Chapter Text
A shoreline dusted in pale, where the sea met the land in a hush of blue and white. Wind scoured the rocks, carrying the brine of the ocean and the bitter sting of winter.
The land near the Final Night cemetery was quiet except for the sharp ringing of metal against metal. Claymore met polearm in rapid succession, sparks flying as each strike echoed across the frost-hardened earth.
Varka’s arms moved with the easy confidence of someone who had wielded steel for years, each swing precise but daring; Flins countered with fluid, deliberate motions, his body a study in restrained grace. Both were flushed, breathing uneven, and dangerously close. So close that the heat from their exertion seemed to blur the line between rivalry and something far more charged.
“You’re holding back again,” Varka called, grinning, the tip of his claymore slicing a swath of air that hummed with force.
“Come on, little fae, you can hit harder than that.”
Flins said nothing, his eyes half-lidded, calm and unreadable, but the slight tightening of his jaw betrayed irritation beneath the serene surface. Each clash of their weapons rang sharper, faster, until finally, with a deft maneuver, Varka straddled him, knees planted wide in the sands, massive hand wrapped around both of Flins’ delicate wrists, pinning them above his head with laughable ease. His other hand pressed down against Flins’ sternum, holding him immobile, not hurting but making it perfectly clear who was in control.
Varka’s breath was ragged, cheeks flushed, eyes icy-bright and hungry as he looked down at the fae squirming beneath him. “Gotcha!” he rumbled, voice thick with victory and something darker.
The Grandmaster’s claymore thunked into the sand just beside Flins’ head, a cold, gleaming threat, close enough that Flins could smell steel and wine and the warmth of Varka’s palm lingering on the hilt.
A slow laugh escaped Flins, low and deceptively soft. “Always so sure of yourself, Grand Master.” His voice held no heat, no challenge—just a careful, measured amusement.
Varka leaned closer, grin widening, breath mingling with Flins’. “That's because I’m right, sweetheart.”
Flins’ eyes, usually so guarded, softened. He met Varka’s gaze with quiet intensity, voice dropping to a hush that carried more weight than any shout.
For a heartbeat, the world contracted to that line, to the impossible, audacious intimacy it suggested. Varka froze mid-smile, his chest heaving from exertion and something else entirely.
Flins’ mind drifted even as his body lay pinned, breath coming slower now but still tangled with Varka’s warmth. He could feel the imprint of Varka’s weight on top him.
He remembered, as if tasting it again, how sharp Varka’s nose cut against the soft curve of his cheek, how the line of his jaw was so precise it looked sculpted, almost cruel in its perfection. There were scars, yes, marks that told stories of battles past, and Flins’ fingers itched to trace them, to learn each one intimately.
Sometimes, in quiet hours before the sun touched Nod-Krai’s sky, Flins would let himself imagine it—Varka’s face under his hands, the dominance of that claymore-wielding body relaxed, the weight of him entirely his to hold. And the thought that he could press himself down, claim that face, maybe even sit, and watch Varka surrender just a fraction. It was enough to make him flush, to make desire coil tight in his stomach.
The image lingered, unbidden and deliciously forbidden, and Flins had to bite his lip to hide the heat rising between his legs. It wasn’t cruelty he imagined, it was worship, the kind that made him ache, the kind that made the world shrink down to a jawline, a defined nose, a body that carried scars and stories, and the fantasy of having it all for himself, even if only for a single, trembling moment.
“You have no idea, Mr. Varka.” Flins murmured, “how distracting your face is.”
He said it softly, almost careless, but there was a dangerous honesty in the words—like a blade unsheathed just for Varka, meant to cut deep and sweet.
Flins let his gaze linger on the harsh planes of Varka’s face once again, tracing every scar, every story written into flesh and bone. His thumb, gloved in leather, fingers pale and precise, drifted up to graze Varka’s mouth, and the tension between them twisted tighter, sharp as desire itself.
That earned a low chuckle from the Grandmaster. “Distracting, hm?”
The sound of it, rough and amused, vibrated through Flins’s bones. Varka’s smile was both a challenge and an invitation, the kind that made Flins’s thoughts turn wicked, restless, impossible to cage. The world shrank to the heat of Varka’s breath, the teasing threat of that sword at his side, the tremor in Flins’s own muscles as he willed himself not to shiver with anticipation.
Flins’s thumb brushed the corner of his mouth again, slow, deliberate.
He drew the pad of his thumb along the cut of Varka’s lower lip, not quite a caress, not quite a threat. The intimacy was electric, stolen, the sort of thing whispered in the dark when no one else would ever know.
