Archive of Our Own

A touch is a peculiar thing.

It's a necessity on most occasions and done out of impulse on others. Fae don't need to touch. They have other means of feeling and understanding the world. Their flame fuels their heart; their mere existence. It's a cold flame that bears little warmth, yet it brightens the dark night as any candle would.

The Belyi Tsar once said the Fae lacked a soul and could never comprehend why the Heavenly Principles chose humans over dragons, who were far superior in many ways. Flins gave these musings little thought. Maybe he should have, for when he touches the Young Master, the world seems to shift and his consciousness with it. Strange impulses arise, and with them, desires that are as illogical as they are fascinating.

It makes Flins curious.

And that's maybe the scariest thing of it all, for when his interest is piqued, most of the time, a new obsession is born.

Flins has often seen this kind gesture; a hand on the hip, the waist, or the shoulder to alter someone's path. It’s a simple act of guidance and care as humans steer their loved ones out of harm's way. It should be nothing unusual, yet when he does so to Illuga, it feels different.

The first time Flins finds himself in this predicament is on a battlefield. It’s an unconscious thought, and merely the fastest way of getting between the Young Master and the Wild Hunt creature without stirring suspicions of Flins’ nature. Or so he tells himself.

So, gripping Illuga’s hips and spinning them around to block the incoming attack is logical. Yet the moment Flins’ hand lands on the Lightkeeper, the warmth that seeps from Illuga’s body through his glove makes him lose some of his focus. His hand stays on that spot, glued to the hip, as his spear cuts through the ligaments of the creature before him, one-handed. The contact is only broken after Illuga summons his trusty companion Aedon, and the sudden bright light disorients Flins.

Illuga is furious and scolds Flins terribly after the fight. Blames him for obstructing the mission and for putting himself into harm's way. It is endearing, as always.

Flins tries to appease the captain with flattering words and outlandish excuses, even though he knows Master Illuga will take none of them—to see those big expressive eyes flicker with annoyance and rage is another delight Flins indulges himself in, although he knows this one must be consumed in moderation.

When Flins touches him again, weeks later at Piramida, however, Illuga’s reaction is an entirely different one. They are strolling through the market together. Illuga, too engrossed in his little list, marches straight into the path of two lightkeepers coming their way. As soon as Flins’ hand lands on the Young Master’s hip, tugging him out of harm's way, and squeezing ever slightly around that enticing bone beneath soft muscles, the Ratnik jumps out of his embrace as if pierced by a scorching blade. Illuga’s ears and face are painted in a beautiful crimson hue that Flins has never seen before, and the young Captain’s heartbeat thrums like a fleeing Rimehorn Deer's hooves.

Flins does not get scolded that day, and in addition to this disappointment, Illuga keeps a firm distance from then on. If he has to put a measure to it, he’d say about an arm's length, for he is unable to easily reach him when he wants to.

It is a Lightkeeper's duty to file paperwork for every mission, be it small or big.

Admittedly, this is the one thing Flins tries to weasel his way out of ever since joining their ranks. It’s one of the many reasons he hides and stays secluded at the cemetery. Claims to have not done any “jobs” while roaming the fields and doing the exact opposite. Making the wanted notices disappear without a trace on Nikita’s case board. Luckily, the man doesn’t bother to investigate. He knows of Flins’ happenstance and ignores his ways.

Sadly, Illuga does not. The Young Master keeps a firm grip on his squad and an ever firmer grip on procedures. His diligence gets Flins into trouble with the stubborn man more often than not whenever Illuga takes over one of Flins’ cases. On the bright side, Flins gets to stay in Illuga’s vicinity once more, for the captain’s office is small and hands are bound to touch when doing paperwork.

Passing a pen, or a file—Flins wastes not a single opportunity to brush against Illuga. He enjoys these small, fleeting connections happily until he’s presented with the Young Master holding a file for him to clarify.

Flins lays his hand upon Illuga’s while feigning to read, though he’s distracted by the way his palm wraps so easily around the slightly smaller hand. For once, Illuga’s fingers are not covered in leather, and Flins suddenly dislikes the material around his own, for he wants to feel the texture of that light skin; the calluses from wielding a spear, the scars that run across the backs of his knuckles and fingers. Flins is unfamiliar with such things, as he heals too quickly for heavy blows to matter. The warmth that their embrace brings is delightful, but not nearly enough.

As Flins’ grip tightens around their entwined fingers, he feels the soft flow of warm air tickle his skin before he registers the words directed at him.

“Sir Flins, please let go of my hand.”

His tone is flat, yet his eyes are anything but. The red in the enclosed blue shines brightly with determination. Illuga does not retract his hand, but he also does not back down with his unspoken command through his fierce gaze.

Flins steps back in dread as the moment is lost, letting the sensation vanish with it.

Maybe he should file more paperwork from now on. It’s a silly thought, but if it gives him an excuse to touch Master Illuga again.

Logic has apparently long evaded his mind.

When Lightkeepers celebrate, they do it properly with plenty of liquor and food to fill their starving bellies. While Flins discreetly hands over the food to his lamp, the liquor does flow down his throat, for it tastes of very little and tingles, warm, in his chest in the most curious manner.

Naturally, the alcohol has no effect on him, but he’s grown accustomed to acting as if it does. A little trip over his nimble feet here, bumping his mug against his fellow Ratniki over there, only to casually shuffle closer to the Young Master on their bench while feigning ignorance of said man’s tension.

The moment his knee touches Illuga’s, the man freezes. The conversation Illuga’s holding momentarily stops before he continues, albeit with a subtle tremble in his voice. The small organ in the Young Master’s chest flutters like a little bird. It almost seems fragile by how it spikes with every further press of Flins’ thigh against the Ratnik’s own. He could listen to its thrumming for hours, but sadly, there is always some fellow who drags the Young Master away, be it one of his squad members or Nikita himself.

