Work Text:
The first time Varka hears it, they’re in the middle of a heated battle—Flins, the ever vigilant sentinel at his back, and the enemy, closing in on them from all sides.
Varka has never been one to believe in the idea of fighting hopeless battles, but even he can admit that things are looking pretty grim. The swarm of Wilderness Ghouls shows no signs of thinning, and even the Tideseal Stone they’d activated earlier had done little to slow their onslaught. A chorus of shrieks and groans fills the air, and Varka grimaces. It’s bad enough listening the ghastly wails of the Wild Hunt as they are. He can only imagine how much worse Flins has it, being able to understand each and every word.
But then, amidst the clamor, a single voice rises above the din.
It starts as a quiet murmur, so soft and indistinct that Varka almost thinks he’d misheard. But as the voice grows stronger, Varka knows he’s not mistaken.
It’s Flins’ voice, that much is clear. Though it sounds different from his usual pleasant baritone, reverberating with an eerie, unearthly hollowness. At first, Varka thinks Flins might be trying to say something to him—a warning, perhaps, or a directive. But when he listens closer, he realizes Flins isn’t speaking to him at all. Rather, he seems to be casting some kind of spell. Not in one of the local dialects, nor any of the other languages Varka has picked up along his travels thus far, but something else entirely: a foreign tongue of unknown origins, indecipherable to the human ear. Haunting but melodious, each word that falls from Flins’ lips thrums with untapped power.
The air feels different now. Thicker, heavier, charged with phantasmal energy. And though it goes against his every instinct as a seasoned knight, Varka can do nothing but stand there, rooted in place. He’s spellbound, struck dumb and mute. Distantly, he wonders if this is how a Hilichurl might feel after being blasted down by one of Flins’ lightning bolts.
As Flins’ voice rises in pitch and in volume, the Wilderness Ghouls visibly react. Some stop in place, suddenly lifeless, while others rear back in pain, stumbling and clutching their heads. Without once interrupting his chant, Flins tilts his head just so, catching Varka’s eyes, and nods infinitesimally. And in that moment, no words are needed between them. Varka dashes forth and cuts the Wilderness Ghouls down with ease while they’re still reeling. And before long, the shores of Paha Isle are silent once more.
“What the hell was that?” Varka asks, after the dust has settled and the two of them can finally catch their breaths again.
“An ancient fae incantation,” Flins replies absently as he dusts off his coat. “The Wilderness Ghouls are more easily subdued when they hear it. It’s a powerful protective ward, for one, with the added benefit of momentarily stunning those who have been around long enough, evoking memories of days long past…” Flins trails off, seemingly lost in thought, before coming back to his senses with a shake of his head. “But it’s also a tedious, time-consuming process that requires a great deal of effort and concentration, so I usually prefer to use it as a last resort.”
Varka nods. That makes sense. But still, not the most pressing issue here. “I’ve never heard you speak anything like it before.”
“I don’t have much reason to, these days. Not many people speak it anymore, and those who do have either left Nod-Krai or tend to make themselves scarce. It’s a mostly dead language now, I’m afraid.” Flins pauses now to regard Varka with open curiosity. But he must’ve misinterpreted Varka’s silence as discomfort because he shifts uneasily and averts his gaze.
“Does it bother you?” he asks, voice low with concern.
Does it…bother Varka? Now that’s one hell of a question. If by ‘bothered’ Flins means that Varka is upset by the reminder of Flins’ ethereal otherness, his long-lived history, and all the difficulties their incompatible lifespans will surely bring upon them further down the line, then no, not in the slightest. It’s but a small price to pay for loving Flins, and Varka certainly wouldn’t want him to change anything about himself—not for Varka’s sake, nor anyone else’s.
But if by ‘bothered’ Flins is referring to Varka’s sudden newfound, all-consuming compulsion to hear him speak fae again—a rallying war cry in the midst of battle; whispers of sweet nothings in their quiet moments together; breathless gasps and moans, punctuated by screams of Varka’s name as Flins writhes in pleasure—then yes, Varka supposes it does bother him quite a bit.
In the end, Varka settles with, “Nah, we’re good.”
Flins smiles, a small, tender thing that softens the sharp panes of his doll-like face. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Varka waits, half-expecting him to elaborate further, to explain more about what just happened; but instead, Flins simply turns on his heels and starts making his way back to the lighthouse. As if this was any other ordinary day and not one of the most pivotal moments of Varka’s life. “Come now. Let us retire for the night for some well-deserved rest. We’ve quelled the worst of the Abyssal contamination for the time being, and warm beds await us at home.”
…Well, alright then. Message received, loud and clear. Flins obviously doesn’t want to talk about it. Varka snorts in good humor, hefts his claymore over his shoulder, and trails obediently after the somber blue glow of Flins’ lantern.
Flins is a man of many secrets. Varka has known this from the very start. And he knew what he was getting into when he’d made the choice to pursue a relationship with Flins. There are parts of him that will forever remain a mystery to Varka, and he’s perfectly content with that.
So be it. Let Flins keep his secrets. Really, it’s no big deal to Varka at all.
To his credit, Varka really does try his damndest to forget about that night. Let bygones be bygones and all that.
