medea

And I totally get the “suddenly very social” thing. I had a similar experience when I started my studies. Before that I was way more introverted (still am, though :D), but suddenly there were so many new people and situations. It was overwhelming at times, but also really good for growth. So I’m pretty sure you’ll find your rhythm too. :)

And it makes so much sense now that you’re from Colombia! :) You should absolutely stay the way you are. I love how open and expressive you are. It’s really refreshing. And you always have such good thoughts too. I love that mix of unhinged + insightful! :D

Also YES I noticed you’re an artist! And if that Varka art you sent me is any indication… wow. You’re so talented. :)

And you sing too?? That’s so cool. What kind of music do you like to sing? :)

Also: Another Phaidei enjoyer!! Very valid. I love their dynamic. :D

And we’ll see about sapphic content 👀 E.g. I did get a request for Castorice, so I might try that at some point. :D

And please keep yapping. I really enjoy talking to you and I appreciate your support a lot. :)

Before the Relationship

Varka is a gentleman.

A gentleman who goes dangerously still the first time he really notices your chest.

It happens when you lean forward to point at something—innocent, thoughtless—and your shirt shifts.

He stops mid-sentence.

Frozen.

Jaw locked. Breath held. Eyes flicking down for a fraction of a second before he wrenches them back up with a look that screams:

“Don't. Be. An. Animal.”

(He's barely holding it together.)

His stance shifts. Weight rolling back, shoulders squaring. Hands flex once at his sides before he crosses his arms, biceps straining.

He's not adjusting himself.

He can't adjust himself in public.

So he just stands there, trying to will his body into submission through sheer mental fortitude.

It's not working.

When you lean closer to show him something, completely oblivious?

His throat works. Adam's apple bobbing.

“Uh-huh,” he manages, voice rougher than it was three seconds ago. “Yeah. I see."

He doesn't see anything except the neckline of your shirt and the way fabric clings when you move and the effort it's taking not to look, not to think about—

He clears his throat. Hard.

“I should—uh—patrol. Right. Patrol.”

You blink up at him. "Now? It's barely evening.”

“Yep. Important. Very important.” He's already backing away, movements just slightly too careful. “See you tomorrow.”

He leaves before you can ask questions.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Early Relationship

The first time you hug him—really hug him, full-body, arms around his neck—your chest presses against his sternum.

And Varka stops breathing.

His hands hover for a split second before settling on your back.

Then you shift slightly, getting comfortable, and—

His fingers twitch.

Slide lower.

Just to your waist. Still appropriate. Still safe.

But his thumb brushes the small of your back in a way that feels almost unconscious, and his breath comes out shaky against your hair.

“You okay?” you murmur.

“Mhm.” It's not convincing.

When you pull back, his pupils are blown wide, and there's a tightness in his expression that has nothing to do with discomfort and everything to do with restraint.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice dropped an octave, rougher than you've ever heard it. "You keep doing that and I won't be responsible for what happens.”

Your breath catches. “What happens?”

His jaw works. Eyes dark and wanting and barely controlled.

“Ask me when I'm allowed to show you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Established Relationship

Varka doesn't just like your chest.

He's obsessed. Doesn't matter the size. He wants his hands on you, wants his mouth on you, wants to bury his face between your breasts and forget the world exists.

The first time you're alone together, really alone, his control shatters.

His hands are big and warm and callused, and they cup your breasts like he's holding something he's been starving for.

He exhales hard through his teeth.

There's urgency in the way he touches you. Palms sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing over the soft curve, fingers squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

“Varka—”

“Say my name again." It's not a request.

His mouth finds the swell of your breast, and he groans. Deep, guttural, the sound vibrating against your skin.

Your back arches involuntarily, pressing more of yourself into his mouth, and the sensation makes you gasp his name.

He kisses you there like he's trying to memorize the taste. Tongue dragging slow and deliberate, teeth grazing just enough to make you lean into him.

“Perfect,” he mutters against you, breath hot. “You're so perfect.”

His hands are everywhere. Cupping, kneading, lifting so he can take you into his mouth with a hunger that borders on feral.

When you whimper?

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and wild.

