Work Text:
Varka dismissed Jean with an absent-minded wave, still reviewing the patrol map for the Wolvendom border.
"Is everything in order, Grand Master?" she asked, already at the door.
"More than in order, Captain. Go get some rest," he replied, smiling just enough to mask the weariness in his eyes.
Then, when the office door closed, he let out a long sigh before diving into the paperwork.
The work was routine: supply authorizations, mission reports, the monotonous logistics that kept the Order functioning. He wrote with one hand and sipped cold coffee with the other, his mind focused on the next quarter.
That's when a chill ran up his spine.
It was something internal, as if ice cubes had been placed between his vertebrae. The pen stopped mid-word. Varka straightened his back, his broad shoulders tensing on instinct. The chill passed quickly, but left behind a strange sensation: a restlessness under his skin, along with a familiar tingling.
Familiar, but one he couldn't immediately place.
Instead, assuming he was just tired, he merely shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He went back to the report, but the words seemed to dance on the paper. The restlessness wouldn't go away. Worse: it began to intensify. The cold gave way to a slow, dense heat, starting in his lower back and spreading like a spill of heavy oil through the muscles of his abdomen and thighs.
Varka dropped the pen with an irritated huff. The air in the office, once familiar and neutral, suddenly seemed thick, almost oppressive. He could no longer smell the external scents that had surrounded him for years — the ancient mold of the chained tomes, the beeswax used to polish the stone floor — but became intensely, acutely aware of his own scent. It was stronger, denser, intoxicating. A scent characteristic of his alpha, but now emanating from his own pores, soaked into his clothes and filling the space around him like an invisible mist.
A low, almost involuntary grunt escaped his throat. It wasn't from fatigue.
It was the alert. The first concrete, physical, and undeniable sign of the cycle.
The dizziness came next, a sudden wave that made the stone floor sway dangerously under his feet. Varka pressed his hands hard against the solid edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white, and stood up. The movement was more abrupt than intended, almost throwing him off balance. Not yet, he thought, with a mute desperation, clinging to the fragile hope that he was feverish from pure exhaustion, from overwork, not… Not because of that.
That said, regardless of what it was — a passing fever or the inescapable prelude — the fact remained: he needed to get away. He had to retreat, sequester himself in the dark of his room before the next stage caught him right in his office, before control slipped completely through his fingers. There, perhaps, he could try to relax. If it was just a fever, rest would suffice.
The path down the empty corridor seemed longer. With each step, a new wave of chills ran down his back, followed by shivers that made the hair on his arms stand on end. The restlessness dug deep into his bones increased, a weak, insistent tremor he could feel in his teeth. His breathing, as disordered as everything else, began to sound loud in his own ears in the silence of the corridor.
When he finally pushed the heavy door to his chamber shut behind him, a sigh of relief almost escaped. Now everything would be fi-
The relief lasted less than a second.
The air in the room, instead of calming him, hit him like a blow to the solar plexus. And it wasn't just air. It was a scent. A scent that cut right through the very alpha musk assaulting him.
It was Flins.
An unmistakable sweetness of Frostlamp Flower. The scent of his omega. It permeated the pillow that still bore the slight depression of his head, the curtains, the warm air of the room. A scent that made his feet move on their own before he even realized it.
Then, suddenly, he was standing at the foot of the bed. There, folded with meticulous care, as if waiting for its owner at any moment, was Flins's pajamas. Light blue satin, it almost glowed against the moonlight invading through the open window. The simple fabric seemed to radiate the scent more intensely, an invitation and a torture all at once.
Agonizingly, it was as if his internal alpha had suddenly leaped within his chest, scratching with sharp claws at his flesh from the inside out, trying to tear its way free. A violent tremor ran through Varka from head to toe, and a muffled moan escaped his clenched lips. The hand that reached out, trembling, toward the pajamas didn't seem like his own. It seemed like the hand of a wolf, hungry for the touch, the smell, the comfort that piece of clothing represented.
Varka didn't notice when the sound began. He only became aware of it when it was already echoing in the silent room: a low, guttural growl coming from the depths of his chest. It was the sound of a cornered animal, or a madman. The noise made him shudder, not because of the sound itself, but because of the embarrassment that followed. Him, the Grand Master of Favonius and Knight of Boreas, growling like an animal in the middle of his room. Or a complete lunatic.
Before the embarrassment could take hold, a sharp, unmistakable pang shot through him, concentrating all the scattered tension into a single point: his cock, now heavy, throbbing, and painfully erect against the restriction of his clothes.
There was no more room for doubt, for rationalization. It was physical, incontestable evidence. The rut was here. Now. Consuming him.
His glazed eyes turned to the light blue pajamas. His hand, trembling slightly, stretched out — while mentally apologizing for it: for touching without permission, it wasn't his, and for what he was about to do.
His fingers clenched the soft fabric. He pulled it close to his face, and then, unable to resist any longer, buried his nose in the fold of the fabric, in the spots where Flins's neck, his wrists, used to touch.
The hand holding the shirt trembled. Varka crumpled the fabric even more, dragging his nose to the chest area where Flins's scent was densest — a mix of residual sweat from the nights the garment had been worn, and the skin lotion he always used after bathing, and before sleep.
Each inhale was acute relief and torture, because the scent was there, but the body was not.
When the shirt slipped from his fingers, his gaze — blurred, focused on a single point — fell on the pants. The cool fabric shimmered even untouched. It was a satin shorts; one of those Flins wore on hot days, with a fabric he swore was "cool and fresh" for Mondstadt's days, which differed greatly from his known homeland, Snezhnaya.
A treacherous material that barely covered the omega's muscular thighs, that slipped and shone with every movement, a visual invitation Varka had always found hard to ignore. Utterly oblivious, he had always thought, with a mix of exasperation and desire. Oblivious to how irresistible it was.
Now, the sight of the folded, innocent, and empty piece was the trigger.
With a raw sound, half grunt, half moan muffled by his own embarrassment, Varka grabbed the satin shorts. He didn't smell them first. He brought them directly to his face, rubbing the cool, slippery silk against his cheek, then against his lips, searching for any remnant, any ghost of contact.
His free hand, meanwhile, was already feverishly unbuttoning his own pants. The pressure had become unbearable, a pain-that-wasn't-pain, a pulsating urgency that dominated all his thoughts.
When he finally freed his erection, painfully swollen and throbbing, a deep moan escaped.
There was no preamble, no delicacy. His movements were almost painful. He began to jerk himself off fast from the start, his hand wet with his own desperate arousal. And, to the increasing rhythm, he rubbed Flins's satin shorts against his face, against his lips, breathing deeply the scent that still clung to the fabric.
The sensation of the satin, so associated with the sight of Flins's thighs, with the memory of the omega moving unassumingly around the room, was fuel. Each stroke was an attempt to reach a relief he knew was impossible, because the true relief had a name, a scent, a body that wasn't there. But his body, traitorous and demanding, didn't care for logic. It cared only for the sensory memory, for the scent on the satin, for the vivid and painful fantasy that empty piece of fabric triggered.
