Chapter Text
Part 2 ~ Second Date Under the Full Moon
Chapter 4 ~ Origins
Dawn comes slowly.
Light softly filters in by degrees. Thin, pale gold filtering through the canvas, warming the edges of the tent, touching skin that does not quite sleep but still knows how to drift.
Flins wakes to weight.
The weight is not unfamiliar, nor unwelcome. There’s just… a lot of it.
Varka is still behind him, sprawled close. His chest is pressed firmly to Flins’s back, one heavy arm draped across the Fae’s middle like a possessive iron bar. The other is being used as a pillow. The Knight’s breathing is slow, deep, utterly oblivious.
Flins blinks, lashes fluttering once as he shifts.
And goes very still.
Ah.
Yes.
That.
There is also the matter of Varka’s heavy, semi-hard cock still lodged inside his hole.
For a long, suspended moment, the Ratnik considers his options as if he were strategising a mission against the Wild Hunt.
Option one: remain perfectly motionless and hope the situation resolves itself.
Option two: carefully, gracefully, extricate himself from the grip of a sleeping Knight built like a siege weapon.
Option three: accept his fate.
It’s not particularly uncomfortable, and has kept the moon-induced heat at bay for the better part of the night. Flins would even be wiling to admit that cock warming for the Grand Master all night has actually helped him rest. He is still deciding how to proceed when Varka inhales sharply.
And then –!
Massive arms clamps down. Leg’s curl in tighter, and hips –!
“Oh!” Flins breathes, voice thin with surprise as Varka’s cock bucks in deeper.
The movement is obviously not intended. It has the loose, undefended quality of sleep. Of instinct without awareness.
Unfortunately, Varka’s instincts are… enthusiastic.
Flins’s fingers curl against the blanket as the Knight presses closer, as if chasing warmth. As if determined to fuse them together before fully waking. He makes a little noise, hips moving in short, easy pumps, then seems to still again.
“That is – ngh – entirely unnecessary at this hour.” Flins murmurs under his breath.
Varka, of course, does not respond.
Because Varka is asleep.
Deeply. Profoundly. Peacefully.
Aggressively.
There is another slow shift of weight, and...
Flins does not so much move, as gets moved. He’s rolled bodily onto his chest with all the inevitability of a tide pulling driftwood. All the while, their bodies stay connected. Varka settles over him with a contented sigh, legs spreading so Flins is trapped between his massive thighs. All solid muscle and impossible size, as though this is the most natural arrangement in the world.
It’s crushing.
Flins’s face is squished into the only pillow, dark hair in his mouth, as he’s crushed under Varka’s massive body. The iron cage around his cock drags and tugs in the bedding, and the Fae sucks in air sharply, fond exasperation on his lips.
All he can do, is considers his life choices.
“Remarkable...” he mutters softly. “Truly. A man of discipline, composure, and –!”
Varka shifts again, hips moving in those short, sharp thrusts in sleep. Flins cuts himself off with a small, strangled sound, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before reopening with forced dignity.
“And apparently none of those things before breakfast.”
The Knight makes a low, pleased noise in his sleep, entirely unbothered.
One large, inescapable hand slides roughly along Flins’s side, settling again as if confirming the Lightkeeper is still under him. As if Varka intends to keep him there.
Flins exhales slowly through his nose.
Well.
Option one is no longer viable. Option two seems… optimistic.
Which leaves... Accepting his fate.
Not the best case scenario, given the throbbing in his backside.
A beat later, with impeccable, long-suffering calm, Flins tries a fourth option. He rolls his shoulders back, wincing when Varka twitches inside him, to try and get his lover’s attention. “Grand Master… I am going to need you to wake up.”
Varka does not.
Instead, the larger man just nuzzles closer, entirely content. He rolls his hips, groaning, and settles in like a man who has found the perfect pillow.
Flins huffs, and feels all the air in his lungs vacate in one harsh puff.
Defeated.
Pinned.
And, very reluctantly... Not entirely displeasing.
A groan in his ear makes him contemplate his place in the universe.
Then it happens all at once.
A breath catches. A muscle tenses.
Varka wakes.
There is a brief moment, where he is nothing but instinct and warmth, still half-dreaming, still wrapped around something soft and real and...
He freezes.
Completely.
Flins can feel it immediately. The sudden stillness, the way Varka’s entire body goes rigid like a man who has just realized he is about to be court-martialed by the Archons themselves.
“…Sir Varka?” Flins prompts, voice mild, though echoing from under the weight.
Silence.
Then, very carefully, very slowly...
Varka pushes up on his elbows, and looks around.
Looks down.
Processes.
“Oh – Fucking Archons!”
He jerks back, yanking his cock free with a squelching pop. It’s like he’s been struck by lightning, nearly tangling himself in the sheets in his haste to not be where he very much just was. The movement is clumsy and panicked, but also deeply earnest...
And entirely ineffective in preserving his dignity.
He falls backwards, on his ass. His black sleep slacks are around his thighs, erection still bouncing between his legs.
“I –! I am so – Flins, I didn’t – I would never –!” He stops, bites his lip, rubbing his neck. His face is burning as he stammers, “I mean – I would, but not – like that... Not without consent – like properly – and awake – I – argh!”
Flins rolls onto his back, and then pushes himself up to sit. He doesn’t really need to breathe, but he makes a show of taking a deep breathe.
Slowly, one corner of his mouth curves as he murmurs, “My, my... The legendary Knight of Favonious, a man of honour... Felled by his own morning instincts.”
