was perfectly intact.
Varka, propped on one elbow beside him, didn’t flinch. A slow, sunrise-broad smile spread across his face, crinkling the corners of his brilliant blue eyes. The sheer, unassailable fondness in it was more disarming than any battle cry. He leaned in, his beard brushing the Wanderer’s temple.
“*Your* idiot,” he corrected, the words a low, possessive rumble that vibrated against the Wanderer’s skin. It wasn’t a question.
Before the Wanderer could muster another scathing retort, Varka continued, his tone shifting to one of casual, devastating planning. “I’ll wake you tomorrow with another round. Best to be thorough. Ensure the curse is well and truly… settled.”
The Wanderer’s eyes widened. “You’re impossible.”
“For you?” Varka’s smile turned wolfish. “Always.” He settled back, pulling the Wanderer—who offered a token, exhausted resistance—firmly against his side. One large hand came to rest again on the Wanderer’s lower abdomen, a permanent, warm brand over the verdant tattoo. “Sleep now, my little storm cloud. You’ll need your strength.”
Grudging, body thrumming with a strange new fullness and mind reeling with the implications of his own reluctant acceptance, the Wanderer let his eyes close. The last thing he felt before sleep dragged him under was the steady, powerful beat of Varka’s heart against his back, a rhythm as inescapable as the claim now placed upon him.
☀︎★
When he woke, it was to grey dawn light and a distinct, full feeling.
Varka was true to his word. He was already awake, already moving against him, a slow, deep, insidious rhythm that had clearly been going on for some time. The Wanderer jolted, a sharp gasp torn from him.
“Wha?!”
“Shh,” Varka soothed, his voice gravelly with sleep and desire. One hand came up to cradle the Wanderer’s jaw, tilting his head back. “Told you I would. The curse might need a… reinforcing dose.”
It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it. This had nothing to do with curses anymore. This was ownership. Habit. A craving being fed at its first stirring.
The Wanderer tried to protest, but his body, still humming from the previous night’s transformation, betrayed him utterly. He melted back into the mattress, into Varka’s relentless, claiming heat. A low moan escaped him.
“That’s it,” Varka praised, his breath hot on the Wanderer’s ear. “Just take it. My wife takes her fill so beautifully.”
And if the feeling of being so thoroughly, inescapably occupied—both now and in the promise of all the tomorrows to come—sent a shiver of something that was not quite fear and not quite pleasure through him, that was a tale for another day. For now, there was only the slow, building fire, the weight of the vow, and the relentless, loving impossibility of the man who held him