It wasn't just the scent of satin now. It was the memory of the thighs.
The sight of them when Flins climbed onto the bed, the satin shorts riding up, exposing the soft, firm skin of the inner thighs — a territory Varka knew with his lips and his hands.
He thought of the contrast. The cool, slippery satin against the heat of that skin. How the material clung to the curves when Flins bent over to pick something up from the floor, outlining a silhouette that stole Varka's breath and, it seemed, went completely unnoticed by the man himself.
He thought of when Flins turned on his side during the night in bed, in the perfect position to be the little spoon. The shorts outlining the curve of his ass. And then his ass fitting perfectly against Varka's hips when he hugged him from behind.
Now, that obsession turned against him. Each stroke of his hand was an attempt to capture the sensation of squeezing those thighs, of feeling the muscles tense, of hearing the sigh that escaped Flins when he parted them.
The moan that came from his throat was muffled by the fabric. His breathing was chaotic. He rubbed the satin harder against his mouth, as if he could drink the memory from it, as if the fabric could transform into the warm flesh his desperate mind projected.
The memory of having those thighs wrap around his waist, gripping him with a surprising strength, holding him in place while he...
The image was so intense, so loaded with sensation and emotion — the expression of total pleasure on his omega's face, the sound of his name coming out in a broken sigh — that the wave of pleasure hit him like an attack. It was strong, convulsive, wrenching a muffled roar from him against the satin damp with his breath.
His body shook as the hand holding Flins's shorts trembled violently. Despite his alpha's anguish, he came onto the palm of his hand in thick, white waves.
Reality returned like a bucket of ice water. Varka panted, his body sweaty and trembling, his cock still throbbing, half-hard and unsatisfied against his thigh as he wiped his hands on the pajama shirt. The pajamas he finally relinquished, leaving the heap of fabric at the foot of the bed — he would really apologize for that later.
He had come, but it was a farce. A miserable relief that only deepened the void and the irritation. The need, far from being sated, gnawed at his guts with sharper teeth. It was pathetic. Him, the symbol of a nation, frustrated with his omega's crumpled, damp satin shorts in his hand.
Perhaps if he looked for an intimate piece of Flins's clothing in the laundry basket, he-
The absurd idea was then interrupted by the sound that came first: light, slightly unsteady footsteps in the stone corridor. A disinterested whistle. The doorknob turned.
Before the door could open more than a crack, the scent came first. The unmistakable perfume of his omega. Of his love. Of his desire.
The alpha within Varka howled.
There was no thought. Only action, driven by an instinct stronger than any reason. He moved with a speed that defied his size and ordinary human physique.
Flins barely had time to sketch an expression of surprise. "Vark — ?"
The rest was muffled. Varka reached him, not with an embrace, but with a capture. His arms, large compared to the fey's, encircled Flins, turning him and pinning him against the door that had just closed with a dull thud. The full weight of the alpha, all the heat of his body in hormonal fury, plastered itself against the omega's back.
Varka's face buried itself in Flins's neck, in a movement that was almost violent. He smelled, panting, his lungs burning with an overdose of that aroma now real, alive, warm under his skin. An uncontrollable tremor ran through his body.
Varka's hot, panting breath against his neck made Flins shiver. It was a sensitive spot, one that always provoked a shiver and an involuntary little laugh. The reflex, in fact, almost surfaced — a sigh, a slight shrug — but died in his throat.
The shock of reality came like a bucket of cold water.
First, it was the hands. Varka's immense hands weren't just holding him. They were sinking into the curves of his ass, with a raw, desperate desire, fingers pressing the flesh through the thin fabric of his pants as if wanting to fuse with it.
Then, the position. He was completely immobilized, crushed between the wooden door and the alpha's trembling body. Every muscle in Varka was tense, vibrating with a wild energy Flins could feel against his back. This wasn't a hug. He had been captured.
And the scent. Finally, Flins truly smelled Varka. Not the familiar scent of his alpha with his usual woody perfumes, or the stronger odor of sweat after battle, but something deep, primordial, oppressive.
An even more intense musk of his alpha and pure testosterone that made the air seem thick and almost difficult to breathe. It was the scent of rut in its raw potency, and it was overwhelming.
Finally, his gaze dropped, an instinctive movement. And he saw.
Varka's pants, open and fallen on his hips. And his cock, fully exposed, still dripping with his own spend, hard and impressively erect again, hanging out as if he were a complete pervert. Or a madman. Someone devoid of any sense of propriety or shame.
"Varka…" Flins repeated as he slowly turned. "I… need to take a bath. I smell of wine and sweat."
"No."
Varka went for his Adam's apple, sinking his lips in a kiss on the omega's skin, as if that could quench part of his thirst.
"No," he repeated. "You smell… Perfect. Like this."
It was true. For Varka's hyper-acute senses, Flins's scent now was an intoxicating symphony: The residual sweat of the day, the sweet perfume of wine on his skin, the hint of hearth smoke from whichever tavern he'd been in… All of it mixed with his fundamental scent, creating something rich, complex, and viscerally real. It was the scent of Flins alive, experiencing the world, and Varka's instinct screamed to mark that essence, to cover it with his own, to possess it before a bath washed it away and made it commonplace.
He pulled Flins closer, his body trembling with the effort to control himself.
"Varka," Flins's voice was soft, but firm now. "You're in rut, aren't you?"
Varka made a sound that was more a confirming growl than anything else, his teeth lightly grazing the fabric over Flins's collarbone.
But then, Flins's hands rose. Not to push him away, but to caress his tense shoulders, his fingers finding the knots of contracted muscles.
"I really should take a bath… Get ready for you," he whispered, incredibly rational given the situation. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Varka's tightly clenched jaw, a light, almost adorable kiss, a stark contrast to the alpha's possessive fury. "You don't want to hurt me, do you?"
His eyes, now clear and serious, met Varka's, glazed and with dilated pupils.
"You know how huge you are naturally. And now, in rut…" he added, as devoid of shame in admitting that as Varka was in letting his throbbing cock hang out of his clothes.
And, miraculously, it worked. The tension in Varka's body didn't dissipate, but the blind compulsion to take gave way to a reason that made him shudder. He saw the logic in it. The implicit promise in "get ready for you." It was a negotiation, an agreement based on real needs. An agreement that would be better, safer, more pleasurable for both if he could wait a few more damned minutes.
He let out a rough sigh, a sound of deep agony, and buried his face in Flins's neck once more, inhaling his scent like a drowning man.
"Quick," he growled, the word coming out as both a plea and an order. "Be quick."
It felt like an eternity.
What followed was an eternity of self-inflicted torture. Varka paced the chamber like a caged tiger, his steps restless and uneven on the floorboards. His cock, still exposed as if it were some kind of animal, wasn't even a concern. He couldn't put it away. Just the idea of touching it without Flins being there seemed like a punishment.
The sound of running water from the other side of the bathroom door seemed far from over, even though barely fifteen minutes had passed. It was the sound of preparation, promising a relief that stretched out in agony. Fifteen minutes. It was no more than fifteen minutes, but every second was a solitary, fierce battle against the instinct that whispered to him, with the sick voice of the rut, to break down the door, shatter the wood, and simply take what was his, prepared or not, consented or not.