He holds out for exactly two-and-a-half days before the intrusive thoughts come rushing back with a vengeance. And soon, what had started off as an innocent fascination has now snowballed into a vicious obsession that won’t leave him be.
It’s terrible—mostly for Varka’s sanity, but also for his dick, which has gotten a little too trigger happy as of late, especially for a man his age. Archons above, Varka’s libido has never been this active before, even as a fresh-faced teen. But he just can’t stop thinking about it. Of that ancient, sonorous tongue, and how beautiful it would sound on Flins’ lips when he’s caught in the throes of passion, crying and begging for more.
It’s all making Varka feel like a dirty old man, which doesn’t even make sense because Flins is the one between them who’s practically prehistoric. And he’s hardly some prudish Fontanian maiden with delicate sensibilities, too afraid to show some ankle. They’re both grown men. They’ve seen each other naked on plenty of occasions. They’ve fucked before. Multiple times, even. Sometimes in the same sitting.
But that’s beside the point.
When it comes down to it, Varka knows the real reason why he’s hesitating. Flins tends to keep his past buried under lock and key, and he can be surprisingly self-conscious at times about his otherness, his inability to truly blend in with the rest of humanity. For Varka to request something so intimate, for Flins to be vulnerable enough to share a part of himself that he so rarely shows to others… Does Varka even have the right to be asking of such things in the first place? It leaves him at an impasse, caught between a mental war of his own making: his burning curiosity versus his respect for Flins’ privacy.
The issue continues to eat away at him even weeks after that eventful day, though he does his best to curb it. Throwing himself into his work helps, for a time, as does maintaining some distance from Flins. Nothing too drastic, of course, but just enough to alleviate the guilt and curiosity festering within him. He’ll either lose interest over time, or relent and ask Flins about it on a more suitable occasion, Varka reasons. There’s no need to rush headlong into such important matters and risk their current status quo.
But the last thing Varka could’ve expected was for Flins himself to take the initiative and seek him out first, ambushing him over his usual dinner rounds at The Flagship.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Flins greets, nodding politely to the men gathered at the table. But when he turns to Varka, his demeanor noticeably shifts. “Grand Master Varka, may I have a word with you in private?”
On the surface, Flins appears as calm and composed as ever, but Varka can read his displeasure clear as day. It’s obvious in his smile—sharper than frosted steel, colder than even the harshest Snezhnayan winters. In the way he’s holding himself a little too stiffly, arms tucked tight in parade rest behind his back. He unfolds them to clasp a black-gloved hand onto Varka’s shoulder, a deceptively friendly gesture were it not for the bruising tightness of his grip. “Don’t worry, I promise I won’t take up too much of your time.”
Around Varka’s table, the rest of his troops are giving him varying degrees of pitying looks. This is not only unwarranted, but utterly unacceptable. He is the fabled Knight of Boreas himself, the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius, the North Wind who bends to the will of no man, not some pitiable henpecked husband. He needs to put his foot down, to set an example for his men and—
“Now, Varka.”
—gets up meekly to follow after Flins, tail tucked between his legs.
Physically, the distance from The Flagship’s canteen to Varka’s room can’t be more than seventy yards, but today the walk there feels especially long. Flins walks with purpose, back ramrod straight as he stares pointedly forward. But it’s not until after they’re safely behind the closed doors of Varka’s room, away from prying eyes and ears, that he finally deigns to speak.
Pinning Varka with an inscrutable expression, Flins once again tucks his arms behind his back and says, “Varka, I hesitate to even suggest this, but I can’t help but notice that you’ve been acting strangely around me as of late. Is there…any reason why that might be?”
Shit. Varka hadn’t expected Flins to catch on so quick. Or to be so direct in confronting him. He’d been hoping he’d have more time to sort out his conflicting feelings before something like this inevitably happened, but there’s no point in thinking about that now. And so, feigning bravado, Varka quickly musters up his usual breezily confident grin.
“It’s fine. Everything’s fine! I’ve just got a lot on my plate lately, what with the recent spike in Wild Hunt activity and all.”
But Flins isn’t so easily dissuaded. “No, it’s more than that. I’m sure of it. You’ve been distracted, distant, ever since—” Flins’ eyes widen as he seems to come to an epiphany, then narrow in thinly-veiled suspicion. “…Ever since the day you heard my fae incantation.”
Varka freezes, his breath catching in his throat, and it’s all the confirmation Flins needs.
“So it did bother you. And you kept it from me all this time.”
Varka knows why Flins is upset—less by the notion itself, and more so because of its underlying implications. Their relationship is one painstakingly built on the foundation of mutual trust, and there is little a fae despises more than lies and those who weave them. To Flins, Varka’s apparent avoidance of the issue and his later attempts at covering it up must seem like the worst kind of betrayal. Compounding this further is the fact that it stemmed from the subject of Flins’ fae lineage, a topic he is particularly sensitive about, and, well…
There’s really no getting around it. Varka’s fucked up. And he needs to make things right again.
He holds his hands up in supplication, hoping to convey his utmost sincerity. “No, Flins, it’s not like that, I swear. Not in the way you think.”
Flins doesn’t say anything, and Varka knows he’s in deep shit. But there’s a silver lining to all this. Flins giving him the silent treatment, while not ideal, means that Varka still has a chance at redemption. At least he’s not giving Varka the lantern treatment and ghosting him entirely, which he usually otherwise reserves for only the gravest transgressions, such as defilement of the dead, senseless murder, or leaving fingerprints on any of his beloved gemstones.