For a moment, it was all Flins could do not to let his hunger spill over, not to show just how badly he wanted to press Varka down and see him beg for more.
“Enough that I start thinking things I shouldn’t.”
The words hung there—weightless, waiting. Varka’s grin returned, softer this time. “Like what?”
For a single breath, time itself seemed to still. Flins looked at him for a long time, then smiled faintly, a rare and private smile that carried too much meaning to explain.
He held Varka’s gaze, letting all the unsaid things thrum in the charged space between them—the longing, the challenge, the promise of what would come next, if only one of them dared to reach for it.
Varka’s breath was still rough against Flins’ skin; his hands were braced beside him, fingers sinking into the sand. Flins looked up at him the same way he had looked at the sky, distantly reverent, as if studying something far older and more powerful than himself.
That thought alone was dangerous. It made his pulse beat too loudly in his throat.
Varka noticed it; he always did. The smug curve of his smile faltered into curiosity. “Come on, tell me. What is it?"
Flins’s lips parted, a quiet breath slipping out that could have been laughter or confession. He reached up then, fingers grazing the line of Varka’s jaw now, tracing the rough edge where old scars met the trimmed stubble. His touch was feather-light, the kind that invited a shiver more than it demanded one.
Varka didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it, his eyes half-closing as though the gentleness unnerved him more than a blade.
“I could have you quiet in a heartbeat, if I sat on your mouth and let you prove your devotion properly.”
"That’d keep you busy, wouldn’t it?”
Flins didn’t repeat himself. He only looked at him, eyes steady, expression unreadable save for the faintest lift of amusement at the corner of his mouth. That calm, that absolute lack of embarrassment, did something strange to Varka’s gut.
He’d faced countless warriors, stared down beasts, stared into storms—but never had anyone looked at him like that. As if the words had not been a joke, not even a dare, but a simple truth he’d have to reckon with.
Varka’s pulse thudded against the quiet. He leaned back slightly, searching Flins’ face for any flicker of hesitation. There was none. Only that cool, silvery calm, the kind that could make a man burn from the inside out.
And for the first time in their sparring sessions, Varka felt the balance between them tip. He wasn’t the one in control anymore.
His laughter faded into something quieter, more thoughtful. “You’ve got a dangerous mouth, Flins.”
“Do I?” Flins’ tone was mild, almost innocent, but the glint in his eyes said otherwise.
Varka exhaled through his nose, a smile tugging back at his lips despite himself. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “And I think you know exactly what you’re doing with it."
The air shifted again. The weight between them wasn’t physical now—it was in the stare that neither could quite break, in the knowledge that they’d crossed from jest into something heavier.
Then, with a whisper of winter wind, Flins shifted. Slipping from beneath Varka’s grasp in a single, fluid motion, as if gravity itself bent for him. The lantern at his hip threw fractured silver across the snow-pink sand, coat swirling as he rose and turned, spectral and precise.
Varka barely had time to breathe before the fae turned on his heel. Flins moved with that same otherworldly grace he always had, the lantern at his hip glinting like captured moonlight. His boots made almost no sound, barely marking the frostbitten earth. Every step impossibly light, disdainful of the weight of mortal things.
For a heartbeat, Flins glanced over his shoulder, yellow dim eyes flickering with the light of a hundred distant candles, his smile a pale ghost in the gloom. Then he walked on, leaving Varka standing in the silence, still tasting the wild, shivering echo of what had just passed between them.
“Walk away, then,” Varka muttered, more to himself than anyone. But the words lacked conviction. Every step Flins took tugged at something inside him, invisible and maddening, a thread drawn tight. He followed without thinking, drawn like a wolf on the scent, boots crunching softly as he left the shoreline behind.
The path wound up from the pink-lit shore, climbing past shattered ruins and blue-shadowed rocks into the old graveyard. Frost silvered the epitaphs, wildflowers glowed pale and eerie beneath the lighthouse’s beam, and clusters of candles guttered at the foot of ancient stones. Flins’s lantern bobbed ahead, casting ribbons of ghostly light over the steps and half-buried statues.
By the time the lighthouse rose above them, its beacon sweeping the world in slow, holy arcs, the air between them was no longer cold at all.
Flins stopped near one of the largest tombstones, half-buried in sand and surrounded by the silent gaze of spirits and the flicker of melted wax. He didn’t turn as Varka approached—he simply knew, the way one feels thunder before hearing it.
“Still following?” Flins’ voice came quiet, soft enough to sound almost kind.
