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You gently grip his jaw to turn his face and kiss it right off. And Varka is realizing that it’s a miracle he made it this long in a tent alone, sleeping at this place and that, far away from you. Far away from your warmth and your touch and those soft, gentle lips of yours.

“You wouldn’t have happened to wake me up just for breakfast, would you?” He mumbles, fingers trailing along your hips as he pulls you closer.

“Of course it is,” you tease, “in fact, now that you’re back, so is your mora. Why not just treat me to a meal at Good Hunter, then?”

“You didn’t miss me for any other reason?” He practically whines—as much as such a gruff and deep voice can whine, that is. His face tucks into the juncture of your neck, and you make room for him there. Like he belongs. (He does.)

Your fingers curl into the soft, blonde strands as you murmur, “No I think that’s all there was to it. An extra set of hands to help around the house, and some mora I can use.”

“Nothing else?” He presses.

“Nothing else,” you giggle.

He huffs. Presses soft, lingering kisses along your neck. Traces his lips and his tongue over the bruised, purpled marks along your neck from the night before. You shiver. He hums in satisfaction.

“Nothing else, huh?” He chuckles lowly. “Not this?”

“Nope. Didn’t miss that,” you shrug, “I can live without it.”

“Yeah?” He drawls, “don’t think that’s what it seemed like last night.”

“Last night you tricked me into bed with you,” you quip petulantly. “How unbecoming of a knight. You’ve forgotten how chivalry works.”

“Now, now, miss,” he pulls away to give you a dramatic, scandalized look, “if my memory serves me right, I remember a very troublesome pair of hands wanderin’ last night at Angel’s Share.”

He gives you a look. You only grin in response.

You’ve missed Varka. You’ve waited year after year with nothing but letters to hear from him. You’ve slept night after night alone. And it was worth it, of course—Varka is always worth it. You know it as soon as those eyes crack open at Windrise and his irises meet yours.

You’d do it all over again. You know that as easily as the wind blows North.

And…well, when he is so close to you, sitting right there in the seat beside you as he celebrates his return over a glass of wine, you can’t help but let your hand linger along his thigh under the booth. Crawl along the inner portion and familiarize yourself with the sheer broadness of his…everything. He is broad and beautiful and he comes back to you even larger than you remember him.

Years apart has faded your memory to vague images of how large his hands are compared to yours, and how tall his frame is next to you.

So you feel him. A little riskier than you’d care to admit, and perhaps a little too teasing in nature given the way he stiffens with a hitch in his breath, but you’ve missed Varka. And dandelion wine will always be there after he’s had his way with you.

“Troublesome?” You gasp, “I was merely remembering how you felt after so long. It’s been so long since I’ve last held you, you know.”

He softens at that. His eyes glaze with something a little more melancholy. Something a little more bitter despite the joy that radiates so easily off of him.

“Sorry I made you wait so long,” he mumbles. “You didn’t have to.”

“Don’t say silly things, Varka,” you sigh gently, cradling his cheeks. He closes his eyes as you press a small kiss to the tip of his nose. “I’d have waited longer. You know that.”

“I’m not sure I’d want that,” he breathes out as you press gentle kisses along his cheeks, finding the corner of his lips. “Waiting longer. Don’t know how I’d make it through that.”

“I think it’s best we don’t dwell on things,” you trace the scar on his cheek with a thumb. He relaxes slightly at the touch. “You’re home now, aren’t you?”

“Suppose I am,” he cracks a grin. “Gettin’ woken up against my will, having my mora drained—certainly back to the way things were before I left.”

You roll your eyes as he chuckles. And when he flops over and presses his weight onto you, you almost feel like the years haven’t flown by at all. You’re still young. Still in love. Still just the same you who found home in the arms of a charmingly ambitious boy. And he is still home, right here where he is yours.

“I want breakfast,” you demand with a pleading pout.

He grins. Things are back to normal—Varka is home. “Whatever milady wants,” he says through a low chuckle.

Varka’s always been quite fond of you. Has always caught your gaze at meetings or around town, you’ve exchanged a few letters back and forth during his time away for missions and he always seem to prefer discussing his findings on his return with you. Much to the distaste of a few others, but Varka’s never been one to shy away from letting his…. respect for your hard work to be known.