Varka sighs. The jig is up. It’s time to come clean. Yes, it’ll be embarrassing as hell to admit, but Varka isn’t about to end a perfectly good relationship just because he’s too horny to keep it in his pants, for fuck’s sake.
“It’s—I want you to say it again. More. To me.”
Flins’ brow furrows. “The language of the ancient fae?”
“Yes. That.”
“…Right. I see,” Flins says, even though he clearly doesn’t. But bless his little heart for trying. “Are you familiar with the language? Or are you interested in learning it, perhaps?”
“No—to the first. And sure, I wouldn’t mind learning it in the future, but also no. I just like hearing you say it, that’s all. It’s nice. And sounds really pretty.”
Flins, understandably, looks rather flummoxed. And also severely underwhelmed. And Varka can hardly blame the guy, but hey, cut him some slack, alright? He’s a knight by profession, not a linguist. Words have never been his strong suit. Waxing lyrical and spouting spontaneous lines of poetry are more Barbatos’ thing, not Varka’s.
And sure, his answer isn’t exactly the most eloquent, but at least it’s the truth. Well, part of it, anyway.
“…Regardless of your reasons,” Flins continues, still looking unconvinced. “Am I correct in assuming that you wish to hear more ancient fae from me? And that you’d be keen on learning it yourself someday, given the opportunity?”
“Only if you’re alright with it,” Varka says. Insists, really. On this, he refuses to compromise. Flins’ comfort and safety come first and foremost. For his peace of mind, Varka would be willing to sacrifice almost anything.
“And what makes you think I wouldn’t be?”
“I wasn’t sure if the thought of it would upset you,” Varka admits with a sigh, rubbing a hand down the back of his neck sheepishly. “I don’t know—You get this look in your eyes sometimes, when you talk about the distant past. Like before, after that battle with the Wild Hunt at Paha Isle. After casting that spell, you seemed…out of sorts, somehow. I just figured you didn’t like talking about it. And I didn’t want to reopen old wounds or dredge up memories you’d prefer to stay buried. But I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like I was trying to avoid you. Or that you had anything to be ashamed of. That wasn’t my intention at all.”
Flins’ frown softens into something gentler, more contemplative. “It’s true, reminiscing on the past does often bring about a myriad of painful memories and bittersweet emotions. But it does not cause me so much grief that I wouldn’t be able to discuss the topic entirely. And in regards to that day, I was, as you said, out of sorts, but it wasn’t because of any residual emotional distress. To be quite honest, I was simply worn out after chanting the incantation and was in a hurry to return home as soon as possible.”
Flins smiles, rueful and self-deprecating. His anger seems to have faded now, replaced by a calm acceptance tinged with melancholic wistfulness.
“I, too, apologize if I’d given you the impression that I would be dismissive or unforthcoming on the matter. But I assure you, your interest in my heritage does not upset me. If anything, I must admit to finding it most flattering indeed.”
“Yeah?” Varka doesn’t think he could stopping grinning even if he tried. He knows how unbecoming he must look—far too eager, too overexcited for a man of his station and stature to be acting—but he can’t bring himself to care. After all those weeks of uncertainty and unease, this is possibly the best outcome he could’ve hoped for. And it’s only made sweeter by Flins’ reciprocating smile.
“Yes, truly. I fear that I may not be the most knowledgeable on this particular subject, but I’m happy to teach you what I know.”
“Now, now. There’s no need to be modest here. As if I’m going to find a better teacher than one of the legendary Snowland Fae themselves.”
Flins laughs, quietly pleased, and Varka knows that all has been forgiven.
Despite his initial reluctance, it doesn’t take long for Flins to warm up to the idea. He clearly relishes sharing his native tongue—a language lost and long-forgotten, a secret he’d once kept closely guarded to his heart—with a partner he can trust. And frankly, Varka’s enjoying himself too. He can tell Flins takes great delight in speaking the language, and even more so in Varka’s flimsy attempts at responding in kind, however horribly accented and butchered they may be. But Varka doesn’t mind looking foolish so long as Flins is happy. And it really is a lovely language, befitting of such a lovely man.
It’s sweet, how easily Flins can find joy in such small gestures. And adorable, and also very terrible for Varka’s heart. Because somehow, even after all this, he’s still not satisfied. Here Flins is, baring his heart and soul to him, and still Varka wants more. Wants to hear Flins whispering sweet nothings to him in that old, ancient tongue. In bed, while Varka is inside him, drawing rapturous moans out of that pretty, pretty mouth.
Based on Varka’s prior experiences, he knows Flins prefers it best when Varka maintains total honesty with him, regardless of how unpalatable the truth may be. It’s just a matter of figuring out when to broach the topic, that's all. And finding a way to phrase the question that doesn’t make Varka sound like some deranged pervert.
