Chapter Text
Sleep never came. Not with that ache pooling deep in him, the kind that the moon only made worse as it waned toward nothing.
Flins lay in the dark and counted out the days the way a prisoner learns to read the walls, marks of time carved by desperation, invisible yet heavy. Each breath felt numbered. Each beat of his heart struck against the stone like a quiet toll of waiting.
The silence had its own shape here, as if it pressed close enough to listen. He could almost hear the ghosts of past footsteps on the stair: the scrape of a key, the rasp of leather on metal, the slow exhale before a door opened. He knew the ritual well—the rough hands, sure and unhesitating, stripping him of whatever illusion of peace he had managed to gather. The taking that came after. The draining that left him hollowed and trembling, like a candle spent to its wick.
But tonight was different.
When the door opened, it was soft—almost reverent. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in this place. The light from the hall spilled in slow, gold streaks, gilding the dust that hung unmoving in the cold air.
Theres a figure stood in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the glow behind him, shoulders broad enough to fill the arch, blond hair catching the lamplight as if it were made for it. For a moment, he didn’t move. He just watched.
Flins felt the weight of that gaze before he dared to meet it — a heat that didn’t touch his skin but crawled beneath it all the same. He tried not to flinch, but his pulse betrayed him, rising fast and bright.
The Grandmaster said nothing at first. His silence spoke louder than any command.
“You’re up, aren’t you?” Varka’s voice, as always, carried no room for argument. But tonight it was missing something. The cruelty. The careless edge.
Flins nodded, keeping his eyes on the floor. “If you want to start—”
Varka grunted—not angry, not mocking. Something almost like a laugh, low in his chest.
“Start? No. Not here. Not again.”
Flins blinked, wary. The ritual was changing, and he hated how much that scared him.
Varka’s boots thudded closer, heavy but without menace. He stopped in front of Flins, one gloved hand reaching out — not to grip, not to bruise, but to tip his chin up with the gentlest pressure.
Their eyes met. In the low light, Varka’s were strange: storm-bright, blue, hungry. But not just for what Flins could give.
“Hm.” The Grandmaster’s thumb traced along Flins’ jaw, pausing at the faded marks, the old bruises he’d left. His gaze softened, but his voice was almost gruff:
“Maybe… maybe I need some company this time. Dragging you out is the best option for now."
Flins’ lips parted. For a moment, he didn’t know whether to bristle at the word or sink into it.
Varka’s hand lingered at his cheek, thumb stroking once, as if smoothing out the shame. “Come on, then. Up. I’ve had enough of dark cellars."
It wasn’t an offer. It was a command, softened by something dangerously close to care.
Flins stood, limbs trembling with the effort, the pressure inside him making every step a shudder. Varka’s hand moved to his elbow, steady and warm, guiding him instead of forcing.
The stairs felt impossibly steep, but Varka didn’t let go. Not once. At the top, the world outside the basement felt huge — moonlit halls, cold air carrying the faint scent of distant vineyards.
Varka leaned down, murmuring into his ear, “I want to see you in the light this time.”
Flins shivered, but didn’t pull away. For the first time, he wondered, not if he could escape, but if he even wanted to.
The halls above ground were colder than Flins remembered, swept clean of dust but heavy with silence. Varka’s hand stayed firm on his arm, leading him through shadowed corridors lined with banners and crests, each stitched with the lion of Mondstadt. Flins almost laughed; if any knight glanced their way, what story would they tell?
But Varka steered him through a door most never saw—not to a cell, not to some distant storage, but to the Grandmaster’s own suite. The lock clicked behind them, a low and final sound.
The room startled Flins in its splendor. It was not a soldier’s barrack, nor a dungeon’s den.
Rich blue velvet draped the high windows, the moonlight spilling in silver pools across a floor of polished wood. The walls were lined with heavy books, ledgers, battered swords hung beside oil portraits of old Grandmasters. The scent of wax and parchment lingered beneath something fainter— dandelion wine, freedom air, and Varka himself.
A single massive bed commanded the far side, carved of dark oak and swaddled in fur and linen. The covers were rumpled, evidence of a man too restless to sleep long, but the sheets themselves were clean, the kind a king might envy.
Against one wall, a desk sagged beneath the weight of endless reports — letters unopened, maps scrawled with threats, a spilled bottle of ink and a half-finished mug of something strong. No flowers, no decorations. Only the tools of rule and war.
For a breathless moment, Flins stood unmoving, eyes darting to every detail:
The boots left neatly by the hearth. A battered coat hung carelessly over the back of a velvet chair. The trace of claw-marks across the ancient wood, reminders that even in a palace, nothing is truly safe.
