Chapter Text
They still called it "moonmad" in Nasha Town, or so Varka had heard. The Frostmoon Scions once treated heats and ruts as sacred gifts, fertility laid upon them by the moon goddess herself. It was… a bit of a culture shock, he had to admit. Ruts weren't exactly condemned in Mondstadt—not with the same vitriol he'd seen in half the nations he'd marched through during his many travels—but no one back home would dream of sanctifying it, either.
He could all too well imagine Barbara's scandalized expression. Not like he blamed her. Even to him, an Alpha in his own right, the custom remained an utter riddle.
"You haven't touched your drink in quite some time, Mr. Varka. Are you feeling unwell, perhaps?"
Right. Varka blinked, the tavern noise rushing back in. What was he doing, daydreaming like that? Even if he wasn't on duty, he was still the Grand Master, not some unruly young captain distracted by a pretty face.
Even if Flins did have a very pretty face.
Besides, his own rut was months away. Not like a beta could even trigger anything in his hindbrain. Flins possessed the grace of the posh Fontainian omegas Varka had never managed to impress with strength alone, sure. But biology was biology. It had to be the lingering scent, probably traces left behind by some unfortunate omega who couldn't have left the tavern all that long ago. That was all. The smell had nudged his thoughts down the wrong track and, well … shameful as it was to admit, he was only a man.
"I'm alright, I'm alright… Promise," Varka said, rolling the mug between his palms. "Just feels like I can't catch a break around these parts. Haha..."
Flins chuckled, a soft sound that clung to Varka's ears against his better judgment. Every slight gesture of Flins's did, at least tonight.
"I never thought you, of all people, could get tired so easily," Flins teased, leaning forward with that unconscious grace some betas seemed to have perfected. "Though I suppose even Grand Masters have their limits when the moon's pull gets… insistent."
Varka forced a laugh and scrubbed at the back of his neck, as if he could simply rub away the strange, insolent shiver under his skin. The tavern air felt thicker now, heavy on the tip of his tongue.
"Moon's pull? You sound like one of those Moonscion folk yourself. When I helped evacuate Hiisi Island, they talked to me in riddles, too. So, please do me a favor and just try to be direct with me."
"Ah, well. Forgive me if I was mistaken, then." Flins's tone might have smoothed over as he said this, but his gaze didn't soften. Varka didn't exactly like it, but he couldn't bring himself to look away either. "You smelled a bit different during our recent skirmishes, Mr. Varka, and I thought you were… receptive, as a result."
Receptive? The word landed heavy between them. He had a clue what it meant, of course. But from a beta? Varka frowned.
"Do I smell off? Is that what this is?"
He covertly sniffed the air. Besides that sweet, biological remnant of "omega," he couldn't pick up anything out of the ordinary. "I promise I took a bath this morning," he offered, his voice a little thin. "You know I don't wear cologne. Never so much as touched a bottle, never will. Remember how they tried to arrest me the first time I visited Fontaine? Yeah, I made sure to steer clear of that pompous hellscape entirely after all that..."
Why was he explaining himself anyway? Usually, he'd laugh off a comment about his hygiene that may or may not have been intended as an insult. But under Flins's almost dejected stare, Varka felt exposed. The expression was unreadable, certainly to a man whose judgment was already blurred by alcohol, maybe even a little unnerving: but none of it dimmed Flins's beauty.
Varka shouldn't be so hung up on how Flins looked. And Flins shouldn't be so hung up on how Varka smelled.
Alas, instead of being offended, all Varka could think was... how he wished he had kept his mouth shut earlier.
"Mr. Varka," Flins said at last, the playfulness vanishing, "about my offer to continue our celebration at my abode in Final Night Cemetery this evening… I am afraid I must retract it."
The beer in Varka's hands seemed to double in weight as he processed the words. He set his beer down on the coaster, carefully lining up the circle. His appetite for it had vanished so abruptly it almost startled him... almost. On any other night, that would have been unthinkable, right?
"Retract it? Whoa, hold on. Did I miss a signal? I was... really looking forward to it."
The silence that followed stretched out, obvious enough that no amount of beers could have dulled it for Varka.
"I shall explain later," Flins said. He began gathering his things, adjusting the handle of his lantern. "For tonight, I strongly recommend you stay far away from Final Night Cemetery. Even in the event of an emergency. But do not worry. I will inform my fellow Ratniki; they are well-versed in handling… this matter."