Varka makes a strangled sound, dragging a hand down his face. “I am mortified.”
Flins agrees easily. “Justified.”
“I should have been more aware – more disciplined. This is completely unbecoming...”
“Mm.”
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Varka asks suddenly, all fluster dropping into something worried as he leans forward again, eyes big and searching.
That, more than anything, stills the humour in Flins’s chest. He softens, just a touch, and replies with certainty, “Not at all, Master Varka. I am fine.”
Varka breathes a sigh of relief, some of the tension bleeding from his stiff shoulders. Though the embarrassment remains, given the soft pink blush on his cheeks. That, it seems, is here to stay.
“I’m still – still deeply sorry.”
Flins studies him for a moment.
The flushed cheeks, and the rigid posture. The absolute sincerity of it. The Fae decides it’s best to have pity on fool.
“If it will ease your conscience,” Flins says lightly, stretching just a fraction where he lies, entirely unbothered, “I did not mind waking in such a way.”
Varka looks at him like a condemned man awaiting judgment.
“You didn’t mind?” the frazzled Knight repeats.
Flins hums, gaze drifting lazily toward the ceiling. “Not particularly. It’s… pleasant, in its way. I enjoy the feeling of being full.”
That does not help.
At all.
Varka’s blush deepens impressively, spreading down to his neck and some of his gold dusted chest. Now, with the better light, and far less insistent distraction, Flins lets his gaze wonder over his lover’s body. Varka’s chest is thick, with easily more than a handful of muscle to each pectoral. There’s a thin sprinkling of dark gold hair, which only gets thick nearing the V of his hips. The golden trail becomes a unique cross between hair and fur, and his massive cock is still flicking mildly in the Fae’s direction.
Flins licks his lips, apparently deciding to make things worse, and continues with serene composure, “Especially during certain points of the moon’s cycle. Cock warming takes the edge off.”
Gaze following Flins’s direction, the Knight flinches. He tucks his flagging length away, then tugs up his slacks.
There is a long silence.
Varka stares at him.
Flins blinks back, expression perfectly calm.
“You say… that,” Varka manages finally, voice a little rough, “with a level of composure I can only aspire to.”
Lips twitching, Flins replies, “I’ve had more time to practice.”
Varka huffs a quiet breath, something sheepish slipping into his expression as he rubs the back of his neck again. “Well,” he mutters, glancing aside before daring a faint, crooked smile, “next time, I’ll endeavour to be at least partially conscious while being… helpful.”
Flins huffs out a soft, surprised laugh. “Your dedication to improvement is admirable, Master Varka.”
“Mm...” Varka says, still faintly pink. “I aim to excel in all duties assigned to me.”
Their eyes meet.
There’s a flicker there – brief, warm... Aware.
And then Varka clears his throat, straightening slightly, some of that familiar, knightly composure clicking back into place.
“…We should likely get moving,” he says, gentler now. “If we’re to reach the ferry before the tide turns. I assume someone wants that cage removed.”
Flins sighs, though there’s no real complaint in it, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “Yes, yes. Duty calls. Tragic.”
“I was talkin’ about me!” Varka chuckles under his breath, rising to his feet. He’s still a touch flustered, still stealing the occasional glance like he’s not quite sure where to put himself now.
Flins watches him for a moment longer.
Then smiles, small and private, before finally moving to follow.
Their morning settles into motion as they ready themselves for the journey south.
It begins in quiet rustling of fabric, buckles, the soft clink of armour being fastened piece by piece. Varka dresses efficiently, though not without the occasional pause. The Fae can feel the glances over his shoulder, his perceptive lover always checking on him... Or perhaps the looks are less innocent.
Flins notices. Yet, he says nothing.
Instead, he takes his time dressing.
Where Varka is all structure and routine, Flins is fluid. Slow stretches, languid movements, the careful smoothing of dark fabric over ashen skin that still feels faintly aware of the night before. The difference is… notable.
The cold-forged cage remains. A quiet pressure between his legs, a reminder of the leash he still wears, self-imposed, of the power he does not use.
Flins pauses, fingers brushing lightly over his sternum. He skips over his pierced nipples, lest he reignite the flame too soon to deal with.
Last full moon, it had been unbearable.
A storm trapped in glass. Clawing. Suffocating.
Now?
Now, that pull is much quieter. A mystery he has yet to understand. His body doesn’t feel like he’s going to fly apart, or his flames bursting from the seams of his inhuman facade. The heat is not gone entirely, but certainly eased.
Like a fog that has receded just enough to see the coast again.
His gaze flicks, briefly, to Varka. Golden eyes sweep over the wild mane of blonde hair, the scar grazing his cheek, down the column of neck to his wide chest. The Grand Master’s armour is already in place, creating a visual V down to the monster hidden under white linen slacks. A puff of air shudders out of the Fae as he turns back to adjusting his cowl.
Perhaps not entirely a mystery.
“Are you alright?”
Flins startles. Not from the question, but from how close Varka suddenly is.
Hovering.
Again.
“I am,” Flins replies smoothly, offering a small smile as he attaches his lantern back to the clasp on his belt. The weight of his flame is a different sort of warmth, and a comfort as he adds, “You’ve asked me that three times, Grand Master.”
Varka frowns, unrepentant. “And I’ll ask a fourth, if need be.”
“Mm. You are a tireless protector.”
“I’m just being thorough.”
“One might call it, overbearing.”
“Concerned, maybe.”
Flins huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he adjusts his sleeve. “I am fine, Varka.”