When he couldn't take it anymore — when the air in the room seemed composed only of his own maddening scent and the sweet, damp echo from the bathroom — he approached the door. Not with invasive intent, but with the silent caution of a curious animal. The door wasn't fully closed, a sliver of steam escaping through the crack.
He peeked.
And what he saw, more than any other emotion — more carnal, more violent — enchanted him.
His omega was facing away, naked under the curtain of water. The light from the oil lamps bathed his skin in amber and gold tones, highlighting the grace of his shoulders, the soft curve of his spine that tapered to his waist and then rounded into that ass which, moments before, Varka had almost crushed in his hands. The water ran down him, outlining defined yet slender muscles, so different from the alpha's large, scar-ridden mass. Varka was fascinated. It was the sight of something ethereal, pure before destruction. The fury gave way, for a stolen instant, to a stunned, possessive admiration.
Flins, feeling the weight of the gaze on the nape of his neck, slowly turned his face. Droplets of water ran from his eyelashes. He wasn't startled. He didn't cover himself. A small, intimate smile touched his lips. Always so mature, so in control of his alpha's lack of control, Varka thought, with a part of his mind that was still functioning.
What other omega in the world could control their alpha so well? As if he were a domesticated pet? Not a predator in rut who, if he wanted — and he very much did — was capable of making him bleed and cry.
"What's this, knight?" Flins's voice reached him, clear and soft over the sound of the water. There was a hint of laughter in it, an intimate, comfortable tease. "You haven't even taken your clothes off yet…?"
He turned completely then, facing Varka, without any shame. The water ran over his chest, his flat belly, over his member at rest. His eyes traveled over the colossal, desperate figure of Varka, still fully dressed in his work clothes, his pants open and fallen. The contradiction was glaring: one, naked, serene, washed; the other, a mess inside his clothes, a storm contained by a thread.
He snorted a laugh.
"Come on, take off that heavy uniform while I finish up here."
And Varka obeyed. It was an ungainly movement, as if his limbs no longer belonged to him. The fingers that wielded heavy swords with deadly precision trembled over the leather buttons of his jerkin. Each piece of clothing that fell to the floor — first the heavy cloak, then the padded jerkin, the linen shirt stuck to his body by sweat — was like removing a layer of armor.
Under Flins's calm, observant gaze, he was being stripped of his rank, of his dignity as Captain, exposed to the raw essence of what he was at that moment: an alpha in suffering who would lick the floor if it made his omega accept him sooner.
While he struggled with his boot laces, Flins turned off the shower. The sudden silence was as violent as the end of a thunderclap. In the damp, quiet vacuum, the only sounds were Varka's ragged breathing and the soft drip-drip of water falling from Flins's body and the tap.
Flins, unhurried, raised his arms. His long hair, now a curtain of wet, black silk, was twisted with grace. The water ran off in silvery strands, and the wet sound of the hair being wrung out echoed in the small bathroom. Every movement was economical, serene, an absolute contrast to Varka's convulsive struggle to free himself from the boots.
Varka finally managed, and stood up, panting, wearing only the linen pants, which hung dangerously low on his hips. His torso, large and covered in scars and an attractive layer of hair, rose and fell powerfully. He felt Flins's gaze on him like a study. The omega observed the destruction the rut caused in that imposing body: the bulging, trembling muscles, the sweat running down the grooves of his abdomen, the broad chest that seemed about to explode.
"The pants too, my dear."
Varka wanted to growl.
But when Flins stepped out of the shower stall and pulled a small towel to dry his face, the alpha gave in. Without either of them taking their eyes off the other, Flins dried his face with the small towel. A stubborn trickle of water ran from his temple, traced the line of his jaw, and fell, glistening, onto the tip of his nipple. Varka almost tripped over his own tight pants caught at his ankles.
"Almost there," murmured Flins. And Varka, in the insanity of his rut, couldn't have possibly realized he was being teased. The target of cheap provocation.
He ran the towel over his arms and chest. The towel then went down his back, his waist, and Flins leaned slightly to dry a leg. The curve of his back, the exposure of his nape, the vulnerability of the gesture… It was the trigger. The last shred of patience in Varka snapped.
With a grunt, he closed the distance in one step. His hands found the omega's damp, cool waist. The contrast was electrifying: his hands were furnaces, Flins's skin was the smooth marble of a night river. He pulled the omega back, against his own naked, burning body, burying his face in the freshly washed neck, where the scent of soap and Flins's clean skin was a drug more powerful than any perfume.
"Enough," Varka growled. "Enough. You're ready."
Flins's body was lifted from the floor with an ease that negated any possible resistance. A gasp of surprise escaped him, but was immediately swallowed.
Varka was large, and monumentally strong. In the brute force of his rut, he made Flins seem something contemptibly light, perhaps less substantial than a feather pillow. His arms, trunks of muscle and strength from years of battle, enveloped the omega absolutely — one under his knees, the other wrapping his back and shoulders — in an embrace that was less romantic than it might have seemed from the outside.
Everything shifted fast. Spun. Flins had a brief view of the ceiling, the shower steam, the dancing golden light. And then, his field of vision was filled by Varka's face. His features, normally so familiar, were now distorted by a ferocious need. Before he could articulate a thought, a word, even a protest, Varka devoured his mouth.
It wasn't a kiss. It was an assault. His tongue came before his mouth did, hot and strong, demanding space to taste all of Flins. Every last drop. And Flins could only accept, a low moan trapped in his throat being his only possible response.
And he moved. Varka crossed the small bathroom space towards the bedroom with long, determined strides, carrying Flins without apparent difficulty.
When the backs of his thighs touched the mattress, it was with a deceptive gentleness. Varka didn’t toss him. He deposited him, with an almost reverent care that violently contrasted with the ferocity of the kiss and the uncontrollable tremor running through his own arms.
Because, from Varka's angle, hovering over the bed, Flins was the vision of a perfect nest. He was sprawled on the white sheets, his skin still pearly with moisture that stained the cotton in darker tones. His dark hair formed a messy, wet halo on the pillow. A nest more vivid, more real, more tempting than any desperate handful of sniffed clothing from minutes before.
A deep, involuntary sigh escaped Varka’s lungs. It wasn't a sound of relief, far from it. It was the sigh of a man who, after wandering through a burning desert, finally sees the oasis and understands the water is real.
His gaze descended, devouring every detail. Flins's legs, long and well-formed, rested on the sheets. Slowly, Varka's hands slid down from his hips, his thumbs tracing the inner path of his thighs. The skin there was incredibly soft and warm. Nothing like the calloused fingers of his hand.
Then, with an audacity that sprang purely from instinct, Varka applied a gentle outward pressure. Flins's legs opened for him, without resistance. And Varka stopped, for an instant that felt like an eternity, just to admire.