Great. So not only was Varka no longer invited, he was now effectively banned from paying a visit. Was it truly the smell? Flins had complimented it often enough. Maybe his senses were sharper, being Fae.
"I... wow. Did I stick my foot in my mouth again? I know I can be a lot."
Flins shook his head. "I wouldn't put it like that, Mr. Varka. Though I understand why you're under this impression. It's just…" He took a steadying breath. "There was a misunderstanding on my part, I'm afraid."
They parted ways shortly after, Flins excusing himself with a hesitation in his step that Varka had never seen before.
Varka watched the tavern door swing shut, cutting off the view of the beta's retreating back. Perhaps that was a good thing, considering how many times he had caught himself staring recently. He looked down at his full mug, the foam settling into a flat, unappetizing yellow, and decided it wasn't worth the effort. He tossed a few coins onto the sticky wood (more than the ale was worth) and made his way out into the night.
Alone, Varka was left with the sky. He tugged his collar up against the biting wind, the fur lining damp with mist. It was colder than he'd expected. The nights in Nod-Krai stretched longer than in Mondstadt, and the sunsets lingered not unlike stubborn bruises. They reminded him of the Wild Hunt inferno: a burning magenta bleed as if the sky itself was just another soul getting lost in the dark. Only the dawn arrived abruptly here, a flash of light that was over before Varka could truly take in the sight.
Perhaps that's why he couldn't help but stare as he marched toward Paha Isle.
As the evening progressed, one sentence still lingered: not the insult .... not the rejection, not even Flins's playful tone that had warmed Varka up more than the alcohol. It was: "Even in the event of an emergency." Huh.
Sure, Varka was forbidden from entering the cemetery. And yes, Flins had his fellow lightkeepers to rely on. Most likely, he had meant it as nothing but a turn of phrase. Varka knew all that, and yet... What if Flins was putting himself in danger to spare others the trouble? It wouldn't be the first time. More importantly, Flins should have known he'd made it all too easy for Varka to give himself an excuse. If he stayed far away enough, sticking to the perimeter, he could still honor his promise while ensuring the man didn't get himself killed.
It was natural. As a knight, it may have been his duty to honor promises. But his duty to protect the common folk, be it even against their better judgment, superseded everything else.
Sure… Flins wasn't common folk… he wasn't even human. But that had never mattered to Varka. He had picked up on it months ago. A normal soldier would have missed it, but Varka had spent half his life in the Abyss, staring down things that relished in defying the laws of Teyvat. He had watched Flins at the campfires…. while the other Ratniki tore into their rations, Flins would simply hold his portion near that glass lantern of his when he thought no one was looking. He didn't chew. He just let the flame lick at the offering, sustaining the light rather than the body, Varka mused.
It was the same instinct that prickled at the back of Varka's neck whenever that green-clad bard wandered into the Angel's Share back home. As far as he could remember, the other knights saw a drunkard with a lyre… while he felt the air pressure drop and his ears clog up. He felt the weight of Boreas bowing his head to an old friend, and the first time he observed the bard happily sipping on dandelion wine, Varka had actively struggled not to drop to his knees in prayer.
His boot caught on a loose pebble, tearing him out of the memory. He steadied himself, grumbling as he kicked the stone out of sight, far away from the path.
How nostalgic. Back then, Varka still reveled in the gods and the supernatural. Now, he just treated them like any other hazard of the job.
But if the old storybooks were to be believed, Fae weren't exactly known for their otherworldly strength or their fortitude. The legends described them as fragile, shy creatures, on the verge of extinction even back when humans encountered them regularly. Anything could scare them off: loud noises, curse words, unpolished silver... there was even an ancient report of a beta, friend of the Fae since childhood, being shunned later in life for having cheated on his spouse.
Those stories couldn't be true. Flins wasn't skittish like that. And most importantly, he smelled nothing like the legends described. The books claimed Fae scent was ripe, sweeter even than that of an omega in heat. But Flins? He smelled like... nothing. Or, if Varka stretched his imagination, like the cold metal of his lantern.
And so, for what felt like an eternity, Varka found himself oscillating between "Flins has everything under control," and "Flins is in danger."
His rational side didn't win. He knew as much as soon as he could glimpse the lighthouse in the distance.
