ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʟʟᴇʏᴡᴀʏ
You're the golden child of Mondstadt, the untouchable Ragnvindr heir. He's the big bastard who had you begging after one drunk night. Three weeks later, you're back in an alley, and Varka is never going to let you forget what you really are.
warnings: smut, rough sex, degradation, power dynamics (obvious ones), hints of prey and predator, praise kink, semi public sex, orgasm control, spanking, hair pulling, dirty talk, creampie, brat training, dubcon here and there
notes: big bad Varka fucks (implied) Ragnvindir golden child. They hate and love each other. It’s implied they’re fuck buddies but long distance. I can fix him but worse. I support soft!varka but I neeedddd this man to fuck me UPPPPPPP! 😋
You saw him three weeks later.
Not on purpose. Mondstadt was not that small, and you were not that unlucky. You had told yourself firmly, repeatedly, in the voice you used for closing arguments —the one that made seasoned merchants wither and Fatui diplomats check their contracts twice— that the first time had been an aberration. A lapse in judgment. A single, regrettable data point in a lifetime of making better, safer, more sensible choices. You had filed him away under unrepeatable, locked the drawer, and thrown away the metaphorical key. You had moved on with your life, returned to your meticulous ledgers and your carefully curated reputation.
Then you turned a corner near the fountain, and there he was.
Varka, the Titan of the Knights of Favonius, the man who wrestled bears for sport and drank lesser men under the table, was leaning against a wall. He was smoking something that was most certainly not a cigarette -something dark and herbal that curled in lazy, blue-grey ribbons from between his teeth. His broad shoulders, wide as a doorway, were relaxed against the stone. His broken jaw, now healed but with a faint, gloriously crooked line that spoke of a brawl he'd clearly won, caught the afternoon light. He wasn't doing anything. Varka was simply existing. And that existence was enough to hitch your breath, tighten your stomach into a knot of hot wire, and send a flood of something molten through your veins that you refused— refused— to name. He looked up. Those light blue eyes, the color of a winter sky just before a blizzard, caught sight of you. And then he smiled. It was not a kind smile. It was not an apologetic, fancy-meeting-you-here smile. No, this was the smile of a man who remembered exactly what you had sounded like when you said please, your voice cracking on the vowel. The smile of a man who had replayed those sounds in his head during long rides and colder nights. The smile of a man who was already imagining, with vivid, obscene detail, what you would sound like this time. You should have walked away. You should have turned on your heel, crossed the street, retreated to the safety of Dawn Winery, and spent the evening reorganizing Diluc's ledgers by grape varietal and soil pH level purely to irritate him. You should have done any of the hundred sensible, logical, survivable things that your position, your reputation, your carefully constructed armor demanded.
Instead, you glided forward. You did not walk. Walking was for merchants and tourists, for people with destinations and timelines. You glided, your feet carrying you across the sun-drenched cobblestones without your explicit permission, your body remembering what your mind had tried so desperately to forget: the weight of him, the scrape of his stubble, the low, rumbling sound of his laugh in the dark. Varka did not move. He stayed against the wall, his casual smile widening into something sharper, his gaze tracking your approach with the lazy, coiled patience of a wolf who had all the time in the world and knew the deer was walking right into his jaws.
“Y/nn," he said, when you were close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body like a furnace. He drawled your nickname, rolling the syllables on his tongue as if tasting them. You did not correct his use of it. You did not tell him that only your family called you that. You simply stopped in front of him, close enough that your coat brushed his boots, and you looked up into his face. The healed jaw. The light eyes that held a permanent glint of amused chaos. The mouth that had said such terrible, wonderful things last time.
"Hello," you said. Your voice was steady. You were proud of that small victory.
Varka chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated in his broad chest. "Back so soon?" He took a long, slow drag from his herbal stick, the tip flaring orange.
“I'm always here. Monthly visits. Family."
"Ah." The Grand Master nodded sagely, blowing a perfect smoke ring that drifted past your cheek. "The family. The brother with the fire vision and the permanent scowl. Master Diluc. What's he up to these days? Still brooding in his cellar like a grape with a grudge?"