Your chest is heaving, skin flushed, and the way he's looking at you—like you're everything—makes heat pool low in your belly.

“That's it,” he mutters. “Let me hear you.”

And when you arch into his touch, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer?

He loses it completely.

Hands tightening on your waist, mouth working over you with single-minded intensity, groaning your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Mine,” he mutters against your skin. “All mine.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When You're On Top

When you straddle him, Varka tries—he really does—to keep his hands on your hips.

Appropriate. Respectful.

He lasts approximately five seconds.

His gaze is locked on your chest. Watching the way you move, the way gravity does things to his self-control.

His grip on your hips tightens.

Then his hands start sliding up.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he's testing to see if you'll stop him.

You don't.

His palms cup your breasts, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

The heat of his hands sinks into your skin, calloused palms rough against softness, and the contrast makes you shiver.

His thumbs brush over sensitive peaks and you feel it everywhere. Spine arching, breath catching, thighs tightening around his hips.

“Damn, look at you…” His voice is gravel and want. “Riding me like this, letting me touch you—"

You lean forward, and his brain short-circuits.

“Fuck—”

The word punches out of him as your chest fills his vision, and his hands fly up to grab your waist like he needs the anchor.

“Do that again,” he demands, voice raw.

You do.

He groans, and his hips buck up involuntarily.

When you cup his face and press it between your breasts?

His hands lock around your back, pulling you down, and he buries himself there.

Breathing hard, groaning, mouthing at your skin like he can’t help himself.

“Killing me,” he mutters, muffled and desperate. “You're killing me.”

You feel him hard and aching beneath you, and the knowledge that you've reduced this mountain of a man to trembling need makes heat coil low in your belly.

“Varka—”

“Don't stop.” It's almost a plea. “Don't stop.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When He Takes Control

When Varka pins you beneath him, there's nothing tentative about it.

He's all solid muscle and controlled strength. One hand beside your head, the other sliding up your side, fingers spanning your ribs easily.

He's so much bigger than you, and the way he uses that size to cage you in, to surround you completely, makes something primal coil tight in your core.

His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, working lower with kisses that are wet and hungry and claiming.

When he reaches your chest, he doesn't ask permission anymore.

He takes.

Palms cupping you, lifting, squeezing as his mouth closes over one breast through your shirt.

You gasp, arching, and he growls in approval.

“That's it,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to yank your shirt up and out of his way. “Let me see you.”

And when there's nothing between you and him?

He devours you. Mouth hot and demanding, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out.

His hand works the other breast. Rough, possessive, perfectly calibrated to the edge of too much.

“Been thinking about this,” he groans against you. “Can't stop thinking about you. How you taste. How you sound when I—”

He sucks hard, and you keen.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Like that. Just like that.”

His hips press against yours, and you feel exactly how affected he is. Hard and straining and barely restrained.

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, pulling back to look at you. Eyes wild, pupils blown, chest heaving.

“You," you manage. “I want you.”

His expression goes wild.

“You have me,” he rasps. “Every part of me.”

And then his mouth is on you again, and he's touching you like he's trying to prove it.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Public Teasing

Varka knows exactly what he's doing.

You're in the plaza, surrounded by people, and his hand settles casually on your back.

Except it's not casual.

It's deliberate.

His palm slides up your spine, thumb brushing the side of your ribs. Just barely grazing the curve of your breast.

No one else notices.

You notice.

Your breath hitches, and you feel him lean closer, mouth at your ear.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice low. “Keep making those sounds and I won't be able to stop myself.”

“We're in public,” you manage.

“Yeah, I know.” His hand presses firmer, thumb stroking once. “Doesn't change what I want to do right now.”

Heat floods your face…and lower.

“Varka—”

“Walk with me.”

It's not a suggestion.

His hand drops to your wrist, and he guides you through the city with the easy confidence of a man who knows exactly where he's going.

Behind the tavern. Into the shadowed alcove where barrels are stacked and no one ever looks.

The second you're out of sight, his control snaps.

He backs you against the wall, hands bracketing your head, mouth crashing onto yours with hunger that's been simmering all evening.

His knee slides between your thighs, and when you gasp, he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Tongue claiming, teeth nipping, consuming.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard.