Final Night Cemetery was quiet. The fog here didn't drift the way it did in the Whispering Woods he explored in his youth; instead, it hung suspended, clammier than sweat against his skin and tasting of copper rather than vegetation.
It shouldn't have struck him as strange. After all, he had heard enough eerie tales surrounding this place to expect a little theatrics … yet the silence felt less like slumber and more like a frantically held breath.
Varka kept his breathing shallow, his trusted claymore held loose at his side. If there was danger to be seen, he would deal with it swiftly. He was prepared for anything: Fatui skirmishers, Abyss mages, perhaps even a rogue rifthound lured in by the smell of bodies rotting in graves. Varka might not look the part of a storybook savior, the kind that graced a book stamped with a rose insignia on its cover ... but he meant every verse of his knightly vows. The important ones, that is. Flins had nothing to worry about.
Right.
… Truly.
Who was he kidding? Why was he even bothering? Flins might not carry the same sheer mass of muscle Varka did, but that didn't make him any less formidable in battle. And while he may be beautiful to an uncanny degree, there was no scent to him that would attract unwanted attention. He was far from vulnerable, even in a time of crisis such as this. He didn't need saving, not even against Rerir. Not to mention, he had gone out of his way to keep Varka out of his space, and be it only for tonight.
Why then… was Varka's inner alpha treating him like a frail… omega? Was it just because he was Fae and Varka couldn't shake off the sense that this secret made him vulnerable somehow?
Varka adjusted his grip on his claymore, the leather of his gloves wrinkling. He ran a thumb over the steel handle, a habit from his days as a newly appointed knight, grounding himself before stepping deeper into the fog.
A sound shattered his own thoughts violently: ragged… inexplicably wet. It wasn't a scream, exactly. It was hard to put in human terms, Varka wasn't even sure he could describe it as desperate, more like beckoning, but it pierced his ears the same way the sound of someone drowning would.
Flins.
One moment he stood on the shore, debating the ethics of his intrusion … the next, he was tearing through the mist, his boots skidding on slick pebbles as he vaulted over a low stone wall.
The source of the sound wasn't the shoreline; it was the base of the lighthouse itself.
Varka didn't bother with stealth. He took the winding path up the cliffside in long strides, unthinkable to any mortal who hadn't fought alongside the likes of Capitano. He didn't grimace at the punishing exertion, only at the wet gravel crunched under his boots. If there was a threat, he wanted it to look at his hulking form, not at the Fae who was making those wrecked noises.
He rounded the final bend, the great glass lantern of the lighthouse looming above as if it was any other night. As if there were no danger. The door to the keeper's quarters was wide open, banging against the stone frame in the wind.
"Flins!" Varka bellowed, claymore in hand, the weight he was so familiar with humming with Anemo energy. "Report! What's the sit—"
The command died in his throat. The air in the doorway didn't smell like copper or salt anymore.
It hit him with the recoil of being disarmed in battle: a wall… no, a wave of scent so dense and obscenely sweet it made his knees buckle. He felt like a fledgling alpha again, exposed to omega pheromones for the first time.
Andersdotter, Mondstadt's greatest storyteller, had described scents like no other. As a boy, Varka had fashioned his idea of an omega's scent from her words: ripe fruit left to burst in the sun, honey cut with iron, as rich, golden and illicit as the dandelion wine he wasn't allowed to touch. A gallant boy like him was, of course, destined to be an alpha. Yet nothing in her stories—nothing in his entire life—had prepared him for the reality of it.
No omega, heat or not, had resembled the scents Andersdotter made him imagine back then. None of them bypassed his logic, bypassed his knightly vows, none of them slammed directly into the damn wolf brain at the base of his skull.
This one … though. He staggered, bracing a hand against the doorframe, his vision swimming. Beta? his mind supplied unhelpfully, the thought disintegrating the moment it formed as if his own brain was sneering at it. That is no beta. Damn it.
"I told you..." A voice rasped from the shadows of the room. "...to stay away."
Varka's eyes adjusted to the gloom. The interior was a wreck. Furniture was overturned, deep gouges marked the wooden floorboards, and that glass lantern Flins carried everywhere lay in the corner, its flame extinguished. But… wasn't that his actual body? How… why… maybe the situation proved more grim than Varka could have anticipated.