That angle, the complete exposure… It made him sigh, it was so beautiful. His eyes, dark and dilated, traveled the path his hands had opened, from the inner curve of his knees to the soft, intimate center of Flins, a territory already beginning to exhale a sweeter, denser scent.
Then it trickled.
A pearlescent, iridescent thread, sliding from Flins's hole and following, slow and deliberate, the perfect curve of his ass, before disappearing into the dark valley between his buttocks and staining the white sheet.
A deep, visceral growl tore through the bedroom's quiet. It didn't come from Varka’s throat — it came from his chest, his diaphragm, from a primitive place beyond human language. It was the sound of the rope of reason snapping. The last vestige of patience, of contemplation, evaporated under that tempting glisten.
With a movement terrifying in its simplicity, he pressed his wide, rough thumb against the center of that wetness. And then, with controlled but inexorable force, buried it in Flins's hot, convulsing channel.
It was to feel the wave of internal heat, the velvety, tight texture already relaxed and slick from its own nature. It was to sharpen the scent that rose now, intoxicating and sweet, mixed with his own wild odor. It was to hear the sound — the wet, intimate sound — and see the reaction in the body he possessed.
And the reaction came. A rough, muffled grunt was torn from Flins's throat. His body contracted in an instant arch, not of sharp pain, but of profound shock, of intimate, abrupt invasion. His fingers clenched the sheets, knuckles white. Flins moaned.
Varka held his breath, his eyes closing for a second of pure synesthesia. The feeling, the smelling, the hearing... It was an overdose stronger than any drug. He withdrew his thumb slowly, just to see it shine under the light, soaked with Flins's lubrication.
In a fluid, powerful movement that demonstrated his awesome strength, Varka pulled back — making Flins moan at the sudden absence — and slid down the bed. He lowered himself onto his own knees, between Flins's now-open legs. His hands, large and strong, grasped the omega's thighs, his thumbs pressing into the soft inner skin.
The decision didn't pass through Varka's rational mind; it was a direct impulse from his alpha, a desire to taste that demanded all his senses. He saw Flins's hole there, pink, pulsing, and still shining with the wetness he himself had provoked. It was the most intimate view, a territory clamoring for his mark.
With a low growl, Varka didn't hesitate. He lowered his head and then, like an animal reclaiming its territory, he licked. It was a broad, rough lick, from the base of his sac to his perineum, a wild demarcation that made Flins's entire body shudder and gasp. But Varka didn't stop there. He focused on the center, on the small, still-relaxed rosette. His tongue, hot and insistent, circled it, pressed against it, before narrowing and penetrating, shallowly, but with devastating intimacy.
Each muffled moan, each involuntary contraction of Flins's thigh muscles under his hands, was fuel that made him repeat the movement, more deeply, more avidly.
Flins took a deep breath, the air entering his lungs in a wheezing whisper. He knew this habit of his alpha. He knew it so well that he understood the worst part of Varka's rut wasn't the lack of control, nor the brute force. It was this obsession. The need to savor him, explore him, worship every inch of his body like sacred territory, often forgetting even his own throbbing pleasure — though his cock, dark and dripping against his belly, proved that this worship was, in itself, his greatest ecstasy.
A self-preservation reflex made Flins squirm. He tried to slide to the side, a weak movement to escape that overwhelming attention.
It was the wrong trigger.
A warning growl, deep and dangerous, echoed in the room. Before the escape attempt could be completed, Varka's arms — which seemed to surround him from all sides — tightened. One huge hand gripped Flins's waist, fingers almost meeting on the other side, while the other arm slipped under his thigh, lifting him slightly and exposing him even more, eliminating any chance of flight.
"Don't run from me," his voice was a muffled roar against the skin of Flins's thigh. And then, as both a reward and a punishment, Varka buried his face back between his buttocks.
This time, it wasn't exploratory licks. It was a decided invasion. His tongue, wide and strong, pressed into and penetrated Flins's hole with an insistence that asked for no permission. It was deep, wet, a rhythmic motion that made Flins's fingers bury themselves in Varka's blond hair, not to pull, but to hold on, as a long, trembling moan was torn from his throat.
Varka drank from him, savored each internal contraction, each tremor, as if he could sate the hunger of his rut with just the taste and the submission of his omega. And his own body, trembling with need, proved that, for him, this was the pinnacle of pleasure.
Each new wave of lubrication that leaked from Flins was quickly swallowed, with naturalness and care. The tongue, tireless, worked his interior with a monotonous dedication — a constant, deep rhythm that, for a brief instant, might have seemed almost boring to Flins in its hypnotic repetition. But it was a boredom that never lasted long. Only until Varka hit his prostate, and then again, and again…
Flins's wanton moan at the delicious sensation of the stimulation was Varka's apex. A low, guttural growl that didn't come from the mouth busy between his legs, but vibrated through Varka's entire body and transmitted through the contact of his hands on Flins's skin. A sound that was more of a moan than anything else.
Curious, panting, Flins looked down, between the arch of his body and the mattress, into the small space where he was suspended.
And he saw.
Varka was moving. His broad hips, half-kneeling and half-standing, twitched in a brief, intense, spasmodic rhythm. His cock, throbbing and neglected, pulsed in the air between his legs. And from it, thick, white threads of semen jetted out, falling heavily onto the sheet below, forming an irregular, warm pattern.
He was coming. Without a single touch to himself. Just from the work of his tongue, from the pure synesthesia of possessing Flins that way.
Slowly, as if emerging from a trance, Varka pulled back. His arms, which had held Flins with steel-like strength, released, allowing the omega to slump softly onto the wet, stained sheets. The air in the room seemed to have changed; still laden with the maddening musk of rut, but now seasoned with the acrid-sweet smell of Varka's semen and the intensified fragrance of Flins's arousal at the scene.
Varka knelt between Flins's still-open legs, his own body a monument of dissipated tension. His cock, now flaccid and sticky, hung harmlessly, but the eyes he fixed on Flins still glowed with a reduced fire, a deep, possessive heat. He looked at the work of his tongue: Flins's small orifice was visibly relaxed, swollen with attention, shining under the light with a mixture of saliva and his own lubrication.
Varka remained kneeling, a mix of confusion and unsatisfied desire. His body still trembled with the final spasms of orgasm, but the deep need, the unbearable itch in his blood, had not yielded. His cock, in a pathetic state of semi-erection, hung heavy and pink, still dripping the last traces of semen. It was a pitiful image for a man of his stature and symbol. His cock wasn't hard enough to fuck in one go, but also not soft enough to ignore the erection.
Flins watched from his ruined bed, a small, intimate smile touching his swollen lips. There was a bittersweetness in the sight. His alpha, the Supreme Leader of Mondstadt, Knight of Boreas, reduced to such a vulnerable, clumsy state. It was like watching a Ruin Drake, unsuccessfully trying to carefully pass through a glass door.
"Look at you," Flins murmured, pushing himself up on his elbows. "You big, clumsy oaf…"
Varka let out a sound between a grunt and a sigh, his cloudy eyes blinking slowly. The hand he raised to run over his face trembled slightly.
His eyes traveled over the monumental, disoriented figure of Varka, landing on that stubborn semi-erection. A glint of determination crossed his gaze.