“Tell me I can touch you,” he demands, voice wrecked. Forehead pressed to yours, hands trembling where they frame your face.

“Please—”

That's all he needs.

His hands slide down, cupping your breasts through your clothes, and he groans like he's been holding back for hours.

“Need you.” His mouth finds your neck, biting gently. “Need to feel you. Taste you. Make you forget your own name.”

His hands work you through fabric. Squeezing, kneading, thumbs circling until you're arching into him, whimpering.

“That's it,” he mutters against your throat. “Let me hear you. No one can hear us here. Just you and me.”

When his mouth closes over your breast through your shirt, you nearly sob.

The wet heat of his mouth soaks through fabric, and your hands fly to his hair, gripping hard enough that he moans against you. The vibration makes you whimper, and he answers by sucking harder, teeth grazing even through the barrier.

“Ohh,” you breathe, and he makes a sound that's pure satisfaction.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and starving.

“If we weren't in public,” he says, “I'd have you bare and under me already.”

Your knees nearly give out.

“Varka—”

“Soon,” he promises, voice rough. “Soon I'm taking you home and I'm not letting you leave my bed until you can't remember anything but my name.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

BONUS: The Moment He Breaks

It's late evening. You're in your apartment, comfortable and unguarded, adjusting your shirt.

Varka's sitting at your table, supposedly reviewing some report.

He's not reading. He's watching you.

The fabric shifts as you move, and his jaw tightens.

You bend slightly to pick something up, and your neckline dips.

The sound he makes is quiet, but you hear it.

A rough exhale.

You straighten, turning to look at him.

He's staring. Not even pretending otherwise.

“Varka?” Your voice is soft. “You okay?”

He blinks, seeming to surface from wherever his thoughts had gone. “Trying to be,” he mutters.

There's tension radiating off him.

He stands slowly, and there's something predatory in the movement.

He crosses to you in three strides.

Stops just close enough that you can feel his body heat.

His hand rises—hesitates at your waist—then settles there.

“You got no idea,” he says, voice low and strained, “what you do to me.”

You lean into his touch, emboldened by the way his breath catches. “Show me.”

For a moment, he just stares at you. Then something in his expression cracks.

“You're sure?” His voice is barely controlled. “Because if I start, I'm not stopping until—”

“I'm sure.”

The last thread snaps.

He pulls you against him, and you feel exactly how much he's been holding back. Hard and wanting and barely restrained.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, hands sliding up your sides with hunger.

“Please,” he breathes against your neck. “Let me touch you. I've been going insane.”

“Yes—”

His hands cup your breasts before you finish the word.

The groan he makes is obscene.

“Finally—”

He's desperate.

Palms kneading, thumbs circling over sensitive peaks through your shirt, and when you gasp his name he loses it.

Yanks your shirt up without finesse, and the moment there's nothing between his hands and your skin, he makes a sound like he's been starving.

His mouth finds your breast, and the heat of it makes you cry out.

He groans in response, tongue circling, sucking, devouring while his hand works the other. Pinching gently, rolling, driving you insane.

“Varka—oh—”

“Say it again,” he demands against your skin.

“Varka—”

“Louder.”

“Varka—”

He pulls you down onto the floor and settles over you with single-minded intent.

His weight pins you, one knee pressing between your thighs, hands bracketing your head. You can feel all of him. The solid muscle of his chest, the heat radiating off him, the evidence of exactly how much he wants you pressing insistent against your hip.

“Been thinking about this,” he mutters, mouth trailing down your sternum. “Every time you move. Every time you lean close. Wanted my mouth on you. My hands. Wanted to make you fall apart.”

He's kissing everywhere—your breasts, your ribs, the soft skin of your stomach—like he's trying to worship every inch.

His hand slides up your thigh, grip firm and possessive, and when he settles his weight between your legs you feel the full reality of what you've done to him. All that controlled strength, all that barely-leashed want, focused entirely on you.

“Tell me you want this,” he demands, voice rough. Not asking permission—he already has it—but needing to hear you say it.

“I want you,” you breathe. “All of you.”

His eyes go molten.

“Then hold on to me,” he warns. “Because I'm not stopping until you're shaking.”

And then he shows you exactly what that means.