Tonight’s a time as good as any to talk about it, a rare moment of peace and quiet after returning to Final Night Cemetery from a long day of hard work. He and Flins have the night off, largely due to the continued insistence of their fellow knights and Lightkeepers to ‘please, please get some damn sleep in for once’. And Varka really did mean to bring it up—honest to goodness, he swears, on Celestia’s name—but then he turns and is met with the sight of Flins in the lighthouse parlor, gently illuminated by lamplight, as he sheds his coat and collar piece-by-piece; and suddenly sitting down to have a mature heart-to-heart conversation is the last thing on Varka’s mind.
It’s not his fault that seeing Flins in any form of undress elicits such a powerful instinctive response that it borders on primal. Not when he’s usually covered from head to toe, with only the barest tantalizing sliver of his pale wrists on display. And when Flins is like this—soft and unguarded; stripped free of his armor, the weight of his burdens and demons—he is all but impossible to resist.
Varka’s eyes trail over the line of Flins’ bare neck, the delicate curve of his back, the narrowness of his waist, and suddenly he’s not satisfied just to look. Not when he knows he has permission to touch and to take.
Varka moves on pure instinct. His hand shoots out to grab Flins’ wrist, and he drags the other man with him, crossing the room to the bed in one swift motion. Flins startles, but only briefly. Then his eyes curve in self-satisfaction, a pair of luminous crescent moons.
He’d planned this from the start, Varka now realizes. This is Flins’ way of playing dirty. Of wrapping Varka around his finger without so much as a single word. Not many would expect it from the prim and proper Lightkeeper—ever so honorable, dignified to almost a fault. But Varka knows what Flins truly is, and he’s familiar now with all the little games he likes to play. He’s a masterful manipulator, cunning with his words and actions. Devious and sly and oh so very good at getting what he wants.
Luckily for him, Varka wants him too. Wants to give him everything Varka has to offer, and then more.
He throws his coat off, uncaring of where it lands, and pins Flins down onto his bed. Presses him into the sheets and grabs his chin to kiss him nice, deep, and slow. Flins reaches for him too, running thin fingers down Varka’s vest to undo his clasps. Varka hums in approval and licks into Flins’ mouth, delighting in the quiet moan it earns him. He curves his hands around Flins’ slim waist to grip it tight and feels Flins shudder, full-bodied and helpless, beneath him.
When Varka breaks the kiss for air, Flins chases after him. His dark hair is splayed across his pillow, spilling onto the bedsheets below. His eyes are hazy with want, his cheeks flushed a pretty pink, his lips red and kiss-swollen. A thin line of spit trails between them, and Varka brings a thumb up to wipe it away. Flins catches his hand and nuzzles into it, catlike and coquettish. Looks up at Varka through hooded eyes, licks his lips, and leans in for another kiss.
And when Varka denies it from him, pulling gently away, he lets out the softest little whine, plaintive and petulant.
The sound hits Varka harder than any physical blow ever could. He wants to hear it again, but he also wants…something else. What was it, again? It teeters on the edges of his mind, just out of reach.
“Varka,” Flins says, pleading, pulling him close. “What’s the matter? Talk to me.”
Talk to me…
Talk—
And just like that, memories come crashing over him, unbidden, like a vicious tidal wave. Of Flins in battle, chanting an incantation written centuries before Varka had even come into being. That voice, so hauntingly resonant, reverberating with raw power. Yes, that’s what he wants. Flins, speaking in his ancient fae tongue. Moaning and crying and begging with it. And he wants it, so desperately and with such visceral intensity, that the question escapes Varka before he can even think to rein it in.
“Hey, do you think you could try it in bed too?”
Flins pauses in his ministrations to frown and stare blankly at him. “…What?”
Well, fuck. There goes Varka’s chance to pretend he’d never said anything. And, seeing as he’s pretty much effectively killed the mood anyway, Varka soldiers on.
“Y’know…” he says, making vague gestures with his hand, as if that could somehow avert this impending disaster of a conversation. “You, speaking fae. Right now. While we’re in bed.”
He can pinpoint the exact moment Flins connects the dots and sees the full picture from the way his expression cycles through incredulity, exasperation, disappointment, and resignation in no short order, before finally resting on a watered down mixture of all four.
“Ah. So that’s what this was all about, then,” he says wryly.
“Not really.” Faced with Flins’ increasingly judgmental stare, Varka hastens to amend, “Not…entirely.”
He leans back to sit on his haunches, and Flins rises with him, bracing his weight on his forearms. Flins’ expression is a mask of perfect serenity, but Varka knows better than to fall for such a ploy. He’s fully aware that he’s got only one chance at salvaging this situation, lest he be banished to the bench for the rest of the night.
“Look, I want to learn everything I can about you because I’m madly in love with you. And I want to fuck you almost all the time because everything about you turns me on. Those aren’t mutually exclusive concepts.”
“Evidently not,” Flins sighs. He turns away, slender fingers fidgeting absentmindedly with the worn cotton bedsheets. But after a long moment of consideration, he finally relents. Lays back down on the sheets, defeated, and very pointedly does not look Varka’s way.
“What would you even want me to say?” he murmurs, so soft that Varka can barely hear it.
And oh, how Varka’s heart melts for him, this kind, brave, darling of a man who Varka does not deserve, but gets to call his anyway.
“Anything,” Varka says. “Anything at all. The Lightkeeper’s oath. An encyclopedia entry. Next week’s grocery list. You could curse me with eternal damnation for all I care, and it’ll still be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”
Flins looks equal parts horrified and flattered by this. “I am not going to do that.”