"Come here," he said, soft but firm, patting the mattress beside him. "Lie down."
Varka hesitated for a fraction of a second, the instinct to dominate still whispering in his ears. But the exhaustion and the absolute trust in that tone defeated him. He moved, clumsily, and let himself fall onto his side on the bed, his weight making the frame groan. He lay on his back, his gaze lost in the bed's canopy.
Flins positioned himself on his knees beside him. His hands, much smaller but incredibly steady, touched Varka's wide hip.
"I'm going to suck you," Flins announced, without preamble, as if reporting on the weather. "So we can continue. Make room."
With a low moan that was more gratitude than protest, Varka opened his legs, yielding space.
Flins didn't build suspense. He lowered himself, his long, dark hair forming a curtain between Varka's face and what he was about to do. His hands held the base of Varka's member, feeling the strong, quick pulse under the hot skin. He didn't start slow, with kisses or exploratory licks. He already knew this body, knew its impatience, knew the need consuming it.
Flins's mouth, soft and determined, enveloped the swollen, sensitive head all at once.
A violent tremor shook Varka from head to toe. A muffled roar escaped his throat, his hands burying themselves in the sheets. The contrast was excruciating and perfect: the fresh, wet softness of Flins's mouth against the overheated, throbbing skin of his cock.
Flins's tongue worked first at the base, pressing the prominent vein on the underside, circling the corona, sucking with a force that made Varka's eyes roll back.
Then it moved up and first cleaned the slit of the head, collecting without hesitation the whitish traces still marking that flesh. Then, it descended along the shaft, slick where the semen had trickled and mixed with sweat and pre-cum, creating a sticky, shiny mixture that glued the thick, blond hairs of Varka's groin together. Flins didn't avoid those hairs. On the contrary. He buried his nose in them, inhaling the scent while taking the chance to breathe deeply, before restricting the air passage in his throat as he took one last deep plunge.
Varka arched his back off the mattress, a guttural grunt escaping as his hands, which had been buried in the sheets, rose instinctively to Flins's head, his thick fingers tangling in the oil-black dark hair. But he didn't press, didn't force. Not yet.
Flins looked up, through the curtain of his own hair. His eyes met Varka's.
The alpha's gaze was oppressive. There was no softness there, not the gleam of ecstasy Flins knew from their tender moments. It was a whirlpool of amber, the dilated pupils swallowing almost all of the iris, reflecting the room's weak light like a lake under a heavy sky. It conveyed no emotion in the common sense — there was no smile, no explicit tenderness. It was a gaze of pure concentration, of a need so deep it had burned away any other expression.
But Flins knew. He saw beyond the opaque surface. That fixed, inexpressive gaze was the visual manifestation of the purest, most consuming desire that existed. It was the thunderous silence of a volcano about to erupt. Every tense muscle in Varka's face, every bulging vein in his neck, every tremor that ran through his monumental body while Flins's mouth worked, all screamed what those eyes seemed to silence: a devouring desire, an obsessive dependence, a wild gratitude for that safe harbor in the form of lips and tongue.
Encouraged by this silent knowledge, Flins deepened the motion. He took Varka to the back of his throat, relaxing his muscles with a practice born of intimacy and old, trained habits. The head of Varka's cock touched the back, and the wet, deep sound of controlled gagging filled the room. It was a sound that made Varka's hips writhe upwards, an involuntary and powerful movement.
Flins pulled back, leaving a trail of glistening saliva, and immediately dove down again, establishing a fast, efficient rhythm. One of his hands massaged the heavy, tense balls, while the other squeezed the base of the shaft, feeling every pulse, every throb of hot blood. He used everything: lips, tongue, the soft vacuum of his mouth, the pressure of his throat, his fingers.
The air in the room grew heavy, laden with rough groans, with the wet, rhythmic sound of the fellatio, with the intensified smell of sex and sweat. Varka was losing what little composure he had left. His murmurs were disjointed words, Flins's name mixed with curses and pleas.
The pleasure Flins was administering, instead of calming the typhoon, fed its eye. The sight of the dark-haired head between his legs, the beautiful, trusting submission, lit a short, violent fuse in the primitive cortex of Varka's alpha mind. The alpha didn't want to be cared for. He wanted to claim.
With a growl that was no longer human, Varka's hands — those hands that wielded a greatsword with the grace of a gale and the precision of a warrior — clamped around the back of Flins's neck with intoxicating strength. The thick, calloused fingers tangled in the dark strands, not with a caress, but with no restraint left at all, fixing Flins in place like prey.
Flins tried to pull back, an instinct of surprise and self-preservation, but it was like a leaf trying to escape a whirlwind. Varka pulled Flins's head forward, while his own hips lifted from the mattress in a strong, deep thrust.
Flins's world shrank to a succession of brutal, disconnected sensations.
The swollen, burning head of Varka's cock smashing against the roof of his mouth, then pummeling the back of his throat with a force that tore a muffled gag from him. Varka's heavy, tense sac slapping rhythmically, raw, against his chin, spreading wet, indecent sounds in the room's silence. The pressure of the fingers on his skull, holding him in place, dictating the rhythm of a blowjob that was no longer an act of service, but of use.
His jaw protested with sharp pain. His lips, stretched beyond their limit, burned with a constant sting. His eyes welled with uncontrollable tears. The air became scarce, stolen in brief, gasping pauses when Varka, in his frenzy, pulled back a few centimeters, only to plunge even deeper on the next thrust.
Flins tried to swallow, tried to adjust, but the rhythm was dictated by an alpha in rut, not his lover. And now there was saliva, semen, and tears everywhere.
Lights began to dance at the edge of his vision. The sound of his own wet, rough gags seemed to come from far away. The overwhelming smell of Varka, of sex, of his own saliva, filled his lungs like a thick fog. The pain and the oxygen deprivation merged into a single sensation.
Or no sensation at all.
He didn't perceive the exact moment consciousness abandoned him. It was less a faint and more a shutdown, a fall into a dark, silent pit where the muffled sounds and violent sensations became distant echoes.
The darkness, however, was brief and turbulent. In short moments of lucidity — few, really — he lived flashes of sporadic moments:
The inert body.
The crushing weight of Varka on top of him.
The rough heat of a tongue licking the line of his jaw, an almost tender gesture amid the violence, savoring the salt of his sweat, his alpha trying to make sure — in his own twisted way — that his omega was still okay.
The sensation of being flipped over like a pillow, his face pressed against the sheets that smelled of them, of sex, of rut.
The momentary cold of the air on his exposed body, followed by the overwhelming heat of Varka's body covering him again.
And then, consciousness returned like a punch. Flins woke up — or rather, crash-landed back into his body — already with the sensation of fullness. A fullness so vast, so deep, it seemed to displace his organs, recalibrate his center of gravity. Varka was inside him. Finally. Fucking him. He was on his stomach, crushed under the alpha's weight, and Varka was buried in him to the hilt, his wide hips flush against his buttocks, every centimeter of his enormity claiming his omega.