Varka studies him for a moment longer, like he’s weighing the truth of it. Measuring something deeper than words at face value. Then, reluctantly, he nods, “Alright, fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced.
Flins pretends not to notice the way Varka stays within arm’s reach anyway...
~ ~ ~
Leaving the Favonious Keep is a quick affair.
Orders are given in low tones, though Flins still catches most of it as he watches a short distance away. Varka is efficient as he speaks with one of his knights, voice steady, all business now. There’s a brief exchange, a nod, a clasp of forearms. Trust easily given. Responsibility handed off while the Grand Master handles a personal matter.
This, too, is part of the Knight of Boreas.
Not just warmth and awkward sincerity, but command. Authority worn easily, without arrogance. It rather suits him.
When Varka returns to the Ratnik’s side, he hesitates only briefly before stepping close again.
“Ready?”
Flins tilts his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “I believe I’ve been ready for some time.”
“Right,” Varka says, clearing his throat. “Yeah. Of course. Let’s get goin’.”
And just like that, they leave camp.
Flins acknowledges the wary Lightkeepers staying at the entrance to the Keep, offering a nod. Piramida stands ominous in the distance, an unmistakable sentinel. The path to Voidsea Outlook winds along Dreadshade Mire, but they avoid any wayward monsters. The distant sea stretches vast and endless, dark blue swallowing the horizon, waves crashing in slow, thunderous rhythm against jagged stone. The air is sharp with salt, wind tugging at cloaks and hair alike.
Ahead, the pier’s lighthouse rises. Tall and solitary, its pale structure catching the morning light like a beacon carved from bone.
And beyond it, the ferry that will take them to Paha Isle. It’s a small vessel, but sturdy enough for a contingent of 20 men, with room. This early in the day, they will likely catch the morning tide, making their trip faster. They’ll easily save a few hours.
Flins inhales slowly.
The world feels… clearer out here. Less confined.
Even with the cage locked tight.
Varka walks closely beside him. Not quite touching, but near enough that the space between them feels intentional. Protective as a wolf with a member of it’s pack, ever watchful for his well being. Occasionally, annoyingly, attentive. More like a mother hen watching her chicks.
“You’re doing it again,” Flins remarks without looking at the larger man.
“Doing what?”
“Hovering.”
“I am not hovering.”
Flins glances sideways, lifting a brow in question.
Varka is, quite literally, adjusting his pace every few steps to match Flins’s, eyes flicking over him in quick, assessing passes. A few minutes of this pass, and Varka finally mutters, “I’m… monitoring.”
“Ah. Of course. Entirely different.”
“It is.”
“Mm.” Flins hums, lips twitching. A moment later, he adds, almost absently, “…I don’t mind.”
Varka blinks. “Sorry?”
Flins hums, gaze drifting back to the horizon. “The attention,” he says lightly. “It’s… not entirely unpleasant.”
Varka looks like he’s been handed something fragile and isn’t entirely sure what to do with it.
“…Oh.”
Flins’s lips curve, just slightly. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“No, I – I wasn’t planning to...”
“Good.” A pause, then the Fae adds, tone softening just a fraction, “…Though I suppose it does make this morning… easier.”
That catches Varka’s attention fully, and he asks, “The moon still bothering you, eh? Even in the day?”
Flins nods once.
Varka is quiet for a moment, thoughtful.
“I’ve read a few accounts,” he says slowly. “Old expedition logs, mostly, since Albedo can get excited sometimes. By scholars out of Snezhnaya...” he glances at Flins, gauging his reaction, before going on, “They mention Hyperborea, and... the Fae. They followed the first Cryo Archon. Creatures tied to cold climates, lunar cycles… heightened states during the full moon.”
Flins arches a brow, intrigued despite himself. “Go on.”
Varka exhales, a little self-conscious now, but committed. “They described it as… a kind of internal pressure. Like energy building without release. Some compared it to a storm under ice.” He hesitates. “Dangerous, if left unchecked.”
Flins’s steps slow, just slightly.
Accurate. Uncomfortably so.
“And?” he prompts.
“And,” Varka continues, more certain now, “the logs noted that proximity – a connection – could stabilize it. Physical closeness, emotional grounding… even something as simple as shared warmth.”
Flins lets out a soft, amused breath. “‘Shared warmth.’” he echoes.
Varka’s ears go faintly red. “I’m paraphrasing.”
“Mm. Scholarly, I’m sure.” Flins huffs softly, then adds, quieter this time, “They weren’t wrong.”
Varka looks at him.
“…You are from Snezhnaya.” the Knight says, not quite a question. He rubs the back of his neck, chews his lower lip. “Snowland Fae... It’s my – my best guess. You did say you’d tell me if I was right.”
Flins tilts his head, considering for a moment. It seems like he might deflect. Dodge this line of questioning. Turn it into something light and meaningless, as he does with most inquiries into his origins.
Instead –!
“…Farther north, actually.” he admits with a genuine grin. “Though most Fae have been scattered.”
Varka nods slowly, like a puzzle piece clicking into place. He returns the knowing smile.
“That would explain the cold affinity. The lunar response. Even your –” he gestures vaguely, searching for a word, but his eye land on the lantern on Flins’s hip. “– composition. You know, the purple flames coming out of your eyes.”
“How delicate of you.”
“I’m trying here.”
Flins smiles faintly. “I can tell, and I appreciate the compassion from such a valiant Knight.”
Soft colour spreads across the Grand Master’s cheeks again, and he averts his gaze as he clears his throat.