"He's... Diluc," you said, which was answer enough.
"And the younger one,” Varka's eyes crinkled before continuing, “The one with the eyepatch and the smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Kaeya. I heard he's been causing trouble down at the Angel's Share. Something about a tab and a diplomat from Snezhnaya. My most trusted knight, that one.”
You didn't say anything. Archons, you didn't know if you could. Your throat had closed up entirely.
Varka flicked the remains of his smoke away. It landed in a shallow puddle and died with a soft, final hiss. He pushed off from the wall then, and the casual air vanished. He loomed over you, all six-and-a-half feet of him, and his voice dropped to a gravelly murmur. "There's an alley," he said, nodding his head toward a narrow gap between two buildings. "No windows. No witnesses. Just brick, shadow, and me."
You should have said no. You should said I have to get back, or Diluc is expecting me for dinner, or this was a mistake the first time and it would be a catastrophic mistake again. You should have said any of the thousand sensible things screaming in your head.
Instead, you looked up at him, at the hard line of his jaw and the terrible promise in his pale eyes, and you said, “Lead the way.” His smile widened. He clapped a heavy hand on your lower back: proprietary, possessive-and steered you toward the darkness.
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The alley was exactly as advertised. No windows. No witnesses. A single, rusted door that led to someone's storage room, locked and bolted from the other side. The walls were close, close enough to touch both at once. The ground was damp, the air thick with the smell of old rain and newer secrets. The golden light from the main street barely reached the corners, leaving everything in a murky, intimate twilight. It was the kind of place where things happened that people did not talk about over wine.
Varka wasted no time. He turned you, pressed your back against the cold, rough brick, and caged you in with his body. His chest was hard as a shield against yours, his thighs bracketing your hips. His hands -big, calloused, scarred from a hundred forgotten brawls- were already on you. One gripped your hip with bruising certainty. The other found your waist, then the buttons of your coat, undoing them with a dexterity that belied his size. He did not kiss you. He did not ask. He simply pinned you there, his weight an immovable force, and he looked at you. His gaze traveled down your face, your neck, the line of your collarbone exposed by your loosened coat, with an expression that made you feel like you were being unwrapped, layer by layer, for his personal inspection.
"You came back," he said. Not a question. An observation. A fact.
You swallowed. "I was in the city-“
"You came back," he repeated, cutting you off with a low chuckle, "because you wanted this. Because you've been thinking about it. Because you've been touching yourself at night, remembering the way I made you cry." He leaned in, his stubbled jaw scraping against your ear, his breath hot and smelling of herbs and smoke. "Haven't you, Y/nn?"
You did not deny it. You couldn't. The truth was a living, writhing thing in your chest, and he had already seen it, already named it, already held it up to the blinding light. Your silence was all the confirmation he needed. He pulled back just enough to look at you again, his smile turning cruel and beautiful. "You want me to degrade you," he said, matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather or the price of grain. "You want me to tell you what you are."
You swallowed again, your throat dry. "And what am I?"
"You're a brat." Varka laughed, a short, sharp bark of a sound. "A spoiled, entitled, fucking brat who's used to getting what she wants. You walk into rooms and people move aside. You open your mouth and people listen. You think you're untouchable." He tightened his grip on your hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks. "But you're not untouchable. You're here. In an alley, in the dark, with a man who doesn't give a single shit about your name or your title or your perfect little record." His pale eyes bored into yours. "You're here because deep down, under all that armor and attitude, you need someone to remind you what you really are."
You should have been angry. Furious, even. The old you, the one who ran boardrooms and intimidated merchants, would have knee'd him in the groin and walked away with a scathing remark. But you weren't angry. Instead, you were feeling something else. Something that burned low in your belly, something that ached in your chest. Something that wanted him to keep talking, keep pushing, keep taking you apart piece by glorious piece.
"And what am I?" you asked again. Your voice was not steady this time. It cracked on the last word. You didn't care.