A moan was torn from Flins, not of sharp pain — his body, accustomed and prepared by the earlier attention, accepted the intrusion with a dull, expansive ache that bordered on pleasure — but from the shock of returning, from the confused, inescapable reality of the situation.
Oh, right — Flins thought. — This is it…
The first time they had sex, after the rut, Varka had crawled away from him, ashamed, resentful, and nearly terrified. "I was an animal," he had snarled, his voice laden with such deep self-disgust it sent a chill down Flins's spine. "I… I used you. You didn't even react at some points."
Flins had approached him then, disregarding the aura of danger and anguish. He had placed his hands on Varka's calloused face, forcing him to look him in the eye.
"You didn't hurt me, Varka. Not truly. A faint? Passing pain? That's nothing I can't handle, or, frankly, say I dislike. It's just… Your alpha instinct," Flins had said. "Never, ever, would your alpha exceed the limit of causing me real harm. You know that. I trust that. I trust you, even when you don't trust yourself."
Varka had looked at him: "And if it happens again? If I... If you..."
"Then we'll continue," Flins had interrupted, simply. "As long as I can. As long as my body holds out. It's my role. It's our dynamic. And it's okay."
And it was okay.
It was always like this. The first time, he'd fainted from pure exhaustion, his body flooded with new, overwhelming sensations. The second time, he'd been suffocated by his alpha's cock and devouring desire, the line between pleasure and panic blurred to nothing. The third time, Varka had taken him while he was still sleeping, just at dawn, before he'd even opened his eyes properly. The pattern repeated, but the surprise, the shock, were always the same.
The reality now, as in those times, was this: he was on his stomach, immobilized under the colossal weight of the alpha, his mind trying to reconnect to his senses. There was an instant of pure fright, his racing heart trying to escape his throat, his muscles tensing in alert. And then, relief. The memory of the agreement. The recollection of trust.
His body, his subconscious, had retreated for a moment to deal with the intensity. And it had returned. But Varka had never stopped — his hips were already beginning to move in long, deep thrusts that made the bed creak — but he also hadn't crossed that limit. The limit that his own alpha instinct, that fierce protector beneath the fury of the rut, would never allow him to cross.
Flins knew. He did. Varka would never hurt him. Not his Varka.
Besides, he had lived too many centuries. So many turns around the sun that there were few options left for innovation in the pleasure of his bed. Kisses, caresses, elaborate positions — it had all become predictable, repetitive, boring over time. None of his former, more sexually adventurous partners, nor even his own heats, spoke to his body's pleasure the same way they had in his first centuries of life.
Then came Varka.
Varka, this huge, loving human, with his violent alpha and his rut that turned a knight into a beast of burden with a hard-on. Varka didn't know fancy tricks. He didn't need to. He brought brute force as novelty. And over time, what had frightened them both at first — that habit of consented-yet-unscripted practice — Flins learned to like in its peculiarity.
It wasn't something that came from his roots. But something he discovered eventually. That Varka made him discover.
That was it. Flins had learned to like the controlled violence. The confidence that, no matter how much Varka crushed him, suffocated him, took him to the limit, he would never, ever, break something that couldn't be fixed later. The man's alpha instinct was a better brake than any promise.
That's why Flins let out a moan that was almost a muffled laugh against the pillow. What irony. Eternity had bored him, and a mortal, at the peak of his animality, was the only thing that could still make him feel truly alive.
Another muffled grunt escaped him against the pillow, but it was immediately transformed into a rough, guttural sound when Varka adjusted the angle. The next thrust wasn't just deep; it was accurate. The huge, throbbing head of the alpha smashed directly against that sensitive internal spot that made Flins's legs contract and his toes curl.
The air escaped Flins's lungs in a muffled "umpf". The expansive, oppressive ache gave way, for a shimmering instant, to a wave of pleasure so sharp it whited out his thoughts. His back arched involuntarily, seeking more of that miraculous pressure, even pinned under Varka's weight.
Varka perceived the change. A victorious growl vibrated in his chest, transmitting through Flins's glued-on skin. His hands, which had been holding Flins immobile, now moved. One gripped the omega's hip harder, fingers digging into the flesh, while the other slid under Flins's body, finding his chest. The large hand squeezed one nipple, then the other, in a grip that bordered on pain. That made Flins clench his ass in a painful punishment for the alpha's cock.
The rhythm of the thrusts changed. They were no longer just deep and powerful, but now had a purpose, a hunting cadence. Varka pulled almost all the way out, leaving Flins empty and trembling for a fraction of a second, only to bury himself again with a force that made their two bodies collide with a wet slap.
"V-Varka..." he tried to speak, but the name came out as a rough, broken whisper.
He perceived then, the throbbing pain in his throat. A deep pain, not from a scream, but from the brutal use it had been subjected to. The ghostly memory of Varka's head smashing against the back of his mouth, of his tongue involuntarily pressed against his palate, of his airway blocked, surfaced with nauseating clarity.
His tongue moved inside his mouth, a strange, dry weight. Dry, despite the traces of fluids he felt dried on his face — a mixture of his own saliva, Varka's semen, maybe even tears he hadn't noticed shedding. The wetness was there, but it was salty, acidic, strange. Nothing that relieved the rough thirst he now became aware of.
A new kind of moan escaped him. And the sound seemed to reach Varka. The alpha slowed his rhythm slightly, for a fraction of a second, and his growl took on an interrogative tone. His hand, which was on Flins's hip, rose a little, his fingers finding his ribs, as if searching for the omega's racing heart, trying to decipher the moan.
"Hhhh... Love?" Varka's voice was even rougher than his, laden with rut and effort, but there was a crack of concern in it, a glimpse of reason struggling to emerge through the instinct.
Flins didn't have the energy to explain. Instead, he turned his face as much as he could, pressing his cheek against the already damp pillow, and tried to swallow. It was a painful movement, almost a spasm. But it was a signal. A small, physical signal of discomfort.
It was enough. Varka let out a low sound, something between a moan of frustration and a moan of throbbing pain. Slowly, with a care that brutally contrasted with the violence of minutes before, he began to withdraw. The sensation of emptiness was gradual, immense, leaving Flins trembling and feeling strangely open.
Varka's weight left him, and Flins heard the sound of the alpha moving on the bed. Instead of moving away, however, he felt the strong hands, now surprisingly gentle, turning him onto his side. The lamplight seemed too bright for his teary eyes.
Varka was kneeling beside him, his face a mask of tension and concern, his neck flushed. His gaze swept over Flins's face, seeing the dried sheen of fluids, the redness around his mouth, the expression of exhaustion and weariness. Without a word, Varka leaned over, grabbed the water bottle they always kept on the nightstand, and opened it.
He didn't hand it to Flins. Instead, he cradled the omega's head with one hand and brought the bottle's spout to his lips. "Drink," he growled, the order softened by the careful action.
Flins drank. The cool water was a miracle, a relief as intense as any orgasm. He swallowed eagerly, feeling it soothe the burning in his throat, washing away the salty, bitter taste. A few drops ran down his chin, and Varka wiped them away with his thumb, a strangely tender gesture.