Varka laughs, hopelessly endeared. “‘Course you won’t. But my point still stands. Whatever you’re willing to say, I’m all ears.”
Flins goes silent at that. Contemplative. And when he speaks again, he seems distant, lost in his thoughts.
“I used to have a collection of poetry, back in the day. Back when I was still—” He trails off suddenly, voice choked, and swallows. “Anyway, it’s been a long time since I last recited them. I suppose a little practice couldn’t hurt.”
“An excellent choice,” Varka says warmly. It’s not lost on him what a show of great trust this is, this opportunity Flins has bestowed upon him. He brushes Flins’ bangs aside tenderly. Twines a stray lock of dark hair around his finger and kisses it with reverence. “Thank you, Kyryll, for entrusting me with this. I can think of no greater honor.”
Flins scoffs, amused and flustered and trying to hide it. “Oh? How sentimental of you. But save your praises for later, please. I still haven’t done anything yet to deserve it.”
Varka would beg to differ, but before he can say as much, Flins has already moved on. As if to slumber, Flins closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Exhales, and inhales again.
And then he starts to speak.
Every word that falls from his lips is soft but clear, enunciated with loving care. Together they flow, forming a lullaby with no melody, lyrics without song. It is beautiful, achingly so. And as always, Varka finds himself a willing captive, bound by Flins’ spell.
He lays his head down and, following Flins’ example, allows his eyes to flutter shut. Content to simply listen; to let the low, dulcet baritone of Flins’ voice wash over him, more soothing than any medicinal balm. A faint sensation prickles at his scalp, and in his semi-lucid state, it takes a while for Varka to identify the feeling: Flins’ gentle fingers, carding delicately through his hair.
Truth be told, it would be so easy to fall asleep just like this—safely enclosed in Flins’ arms; listening to the steady beat of his heart, the cadence of his voice. And Varka is certain that Flins would be all too happy to allow it, would hold no grudges against him come the following morning. But Flins has already been so gracious as to indulge him tonight, and Varka must ensure that he is rewarded plentifully in kind.
Opening his eyes once more, Varka is met with the sight of Flins’ lovely face, so peaceful in his rest. His mouth moves ever so slowly, like a lover’s sweet caress, over each vowel, consonant, and syllable. And Varka, in turn, watches over him, entranced. He wants so badly to kiss him, but to do so would mean interrupting him, and Varka simply would not let that stand. So he focuses his attentions elsewhere and sets about working to divest Flins of his clothing.
Flins allows himself to be moved as Varka pleases, soft and pliable in his hands. And all the while, Flins’ eyes remain closed, as if he were in deep meditation. That suits Varka just fine. He needs no witness to his worship, and his actions will serve as proof enough of his unbridled devotion.
With slow, measured touches, Varka explores the planes of Flins’ body, mapping out each dip and flat and swell. His skin is smooth and fair, unblemished despite his storied history as Final Night Cemetery’s faithful guardian. As someone who’s been a warrior for only a fraction of the time and has all the scars to show for it, Varka can’t claim to understand why that might be, but he suspects Flins’ fae ancestry may have something to do with it. Regardless, and reasons notwithstanding, Varka likes the contrast. Of seeing their bodies so closely intertwined, a marriage of the sacred and profane.
And all throughout Varka’s extensive examination, Flins has remained diligent in his recital, the words flowing from him in a seemingly endless stream. If Varka listens closely, he can understand a few scattered phrases here and there—‘blue sky’ and ‘castle’ and ‘forest of trees’. But for the most part the language is completely foreign to him, and he lets it fade like static into the background.
There are things more important, more deserving of his attention right now, and it’s about time Flins receives his dues.
He reaches for Flins’ bedside dresser and gropes around for the small vial of oil customarily kept there. Upon finding it, he takes it in hand and coats his fingers in the substance until they’re slick and warm. Then, with careful, painstaking deliberation, he slides the first finger into the inviting warmth of Flins’ body, and waits.
If he was expecting to receive any kind of acknowledgement from Flins, then Varka knows he’d be in for a disappointment when none comes. Flins’ eyes remain closed, and his narration continues unimpeded. The only indication he’d even been aware of Varka’s actions at all is the slightest hitch of his breath the moment he’d been breached.
No matter. This, too, is part of the fun. And Varka is only just getting started.
Despite his verbose nature, Flins has a proclivity for silence in bed. To elicit any kind of meaningful response from him, Varka has to really work for it. Has to peel Flins apart layer by layer until there’s nothing left of him but raw, carnal desire. It’s a challenge, to be sure, but victories always taste sweeter when they’re earned.
Fortunately for Varka, he’s an old hand at this, well-versed now in this familiar song and dance. He knows where to touch to make Flins’ body come alive underneath him. All his most sensitive spots at Varka’s disposal, to be ruthlessly plundered and abused.
And when Varka slides in a second finger, and then a third, he sees the first cracks in Flins’ composure start to show. His once even breathing now strained, the sweat beading at his brow. His restless hands, pulling and grasping at the bedsheets. But most tellingly of all, the breathlessness of his voice, how it stutters and stumbles over his words.
Slowly but surely, Flins is unraveling before him. And oh, what a breathtaking sight he makes when he’s like this. So lost in his pleasure that there’s no room in his mind for anything else.