“Didn’t realize I needed permission,” Varka rasped, closing the last distance. His hand hovered near Flins’ waist, unsure whether to pull or to brace.
“You don’t,” Flins murmured. Then he turned—fast, deliberate, his palm against Varka’s chest, pushing him back until cold stone met his spine, the altar biting into his back and the world narrowing to the heat between them.
The impact stole Varka’s breath. Before he could find it again, Flins’ mouth was on his.
It wasn’t gentle. It was hunger, distilled and sharpened, the kind that made the world vanish in a heartbeat. Their teeth met first, then breath, then the raw, unsteady rhythm of lips seeking something to consume.
Varka tried to speak, he tried to say Flins, or wait, or don’t stop—but each word dissolved against Flins’ mouth. When he did manage a sound, it came out rough, half-laugh, half-groan.
“You... hah!” His hand found Flins’ waist at last, gripping hard enough to feel the tremor beneath. “You plan this all along, didn't you?”
Flins pulled back just far enough to breathe, his eyes luminous, voice dropping into a velvet whisper. “Would it matter if I did?”
That question hit harder than any blow. Varka’s pulse thundered. His body leaned forward instinctively, chasing warmth, chasing the spark still lingering on Flins’ lips.
“Gods, you—”
“Careful, Grandmaster.” Flins’ breath fanned against his jaw, his words slow, deliberate, each syllable brushing like a secret against skin. “You’re starting to sound reverent.”
That single word—reverent—was enough to make Varka’s blood surge again. He caught Flins’ chin between his fingers, forcing him to meet his gaze. “And what if I am?”
Flins smiled then, soft, knowing, unbearably calm. “Then you’ve already lost.”
Varka’s fingers curled in Flins’ coat, grip unsteady now, as if he needed something to anchor him to the earth. His lips were tingling, raw from the force of their kiss; his breath came in uneven bursts. He tried to drag Flins closer, but the fae only smiled, the very picture of self-possession, lashes low and lips swollen from the bite of Varka’s hunger earlier.
For once, the Grandmaster’s voice was hoarse—stripped down, need bleeding through every syllable. “Speak to me more, Flins,” he managed, the words nearly a plea. “You can’t just say things like that and leave me to burn."
"Tell me. Tell me exactly what you meant, back there—about…"
Varka’s hands had curled into fists at his sides, jaw clenched. Even his breath sounded different now—less a warrior’s discipline, more a man brought to the edge. It was as if Flins’s words had cracked something open in him, and now there was no hiding what pulsed beneath.
"about sitting on my face.”
Flins’ eyes flashed, a delighted mischief shimmering behind the calm. He dipped his head, brushing his mouth across Varka’s jaw, not quite a kiss, more a provocation. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hands traced the scars along Varka’s neck, slow and thoughtful, as if deciding where to begin carving his confession.
“Isn’t it already obvious, Mr. Varka?” the fae whispered, his breath warm against Varka’s ear.
“I want to see you beneath me, looking up, with nothing to do but worship me.” His voice was smooth as moonlight and just as cold at the edges, every word calculated to make Varka’s control unravel. “I want to feel your hands gripping my thighs so hard you leave bruises—because you can’t help yourself."
"I would rather like to watch the pride on your face fall away, replaced by need."
He pulled back, just enough to meet Varka’s eyes. “That’s what I meant,” he finished, gentle but utterly merciless. “Do you understand now?”
Varka swallowed, throat working, his cheeks flushed dark and his gaze gone wild, like a man on the verge of prayer, or surrender. “Say it again,” he breathed, voice broken now, all bravado gone. “Please, Flins. Tell me again if it's truly what you want."
Flins smiled, slow and wicked, and bent to claim his mouth once more, already knowing Varka would do anything to hear it.
He didn’t answer him in words, at first. Instead, he let his body do the speaking, leaning in so close their breaths tangled, the cold forgotten between them. His thigh slid between Varka’s legs, pressing up until he felt the answering tremor in Varka’s frame. The Grandmaster, so broad and immovable moments ago, was suddenly pliant beneath his hands, chest heaving, lips parted as if waiting for another command.
“You want me to have you..." Varka murmured, "right here?"
Flins dragged his mouth along the rough stubble of Varka’s jaw, not responding to what he says, down to the sensitive hollow of his throat. His hand slipped lower, possessive, palming the thick muscle of Varka’s thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises.
Varka’s hands flew up, desperate now. Gripping Flins’ snatched hips, trying to haul him closer, hungry for the weight, the friction, anything.“I want you too,” he said, the words pulled out of him—rough, unguarded. “Please no more tease."