He had never been in a room like this. No one had. The Grandmaster’s quarters were the heart of the keep, the secret spine of Mondstadt’s power.
What would they say, Flins wondered, if they knew a fae—no, a pet—was allowed to see it?
What would they do if they saw the collar still at his throat, hidden beneath his hair?
Varka watched him take it in, jaw tight, eyes sharper than ever.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he said quietly, closing the distance between them in two easy strides. “You’re here because I want you here. Not because you’re free.”
His hand caught Flins by the wrist again, this time less rough—more certain, as if even now, after all the months, Flins might try to vanish into the moonlight.
Varka dragged him to the bed, the covers giving beneath their weight as he pushed Flins down to sit on the edge. Then the Grandmaster moved back, turning the old key in the lock with a final, echoing click.
The sound made Flins shiver. He felt the secret settle over them like a cloak, heavy and absolute.
No one would believe it—not the knights, not the nobles, not the fools who toasted the Grandmaster’s legend.
Who would ever guess the head of Mondstadt's Knight of Favonious, the land of freedom, kept someone behind his locked door?
But the evidence was plain. Flins sat on the edge of the Grandmaster’s bed, the marks of restraint still fading on his wrists, the collar hidden but real, his heart hammering louder than any command.
Varka’s voice came low, edged with something almost like wonder.
“Look at you,” he murmured. “In the light, you’re even more… interesting.”
He approached, boots slow against the rug, as if savoring the sight of Flins outside the darkness for the first time.
Then, the Grandmaster stood by his wardrobe, big hands pushing hangers aside, grumbling under his breath. Finally, he turned and tossed something soft and folded at Flins’ chest.
“Change. You stink of stone, milk and sweat, Flins.”
Flins caught it by reflex. The fabric felt unfamiliar—thick, starched, a little too new. He unfolded it, and his heart dropped. Black short dress, white apron, stiff high collar, crisp cuffs: Mondstadt’s infamous maid uniform, the same kind worn by every girl sweeping the halls and scrubbing the floors.
He stared, uncertain if this was some elaborate joke.
Varka’s mouth curled. “Put it on. If any knight sees you, they’ll just think you’re a new maid. No one’s going to look close enough to care.”
Flins hesitated only a moment—old instincts winning out—then began stripping, fingers numb as he shed the filthy clothes he’d worn for weeks underground. He pulled the new dress on, feeling every seam rub against his skin, every starched pleat emphasizing his difference. The high collar felt like a leash.
As he tied the apron, he caught Varka watching him, gaze lingering, satisfied.
The Grandmaster stepped closer, straightening the apron strings, tugging the collar until it was tight against Flins’ throat. “There. That’ll do.”
Flins muttered, eyes downcast, “What is it for? you’re actually not planning to let anyone see me, anyway?”
Varka’s grin widened, wolfish and knowing. “That’s not your business.”
It wasn’t, was it? No matter what uniform he wore, Flins doubted Varka would ever parade him in the sunlight—he was a secret, not a servant. The “disguise” was just another game, another way for the Grandmaster to own him, to humiliate him a little more. Flins could feel it: the thrill Varka got from seeing him in that frilly black-and-white, the power of being the only man in Mondstadt with a “maid” like this.
A flush of humiliation, heat, and strange anticipation pooled in Flins’ stomach.
This isn’t about hiding me. It’s just for your entertainment, isn’t it?
He looked up at Varka, who only smirked and let his big palm settle, almost tender, on Flins’ waist.
“Go on. Spin around. Let me see you.”
And Flins obeyed—because here, even in a maid’s dress, he belonged to no one but the Grandmaster.
The dress fit badly, of course. The starched fabric pinched under his arms, the collar pressed too tight against his throat, and the bodice—he swallowed, face burning—barely covered his chest at all. If he took a deep breath, he felt the buttons strain, the seams pulling around his swollen flesh. He wondered if Varka had ordered it like this on purpose, or if it was just another reminder that he’d never belong anywhere, not even in a uniform.
Why now?
He’d asked himself that question a dozen times since Varka dragged him out of the basement. It wasn’t kindness, that much was obvious. The ache in his body had started a day ago—nothing urgent yet, but familiar: the soreness blooming in his chest, his nipples so sensitive that every brush of the dress made him wince. In a few days, he’d be leaking again, heavy and desperate for relief.
Varka knew. He always did. He was never gentle, but he was never careless, either. He kept Flins where he wanted him, timed every act like it was part of a ritual, not a routine.
This isn’t random, Flins realized. He brought me up here so he could watch me break in comfort. Not just to change the scenery. He wants to see me ruin myself in velvet and silk instead of stone and straw.
He tried to adjust the collar, but Varka stopped him, pushing his hands aside.
