It’s innocuous, at first. He knows you didn’t mean to do it; you’re so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, so heart-rendingly sweet and so awfully earnest that you’d probably combust if you realised how much you’ve twisted Varka’s insides into a knot.
But you do it nevertheless. He’s at the front counter of your bakery, lured in by the scent of those chocolate filled rolls that you only make every few weeks - and when he leans over to grab the neatly packaged little box (three for him; you’d had three left and he gets very hungry, he’ll work it off in ten minutes of swinging his sword around) his hands brush against yours and you squeak in surprise.
“Oh!” You say, your eyes going all big like a deer in the wood, “Grandmaster Varka! I didn’t realise how big your hands were!”
He laughs, but then he sees that your own hand is on the counter, and he can’t resist showing off. Can’t resist taking your hand in one of his to show off his size against yours.
Only . . . He didn’t realise quite how small your own hands were. They’re soft and plump and dimpled, your fingers short enough that they only go halfway past the second joints of his own. And in his grip . . . He can’t help but notice how rough and scarred his own are, and how nice the soft brush of your warm little palm feels.
“Think of all the bread you could knead!” You say, with a sweet smile and a tilt of your head and your eyes crinkling at the corners. “It would barely take you any time at all!”
His throat suddenly feels awfully clogged up. He coughs to try and dislodge it, his fingers brushing over your own as he forces himself to let go of your hand before your gaze turns questioning.
“You’d never get yours around the hilt of my sword,” He tells you, aiming for jovial but finding that it comes out low and thick, almost sultry. The faintest flush goes to your cheeks, and you busy yourself with some business putting mora away, flustered.
“I’ve never thought to handle a greatsword,” you say, and give him a frazzled smile. “I’m happier in the kitchen, I suppose. Still. We’ve all wondered what it would be like to be a Knight of Favonius!”
“Come over to the headquarters some time,” he finds himself saying, his mouth running away with him. He can’t help but notice all of the other parts of you, now, that are smaller and softer than him. How he’d probably have to pick you up around the waist to kiss you. How your hips would fit so nicely in his palm, how the soft pudge of your middle would ooze out from his grip. He wonders how full your thighs are, beneath that flour-dusted apron. “I’ll give you a lesson.”
You place your hands on your hips and look at him, and he notices your lower lip, the tilt of your nose, the way your hair falls. There’s a smudge of flour on the apple of one of your plump, full cheeks.
“How could I resist an invitation from the Grandmaster?” You ask, and laugh. “I guess we’ll see if my hand fits around your sword hilt, then!”
Yes. The hilt of his sword. And if his mind wanders, seeing that, to your little hands wrapped around the silky skin of his aching shaft - to the thought of whether your pretty, plump fingers would meet around his cock, as it pulsed underneath your hot palm . . . Who could blame him?
“Yeah,” he says to you, with a grin. “Any time, sweetheart!”
Those who see the Grandmaster return from his errand to the bakery wonder about how quickly he breezes past them, about the definitive slam-click of his office door behind him . . . but they simply sigh to themselves. The life of the Grandmaster, after all, is one fraught with paperwork.
The groan that spills forth from behind that heavy wood, they reason, is simply Varka bemoaning having to sign off on yet another request for leave.
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