When Flins leaned his head back, panting, eyes closed, he felt Varka's hand on his face again, now just stroking his sweaty temple. The rut was still there, a hot, oppressive aura emanating from the alpha. The pause was temporary, a truce won by the omega's discomfort.
But it was a truce. And in it, even with his throat burning and his body marked, Flins found the most concrete proof of his thesis. Varka could be an animal. He could be a force of nature. But at the center of the storm, there was a care that never slept. And that was why, even with a dry tongue and a raw throat, Flins knew that when the next wave came, he would open his arms — and his legs — to it.
And when Varka moved him again, turning him onto his back with a gentleness, Flins didn’t resist. His body was pliant, exhausted, marked. His hole, already so used and open, didn’t even clench when Varka positioned himself between his legs. It was simply… Available. A well-known entrance, unobstructed by recent use and the abundant lubrication from them both.
When Varka entered him this time, it was with a single, fluid, deep motion, without the initial friction, without the resistance. He slid in like a sword returning to its sheath. A deep, almost relieved sigh escaped them both. They were face-to-face now, one of the most intimate ways two bodies could share. Flins could see Varka’s face above him, his features distorted by desire.
And he could feel – in an almost absurd way – Varka’s presence inside him, not just as an internal sensation, but as a visible, throbbing bulge under the thin skin of his lower abdomen. Each thrust created a strange, intimate ripple across his own belly.
Exhaustion weighed on Flins like a blanket. With his head sunk into the pillow, his eyes half-closed, the sensation was almost hypnotic. The rhythmic motion, the heat, the constant filling… It was comforting in its brutality. His body, already relaxed from the tension, began to yield to the deep weariness. He could easily slip into sleep like this, he thought, with Varka still inside him, moving in an almost sleepy rhythm. It was a strangely peaceful thought.
The exhausting pleasure from before was now a cadence of little shivers whenever his prostate was hit. A prelude to an orgasm that stubbornly resisted.
But then Flins noticed the change in rhythm. The constant, almost mechanical back-and-forth became deeper, more deliberate, and then… more restricted. Varka began to bury himself and stop, pressing against the deepest part of Flins with an almost static force, as if seeking to fuse with him.
And then, Flins felt it. At the threshold of his already so-open hole, a new pressure. It wasn't the familiar head of Varka’s cock. It was something broader, more solid, beginning to expand right at the base, inside him. It was as if Varka were now trying to enter him with his balls and all. It was a knot.
A tremor of pure instinct ran through Flins, mixing with his exhaustion.
The knot swelled, slow but inexorable, forcing an expansion that seemed more like torture than pleasure now. Flins was already open, but this was different. It was a deep, internal dilation. The sensation wasn’t of sharp pain – his body, prepared and lubricated, stretched with a slow, deep burn.
A hoarse moan escaped Flins, his eyes flying completely open, losing the last shred of drowsiness as his hands flew up to dig his nails into Varka’s shoulders. His gaze met the Alpha’s. Varka was motionless now, fully buried, his body trembling with the tension of holding back the orgasm that would surely accompany the locking. His face was a mask of agony and ecstasy, the muscles in his neck corded, his dark, dilated eyes locked on Flins’s. There was a wild triumph in that look, but also a silent question, a final check of reason asking: "Are you okay?"
Flins couldn’t speak. The knot was almost at its maximum point, filling him in a way that made breathing difficult. He felt another violent pulse inside him – Varka coming again, heat flooding him in thick waves, but this time with no possibility of escape. It would all stay there, trapped inside him.
He closed his eyes, trying to focus on the pain. Varka closed his too, but from the complete apex of pleasure that made his thighs tremble.
The pain wasn’t a knife. It was a monumental pressure, a deep stretching that bordered on dismemberment. When an involuntary contraction racked Flins’s body, his back arching in a spasm of pure instinct, his hands flew to Varka’s back. His nails, no longer hands that caressed, but the claws of a cornered beast, dug into the Alpha’s salty skin, tearing a red, burning trail from his shoulder to his collarbone.
Varka didn’t moan in pain. A guttural snarl escaped him, but his arms, already wrapped around Flins, only tightened. One of his large hands gripped Flins’s wrist, not to tear away the hand that marked him, but to pin it there, against the fresh wound. It was a gesture from his Alpha: I hold you, even when you hurt me. Your pain is mine, your rage is mine, your marks… are also mine.
Varka’s gaze, blurred by ecstasy, lowered then. Between their sweat-glued bodies, and above the redness of his stretched knot, he saw Flins’s cock. It was a vision of silent agony. It throbbed, yes, an irregular, weak pulse against the Omega’s belly, but it was confused. Not fully hard, not fully soft. An exhausted soldier on a battlefield, unsure whether to fall or keep fighting. The pain of the internal expansion seemed to be at war with the last echoes of pleasure, resulting in this helpless semi-erection.
A low sound, almost a grumble, came from Varka’s throat. The hand that wasn’t holding Flins’s wrist released it and slid down, between their trapped bodies. His fingers found Flins’s member, enveloping it with firmness. He began to masturbate him, not with the desperate fury of before, but with a slow, deep, deliberate rhythm.
It was an intrusion, of course. But it was also a relief. The attention focused on his pain-confused-unpleasure created a new point of sensation. Varka’s hand now pulled Flins’s consciousness out of the abyss of internal stretching and towards the more manageable, more familiar sensation of touch on his cock.
Gradually, under the insistent, knowing rhythm of Varka’s hand, Flins’s member responded. The helpless semi-erection grew, filled with blood, becoming firm and warm in the Alpha’s palm. A different moan escaped Flins – this one, not of pain or shock, but of pleasure returning.
Varka watched the change, his own eyes shining with deep satisfaction. He continued, the movement of his hand synchronizing with the last weak pulses of his own orgasm inside Flins, and with the slow, involuntary contractions of the Omega’s body still adjusting to the knot’s massive presence.
Varka lowered himself, making the swollen knot shift slightly. Enough for Flins to whimper again. The hand holding the Omega’s wrist against the wound on his shoulder didn’t let go; on the contrary, it tightened even more when the Omega tensed up again.
His face drew near Flins’s neck. It wasn’t an aggressive movement, but one of deep devotion. His lips found the salty, damp skin first, kissing it with a softness that contrasted brutally with the violence that united them. And then his tongue emerged, hot and rough.
He found the exact spot, the small, pulsing gland on the side of Flins’s neck, just below the jawline. A point of extreme sensitivity for any Omega, especially one amid the hormonal tide of an Alpha coupling. In Flins’s current state, with his senses amplified by exhaustion, pain, and residual pleasure, the touch was electrifying.
A shock ran through Flins’s body, a violent shudder that had nothing to do with cold. A sharp moan, almost a squeal, was torn from his throat. It wasn’t a sound of pain, but of an overwhelming, deep, and intimate sensation that struck a primitive core of his being. It was as if Varka were touching a wire directly connected to his spine, to his identity as an Omega.