They continue on for a few steps in companionable silence. Voidsea Outlook looms closer now. The ferry rocks gently against the dock. Flins can make out a hand full of people already beginning to board. It seems they made good time through the mire.
“…Last night, when we... Umm – You said,” Varka stammers a little, huffs, then, “You said that usually your cycle is tolerable, but last full moon was much worse.”
Flins’s expression shifts. Subtly, as he replies, “Indeed. Since the Frost Moon came closer to Teyvat. Tonight will be the third full moon since then. Each has been... unpleasent.”
“But... this one isn’t as bad?”
“No.”
Varka exhales, relief dropping his shoulders. “…Then, I’m glad you’re not facing it alone this time.”
Flins glances at the Grand Master as they near the pier. There’s no teasing in the statement, and no awkwardness either. Varka is only genuinely glad for the Fae, not having to endure another excruciating full moon alone.
Something in Flins’s chest eases... Just a fraction more.
“… I, as well.” he agrees softly. The memory of his Knight’s words, murmured while half-asleep, are still fresh in Flins’s mind.
Didn’t think you’d ever look at me that way.
Didn’t expect you could trust me like this.
So glad you did...
The sea roars before them, while the chill wind pulls at their clothes. Side by side, the Grand Master and the Lightkeeper make their way toward the waiting ferry. Toward whatever comes next.
~ ~ ~
The ferry ride is… uneventful.
Blessedly so.
The vessel cuts cleanly through the dark waters, steady and sure, the rhythmic creak of wood and rope blending with the endless hush of the sea. Sea spray kisses the air in fine mist, cool against the skin, and for a time, neither of them speaks much.
Varka keeps close, though keeping a slightly less than respectful distance.
Not hovering. Monitoring.
Flins says nothing, though the faint curl at the corner of his mouth betrays him.
The crossing is swift and efficient. Before long, the distant outline of land sharpens into something solid. Something familiar... and waiting.
Paha Isle.
They disembark without ceremony. Leather boots meet damp earth. The ferry pulls away not long after, leaving them with the hush of wind through sparse grass and the distant cry of seabirds circling overhead.
Varka insists on a stop for lunch. Naturally.
“It’s been hours,” he says, already unfastening part of his pack. “You need to eat.”
“I need to reach my destination.” Flins counters lightly, waving a hand in dismissal.
“You need both.”
“I can assure you, I –!”
“Flins.”
It’s not stern. But it’s not negotiable, either.
Flins pauses, and considers. Like sleep, Fae do not need to eat. When in need of sustenance, his flame can adsorb nutrients from human food, and natural energies. He’s even taken Nod Krai’s kuuvahki into his lantern from time to time, when he didn’t have other sources available.
However, given the way his companion is staring, hands on his hips...
“Very well. But if I perish from delay, I expect you to take full responsibility.”
“I’ll carve it on your grave.” Varka replies without missing a beat.
That earns him a flat look.
And, eventually, a quiet huff of amusement.
Lunch is simple. A quick stop on a hill. Bread, dried meat, a bit of fruit. Nothing remarkable, but enough. Varka inhales his own rations, then watches the Fae eat with the same careful attention he’s maintained all day. Though the Knight at least has the decency not to comment every time Flins takes the tiniest of bites.
Progress.
They set off again soon after.
The path narrows as they move inland, winding through sparse brush and low, weather-worn stone. They only come across one Fatui patrol, and though Flins is willing to fight, his escort insists they go around. The wind changes direction, carrying the scent of salt and sea. The road eventually gives way to something quieter. Older...
Flins finally sees it.
Final Night Cemetery.
It rises ahead in solemn silence, rows of ancient markers stretching across uneven ground, their surfaces worn smooth by time and wind. Some even crumbling, but still remembered. There is no grandeur here. No ostentation.
Only memory. Only rest, for the ghosts that have not moved on as they chatter away about past affairs.
And beyond the graveyard, stands Flins’s home. The lighthouse glow is soft and familiar, and the Lightkeeper breathes a trembling sigh of relief as he takes that first step on the beach. The spirits watch their approach, broken graves filling in for his eyes only.
Varka follows his gaze, expression softening as he takes in the sight. “You’re finally home, Flins.”
Not a question.
The Ratnik inclines his head, something gentler settling over his features. “Yes.”
Home. Such a simple concept.
The lighthouse burns steady against the coming dusk, a quiet beacon against the darkening sky.
The full moon’s influence, so distant in the morning, has crept back in slowly. Insidiously. It’s threading heat beneath Flins’s skin, settling into his bones like a low, persistent fire. He can feel the sweat settling on his nape, and he plans to tie his hair back at the earliest convenience.
By the time the sun begins its descent, painting the horizon in golds and amber, it is… noticeable.
Unavoidable.
Flins huffs, fingers brushing at his high collar, muttering under his breathe, “So uncomfortably warm.”
Varka glances over immediately. “You’re overheating?”
“Not quite.” Flins says, though his tone suggests it’s a near thing. “Not in the normal sense, anyway. But we are… approaching that threshold again.”
Understanding dawns quickly on the Knight’s face. Varka straightens slightly, attention sharpening.
“Then we shouldn’t linger.”
Flins nods once, already moving again. Drawn forward now with quiet urgency.
The lighthouse glows brighter as dusk deepens.
The cemetery bares witness in silence.
By the time they reach the metal steps by the outdoor stove, Flins is no longer hiding it well.