Flins was huddled against the far wall. But the masterful poise was gone. The high-society elegance had been stripped away, leaving something trembling, almost pitiful. The poor Fae was drenched—sweat, or perhaps something more viscous—plastering his shirt to his skin so tightly it was translucent. He clawed at his own chest as if trying to tear his skin off, his breathing coming in those ragged hitches Varka had heard way across the beach. There was a faint trail of blue light pouring from his eyes.
"Flins," Varka choked out, the name tasting as thick on his tongue as the mind-melting scent. The instinct he usually kept on a short leash snapped. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to close the distance. "You're... you're hurt."
"Not hurt," Flins hissed, his head snapping up.
Varka froze. Flins's pupils had blown wide, swallowing the iris, black pools that would have reminded Varka of the Abyss if they weren't reflecting the moonlight that spilled through the open door. Moon-mad. And his skin … it rippled. Luminescent patterns were blooming across his neck and jaw, pulsing a night-sky blue in time with his frantic heartbeat. Even Albedo's paintings couldn't compare.
"It's the accursed cycle," Flins groaned, curling in on himself as a tremor racked his spine. "The light... I can't hold the light when the hunger is this bad. My body chooses a shape... either fire or man, chooses the one most likely to... to attract a mate."
He looked up again, and the expression on his face wasn't fear of an attacker.
"Why … do you think I retracted the invitation?" Flins's voice dropped, trembling between a sob and a growl. "I asked … I asked if you were receptive because I could smell your r-rut building. I thought you knew … and that you were …. amenable to it."
Oh… Varka might have realized it too late, but he definitely was. And this proved dangerous; he had knightly vows to uphold. Varka may have disappointed his younger self over the years—leaving recruits with his paperwork to chase his own adventure—but he hadn't let go of every promise. He had never bedded an omega, keen on saving himself for marriage or retirement, whichever came first.
He knew Lord Barbatos wouldn't care, but the people of Mondstadt would. The boy he used to be, the one who believed in fairy tales and bowed to the gods in earnest, would care if he lost control. So would the knight that boy became, freshly ordained and full of ideals. He wasn't like that… he wasn't some knot-headed brute. He couldn't be.
That's why he could only shudder in horror as he felt the doorframe splinter under his gloves. His biology was screaming at him to cross the room, to pin that sweet thing down, to answer some call that defied words and piety.
"I can leave," Varka said. Not to Flins, but to himself. "If I go now... pardon the intrusion…"
He had already violated multiple oaths by daring to disrupt an omega in heat to begin with.
"You can't," Flins whispered. He sounded strangely matter-of-fact. He uncurled slightly, slick hands gripping his knees. The scent spiked, sweeter now. Yet his voice found a new steadiness: a smooth, sing-song echo that sounded hollow and foreign, like a chant. "Wolf Knight. To turn your back now… is to reject a yearning Fae. My instincts will not forgive it. This night will be… so much longer, oh so arduous, should you leave me unsatisfied."
But he had to go. He would make it up to Flins later: read a good romance novel or two, learn how to court an omega properly, even if he had to ask Lisa for advice … anything that wasn't just his knot talking. They both deserved better than this.
Varka poured what strength he had left into his grip on the claymore, clinging to cold steel as the only thing keeping him grounded while he begged his legs to move. He needed to get away, now. Flins seemed even worse for wear than he did; turning his back on him felt like a betrayal, but for both their sakes, he had to-
"I said no, Sir Varka."
Varka squeezed his eyes shut. If his hands were free, he would have slapped them over his ears too. He took a deep breath, one final inhale of the most intoxicating scent he had yet tasted on his tongue, then willed himself to sprint off. Everything was going to be alright. As soon as he reached the shore, he would jump into the water and let the cold shock jolt him awake. It had to—
Except he couldn't even make it past the doorframe. Not because his legs failed him; that, he could have accepted. "Wha—" he managed, before light engulfed him, blinding-azure and searing. Pressure slammed into him from the inside out, seizing his nerves and forcing a reaction before his mind could even catch up. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled on the floor, a scorching weight settling over his lap.
"Alpha…" a disembodied voice whispered in his ear. Flins wasn't moving his mouth anymore, but Varka could hear him loud and clear. Too loud .... too clear. Clearer than even his own thoughts, which were spiraling, because this was getting bad—really bad. Normally, he would try repeating his vows like a mantra. Archons, he might even beg Barbatos for assistance, even though he knew that five‑foot‑tall freak couldn't care less who Varka chose (or didn't choose) to bed. Anything to stay grounded in his identity … not even as Varka, not as Grand Master, but at the very least as a Knight of Favonius.
