Varka 🗡️

The fight ended not with the clash of steel, but with the heavy, controlled thud of a body hitting the packed earth.

There. Perfect timing. Let the shoulder roll look convincing, but keep the spine loose. Don't want to actually jar anything important. Not before the main event.

A collective gasp rippled through the training grounds. You stood, breathing hard, your practice sword pointed at the space just above Varka’s throat. The Grand Master himself lay sprawled at your feet, his own massive claymore resting in the dirt beside his open hand.

Look at him. Absolutely gobsmacked. Good. And the look on their faces.

For a moment, there was only the wind and the pounding of your heart. Slowly, Varka pushed himself up onto his elbows. There was no anger in his face. No frustration. Instead, his eyes, when they met yours, held a deep, simmering warmth. A secret.

And… contact. Eyes wide, a little breathless. Perfect. He probably feels like a god right now. Let's make sure he feels like a generous one.

“Well struck,” he said, his voice a low rumble that carried across the silent field. He didn’t move to rise. He stayed there, on the ground before you, in a position of absolute surrender. “That was a perfect lunge. Flawless timing.”

Time for the first touch. Establish the connection. Make it seem like reverence.

He reached out, not for his weapon, but to grasp your ankle. His large, calloused hand wrapped around it, the touch firm and grounding. A gesture of connection, not challenge.

“You saw the opening and you took it,” he continued, his thumb stroking a slow, deliberate line over your ankle bone. Such a delicate bone. I could snap it with a thought. But the thought I’m having is about where else I want those hands. “No hesitation. Pure commitment.” He gave your ankle a slight, approving squeeze before releasing it. “That’s what I’ve been waiting to see.”

Alright, up we get. Look powerful even when I'm playing defeat. Make him want to conquer this.

He rose then, with that same effortless, powerful grace, but the energy had shifted. The stern Grand Master was gone. In his place was something more open, more… offered.

Clear the stage. Private victory party for one, coming right up.

He dismissed the others with a single, raised hand, his gaze never leaving yours. “Training is over! Leave us.”

The knights dispersed, whispers trailing behind them.

When they were gone, Varka closed the distance. He was so close you could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, smell the honest sweat and leather on his skin.

Close enough to kiss. Or to be pushed to my knees. Either works. Let's guide him.

“You have the strength,” he said, his voice dropping to a private, intimate register. He reached out and took your wrist, guiding your hand—the one still holding the practice sword—and placed your palm flat against the center of his chest. You could feel the powerful, steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers. A little faster than usual, but that’s not from the fight. That’s from the anticipation. Feel that? That’s your doing. “You have the will. And now, you have the confidence.”

His other hand came up to your shoulder, tightening firmly, steadily.

"The lesson's over," he said, his voice dropping, warm and intimate. "You've proved yourself. Beating me is an achievement. It's no joke." He leaned in, his lips a hair's breadth from your ear.

"Now," he murmured, the word a warm puff against your skin. "If you want the real victory lap... my office is free. Door's unlocked."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. There was no command now, only an invitation—deep, willing, and utterly unambiguous. The power was yours.

Come and get your prize, recruit. I’ve been planning this since I saw the way you handle a pommel. Let’s see how you handle me.

“Don't keep me waiting.”

With a final, knowing wink that was for you alone, he turned. He bent smoothly, his fingers wrapping around the familiar grip of his claymore, and hauled it onto his shoulder with a practiced, effortless heave.

He began walking toward headquarters, the massive weapon a stark silhouette against the setting sun. His stride was loose, relaxed. He even had the audacity to whistle a few bars of a tavern tune, the sound drifting back to you on the evening breeze.

Walk away. Don't look back. Let him watch me go. Let him imagine what he'll do when he follows. Gods, I hope he's imaginative. This was a lot of effort just to get their cock in my mouth, but by the Archons, it’s going to be worth it.

The door to his office was, as promised, not just unlocked but slightly ajar. A soft, warm glow spilled from within, along with the rich, earthy scent of good brandy and old books.

You pushed it open. Varka wasn’t at his desk. He was sprawled in one of the large, worn armchairs by the hearth, his claymore propped carefully against the stone mantel. His boots were off. His polished breastplate and coat was also discarded, sitting in a corner like a discarded shell, leaving him in just his trousers. A half-empty bottle of amber liquid sat on the low table beside him, along with two glasses—one full, waiting.

He looked up as you entered, his eyes already holding that soft, unfocused gleam of a man several drinks into his celebration. A lazy, triumphant smile spread across his face.

“There you are,” he said, his words beginning to soften at the edges. He made to stand, pushing himself up from the chair with a slight grunt. For a moment, he swayed, bracing a hand on the chair’s arm. The firelight played over the exposed, powerful lines of his shoulders and biceps, the shadowed valley between his pectorals.

He took one step, then another, his movement a loose-limbed, deliberate stumble that brought him right into your space. The scent of brandy, leather, and clean male sweat enveloped you.

“Took you long enough,” he murmured, his voice a low, warm rumble, thick with drink and intent. His big hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs rough against your cheekbones. “Y’know… faked the whole… the whole damn thing.” He chuckled, a deep, happy sound that vibrated through his chest. “You’re good. Really good. But I’m… I’m better.” He leaned in, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “Did it ‘cause I wanted to see… to see that look on your face. When you won.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze heavy-lidded and utterly focused.

“Wanted you to feel… powerful,” he slurred, his hands sliding down to your shoulders, gripping them firmly as if to steady himself, or you. “So you’d come in here… and be powerful with me.”

His grin was wicked and soft all at once, his breath warm against your lips. The mighty Grand Master, undone by his own design and a considerable amount of brandy, shirtless and swaying before you.

“So c’mon,” he whispered, his words finally dissolving into a warm, boozy slur as he leaned his full, heavy weight against you in a trusting collapse. He's heavy. “Fuck me. I know you want to.”