Varka curls his fingers and presses them upwards, and Flins flinches back with a muffled sob. This time, it takes him a good six seconds before he recovers and starts speaking again. Not bad, but Varka still wants to see more, to wrest away every last shred of Flins’ dignity. Without warning, he takes Flins into his mouth, then drives his fingers deeper inside and twists.
And finally, for the first time that night, Flins breaks.
He arches up with a broken scream, eyes shooting wide open as his hands fly up to clutch at Varka’s scalp. To push away or pull closer, Varka doesn’t know. But it doesn’t matter because that’s not Flins’ choice to make. They’re playing by Varka’s rules now. He’s the one who decides how this ends.
It’s clear that poetry is the last thing on Flins’ mind now. Not when the only thing coming out of that enticing mouth is a stream of unintelligible cries and moans. Not with the way Flins is shaking, legs kicking futilely against his sheets. He’s close now, on the brink of ruin. All he needs is one final push, and then—sweet, sweet release.
How fortunate for him, then, that Varka is such a generous lover. That he’ll see to it that Flins’ every need and want is taken care of tonight.
He works Flins up until he finds his release, then swallows it all down as Flins rides out his high and into the verge of overstimulation. His hips twist weakly in Varka’s hold, straining to break free. Taking mercy on him, Varka finally relents and pulls away, before leaning back to appraise his prize.
Flins looks, for the lack of a better word, utterly wrecked. He’s trembling and flushed all over. Panting and gasping and heaving for air, more winded now than after a long night’s vigil. His eyes are wet with tears, dazed and unfocused, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling above. But even in his mindless stupor, Flins still remembers. Still calls out one name by pure reflex alone, even when all reason fails him.
“…Varka.”
Pride and adoration well up within Varka to the point of overflowing. Fuck, but he’s so far gone for this man. “Yeah, that’s right. The one and only, and don’t you forget it,” he says, smiling fondly as he brushes Flins’ tears away.
But Flins doesn’t react. Only continues to lie still, gaze empty and limbs unmoving. But Varka isn’t too concerned. Flins tends to get like this after a good orgasm—a little loopy, a lot listless. All he needs is a soft reset, a small shock to his system, to get him going again. And what better way to do so than to rile him up and ruffle some feathers?
“…Hmm? You’ve gone awfully quiet all of a sudden,” Varka teases him, grinning rakishly. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue? Perhaps our dear esteemed poet needs some help memorizing his lines?”
Only then does Flins seem to come back to himself, blinking the haze out of his eyes and bristling in righteous indignation. “As if you had nothing to do with this,” he rasps irritably. “And now I don’t—Now I can’t remember where I stopped, or what my next verse should be.”
“Such a shame,” Varka laughs, though not unkindly. “Then why don’t you start with another, darling? The night’s still young, and I’m not done with you yet.”
Flins’ expression twists into an uncharacteristic scowl as he remains, for the moment, stubbornly silent. But rather than being deterred, Varka only sees this as further incentive to continue. It’s always exciting when he can get Flins to drop the gentlemanly act; for strip Flins of his politesse, and he becomes just as greedy, just as mercurial, as any other fae. And charming as he is when he’s at his most composed, the very picture of culture and grace, Varka finds he rather likes Flins this way too—unburdened of propriety and tact, driven purely by instinct and desire. He’s his most honest like this, and also certainly his most biting.
“Alright, alright. Don’t look at me like that,” Varka drawls, patting Flins’ hip lightly, the way one might to placate an unruly steed. “C’mon, feel free to prove me wrong, eh? I’m a firm believer in second chances, and I’m always up for another encore.”
“You truly are a deplorable man,” Flins flatly intones. “And I’m not sure if you’re deserving of that in any way at all.”
“Oh? Then by all means, allow me to change your mind.” He spreads Flins’ thighs wide to slot himself meaningfully between them. Slicks his hardness with the leftover oil, presses it up against Flins’ furled entrance, and leans in close. Close enough to see the defiance and anticipation warring within those hypnotizing honey-colored eyes. “What do you say, O Lightkeeper mine? Think you’d be up for a little…hands-on persuasion?”
For a moment, Flins is silent. Then, “Fine. So be it,” he says, with a voice like steel and a gaze like ice. “But do not disappoint me, Grand Master Varka, or I will surely make you rue this day.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,” Varka laughs dryly. “Now then, let’s get this show rolling, shall we? Time’s a-wasting, and we haven’t got all night.”
Rather than replying, Flins only fixes him with a cold look. Like this, he reminds Varka of a panther—sleek and dark and dangerous, but oh so beautiful to behold. Then, after a long pause, he finally opens his mouth to speak again.
One word, then two. Until one phrase turns into a sentence, and a sentence into a verse.
And then, and only then, does Varka strike. He grabs Flins’ hips and, in one fluid motion, sinks right in.
Flins jerks back, sliding up the bedsheets from the force of it. His voice breaks off into a strangled gasp; but, true to form, he doesn’t stay disoriented for long. He bites his lip almost hard enough to break skin, the pain seemingly grounding him, and continues on.