“Not done yet.” The Grandmaster’s voice was thick with command as he tossed something dark at Flins’ chest. A pair of black silk stockings, smooth and cool in his hands.
“Put those on also."
Varka settled on the bed to watch, arms crossed, eyes never leaving Flins’ body.
Flins fumbled, fighting the urge to protest, his face hot as he sat on the edge of the mattress. The stockings clung to his thighs, hugging every muscle, leaving him exposed in ways he’d never gotten used to. The hem of the maid dress barely covered him when he stood.
He could feel Varka’s gaze moving over him—taking in every inch, lingering on the tight bodice, the way his chest threatened to spill out, the trembling in his hands.
He’s not even pretending this is for my protection. This is for him. He likes seeing me dressed like this, leaking and helpless, just waiting for him to ruin me all over again.
A pulse of something sharp, humiliating, almost thrilling, ran through him. He hated that he could feel it—hated the way his body wanted, even as his mind rebelled.
He stood there, stockings on, dress tight and humiliating, waiting for Varka’s next order, heart thudding loud enough he was sure the Grandmaster could hear.
Flins stood awkwardly near the foot of the bed, stockings clinging to his thighs, the too-tight maid dress creaking with every breath. His nipples still throbbed from the brush of the fabric, already sore from the coming cycle. But Varka’s gaze didn’t waver, and so Flins didn’t move.
The Grandmaster rose from the bed in one slow motion now, massive frame towering beside him.
“You’ll be staying in this room now,” Varka said, voice flat and final — not cruel, but not up for discussion. “This is your post.”
Flins blinked. “Post…?”
Varka smirked. “Maid duty, isn’t it? You’ve got a uniform. That makes it official.”
He turned, walking toward the heavy oak door, and held up a single silver key between two fingers—glinting in the low light.
“This is the only key to this room. And it stays with me.”
Click. He slipped it into his belt pouch, like it was nothing.
“No sneaking out. No wandering the keep. You try the handle, you’ll find it locked.”
Then he nodded to the tall arched windows behind the desk, their heavy panes covered in thick velvet. “And those?” He gave a lazy shrug. “Shut, sealed, barred. Even if you tried, you'd break your legs before you ever made it out.”
Flins didn’t respond.
And truthfully, he didn’t plan to run. Not while his body was like this — sore, tender, on the edge of lactating again. Not while Varka could read him like a clock, knowing exactly when he’d be weakest.
The Grandmaster stepped closer again, his voice quieter now, though no less firm:
“From now on, this is your room. You clean it. Keep the bed made. Keep the fire stoked. Fold my uniforms, press my reports, sweep the floor, wipe the dust. I don’t want to see a single speck in here.”
He reached forward, two fingers catching Flins gently, almost mockingly, under the chin, forcing his eyes up.
“And when I come back from drills, or strategy meetings, or slaughtering whatever bastard thinks they can challenge Knight of Favonius…” His thumb pressed against Flins’ bottom lip, just barely. “You’ll be here. Ready. Waiting for me.”
Flins didn’t flinch. Not anymore.
He only nodded. Once.
Meaning: Yes, Grandmaster. I’m your personal maid now.
His hands twitched, half-tempted to smooth the skirt of the dress, but even that felt too loaded. He kept them still.
There was no more cell. No more frame. But the collar might as well have been sewn into the fabric of the dress itself. The room smelled like leather and steel and Varka. The bed was too soft. The windows let in just enough light to remind him how far he was from the sky.
Varka watched Flins fidget on the bed, the dress tight across his chest, cheeks flushed from more than just embarrassment. The Grandmaster leaned over, placing one broad hand at Flins’ lower back.
“One more thing,” he said, his voice low and final. “You’re not sleeping alone."
He pressed Flins back onto the bed, crowding close, blue eyes glittering with intent.
“You sleep here. With me. Every night. That’s another rule.”
Flins looked up, confusion and resentment battling in his chest. “You—want me here, all the time?”
Varka’s smile was all teeth, not cruel but not kind either. “Don’t try to sneak off. If I wake up and you’re gone, I’ll drag you back myself.”
His hand trailed down, thumb pressing over the swell of Flins’ chest, right where the fabric was stretched the tightest.
“Understand?”
Flins shivered beneath his touch, the ache sharper now, his body all but trembling with anticipation and dread.
So that’s it, then. Even my sleep belongs to him. Even my dreams.
But he nodded, because there was nothing else to do.
“Yes, Grandmaster.”
And when Varka finally let go, Flins curled up on the bed—black and white dress tight around his body, sore nipples tingling beneath the fabric, stockings hugging his legs, and the weight of new rules settling over him heavier than ever.