“Then, on your knees.”
The command fell from Flins’s lips like a spell, sharp and undeniable. Then, Varka only stared up at him, blueish pupils blown wide, lips parted, chest heaving. Then obedience took him; he dropped, kneeling in the brittle grass, massive and strong and suddenly, beautifully, at Flins’s mercy.
“Open your mouth, Grandmaster,” Flins whispered, his hand slipping behind Varka’s neck to steady him, thumb stroking the hinge of his jaw. “Show me how much you can take.”
Varka obeyed without hesitation, his mouth falling open, tongue wet and waiting. The sight sent a sharp, involuntary shiver up Flins’s spine, a low moan slipping out before he could stop it. He reached down, fingers deftly hitching up his coat and the long pants beneath, baring pale thighs to the winter air. The cold bit hard, slicing up his skin and making the heat burning between their bodies flare impossibly bright.
Flins climbed higher, knees bracketing Varka’s broad shoulders, pants down, robe rucked up, nothing between them now but raw need and the trembling thrum of anticipation. The world seemed to narrow, contracting to the warmth of Varka’s breath ghosting over him, to the dizzying rush of being worshipped, devoured, made holy by the mouth below. Every muscle in Flins’s body ached with want as he hovered there, just above that hungry, waiting mouth, suspended between command and surrender.
“Hold me,” Flins commanded, his voice gone rough, the edges frayed with need. “Don’t let me go until I say so.”
Varka’s hands closed around his thighs, callused and reverent, fingers splayed wide as if to anchor himself to the moment. As Flins lifted his hips and bared himself—his cunt flushed and glistening in the light, lips soft and swollen from arousal, winter air turning the delicate skin gooseflesh—Varka stared, thunderstruck. His breath caught, mouth parted, eyes fixed on the sight before him as though he’d never seen anything so sacred, so obscene.
There was a shine to Flins, a wet, perfect promise—slickness beading and glimmering in the flicker of candlelight, heat rising in waves from bare skin exposed to the cold. Varka’s pupils were blown, hunger and wonder warring in his expression; the awe in his gaze was almost childlike, almost holy, as if every battle and hardship in his life had been nothing but prelude to this.
“Never,” he swore, the word muffled as Flins sank down, burying Varka’s mouth in the heat and slickness between his legs, claiming what was his, making Varka forget the world.
The Grandmaster groaned, the sound deep, vibrating straight through Flins’ core. Varka’s tongue was greedy and insistent, tasting, worshipping, desperate to please, every movement a confession of how much he wanted, how much he could give.
Flins’ fingers, one still gloved, tangled tightly in Varka’s tousled blond hair, gripping hard for balance and control. The contrast, cool leather against warm scalp, dark fabric buried in pale gold, made Flins shiver, hips rolling forward until there was nothing left but sensation: sharp, overwhelming, perfect.
Every breath Flins took was a gasp, half-plea, half-command, the kind of sound that only came from being utterly seen, utterly wanted. His composure frayed with every pass of Varka’s tongue, the cold and the candlelight making it all feel dangerously real.
“Such a devoted Grandmaster," Flins managed, voice rough and breaking, yet still sharp with authority. “All that strength, and you’d rather have your mouth full of me.”
Varka answered only with another low, ruined moan, his big hands tightening around Flins’s thighs—pulling him down, keeping him there. His mouth was relentless: tongue working Flins open, lips slick, drinking down every trembling sound Flins gave him. Flins, knuckles pale in blond hair, held on as if Varka was the only solid thing in a world,
The world spun—cold stone beneath, but all Flins could feel was heat and the helpless, glorious way Varka worshipped him, surrendering completely at last.
The cemetery seemed to exhale around them, the wild air heavy with the aftermath of heat and the faint glow of scattered candles. For a moment, they lingered—Flins stood tall and unwavering before him, one leg braced on the stone, coat falling open around pale thighs flushed with heat, while Varka knelt below, face buried hungrily between his legs. Flins’s gloved hand tangled tight in the back of Varka’s blond hair, holding him exactly where he wanted, guiding the movements with slow, ruthless control, never letting him pull away. Varka’s mouth worked feverishly over Flins’s cunt, tongue sliding deep, then flicking in relentless circles over the swollen clit, breath coming in hot, desperate bursts against slick, trembling flesh. Spit and arousal smeared across Varka’s lips and chin, each greedy suck and messy slurp met with a sharp roll of Flins’s hips, grinding down harder, using Varka’s mouth for his own pleasure. The pressure of Flins’s grip, the trembling of his thighs, and the way he rocked against Varka’s face made the world narrow to heat, taste, and sensation—Varka’s groans and choked, out-of-breath moans vibrating straight into Flins’s core, while Flins’s fingers just tightened, determined to wring every last tremor of pleasure out of the hungry Grandmaster kneeling, helpless and lost, at his feet.