"You're a whore," Varka said. Flatly. Easily. The way he might have said you're from Mondstadt or you have pretty eyes. No judgment, no malice. Just a label. A truth. "You're a pretty little whore who came back for more because the first time wasn't enough. Because you're greedy. Because you're empty inside, and you think if someone fucks you hard enough, you'll finally feel full."
The word hit you like a physical slap. A ringing blow to the cheek. You have been called many things in your life. Prodigy. Menace. Golden child. You had never been called a whore. You had never been called anything that reduced you so completely to this: this body, this wanting, this desperate, nameless need that had no end and no satisfaction.
“Say it," he commanded, his voice dropping lower, harder. "Say what you are." You looked up at him. Your eyes were wet. You didn't know when that had happened. A single tear tracked down your cheek, and he watched it fall with an almost clinical fascination.
"I'm a whore," you whispered.
“Louder." His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it, forcing your face up to his.
"I'm a whore!" you gasped, the word echoing off the brick.
"Whose whore?”
"Yours." The word came out broken, a half-sob, a half-laugh, ragged and raw. "Yours. Here. Tonight. Just—please." He kissed you then. It was not a kiss. It was a claim.
His mouth was rough, demanding, all teeth and tongue. He bit your lower lip hard enough to draw a bead of copper, then soothed it with a swipe of his tongue. His stubble scraped your chin, your cheeks, leaving a pleasant, burning abrasion. You kissed him back with the same ferocity, biting, pulling his lower lip, giving as good as you got. You tasted smoke and him: a wild, masculine taste that flooded your senses. He pulled away first, his chest heaving. He was smiling again. That terrible, beautiful, infuriating smile.
"Good girllll," Varka cooed and drawled, the praise a warm balm after the degradation. He patted your cheek —a condescending little slap— and then turned you around with a rough shove. "Now turn around and put your hands on the wall."
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He made you work for it. That was the thing you had not expected. The first time, three weeks ago, Varka had done everything: pinned you, held you down, taken you apart with his hands and his mouth and the relentless, driving pressure of his body. He had been the hunter, and you the prey.
This time, he did almost nothing. You stood there, palms flat against the cold brick, your forehead resting on your forearm, your heart hammering. You heard him shift behind you. You waited. Nothing happened.
"Get to it," he said, his voice casual, almost bored.
You didn't understand. You shifted your weight, trying to look back at him over your shoulder.
He was leaning against the opposite wall, his beefy arms crossed over his massive chest, his expression one of pure, amused anticipation. His belt was still buckled. His pants were still done. He hadn't touched you at all. "I said move," Varka repeated, tilting his head. “You want it? You work for it. I'm not your servant, sweetheart."
You understood then. The heat that flooded your face was not shame-you had left shame behind in the first alley, three weeks ago, probably in a puddle next to a discarded cigarette-but something else. Something that felt like being seen. Being known. He wasn't going to give you anything. You had to take it.
You moved. You pressed back against him, grinding your hips against his crotch, feeling the thick bulge beneath his trousers. You arched your spine, pushing your ass against him in a slow, deliberate roll. Varka simply stood there, letting you rub against him like a cat against a scratching post, his arms still crossed, his expression still that infuriating, lazy smile.
"Pathetic," he murmured, watching you squirm. “Is that the best you can do? I've seen drunk hilichurls with better rhythm."
You tried harder. You bit your lip, arched your back until it almost hurt, and pushed your ass against him with more force, making a sound that was supposed to be seductive but came out as a desperate, needy whine.
He laughed. The laugh was low, dark, rumbling up from his chest, the laugh of a man who was enjoying himself immensely and had absolutely no intention of helping you. "You're going to have to do better than that, princess. Much better." You ceased your frantic movement. Frustration, hot and sharp, clawed at your throat. The brat in you -the part that had never quite been tamed, the part that argued with Diluc until he slammed the door in your face and provoked Kaeya just to watch him smirk- rose up like a snarling beast.