"Stop—" Varka managed, the word coming out hoarse. He wasn't even sure who he was talking to. The Fae. Himself. His inner alpha. His fingers searched for his claymore's hilt, only to come back empty-handed. Still. If he just pushed up, if he just moved, he could throw the weight off his lap, stagger out into the fog and let the cold eat this madness away.
"You came anyway," the not-quite-voice said. "You heard me calling and you came." Flins licked at his earlobe and it shouldn't have made Varka shudder this violently. "The moon only afflicts us Faefolk … every hundred years. To know it happened now, so soon after our fateful meeting … I wonder if the stars willed our union."
Heat prickled under his skin at the praise, shame following right behind it. "I'm not—" he tried again, but his throat locked. His training said to catalog the situation: enemy (was Flins an enemy?), ally (was he an ally?), terrain (it was too dark to make out any details, any details that didn't pertain to Flins's body and the tantalizing light it emitted). It was clear that his body, traitorous thing that it was, catalogued different facts indeed. Every shudder that tore through the omega's frame rolled straight into Varka's own muscles like aftershocks. His scent, Archons, that scent, pressed down on his thoughts until all that remained were fragments: stay, hold, bite.
"Look at me."
He screwed his eyes shut, as immature as that made him feel. His own breath seared his lungs, similar to strain of battling Rerir, each inhale dragging that impossible sweetness deeper. He tried to picture the training yard back home, Eula's dry corrections, Jean's patient frown whenever he over-exerted himself, anything to drag himself back to solid ground.
Gentle fingers, slick and trembling, too long and slender to be mistaken as human, found his jaw. They weren't strong enough to force him, not did they want to, not really—but his head still tipped back as though Flins had hooked his hand into the ruffed fur of a dog's neck.
"Please," Flins whispered, and this time it was really his voice: frayed, raw, but undeniably his. "Do not make me beg alone in the dark. If you must refuse me, at least look at the thing you are refusing."
Chivalry or not, such a plea was impossible to ignore. Slowly, against every alarm bell screaming at him to keep his world narrowed to the safe darkness behind his lids, Varka let his eyes open.
Flins was straddling him, thighs braced tight around his hips. At the sight, Varka had never felt so useless. He felt light-headed, as if he were twenty years younger. A bone-deep shudder took him by surprise, leaving him heaving for breath… His muscles twitched in the aftermath, and with a sinking heart he realized the pressure in his pants had been alleviated.
"Even by human customs …. It's seen as rude to make a mess inside an omega's nest without permission. Isn't that so?"
It was only then that Varka noticed the warm, sticky stain spreading in his pants. The fabric clung damp to him in a way that had nothing to do with sweat or seawater. The only thing he could say in his defense was that he at least hadn't popped a knot, not yet…
"I guess it can't be helped with you only having lived a few decades at best. But still, squandered on wool and denim... those could have been our young…"
The words didn't register in his ears, they struck the base of his spine directly. He hadn't even considered offspring. The revelation should have pulled a switch inside him, made him panic… There was no way he could show himself back home, not only having bedded an omega without the necessary formalities, but… to have sired offspring on top? Not even Alice had dared. Forget his titles and accolades, he would never be allowed to set foot inside the church again.
"There's more, right? Tell me there's more."
Varka honestly didn't know. He could only imagine how disappointed a Fae must be, waiting a hundred years only to be forced to settle with a human virgin. Maybe he should lie. Tell Flins that it was already too late, no possibility left to sate this heat. Though Varka could no longer deny how badly he wanted to claim what was offered ... to sink his knot deep inside the greedy body fervently grinding against his own.
"I…"
Flins's lips finally caught his, not with the crashing force Varka expected, but with a careful, testing pressure that burned the breath in his lungs. The kiss tasted of salt and something faintly metallic, as if he were kissing Flins in his lamp form and loved it all the same. It was soft at first and then tightening as Flins's fingers curled in the front of his vest. For one stunned heartbeat, Varka stayed perfectly still; then the scent and the heat and everything else crashed over him, and his mouth answered before his vows could.
"There's more. All for you."
For the first time that night, Flins smiled at him.