“Th—air’s... hnng—getting cold, dear..." Varka’s voice came out low, gravelly with need, but there was a tremor of impatience beneath the gruff words. "hhh... can we... ngh—move to... somewhere... mmm—privater?” The sounds were filthy, hungry, pure worship, broken up by the frantic press and slip of Varka’s mouth, spit and arousal smeared across his lips and chin. Flins kept his grip tight, rocking against Varka’s face, breath catching every time Varka moaned.
Flins tilted his head, mouth quirking with a familiar, chilly amusement. “Grandmaster, you do remember I don’t feel the cold, don’t you?” His voice was soft, almost teasing, but his eyes glittered with intent.
Varka let out a short, half-exasperated laugh that faded quickly into something more pleading.
“Yeah—mmm,..b-but I... ah—can, Flins.” so ragged it barely counted as speech, just raw hunger and surrender, until all that was left was the trembling, unbroken rhythm of tongue and slick and the wild, helpless sounds echoing off cold stone.
Candlelight flickered across Flins’s face, catching and sharpening the silver in his gaze. “Alright..."
Beyond lay a short flight of stone stairs, steep and narrow, leading down into darkness. There was nothing ornate about it, just slabs rough-hewn and cold beneath their feet, the descent quick and utilitarian. The air changed with every step, from the sharp bite of winter to a cool hush scented with ink, paper, old wax, and the faint iron tang of secrecy.
At the bottom, the basement opened into Flins’s private domain. The basement was wide and dim, every inch claimed by Flins’s quiet chaos: shelves packed tight with books and reports, stone ladders propped here and there, and candles guttering low on every surface.
The heart of the room was Flins’s worktable, its surface scattered with loose papers, ink bottles, a battered lamp, and stray stacks of notes that had spilled into the cracks and shadows. Old wax puddled along the flagstones, and the air was heavy with the scents of melted tallow, ancient paper, and something sharper—intimate, wild.
Flins watched Varka with an amused stare, the low candlelight flickering across the sharp planes of his face as he shrugged out of his coat, letting it fall in a heap over the back of a forgotten chair. Only his top remained, hem skimming his hips, leaving his thighs and everything below them bare and luminous in the candle glow. Without a word, Flins moved to the worktable and lifted one leg up, boot braced on the edge among the scattered ledgers, tilting his hips forward with deliberate invitation. His cunt glistened in the low light, flushed and exposed, still leaking from spit and pussy juices, every careful breath parting the slick lips, the cool air making his skin prickle and glow.
He looked down at Varka, a crooked, knowing smile curving his lips, shadows pooling in his eyes. “Well? Are you just going to stare, Grandmaster, or are you going to show me what you’re good for?”
The silence that followed was thick. Varka’s mouth parted, icy blue eyes wide and starving, hands hovering in the space between them, as if afraid to touch and break the spell. His composure shattered in an instant. He dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor, the sound echoing between the tall shelves, and leaned forward until his broad shoulders pressed up against the edge of the worktable. He bent his head, cheek and jaw settling onto the table among candle stubs and stray sheets of Flins’s reports, his arms rising to circle Flins’s hips for support.
For a moment, he looked almost undone, the weight of want and reverence pulling him down, ready to let the world burn to ashes if only he could stay right there, beneath Flins, waiting to be used.
For a moment, Flins taking in every inch Varka offered, one hand braced on his own knees to steady himself, the other already curling into Varka’s hair, ready to pull him in close.
Flins wasted no time, stepping in to stand above Varka’s bowed head, one leg still up on the table for leverage. He tangled a gloved hand in Varka’s thick blond hair, guiding his mouth up between his thighs, holding him steady and exactly where he wanted him. Candlelight danced on the mess of notes, their shadows trembling with every roll of Flins’s hips as Varka pressed his mouth and tongue eagerly to the heat and slickness before him, breath harsh, moans muffled by skin and flesh and the solid weight of Flins’s grip.
All around them, the books watched silently, paper and wax catching the tremble of bodies and the unrestrained sounds of pleasure echoing in the dim, wild sanctuary.