The full moon’s arousal has returned in full. It’s different than the partial moon the night before, though. It’s not the sharp, overwhelming surge of the peak, but a slow, consuming burn that settles deep in his abdomen. In his spine. In the hollow of his loins where the cage presses tight and unyielding. The heat coils there, restless. Wanting.
His body starving to be full again...
The Lightkeeper’s steps falter once on the final stretch of metal ramp.
Just for a moment.
Varka notices immediately.
“Flins?”
“I’m fine.” Flins breathes, though the words come thinner now, strained at the edges. He straightens, draws in a steadying breath that does little to cool the flush beneath his skin. “Just… keep moving.”
The lighthouse stands before them. Tall, cold, and quietly imposing against the darkening sky. Its light turns slow and steady above, casting long arcs across the cemetery and waves below, like a watchful eye that never blinks. A signal for safety.
His sanctuary is so close.
Flins presses forward.
Each step feels heavier than the last, his body caught in that strange, aching contradiction. He’s sluggish and oversensitive all at once. His heavy clothing rubs both the right and wrong way against his skin. His legs tremble faintly beneath him, not quite betraying him, but threatening to.
Anticipation hums under his flesh.
The full moon hasn’t even fully risen yet.
And still... He aches for fullness.
For that moment when his Knight will press inside him, stretching his body to accommodate Varka’s massive cock. Or when the iron cage finally unlocks, loosening enough to breathe, and feeling something other than this tight, coiled restraint.
“…Keys.” he murmurs, more to himself than anything, already reaching for the door.
Then hesitates.
Ages old hospitality creeps in under the heat, and Flins glances back just long enough to acknowledge his guest. “Welcome to my home, Grand Master Varka.”
Varka flinches slightly, sky blue gaze widening before his face splits into a smile. “Glad to be here, Flins.”
A moment later, and the Ratnik locates his house key from a pocket in his coat. The lock turns with a familiar, worn click, and the door swings open. His boots are kicked off at the entryway, and the commander mimics the gesture.
And the moment the Fae steps inside, something in Flins unwinds.
Not entirely, but...
But enough that the huff of air he releases, is deeper. Rougher. Relieved in a way that borders on veneration.
The lighthouse interior is modest in size, but layered. It’s lived in, curated with a modest hand. The main floor is a single open room, circular by design, its curved stone walls reinforced with bands of dark metal that catch the lantern light in soft, muted gleams. The structure is old – older than most buildings still standing, but maintained with a precision that speaks of pride rather than necessity.
Industrial bones.
Aristocratic sensibilities.
A narrow iron staircase coils along the inner wall, leading upward to a lofted bedroom tucked just beneath the next level. A half-hidden space framed by dark wood beams and sheer, dark drapery that shifts softly with the sea breeze slipping through narrow, arched windows.
Below, the living space is arranged with quiet intention.
A low table sits near the center, its surface polished smooth, surrounded by mismatched seating. One sturdy, practical chair, and another far more elegant, carved with delicate patterns that curl like frost along its edges. A faint blue sheen catches along those carvings when the light hits just right. There’s a simple, though mostly unused kitchenette to the left of the table. Against the right wall, an organized workbench, lined with small tools, glass vials, and neatly stacked papers weighted beneath metal instruments. Functional. Precise.
Opposite, a narrow shelf holds objects that feel… older. It’s not clutter. Not decorations either.
But... Keepsakes.
Fragments of something carried forward through time. Things that Flins has collected and kept with him through the centuries.
Soft fabrics are layered where metal walls would otherwise feel too cold. Simple throws draped over the back of a chair, a rug beneath the table that dulls the echo of footsteps. The colours are muted: silvers, deep blues and violet, pale greys. Winter tones.
Moonlit tones.
Though only a few are lit, mixmatched lanterns hang at varying heights in the rafters above. Their glow softened by frosted glass, casting gentle halos that push back the encroaching dusk. Flins can remember attaining each one in detail. It took quite a while to find a lantern he felt comfortable in.
His sanctuary is not the grand halls of his past, nor is it large on any scale.
But it is his.
Flins barely makes it three steps inside before stopping. His hand braces lightly against the table, head dipping to hide his gaze in his wind tousled fringe.
The heat follows him in. Unrelenting, coiling tighter now that he’s no longer distracted by travel. The cage pinches firmly around him, holding, holding, holding... The strain of that restraint bleeds through him in quiet tremors.
His legs... Ah. There it is.
A subtle shake that’s barely visible. But entirely felt.
Varka steps closer immediately, firm hand at the Ratnik’s elbow as he says, “Sit down.”
Flins lets out a soft, breathless laugh, “So commanding, Grand Master.”
“Flins.”
There’s no room for argument in it.
Flins glances at him. He sees the open concern. He looks at genuine steadiness. At the way Varka has already positioned himself close enough to catch him, should another wave of dizziness hits him.
“Alright.” Flins concedes softly.
He allows himself to be guided to the chair. Not the elegant one, but the sturdy one.
Practical, always Varka’s first choice.
Flins lowers himself into the seat with care, sighing slowly as he leans back. His head tips slightly, eyes fluttering half-shut. “Just a moment,” he murmurs. “It will pass.”
Outside, the last light of day bleeds into dusk.
The lighthouse glow turns steady overhead.
And somewhere beyond the horizon, the full Frost Moon is rising. Flins can feel it.
In the pull beneath his skin.
In the tightening coil within his chest.
In the quiet, aching anticipation that refuses to be ignored.
Not long now...
When the tremor passes enough that the world steadies back into something navigable, Flins exhales and opens his eyes. Though it sounds like a concession more than a certainty, he says, “…I can move.”