You do a lot for the Knights of Favonius. Which means you do a lot for Varka.

Maybe even a lot more than you realise.

So when you’d invited Varka out for drinks to celebrate his return to Mondstadt, to then spend the earlier part of the night admiring the unbuttoned top of his shirt with a glimmer of curiosity sparking in the irises of your eyes when you’d caught a glimpse of the many scars across his skin. Sure, he had perhaps been a little too eager to pull off his shirt completely when you’d asked “Can I see them?” in that convincing, saccharine tone that you always do.

Blame it on the wine.

But with the most recent, long mission in Nod Krai finally far behind him. Well, Varka thinks it’s only right that he allows himself to let off some steam the only way he knows how… right?

You press a little bit more of your weight into Varka’s side as your finger drags down a little lower, tracing the thick muscle of his peck until you watch the skin twitch beneath your touch. And then you cast him a glance, following it with another little bat of your lashes that has Varka having to take a big swig of wine to keep himself from melting.

“And this one?” You hum, touch stroking back and forth across another line in his skin.

He doesn’t need to pull his gaze away from yours to answer.

“From a wild beast out by Starfell Valley. I wrestled it with my bare hands, you know. I’m surprised you haven’t already heard the story, they called me a real hero, saved the whole village from being overrun and all I got as a souvenir was this little thing.” He says, voice loud and proud but close as he tilts his head down towards the gash. “It was no walk in the park, but it was no match for me.”

“That’s pretty cool, seems you’re quite the force to be reckoned with.” You giggle with another sway, and Varka steadies you with a hand around your waist, pulling you deeper into the booth until you’ve no choice but to flatten your palm against his abdomen to keep steady.

“You think so?” He hums, his voice low and strained. You only realise how close you both appear to be when it urges you to look up, his face just short of yours. “There’s a lot more than just that.”

“More?” You mimic him, but your words come out a little more lithe and dreamy than you intend them to. The heat in Varka’s gaze makes your mouth feel dry, but before you can give way to those thoughts his hand releases his drink in favour of taking hold of yours.

He drags it down a little lower while you watch, fingers tracing down his pecks to the broad, strong muscles of his abdomen and he hisses when you apply pressure to a particularly sensitive spot at his waist. His body jolts into your touch as you find a newer, pinker scar mid-way down, just to the side of his lower stomach.

You tease it with your fingers, and he has to muffle the groan it drags out of him with a low laugh.

“Heh, careful.” Varka hums, half-slurred but trying to play it off.

“Does it hurt?” Your head rolls onto his thick shoulder, and you bat your lashes up at him as your finger traces the outline. There’s a shift to his hips when you look at him, and maybe you’d pick up on why if you were only to look down.

Varka grins, shaking his head as he lowers his face to make sure you can hear him over the music. “Oh no. That’s not what I’m worried about.”

There’s a shift in the atmosphere after that, a hitch in your breath as your touch continues to move back and forth across Varka’s bare skin. The muscle contracts and twitches as your touch twirls itself a little lower, and you think there’s a glimmer of something in the Grandmaster’s gaze that makes you feel warm and delightfully giddy.

You could blame it on the wine, your tolerance barely scratching the surface of what he’s able to consume. But you’ve not had enough to cloud your judgement that much, and you’re still in full control when you find it in yourself to swing your thighs over the closest one of Varka’s to you, scrambling slightly until you’re almost perched on his lap with a subtle push closer.

And perhaps you’d be embarrassed at how forward you’re being if it weren’t for him helping you.

Your eyes leave his for a moment as you rest your palm flat against his lower stomach. And you’ve gotten close enough to the point you can feel his breath fan across your features, sweet with wine and just as tempting.

“Any more?” You ask, barely managing a whisper as your eyes drag back up to Varka’s.

If you weren’t so close you don’t think he’d be able to hear you given the lively background noise and the live music. But given your more than intimate little private setting, he doesn’t miss a single syllable as his arm hooks around your waist— making sure you’re kept close.

Varka’s response comes only when he leans in to brush his lips along the shell of your ear.

“Oh, I’ve got a lot more to show you… you might even find what i’ve got left to be more impressive.”