It was good. So good his body wanted to fight the sensation – even though when he writhed, Varka, strong as he was, beyond the restriction of the knot, held him and kept him immobile right where he was. It was almost torture.
And Varka didn’t stop. He licked, kissed, worshipped that spot, with a mix of animalistic affection and rational biological awareness. Every movement of his tongue was synchronized with the slow, deep rhythm of his hand, which continued to masturbate Flins with a gradual pace. The two sensations – the intimate, overwhelming invasion at his neck and the familiar, direct stimulation on his cock – collided inside Flins, creating a short-circuit of pure stimulus.
He was being consumed from all directions. Pressured from within by the knot and Varka’s body. Marked from without by the nails still digging into the Alpha’s back. Driven to ecstasy by the hand working him. And now, possessed in his deepest essence by the tongue worshipping his gland.
There was nowhere to flee. No way to process it. Flins’s body became a single exposed nerve, vibrating at an unsustainable frequency. His moans became continuous, a hoarse, broken whimpering of pure sensory overload. His legs, already open and immobile, trembled violently. His free hand gripped Varka’s arm, fingers digging into muscle scarred from ancient battles.
Varka felt everything. The accelerated pulse in the neck under his tongue. The cock hardening and pulsing with renewed force in his hand. The uncontrollable tremors running through the body trapped against his. His own eyes closed, and a deep, satisfied growl vibrated in his chest, transmitting itself to Flins.
The tears came next, not as an overflow of pain, but as a boiling over of pure ecstasy. They ran hot and salty from Flins’s tightly shut eyes, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming pressure of pleasure that found no other outlet. Every tremor, every synchronized stimulus – the tongue on his gland, the hand on his cock, the throbbing knot inside him – was a thread feeding a fire that now consumed everything, even his own emotions.
It was a cry of absolute pleasure, of a body and mind taken to a place beyond what they could process. The tears were the physical proof that Varka had succeeded. He had taken him to a limit where even his own control over his tears dissolved.
Varka felt the hot moisture on his neck and, this time, there was no stiffening of alarm. There was a deep, victorious purr in his chest, a vibration that seemed to say "Yes. This is it." He understood perfectly. This wasn’t the cry of someone begging for mercy; it was the cry of someone being taken apart and remade by the pleasure that he, Varka, provided.
And it excited him even more.
With a movement, Varka lifted his head from Flins’s neck. His eyes, dark and dilated, devoured the sight of the Omega’s face: the squeezed-shut eyes, the soaked eyelashes, the bright trails of tears mapping the reddened skin.
He didn’t stop. He accelerated.
His tongue, which had been on the neck, rose in a quick motion. He licked a trail of tears from Flins’s temple, savoring the salt and the pure emotion. It was a canine, possessive gesture, consuming even the evidence of the pleasure he caused. At the same time, his hand on Flins’s cock tightened and began to move with a fast, relentless rhythm, the closed fist stroking up and down with a wet, perfect friction that gave no quarter.
Flins screamed. A sound between a sob and ecstasy, shattered, as his body arched in a final, violent spasm. The orgasm hit him not like a wave, but like a white, hot tsunami, ripped from his very core by the triple, inescapable stimulus. He came in convulsive jets over Varka’s hand and his own belly, his body shaking as if it would come apart, the tears gushing with renewed force.
The sensation was so intense it wiped away even the pain of the knot for a second. Or all other pains.
Varka saw, felt, and smelled the total capitulation. The scent of Flins’s pleasure exploded in the air, sweet and acrid, mixing with his own musk. It was the final trigger for him.
With a guttural roar that was almost a howl, Varka buried his face back into Flins’s neck, his teeth pressing the gland once more, while his own body convulsed. He came again, deep inside Flins, the swollen knot pulsing and locking the last wave of hot seed inside the Omega.
Again?! – Flins thought, nearly terrified as he looked down. The protuberance under the skin of his belly wasn’t just from the Alpha’s cock anymore, but surely from the nest he was building inside him.
For long seconds, the only sound in the room was the chaotic panting of both, Flins’s last pleasured sobs and Varka’s continuous, satisfied growl, as he now licked the neck and wet face of his lover with animal devotion, drinking every trace of salt, sweat, and tears – the complete flavor of victory over his Omega’s senses.
Varka’s body, still trembling with the final spasms of orgasm, began to move. But not to separate – the swollen, pulsating knot still held them firmly locked.
Instead, with a grunt of effort coming more from his shoulders than his hips, Varka rolled. It was an awkward, heavy movement, but surprisingly controlled. He didn’t toss Flins aside; he carried him with him, keeping them united, turning their sweat-and-seed-glued bodies as if they were one.
The world spun briefly and disorientingly for Flins. And then, instead of Varka’s crushing weight on top of him, he felt the opposite. The solid mattress against Varka’s back, and himself, Flins, lying on top of the Alpha’s broad chest, their bodies still joined at the pelvis, his face now resting in the valley between the pectoral muscles.
Ah, Flins loved that position…
Varka lay on his back, panting, his arms – which moments ago were instruments of brute force – now closing around Flins’s body with weariness, but no less firmly. One large hand rested on the nape of the Omega’s neck, fingers tangling in the damp, disheveled hair. The other stroked along his back, caressing his spine in a slow, comforting motion.
It was an act of pure protective instinct, blended with the practical rationality that stubbornly insisted on existing within Varka, even in the aftermath of rut. He knew. He knew his weight, in that state of complete exhaustion for both of them, could be dangerous. He knew Flins, crushed beneath him for hours until the knot subsided, could suffocate, or at least suffer unnecessary discomfort. So, he became the mattress. The foundation. The nest upon which his Omega would collapse.
Flins, in his state of post-orgasmic sensory mess – body limp, mind dulled, still feeling the last pulses of the knot inside him and the hot, abundant wetness Varka had deposited there – understood the gesture. A trembling sigh, half relief and half a new wave of silent weeping, escaped him. He buried his face in Varka’s chest, inhaling the familiar scent, now intensified by rut and sex, but still recognizable as his Alpha’s. Varka’s heart beat strong and fast beneath his ear, a tribal drum slowly beginning to slow its pace.
Here, trapped in such an intimate and inescapable way, but resting on Varka instead of under him, Flins felt a different safety. It was the safety of being not only possessed, but protected. Even in the complete mess, Varka thought of him. Cared for him.
Flins’s heavy eyelids closed. The pain of the knot was now a constant, dull presence, but manageable. Exhaustion was a warm blanket pulled over his consciousness. The heat of Varka’s body beneath him, the arms around him, the deep breathing beginning to regulate… It was the only universe that mattered.
Varka stayed awake longer, his eyes fixed on the dark ceiling, listening to Flins’s breathing deepen and become regular – his Alpha’s watchful sense wouldn’t allow him to rest while the knot restrained them, and while his Omega was completely vulnerable. So his hand on Flins’s nape didn’t stop caressing. He would wait. Wait for the knot to subside, for the biological instinct to give a truce. Only then would he clean Flins, care for him, cover him. But for now, joined in this way, he was both the cell and the refuge. And for both of them, in that moment, it was enough.