Varka’s massive hands closed around Flins’s hips and thighs, fingers splayed wide, holding him tight and hauling him down closer, making sure Flins’s cunt pressed right to his mouth. Even as his mouth worked hungrily—tongue lapping, lips sucking, nose buried deep—Varka tried to speak, his voice muffled and broken by slick heat and need.
“F-Flins...mmn...so fuckin’ beautiful, gods—ahh... need you, need to taste you more, c’mon—” His words tumbled out between licks and gasps, breath catching as Flins ground down harder against his face. He moaned shamelessly, the sound vibrating up through Flins’s core, the air in the room thick with sweat and praise and candle wax.
“That’s it, Grandmaster,” he breathed, voice a dark purr, “don’t stop—talk to me, tell me how much you want it.”
Varka’s arms flexed, hauling Flins in even closer, pressing nose and mouth deeper into wet, swollen heat. “Wan’ all of you, fuck—mmph... can’t get enough, never...never could, please, just—let me have it, let me have you—taste so good..."
His mouth and tongue never stopped moving, every praise and plea tangled up in the worship of Flins’s body, the drag of his stubble and the reverent way his arms locked Flins in place. Each word came out choked, slick, and desperate, as if Varka could only say what he felt by speaking right into Flins’s skin.
Flins’s breath stuttered, his thighs starting to tremble. “Good. Use your mouth, Grandmaster."
Varka groaned, nodding against Flins’s cunt, tongue plunging deep, voice thick and almost ruined. “More—gimme more—please, Flins, ride me, use me—ahh, taste so fuckin’ sweet—”
The words blended with obscene sounds, his hands never letting go, his worship desperate and raw, every bit of him intent on pulling Flins down, drowning in him, making Flins shudder and gasp and finally break apart above him.
Flins’s gloved hand stayed tangled tight in Varka’s thick blond hair, holding him exactly where he wanted—rooted there, as if Varka’s head was just another piece of furniture to brace against. Having a face like Varka’s between his thighs was its own kind of violence. Every time Flins pressed down, he could feel the blunt strength of Varka’s jaw flexing under his palm, the warm scrape of stubble scraping along his inner thighs, and the sharp bridge of that ridiculous nose grinding relentless circles into his clit. Varka’s tongue worked lower, licking into his cunt with heavy strokes, working his tongue, tracing the sensitive ring of his womb entrance, making Flins shudder so hard his hooked leg nearly slid off the table.
It was too much—being held open, helpless, by those thick hands gripping his hips, his thigh burning with strain as he tried to keep himself upright. The leg he’d hooked over the table was starting to shake, muscles tight and slick with sweat, but there was no way he was going to let go. Not with Varka’s mouth worshipping him like this, not with every rough, greedy lick sending sparks straight through his spine.
He felt everything—every flex of Varka’s jaw, the desperate way Varka breathed him in, the hot, helpless groans Varka made whenever Flins’s grip tightened or his hips rocked forward just right. Each time Varka’s nose dragged over his clit, Flins’s vision blurred, pleasure running sharp and sweet through him, his whole body shuddering in response. He let himself lean into it, head thrown back, a low, broken moan tearing from his throat as his control frayed and the room shrank to nothing but Varka’s mouth and the way he was being worshipped, wrecked, and loved all at once.
Flins’s voice rang clear and composed, every word carefully enunciated even as his breath shuddered. “Right there, Grandmaster. Truly, I’m impressed—your mouth was made for obedience....."
"....Do not stop. Not unless you wish to start from the beginning.” A sharp gasp escaped him, but he never lost that courtly arrogance, letting his hand tighten in Varka’s hair. “It’s remarkable, the way you apply yourself so completely."
Varka, hands gripping Flins’s hips and thigh, tried to answer, the words stumbling out between frantic licks and sucking breaths. “You.... taste so good—Flins...slrpp...want you, want all of it—hngh, let me...please—” His voice was thick, honest, each word forced between labored breaths, the need in him raw and unhidden.
Flins tilted his hips forward, pressing Varka closer, every muscle drawn tight. His voice lowered, velvet-smooth and cutting as ice. “Yes, beg for it. Tell me how desperately you crave this. I should like to hear every detail—how it feels to be undone by me, to have your mouth occupied and your mind emptied.”
Varka’s moan was helpless, the words broken but fervent. “Need it. Gods, need you, Flins. Let me make you feel good....want you to cum for me, right here, please..."
A quiet, almost scholarly laugh slipped from Flins’s lips. “You’re utterly devoted, aren’t you? Grandmaster of Knights, now on your knees in my private place. What an exquisite fall from grace. Very well—earn your reward. Make me shatter for you, and perhaps I’ll allow you more.”