Varka doesn’t argue. He simply steps in.
One arm braces around the Lightkeeper’s back, the other steady at his side. The grip is firm, in the way of someone who has already decided he will not let the Fae ever fall. Flins pushes himself out of the chair, though his legs take a few extra heart beats to catch up.
“Easy.” Varka murmurs.
Flins huffs, faintly amused despite everything. “You’ve said that several times today.”
“And I’ll say it again.”
“Of course you will.”
Still, the Ratnik leans into it. Just a fraction.
The climb to the loft is short, but it feels longer than it should. Each step is careful, purposefully measured. The narrow iron staircase curves slightly upward. Varka adjusts with it instinctively, shifting his grip when Flins stumbles, grounding him before it can become a misstep.
By the time they reach the top, Flins is breathing a little harder.
Not from exertion, but from that building pressure that has nowhere to go yet.
The loft is warmer than the lower level, the air touched by lingering heat from the day and the enclosed space beneath the beams. The bed sits low and wide beneath an array of mixmatched draped fabrics that catch the dim light from below, turning it soft and diffused, like moonlight waiting for its cue.
As they reach the top of the stairs, the loft is washed with amethyst and cerulean light from Flins’s lantern. It takes only a moment to unhook it from his belt, and let it hover it the air beside him. The flickering flames give a relaxing glow to his normally solemn bed chamber.
Varka eyes the floating lantern, but says nothing. He just helps the Fae sit on a heavy trunk at the end of the bed.
Then hover-lingers, as if unsure whether to step back or stay close.
Flins groans softly, tugging at the tall collar of his cowl. He doesn’t give his Knight long to debate as the Fae lifts a hand weakly. “There...” he says, gesturing toward the wall beside the bed, above the nightstand.
Varka follows the motion.
A thumb-sized iron key hangs from a simple hook on the wall. Its weight is evident even from a distance, dark metal catching the faintest glint of light.
The Knight goes still.
Truly still.
For a moment, he just… looks at it. Then his jaw tightens.
“Flins…” he says slowly.
Something in his tone pulls the Lightkeeper’s attention back to him fully. Varka doesn’t move to take the key. Instead, he steps back and runs a hand through his already wild hair, tension bleeding into every line of his posture.
“I –!” he starts, then stops, exhaling sharply. “I need to ask you something. And I need you to answer me honestly.”
Flins blinks.
Well. That’s new.
“…Alright.”
Varka turns to face him, expression open in a way that is painfully sincere. He gestures, not just to the key, but to Flins, to the space between them, to everything, before speaking, “This... Is this truly what you want?”
Flins blinks, the flames of his lantern flickering in confusion.
Varka continues before the Fae can answer.
“Because I know the moon is affecting you,” the Knight says, voice quieter now, but no less steady. “I’ve seen it. Felt it. You said it yourself – it’s way stronger than before. It builds, it pressures, it… changes things.” A soft sigh, and Varka runs his fingers through his hair again as he adds, “I don’t want to be someone who takes advantage of that.”
The words land heavy.
Varka’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“If this is your choice, then I’m here. Without question.” His hand curls slightly at his side as he speaks in earnest. “But if any part of this is the cycle, or the magic, or if the pressure is making the decision for you…” He swallows. “…then I won’t touch that key.”
Silence settles in the lighthouse loft.
And for a moment, Flins just looks at him.
Really looks.
At the conflict written plainly across Varka’s scarred face. At the restraint. At the sheer, stubborn integrity of a man who would deny himself, rather than risk harming someone under his care. The soft, half asleep confession from the night before comes rushing back to Flins’s mind, he wonders if this is Varka trying to protect his own heart... Despite his desire to aid the Fae like he promised.
Something warm blooms in Flins’s chest.
Not the moon’s heat.
Something quieter. Something that Flins is not sure he’s ever had a name for before.
“…You are remarkable,” Flins murmurs, almost to himself.
Varka blinks, caught off guard. “That’s – not an answer.”
“No,” Flins agrees softly. “It’s not.”
He shifts, slowly, wincing just slightly as he straightens, but his gaze never leaves Varka now.
“You’re not wrong,” the Ratnik continues. “The moon does influence me, like any other Fae. It always has. It heightens things. Sharpens them. Makes the edges harder to ignore.” He huffs slightly, pausing to gather the right words, then, “But it doesn’t create them.”
Varka goes still again, eyebrows disappearing into his bangs.
“What I want... is still mine.” Flins tilts his head, expression gentling as he adds, quieter now, “The moon simply... removes my ability to pretend otherwise.”
The words hang between them.
Clear and concise. Chosen with care.
Varka exhales slowly, like something in him loosens, but not entirely. “And this…?” he asks, “Right now?”
Flins’s lips curve, faint and soft, “Very much my choice.”
That should be enough.
It is enough.
And yet...
Flins watches the last flicker of doubt linger in Varka’s eyes. He sees the way the golden haired man hesitates still, caught between instinct and principle. Something in Flins shifts, and he realizes he has seen creatures like this before.
Not ordinary men. Or knights from far off lands. This feels like something older, and much more... Instinctive. Or rather, protective. A presence that watches the edges of the world, and quietly decides, with absolute certainty, that this is mine to guard.
A wolf at the edge of the pack. The one that stands last when something threatens what it has chosen.
Golden eyes soften as Flins murmurs, “Knight of Boreas…”
Varka’s attention snaps back to him.
Flins’s smile is small, but there’s something knowing in it now.
“The title suits you.”