This time, Varka doesn’t give him the luxury of adjusting. With each thrust, he penetrates deeper and deeper, until every slap of his hips has him buried to the hilt. But Flins doesn’t take it lying down either. Gives as good as he’s got to meet Varka halfway. His lips are curled into a snarl, even he continues speaking, and his fingernails drag painful welts down Varka’s back. He’s looking Varka in the eye, steadfast and unwavering. Daring him, it seems, to do his worst. Whatever vestiges of Flins’ decorum have long been lost to the wind, and Varka only adores him all the more for it.
But two can play at this game. And, not one to be outdone, Varka always aims to rise to the challenge. He grabs Flins’ waist to maneuver him forcefully in place, ignoring the trail of spiteful red scratches Flins leaves down his arms for it. But if playing rough is what Flins wants, then Varka will gladly oblige and give him precisely that.
He hoists Flins’ knees over his elbows, splaying his thighs so wide apart that Varka can see every last lurid detail. The redness of Flins’ rear and inner thighs, the hardness of his erect phallus, and most tantalizing of all, his tight pink rim and how it stretches obscenely around Varka’s girth.
How can Flins even pretend to act coy when his body is this honest in its desire? As if there’s any denying the way it opens so willingly for Varka, always so eager to welcome him into its warm embrace.
Perhaps what Flins needs is a reminder. A taste of what Varka knows he craves most.
The next time Varka pulls out, he shifts his weight so that he’s bearing down on Flins, folding him neatly in half. Alarm flashes across Flins’ face as the gravity of his situation finally sinks in. Varka’s got him exactly where he wants him, and from here there is no chance of escape.
Not that he doesn’t try, futile though the effort may be. His hands shoot up to press against Varka’s shoulders—to resist, to push him away—but Varka doesn’t let him. He grabs Flins by the hips, shoves his thighs apart, and rams back in.
Flins throws his head back with a scream of tortured rapture, revealing the elegant curve of his swanlike neck. Varka resists the urge to bite down, knowing it’ll only break the momentum he’s gained thus far. Instead, he focuses solely on Flins’ pleasure, drawing it out the best way he knows how. Maddeningly, excruciatingly, wholly.
When Varka has him like this—with this angle, in this position—victory is all but assured. It’s only a matter of time now before Flins breaks, his resistance melting away like fallen snow in the early morning light. And Varka intends to savor that moment to the fullest.
Underneath him, Flins looks near delirious with ecstacy. Were he not pinned down by Varka’s weight, he would surely be bouncing with the sheer, violent force of their coupling. But the sight that Varka is privy to is plenty alluring already. Flins’ head is lolled to the side, and he’s flushed down to his chest, drooling into his pillow. Babbling words that, Varka is only just starting to realize, are actually very familiar to him indeed.
They’re still spoken in the tongue of the ancient fae, that much is certain, but they’re not coming together in poetry. Not anymore. Rather, in a litany of oft-spoken words Flins readily offers every time they fall into bed together.
‘Harder. Faster. More.’
Varka grins, basking in the triumph of a battle hard won. So close. He’s so close now to having Flins completely at his mercy and tamed into sweet submission. And he can’t help the sharp bark of laughter that escapes him, near manic with glee.
But the sound is enough to catch Flins’ notice, and for just a moment, a spark of clarity returns to him. He turns his gaze on Varka. His eyes flash a brilliant blue. And then—
A blinding burst of light. A crashing boom.
—The room plunges into darkness.
Varka stills, paralyzed in place. Now that he’s no longer so preoccupied, a slow awareness of his surroundings starts to dawn upon him.
Without his sight to rely on, the first thing Varka notices is the noise—or more accurately, the lack of it. Without the cadence of Flins’ voice, the rattle of the bed frame, and the constant slap of skin against skin, Varka can hear only the sound of his own heavy breathing. But as his breathing evens out and steadies, he realizes there are more he’d missed before. And with nothing now to distract him, they could not be any more obvious to his ears.
The howling winds, the creaks and groans of the lighthouse walls as they buckle under the pressure. The rhythmic pitter-patter of rain, a tinny beat against the cast-iron rooftop. Then, another boom, softer than the first. This time, however, Varka has the acuity to properly identify it as the sound of distant thunder.
Varka’s mind stutters to a halt. What the hell is going on? A storm, brewing at this hour? Even though it’d been nothing but clear skies all day?
A coincidence? Or a case of some malignant fae trickery at work?
Caught up in his racing thoughts, Varka almost misses it when a new sound emerges. A whisper in the dark, soft at first, but growing steadily in intensity with each passing second.
Flins’ voice, and yet, not quite. Somehow higher and lower in pitch, all at once, as though multiple tongues were speaking through one mouth. Distorted nearly beyond recognition, an eerie echo of itself.
Just like that time.
Varka’s heart rate spikes. Not from fear, but anticipation. This is it. What he’s been waiting for, now finally a reality.
From its resting place on Flins’ desk, his lantern suddenly flares to life, casting the room in a dim blue glow. Varka turns to regard it—wary, uncomprehending—and in that moment, something shifts. The weight in his arms gives way, and suddenly Varka is holding not the solid warmth of a human body, but something cold and incorporeal. A living specter, mist given form.
Startled, Varka whips his head back down in bewilderment. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the sight that awaits him.
It’s—It’s Flins. It must be. All logic dictates it to be so, and yet Varka has a hard time believing it.