Varka only groaned in response, worship written in every trembling sound, his big hands locking tighter around Flins’s hips, holding him steady, pulling him down until there was no distance left to close. His tongue and lips worked Flins mercilessly toward the edge, the sounds between them growing wetter, more frantic. When Flins faltered, wavering on that trembling thigh, Varka’s voice rumbled up, barely above a growl, his mouth dragging along those slick, swollen folds.
“Yeah, keep sit on me...” he managed, words muffled and rough with need. His lips pressed a kiss to the fluttering entrance, then he pulled Flins down, harder, voice broken and pleading, “Use me... more...”
With that, he dove back in, tongue and nose buried deep, leaving Flins no choice but to surrender every last shiver and cry to the hungry, relentless man on his knees beneath him.
Flins shuddered, fingers clutching into Varka’s thick hair for balance, trying to fight the instinct to pull away even as his thighs quivered with the urge to press closer. He looked wrecked already, mouth parted, eyes hazy, but when Varka groaned against him—when that tongue circled his clit and tugged it gently into his mouth—his hips rocked down without thought.
Varka only helped him, one hand flattening over Flins’ lower back, the other spreading him wider, pressing him down as if daring him to smother him. His tongue was relentless, lapping and teasing, then thrusting in deep, then back to flick and suck at the swollen bud until Flins cried out.
The sound made Varka’s cock ache painfully, but he didn’t care. He could stay there forever, pinned beneath him, devoured by the taste and scent of Flins
“Mmh—so fuckin’ good…" he groaned against wetness, voice vibrating right into Flins’ core. "Flins… don’t stop... ride me..."
At first, Flins tried to keep his composure, hips shifting only a little as if the smallest movement would betray too much. His gloved hands tightened in Varka’s blond hair, tugging lightly, testing how far he could let go.
But Varka’s mouth didn’t allow restraint. His tongue dragged broad and slow from base to clit, lapping him open, then focused sharp and fast—flicking, circling, sucking that swollen bud until Flins’ thighs shook. Each groan that rumbled out of Varka’s chest vibrated straight into his pussy, making his balance falter, making his body beg faster than his mind could argue.
The gloves creaked with the strength of his grip as Flins yanked hard at Varka’s hair, his body arching in the low candlelight. He stood at the edge of his worktable, one leg hooked up and bent at the knee, bare thigh stretched and trembling. His other foot pressed to the cool stone floor, giving him balance and leverage as he ground down, hips moving in frantic, hungry jerks that smeared slickness over Varka’s chin and lips.
Every moan Varka gave was swallowed into Flins’s flesh, the sound rough and starved, his mouth working hungrily, tongue and nose dragging in time with every desperate roll of Flins’s hips. Varka’s grip only tightened, dragging Flins down, pinning him harder to his face, refusing to let him escape the pleasure or the humiliation of being so exposed.
Flins broke, the last of his composure falling away. He started to ride Varka’s face with wild abandon, each thrust losing all restraint, hips rolling with a desperate, messy rhythm. His voice spilled out in stuttering, breathless yelps, every syllable clear and cutting even as it frayed into gasps.
“Gods—yes, don’t stop, not for a moment—Varka, you… ah, you’re going to ruin me… Is this what you want? To watch me fall apart like this, right over your mouth?”
He clenched tighter in Varka’s hair, head thrown back, the arch of his throat offered up to the flickering dark.
“Such devotion, Grandmaster. I ought to keep you there all night… Have you truly no shame, kneeling there, drinking down everything I give you? You want more? Take it, then—take everything.”
His words tangled with moans, breath hitching as Varka’s tongue drove deeper.
"Yess.. give it to me... hhh.." Varka’s murmured as his nose grinding hard into Flins' clit. The leg on the table trembled violently, threatening to slip as pleasure overtook him. In the wild, flickering light of the basement, Flins let himself be loud, let the pleasure echo against stone and shelves and books, knowing that, here, he could break apart and be remade as many times as Varka’s mouth demanded.
"Its sooo goodh..." His thighs trembled around Varka’s head, the wet sounds loud and obscene as his soaked folds spread over Varka’s mouth.
The control he fought so hard to keep slipped entirely. His hips jerked faster, rocking against Varka’s face with abandon, each movement dragging him closer to the edge. His voice cracked on a cry, gloves fisting tight in golden hair as if to anchor himself against the storm building inside him.