Fine. You turned around to face him. In an impulsive, reckless move, you dropped to your knees on the damp cobblestones. Varka raised a single, light brown eyebrow.
"Oh?"
You didn't answer. You reached for his belt, your fingers fumbling with the buckle. You got it open, then the button, then the fly. You pulled his cock out -he was already hard, had probably been hard since you first glided towards him in the city center, the bastard- and you took the flushed, heavy tip into your mouth without preamble. Varka let out a sound. It was almost a groan, almost a compliment, almost enough. A low, guttural "ah" that vibrated through his thighs. You swirled your tongue around the head, tasting salt and him, and took him deeper. Then his hand was fisting in your hair. He didn't pull gently. He pulled with a wrench that was barely a hint of his true strength, dragging you off his cock with a wet, obscene pop.
"Not yet," Varka said, his voice rougher now, the casual amusement giving way to something darker. "I didn't say you could." You looked up at him from your knees. Your lips were wet with pre-cum. Your eyes were watering from the force of his pull. Your knees ached on the stones. You were, you realized distantly, having the absolute tease of your life.
“You're a fucking tease," you hissed, the words venomous. His hand tightened in your hair, pulling your head back at an angle that bared your throat.
He let out a sharp, short laugh. "And you're a fucking brat." He hauled you to your feet by your hair, ignoring your indignant yelp. "Get up. Turn around. Hands on the wall. Now."
He turned you around again, pushing you easily against the brick, his body caging you in. His hands were on your hips, rough and impatient, pulling your dress up to your waist, yanking your underwear down to your thighs. You heard him spit —the sound was obscene, intimate, a wet promise of what was coming— and then he was inside you. You weren't ready. The stretch was too much, a burning, perfect pressure that forced a choked cry from your lips. And exactly enough. Before you could voice your displeasure, before you could even draw a full breath, Varka was holding your hips in a bruising grip, setting a brutal pace, and fucking you the way you had been rubbing your clit to every single night for the past three weeks. He was not gentle. He was never gentle. He drove into you with a groan and a force that slammed you into the wall, your cheek scraping against the rough brick, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the unyielding surface. He pulled you back by your hair-again-making you arch your spine at an obscene angle, changing the angle of his thrusts so that he was hitting something deep inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes and drool drip from your open lips onto the wall.
“Look at you," Varka crooned, his voice a low, admiring growl in your ear. He punctuated each word with a deep, grinding thrust. "You're so fucking greedy. You came back for this. You walked across the whole city center for me."
"Yes," you gasped, the word torn from your throat. "Yes, yes-"
"Yes what?"
"Fuck! Yes, I came back for this! I wanted-l wanted-"
"You wanted to be fucked in an alley like a common whore."
"Yes-" you panted, your fingers curling against the brick.
"You wanted me to put you in your place."
"Yes-ngh-"
"You wanted me to degrade you."
A hastily nod. A murmured soft plea to get him to stop speaking.
Varka only scoffed in response. "You wanted to go back to your brother's house tonight with my come dripping down your thighs and pretend nothing happened."
The word brother should have stopped you.
Should have iced your veins, sobered you up, reminded you of where you were and who you were supposed to be. Diluc's knowing glare. Kaeya's probing questions. The family dinner you were already an hour late for.
Instead, it pushed you higher. Pushed you closer to the thing you could feel building in your belly like a summer thunderstorm, all pressure and lightning and imminent, violent release.
"Yes! Yes, yes, yes-" you whined, the sounds coming out in rhythm with every brutal thrust. “M'so close-ah-"
He pulled out.
You almost screamed. The emptiness was worse than the fullness, the sudden absence a physical pain that made your inner walls clench around nothing. You tried to press back against him, tried to pull him back into you, a broken, desperate noise escaping your throat.
Varka laughed. That terrible, beautiful, cruel laugh. He held you still with an iron grip on your hips.
"Did I say you could come?" he asked, his voice dripping with mock concern.
"No," you cried out, the word ragged.