“Is that even possible?” You say, in equal parts disbelief and anticipation. Varka’s fingers stroke back and forth across the ticklish parts of your waist, and when you absentmindedly let your fingers drop to rest on the waistband of his pants, his hips shamelessly twitch up to meet it.

And suddenly there’s something scalding in the look he gives you when he pulls away, grinning.

“Well, that’s for you to decide.”

he gives in and pulls his shorts down. he moans your name softly, cupping his pink tip and rubbing the silky slick between his thumb and forefingers. he tries to settle more comfortably into the pillows, biting down on his lip until he tastes blood.

he has literally no concept how of pretty his cock is. fuck, how pretty all of him is. he’s so big, his shaft feels like velvet and he has a blushy pink, defined head and it’s so sensitive. the veins are thick by virtue of its sheer size, at least eight inches when he’s hard and he’s a shower anyway. his balls are heavy and soft and he’s fertile — god pray for any birth control that tries to stop this man.

how would you touch him? would you be gentle, like usual? or would you treat him how he deserves once you’re alone, with careless pulls and rough touches? would you hurt him the way he wants to be hurt? scratching, biting, choking? would you think he’s disgusting? would you tell him that he’s disgusting?

his heart craves you to be soft, but he tells himself that you shouldn’t be. that he would treat you like a perfect little goddess, and he would be the ground that you walk on. that you would hate him, because you know that you’re so much better than him, that he would be so fucking lucky to have you like this.

he would kiss you as if you were single-handedly responsible for everything good that’s happened in this world, his tongue in your mouth and then all over your neck, your chest. drawing cute whimpers and needy whines from you as he made his way down, eating your pussy as if it were his only purpose in life. you taste so sweet and he’s gentle with his fingers until you beg for more.

he’s groaning louder than he realizes, his fingers softly crawling down his warm, thick shaft as he pictures you so clearly in his mind. on top of him. above him. perfect. unattainable. he squeezes the base, his other hand reaching for his heavy sack as he exhales softly, shakily. he’s kneading his balls and they’re so sensitive, and so full.

he pumps himself, pretending the wet, sticky sound is all you; riding him, claiming him, taking what’s yours. he’s so wet from spit and pre and it’s gathering at the base, sticking to his wrists and drooling down his sack. he wants you to lick him, to let your cute tongue clean up his slick mess while he praises you.

slow, torturous strokes. you shouldn’t even be touching him to please him; you should be using him, he thinks, he knows. your plush, pouty lips are too good for him but you’d take his cock in your mouth anyway, your angel eyes that he loves so much on him until he guides you all the way down, your cute nose against his pelvis and shoved in the blonde hair there, eyes fluttering as you gag on him. he’s whining, mouth dropped open, and he wants to apologize.

he feels so hot all over, and he just wants to cry. he’ll always be alone. he’ll die soon enough, anyway. his awful, murderous hands are the best he has, so he needs to make do. the tears fall before he can think to stop them. he lets his non-dominant hand do the work, gripping his big, veiny cock with his hand backwards to get a different angle. his back arches off the bed for a second, rolling his strong hips into his needy grasp, whining like a bitch in heat.

his thighs are spread wide, heels planted into the mattress so he can imagine that he’s pounding up into you. he gathers spit and tongues it into his palm, fucking his fist and desperately trying to pretend it’s your warm, tight cunt clenching down on him instead. using him. the only thing he’s good for besides killing.

his free hand is clawing at his abs before moving to grip the sheets, blunt nails trying to ground himself. his thick, muscular thighs are trembling and he’s already close. he’s whining into the stifling air, whimpering your name between “I’m good, I’ll be good, fuck, use me, please use me, just like that, angel, oh my god,”

he knows it’s going to be so much, it always is. he always cums hard and a lot. he’s in love with your voice, and in his head you’re begging for his cum. your dainty nails digging into his strong muscles, his massive hands on your waist while he pounds into you, holding you close. his face is in your neck and he’s crying, panting, whimpering sweet nonsense because you make him feel so good.

two knocks and the heavy wooden door clicks open. your small silhouette is just hardly discernible in the moonlight.

“… reiner? why are you crying?”

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