Varka huffs faintly, a little breath of confusion. “I don’t see how that –!”
“I’ll explain it later. For now...” Flins says gently, eyeing the larger man through his nightshade fringe as he continues, “Just know that... If I did not enjoy you’re company, I would have never come to you in the first place. I want you here, with me, tonight. I trust you, Varka.”
That does it.
Varka nods once, firmly, with the resolve that he is so well known for. The doubt breaks wide open. Not completely erased, but quieted, settled into a steadier pulse.
“Alright.” He says as he turns, walking to the far wall.
When he reaches for the key, this time, he doesn’t hesitate. Varka pulls it from the wall’s hook, and it has barely settled into his palm when the air fluctuates.
Subtle.
But unmistakably feline.
Flins moves.
Slowly... Intentionally, each step a measured glide rather than a walk. Hips swaying with an ease that feels entirely unselfconscious, and yet deeply calculated. A quiet rebalancing of weight that feels less like walking and more like gliding. There is something feline in it now, something sleek and self-assured, like a creature that knows exactly the effect it has, and chooses not to hide it.
Like something that was never meant to be contained in stillness.
Varka turns just in time to see him approach.
And forgets, briefly, how to breathe.
Flins has already shed his outer layers as he approaches, and he’s reaching for the buttons of his shirt. It’s unhurried, almost absent in the motion, as though the heat beneath his skin demands it more than any conscious thought. Fabric slips from his shoulders, whispers against the floor, abandoned without a second thought.
A shiver races across the Fae’s flesh.
The lighthouse has always run cold. Stone and sea and wind conspire to keep it that way.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the Frost Moon’s chill only makes the contrast sharper.
Silver light begins to slip through the narrow windows, mingling with lavender flames. Thin at first, then growing, stretching across the floor. Climbing the walls, reaching for him as though it knows him.
As though it’s been waiting.
The moonlight caresses his bare chest and shoulders, lingering on the silver rings in his nipples. The faint sheen of heat clings to the Fae, turning visible in the cold air. There’s the barest hint of steam where warmth meets the chill, curling off his skin in soft, ghostlike wisps.
Varka’s grip tightens slightly around the key.
Flins notices instantly, and he reaches for the fastening of his trousers with a soft, smug grin.
Grey slacks hit the floor a heart beat after. He kicks them aside as Varka’s gaze slides down.
There is something inherently eloquent about Flins, even now... Especially now. Not just in the way he speaks, but in the way he exists. Pale, ashen skin, nightshade violet hair that graces the soft curve of his ass. Limbs that are trained for battle, yet fluid as he sways. Every motion is intended without seeming forced, every glance layered with meaning he doesn’t always voice.
Language, for Flins, has never been limited to words.
And yet...
Words are where he excels.
Where he shines.
“Tell me, Grand Master...” Flins murmurs, voice low and smooth, each syllable placed with careful intent. “Does the Knight of Boreas see fit to release me from my iron prison?”
The title lands softly weighted between them.
Varka sucks in an unsteady gasp.
Excitement flickers through the larger man, bright and defenceless, though clearly tangled with something else. It’s almost boyish in its nerves, in the way his shoulders square and then ease again like he’s not entirely sure where to hold himself.
His gaze briefly drops to the key in his hand.
Then back to Flins.
“Feels strange…” Varka admits, voice rougher now. It’s husky at the edges, in a way that makes Flins inwardly purr as the Knight adds, “Having this kind of power over you, I mean.”
There’s no arrogance in it.
No claim.
If anything, it sounds like he’s still trying to understand it.
The moonlight climbs higher, spilling across the Fae’s body. Catching at the corners of his gold eyes where the heat has gathered, leaving them bright, almost luminous. The faint, silvery patterns across his skin ripple each time he sways.
Flins closes the distance between them. He leans in that last inch, close enough that the space between them disappears entirely, voice dropping to something softer, more intimate. It’s threaded with that same quiet authority he’s held from the start.
“The only reason you have power over me,” he purrs, voice low and smooth as a polished gem, “is because I grant it.”
The words settle between them.
Not as submission.
Nor surrender.
Something far more delicate. A choice freely given.
Varka exhales slowly, the sound unsteady despite himself. The key is still in his hand, but he doesn’t move right away. It feels like a responsibility far greater than iron and lock.
But something else has changed.
The light.
It has shifted, and overtaken the lantern’s indigo. No longer the soft creep of dusk, but something brighter. Colder. The silver glow spilling through the narrow windows has sharpened, stretching fully across the loft now, bathing the space in unmistakable moonlight.
The full Frost Moon has risen.
Flins feels it the moment it crests.
Not gently. Not subtle.
It pulls.
A sudden tightening beneath his ribs, through his loins. The cage responding, straining, the pressure inside him surging like a tide slamming against a locked gate. His breath catches, shoulders tensing, fingers curling faintly at his sides as heat flares sharper, hotter, more insistent than before.
Flins’s gaze flicks to it to the key, his trapped cock heavy between his legs. The cold forged iron is so close to being removed, after far longer than anticipated this time.
“…Varka.” he huffs, softer now, but threaded with strain.
Varka sees it instantly.
The way Flins’s posture tightens, the flicker of less control in his eyes.
Something resolves in Varka’s expression.
That decides him.
“Then... Let’s set some ground rules now.” the Grand Master says, tone firm, the command settling naturally into place, “Before you lose your mind.”
Flins lets out a faint, breathless huff. It’s half amusement, half something tighter as he murmurs, “An excellent time to introduce structure.”