"That's right. I didn't." His hand came down on your ass. Hard. The slap echoed off the alley walls, sharp and wet, and you let out a sharp, shocked gasp. He did it again. And again. Three, four, five times, each strike landing on the same tender spot, making your skin burn and your thighs shake. You were so close you could taste it, a copper tang of frustrated need on your tongue.
“Please," you sobbed. The word came out without your permission, the same way it had three weeks ago, the same way it always seemed to come out when you were with him. Begging. Broken. "Please, please, please-"
"Please what?" He leaned over you, his chest hot against your back, his mouth at your ear.
"Please fuck me. Please let me come. Please, I'l be good, l'll be so good, l'll-“
"You'll what?"
"I'll do anything." You were crying now, tears of frustration and desperate, aching need streaming down your face. "Anything. Just-"
Varka pushed back inside you in one smooth, devastating thrust. You let out a sharp yelp, your body bowing. Then he stopped. He didn't move. He stood there, buried to the hilt, and he waited.
"Then do it yourself," he said. You didn't understand. You tried to move, tried to fuck yourself on him, humping back against his hips. He held you still, his grip like iron, not letting you get more than a centimeter of movement.
"No," Varka laughed at you, the sound breathless now, his own control fraying. "Not like that. You want to come? You work for it. I'm not moving an inch. You are." You looked over your shoulder at him. His face was flushed a deep red, his light blue eyes were nearly black with want. A vein throbbed in his temple. Despite his mocking smile, despite his cruel game, Varka was watching you with an intensity that made you feel like prey caught in the gaze of a dragon.
"You want me to-"
"I want you to bounce on my cock like the desperate little whore you are," he said, enunciating each word with vicious clarity. "I want you to do all the work. I want to watch you fall apart while I do nothing but stand here and enjoy the show." The brat in you rose up one final time. It grinned, sharp and feral.
"Fine," you hissed. You started to move. It was awkward at first. The angle was wrong, your legs were shaking uncontrollably, and he was absolutely no help at all, content to just stand there like a statue, his hands resting on your hips, letting you do all the labor. You pushed back against him, lifted yourself up on trembling thighs, and dropped back down. The sound was wet, obscene, exactly what he wanted to hear.
"That's it," Varka groaned, the praise torn from him despite himself. "That's a good girl. Keep going."
You found a rhythm. A pace. A way of moving that made his cock hit that perfect spot inside you every time you dropped down onto him. Your vision blurred. Sweat dripped from your forehead onto the brick. Your hair was sticking to your face, your carefully applied makeup was surely ruined, and you had never felt more completely undone in your entire life. His hands tightened on your hips. And then he started to move. Not much. Just a little. Just enough to change the rhythm, to throw you off, to push you closer to the edge with every shallow, teasing thrust.
"Come," Varka commanded, his voice a ragged growl. He patted your head condescendingly, a mockery of affection that made you let out a frustrated, keening whine as he yanked your head back. "Come for me. Now." You came.
The orgasm ripped through you like a tidal wave, like a wildfire, like something you had been holding back for weeks and simply could not contain any longer. You cried out-loud, far too loud, the sound echoing off the alley walls and probably into the street beyond-and he fucked you through it, not gentle, not kind, but exactly what you needed. His hips snapped against your ass, driving into you as you clenched and spasmed around him. He came a moment later, his own control finally shattering. You felt him shudder, felt him empty into you in hot, pulsing waves, felt his forehead drop to your shoulder. A low, guttural groan vibrated against your skin. You stood there for a long moment, breathing ragged, sweating, pressed together in the dark silence of the alley. Then he pulled out. Stepped back. The sudden loss of his heat made you shiver. You leaned against the wall, your legs shaking violently, your body humming like a plucked string. You heard him tuck himself away, the rustle of fabric, the click of his belt buckle. Then a heavy hand landed on your ass one last time-not a slap, just a possessive, lingering pat.
"Good girl," Varka said again, his voice warm, amused, utterly satisfied. "Now get cleaned up. You're gonna be late for dinner with my knights."
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