Then it hit him. A strangled sob tore free as his body convulsed, slick gushing in hot waves that soaked Varka’s mouth, his jaw, his neck. It spurted through the friction of his own grinding, leaving his thighs trembling violently.
“Ah—ahh, Varka—don’t—don’t stop, gods, I’m.... oh, lord of our savior—ngh...!”
His words tumbled out wild, caught on sharp, gasping breaths as he shook and writhed.
“Yes—yes, like that, right there, gods, I can’t—can’t—ohhh... I’m coming—!”
Each sound broke higher, sweeter, raw with the humiliation of losing himself so completely, pleasure wringing every last syllable from his lungs.
Slick gushed out in hot, uncontrolled waves, soaking Varka’s mouth, jaw, neck—spattering down Flins’s own trembling thighs, splashing across scattered papers and wax stains on the table. The wet, sticky mess only made him cry out more, a chorus of sharp, ruined whimpers and sobs echoing off the stone.
Varka groaned beneath him, drinking it in, his mouth and tongue working hungrily as if he’d never let Flins stop. His arms locked him down, refusing to let him lift off even as his pussy pulsed and spilled, making everything wetter, messier, filthier.
Flins’s body finally gave out, legs buckling as the last waves of orgasm rolled through him. He collapsed forward onto the table, barely catching himself with shaking arms, chest heaving against the litter of scattered reports. His head hung low, hair falling loose in sweat-dampened strands around his flushed, ruined face, breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps. Still, he refused to let go—his gloved hand clung desperately to Varka’s hair, as if the world might spin away if he ever released that anchor.
As Flins melted over the table, both knees slid up to the edge, thighs spread wide to either side of Varka’s head, pinning him firmly in place. Varka looked up at him from between those trembling legs, blue eyes gleaming with wild satisfaction, a crooked grin painted across his slick, messy mouth. Gods, he looked utterly in his element—his nose, jaw, and even his neck glistening with Flins’s release, and still he kept lapping, tongue working in lazy, greedy circles as if Flins’s wrecked cunt is his favorite meal in the world.
Beneath him, Varka’s nape throbbed where bone met table, but he bore it gladly—mouth full, grinning, and utterly unwilling to let go.
The first squirt left Varka dripping, his face soaked, hair sticking to his temples where the gush had splashed over. He licked his lips, groaned deep in his chest, but didn’t pull back, didn’t complain. If anything, he looked proud—hungry—for more.
But Flins, still quivering in the aftermath, managed to blink down at the man caught between his thighs, a rare sliver of embarrassment threading through his haze. He could feel just how tightly his knees were trapping Varka’s head, how he’d ground down with every last desperate spasm, heedless of Varka’s comfort—how Varka’s nape must ache from the pressure, the edge of the table biting in.
With effort, Flins loosened his grip in Varka’s hair, fingers trembling as he stroked them through the sticky, tangled blond. Drawing a slow, ragged breath, he summoned what composure he could, and, in his most courtly, breathless drawl, murmured, “My apologies, Sir Varka. It appears I may have been somewhat... overzealous with your face just now.”
He tried to shift his weight back, muscles still shaking, hips lifting up just enough to let Varka finally breathe. “Let me—ah, give you a moment, at least,” he managed, voice barely above a whisper, the syllables slipping between apology and command. “It wouldn’t do to drown you here, no matter how admirably you’ve acquitted yourself…”
For a moment, Varka just gulped air, chest rising with a rough, greedy inhale as Flins’s trembling body finally let him go. He blinked up through lashes matted with slick, lips parted in a wolfish, ruined grin. The ache in his nape and the rawness on his jaw didn’t bother him in the slightest—if anything, they seemed to make him even prouder.
He let out a short, rumbling laugh, voice thick and gravelly with both pleasure and bravado. “Overzealous? Not even close, Lightkeeper,” he rasped, tongue darting out to catch another taste from his upper lip. “You’ll have to try much harder if you really want to break me.”
His hands stayed clamped on Flins’s thighs, thumbs stroking bruises into pale skin as he leaned forward, not giving an inch. “Honestly, I could do this all night. But if you want to apologize—” he lifted his chin, that grin never fading, “—I wouldn’t mind another round. Or ten.”
He looked up at Flins, eyes wild and shining, proud of the marks and the mess, the pain and the pleasure all mingled together. “So what’s it going to be, Flins? Wanna letting me to keep eat you up all night?"
Flins, breath still catching, managed a slow, sly smile, the air of a man feigning composure even with his thighs shaking. “If you think you’re up to the challenge, Grandmaster, I won’t deny you the privilege. Just do try not to drown yourself.”