Because this isn’t the Flins he knows and loves, but something else. This writhing, pitch-black mass, this…thing taking Flins’ shape. Blue flames burn bright in place of where its eyes and mouth should be, a ghastly facsimile of the human visage. And as it continues to speak, the edges of its silhouette blur—like a shadow puppet cast from candlelight, fleeting and indistinct.
And as Varka continues to gaze upon it, frozen stiff with trepidation, its mouth curves into something faintly resembling a smile. Opens. Forms two syllables, and one single, unmistakable word.
“Varka.”
The name is familiar—one Varka recognizes as his own, and yet… It sounds completely different. Foreign and alien and just not right.
Despite the muggy heat of the room, Varka can’t help the sudden chill that trickles down his spine. His instincts are going haywire, torn between fight and flight. He’s faced down countless monsters before, dragons and Abyssal creatures and ancient deities alike, but never before has he felt a thrill quite like this.
But is it fear that’s making him feel this way? Awe? Or maybe lust? The irrefutable evidence that he’s laying with something distinctly inhuman, something so other it transcends all description?
Ultimately, however, the reasons matter little to Varka, who has never been one to live by rational rule or logic to begin with. For what is an adventurer if not for his spirit of courting danger and chasing after the unknown?
This is Flins in his truest form, freed from his self-imposed shackles of human niceties. His voice is the rumble of thunder and his eyes are twin storms of vibrant blue flame. He smells of rain and earth, of ozone and petrichor. His entire body thrums with the buzz of latent electricity, pulsating beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He is exquisite and deadly and perfect, and Varka has never seen anything more captivating.
Not for the first time, Varka marvels at Flins’ existence. Of everything he is and everything he is capable of. The winds bend to Varka’s will only because he’d earned Celestia’s favor, because Barbatos had deemed him worthy of receiving such a gift. But Flins is different. By his own grace, he wields the power of Electro naturally, effortlessly. And though he has tempered the more otherworldly parts of himself to fit in with the rest of society, humanity has yet to truly tame him. Varka doubts they ever would. Even the idea of it seems unthinkable, as impossible as trying to tame nature itself.
And yet, in the privacy of their intimate moments together, he always yields so beautifully to Varka. And it instills within him a greed he’d never known he was capable of, a desire to covet and to claim.
Perhaps, in that sense, he and Flins are not so different after all, avid collectors by nature of things that fascinate and titillate. Perhaps this is why they’d come to find solace in each other, despite being separated by time and distance and race. Perhaps this is the reason Varka was put upon this earth—so that he could be Flins’, and Flins could be his. To cherish and experience, but not to capture. No, never to capture.
This is what Varka knows—a truth carved into his very being: You cannot truly ever subjugate a creature such as this, not even with all the strength and power in the world. You can only love it with all you have and hope, from the deepest recesses of your heart, that it loves you just the same.
Varka reaches round to embrace the shadow, even as it flickers in and out of existence, and feels the sensation of phantom arms come up unquestioningly, unhesitatingly, to embrace him in return.
Varka has his answer. It’s time Flins receives one too.
A softer approach, a delicate touch. This is the kind of affection Flins is most receptive to and most deserving of. And so Varka slows his movements down to center his focus on bringing Flins the most pleasure, drawing breathy sighs and gasps from him. Flins melts into Varka’s arms as they make love, the last remnants of his control slipping away into nothingness. His form waxes and wanes like the moon in all its phases. An amalgamation of ivory skin and ink-black shadow, sometimes human and sometimes not, but always, always devastating in his beauty.
Entranced and enamored, Varka leans in close, rests his hand over Flins’ heart, and whispers in his ear.
“Aγαπῶ σε.”
Flins’ reaction is immediate and immaculate. His form turns dark once again, his eyes flashing with a piercing blue light. Faint sparks of lightning course between their connected bodies as they both find completion in tandem. And as Flins arches up with a cry, Varka is treated to the rare sight of his lovely fae wings, flared out beneath him.
And then, in silence that follows, Flins slowly rematerializes. Until the shadows recede, and all that’s left of him is his flesh-bound form. Not the feared Lightkeeper; not the fabled Lantern Fae, the Aarnivalkea of old, but just…Flins.
Dear, sweet, beloved Flins.
His Flins.
And as the lamps within the room gradually flicker back to life, bathing them once again in light, Varka takes a moment to appreciate Flins in all his glory—the elegant arch of his nose, the sweep of his hair, the rosiness of his cheeks. The delicate flutter of his long eyelashes as Flins slowly rouses, as if awakening from a deep, tranquil slumber.
Outside, all is silent. The storm has passed, leaving only stillness in its wake.
Varka traces the contours of Flins’ finely-boned features with a gentle hand, commits them to his memory, and waits.
“Flins,” he calls out. Once, and yet again. And then, when no reply comes, “Hey. Hey. C’mon, don’t be like that… Talk to me, Kyryll.”
Flins laughs, but he’s so out of breath that it sounds more like a wheeze. His eyes are soft and searching and so very fond. “Again? Haven’t you heard enough from me already?”
But Varka only smiles in return. Gathers Flins into his arms, and speaks his most sacred truth.
“From you, ἀγάπη μου? I fear nothing will ever be enough.”