But he doesn’t argue, nor deflect. It’s actually rather prudent, given the Fae’s collapsing psyche. Were he alone, under the full moon’s light, his arousal would have fully taken his sanity by now. He would have already restrained himself, using the irons made from the same metal as his cage. His lunar cycle has become too strong to tolerate on his own, but with Varka’s imposing presence...
Sharing the warmth of connection, seems to be doing exactly what the Knight had described.
Flins needs that anchor to reality.
Varka steps closer. He’s not overbearing, but solid as he sets his hands on the Fae’s narrow waist. Huffing softly, he says, “First, if I do anything you don’t like, you tell me. Immediately.”
“I will.”
“No brushing it off. No enduring it just because you think you should.”
Flins’s lips twitch faintly. “You wound me. I’m not entirely self-destructive.”
Varka’s expression is serious and he intones, “Flins.”
The Lightkeeper shivers again, heat settling low. His name, spoken so... firmly. He vaguely wonders what his first name would sound like in that firm tone. Especially when he is so very nude, and Varka is still fully clothed, save for his boots.
Flins exhales slowly, some of the tension ebbing into something quieter. “Alright. I won’t ignore it. But you must understand something about me; there is very little I do not like.”
“Noted.” Varka nods once. Then, more carefully, he half whispers, “I just... I don’t want to hurt you.”
Flins tilts his head slightly, studying the taller man through the haze building behind his gold eyes.
“Hurt is… relative.”
“I mean it.” Varka presses, jaw tightening just slightly. “I’m not crossing that line. Not by accident, not because you’re caught up in this –!” he gestures faintly, encompassing the moon, and the steam still faintly on the Fae’s nape, adding, “And not because I misjudge what you can handle.”
Flins watches his lover. The insistence, the restraint, like Varka is holding on by a hair as well. The quiet refusal to take more than what is freely, consciously given.
“I… like pain.” Flins admits, softer now. Honest. “My tolerance is quite high.”
“I’m sure it is.” Varka replies immediately. “That’s not the point. I – I need to be sure.” He takes a deep breathe, and averts his gaze as he softly adds, “I’ve gotten... carried away before.”
Something in that – something so honest and open – settles deeper than the heat clawing through at the Ratnik’s body. His expression softens, and Flins sways his hips gently in the Grand Master’s large hands. Leather gloves rub against his bare hips, and shivers race up his back to settle in his shoulder blades.
“Then we establish... a limit.” Flins says, speech beginning to fray as the moon’s grip squeezes around his vertebra. “And you stay... well within it.”
Varka nods as he looks back to meet the Fae’s molten gold optics, adding, “And if you need me to stop?”
Flins exhales slowly, despite the storm under his skin, “Though I do not think it will occur, I will tell you.”
“Use a safeword.” Varka adds. “Something clear. No hesitation, and no confusion.”
Flins considers for half a second, then nods.
“Very well.” He thinks for only a moment, and offers the first simple word that comes to mind, “How about... Lakkaberry?”
It’s impossible to mistake.
Varka blinks, then chuckles. He repeats it once, committing it to memory like an oath. “If you say Lakkaberry,” he says quietly, “I’ll back off. Immediately. But... I hope I don’t push you so hard you need to use it.”
Flins’s chest tightens, not from the moon this time.
From something else entirely.
“I know.” he says.
And he does.
There is no doubt there. No sense of hesitation. Only the soft certainty that settles deep in his core. He knows Varka will see him through this cycle, and it will be much easier with a lover as giving as the Knight. Flins does not doubt his mind will loosen, and perhaps slip into the veil altogether, and using such a command will be difficult, but...
But he also understands they are still learning each other, and having a safeword will help alleviate Varka’s stress. Even if Flins does not think there will be a need for it.
The silence that follows is heavier now, but more grounded.
Flins draws in a slow breath, though it trembles faintly at the edges.
The moon’s heat is worsening. Razor-sharp, balanced on the edge already. He can feel it closer to the surface. Every nerve aware, every sensation heightened, the cage around him straining harder with each passing second.
He steps closer still, chest subtly pressing to the armour plate Varka still wears.
The movement is not as graceful this time.
There’s still that feline sway, but it’s edged now with urgency, with something just barely restrained.
“…I trust you, Varka.” he says in barely above a whisper, hands on his Knight’s chest as he looks up to add, “With more than just that key.”
Varka’s breath stills.
Flins holds his sapphire blue gaze. “But also with my pleasure.”
The words land like a vow.
Varka’s whole body straightens. Not rigid, but resolved, as he says quietly.“You have my word. I won’t betray that trust.”
Flins believes it with everything he is.
The moment stretches.
Varka lifts the key, letting it catch in the silver light.
Then his expression changes to something Flins might call wickedly playful. Not losing the weight of what they’ve just set, but mischief threading through it now.
“Alright,” the Grand Master says, a faint grin tugging at his mouth despite the lingering tension in his eyes. “Then I think we’re clear.”
Flins watches him, breathing shallow. The moon pulls tighter, serrated, the need beneath his skin becoming harder to ignore with every passing second.
Varka’s gaze flicks over him. It takes in the heat, the tremor, the barely-contained edge of it all.
“On your knees, little light.”
Flins’s body goes rigid.
The command lands firm. The iron key tilts in his lover’s hand, glinting like a promise.
“If you want your freedom,” Varka adds, voice low, steady despite the flicker of nerves still lingering beneath it, “you’re going to have to earn it.”
The tension coils tighter.
Then...
Slowly, the Fae smiles.