It’s a pity, really, and whenever it does happen, Flins’ stories tend to steer into the darker side, for his mood has most fascinatingly soured.

Flins doesn't care much about his appearance, but has long learned that it is wise to keep himself reasonably tidy when walking among humans.

Having his clothing stained in the bright purple of the Wild Hunt’s remnants strikes fear in most people’s hearts—be it a Ratnik or a mere citizen. As such, whenever he’s fighting against the ever remaining threat on Nod-Krai’s soil with his comrades and the Young Master, he takes his time to collect himself and tidy his appearance.

He’s seen other Ratniki help their comrades in arms straighten their coats, or wipe away some blood—so why not do the same? Surely it’s not so unusual?

The moment he lays his hand on Illuga’s cheek, he realizes his error, for the Young Master looks shellshocked. Big eyes widen. Flins sees fear, confusion, and anxiety—possibly in that order—he isn’t entirely sure. The reaction is so strong it takes Flins aback, awkwardly tucking his hand away against his side. The purple stain is still on Illuga’s cheek. It bothers him, but he’s too startled to reach out again.

“I apologize, Master Illuga. I merely tried to wipe away the Wild Hunt’s remains from your cheek. I did not mean to frighten you.”

Illuga blinks slowly as if contemplating something before he replies. “Where?”

Flins does not move. His eyes take in the battle-worn human before him. Clothes drenched in the blood of their enemy, a nasty gash on his right arm, which will probably leave another scar. It angers Flins to the point where he wants to keep the headstrong Ratnik away from fighting the dark horde, but he knows better than to go against the man’s determination—it’s, after all, the trait he admires most about him.

“Here,” Flins says, pointing to his own cheek to mirror where Illuga needs to focus.

Illuga does so rather clumsily, with the back of his blood-stained glove, smearing more purple goo all the way down to his jawline.

“Ah…now it’s gotten worse,” Flins comments.

Illuga bristles delightfully, shooting him a glare before demanding that Flins help.

How could he refuse?

Flins removes his glove before he touches the captain's cheek again, marveling at the feel of the soft tissue under his cold skin. Illuga flinches for a moment but holds still as Flins rubs away what has stained his precious human. All the while, Illuga’s eyes stare into his own—the colours so bright and enticing. The blue of its outer circles rivals the sky, and the red center reminds him of the blood the young man spills so willingly for his homeland. It taints the lovely feeling Flins holds into darker thoughts, and he lingers—longer than he should—letting his thumb run over the same spot over and over again.

His hand’s temperature has long adjusted to Illuga’s heat, and he delights in how the warmth spreads slowly from his fingers to his palm, to his arm…

“Sir Flins?”

“Yes?”

“I think that’s enough,” the Young Master states abruptly before turning on his heel, leaving Flins standing where he is, staring at his hand as if he’s never had one to begin with.

The warmth vanishes all too soon as the north wind picks up, and Flins realizes for the first time that night that he might not want to continue living if that warmth ever disappears one day.

Flins does his best to keep his head straight, as the expression goes.

Once he’s realized the extent of his feelings that lie behind his curiosity of touching the Young Master, he also comes to the conclusion that their connection won’t bode well. He lives a long life, while the young Lightkeeper does not. Attaching himself to the little human is like calling a death sentence upon his mere existence. Why would he do that? It doesn’t make sense. Yet his flame burns—it longs for the warmth that it lacks and is so easily given to him by this mortal.

So he does what every confused fool in love does: he avoids seeing the person of his affection. He steers clear of Piramida, files no paperwork, and ignores the knocks on his door out of fear it might be Illuga—even though he can perfectly sense who’s beyond that steel frame.

Flins’ actions make little sense, for it only draws Illuga’s attention to him more than he means to.

A Ratnik who does not place any supply orders? Suspicious.
A Ratnik who does not answer the call of his comrades? Questionable.
A Ratik who does not hand in the paperwork after clearing a case? Unacceptable.

The latter might have been the last straw for Illuga to show up unannounced on his doorstep (he does love his rapport a little too much for Flins to find himself jealous over dead wood).

“Sir Flins, are you avoiding me?” Illuga says, arms crossed, a stern expression on that lovely face.

“Goodness, what a horrible thought, whoever might have planted that idea in your—head?” He almost said ‘pretty little head’ there, but caught his tongue before it slipped past his lips.

Illuga squints, and Flins knows this look well: he doesn’t believe a word he just said.

“You, actually. We need to talk.”

Flins’ shoulders slump ever so slightly. The Young Master is very adept at deducing things, so why would Flins’ behaviour this time be any exception?

“Very well.” He retrieves a jug of water and a couple of cups from the lighthouse and places them on the table facing the dark sea. Illuga takes a seat and pats the stool next to him, indicating for Flins to follow suit. He’s reluctant to do so but eventually complies when the red iris in the Ratnik's eyes flickers and a stern ‘Sit!’ follows.

“Why are you avoiding me, Sir Flins? Was it something I said, or did?”

“On the contrary. It has nothing to do with you or what you did, but merely with my realization of—things.”

“What…things?” Illuga demands, irritation heavy on his tongue.

Flins sighs, leaning back in his chair. He seizes one of the cups for support, just like humans do whenever they feel nervous or vulnerable. He’s surprised when it does little to comfort the tightness that spreads in his chest.

Spelling out the truth might be too uncomfortable right now, so he’s opting for a white lie. Maybe Illuga will not see past it this time.

“I just realized how fleeting life is, and it made me question my life’s choices and lack thereof. I think Nikita called it a midlife crisis once?”

Illuga looks at him like he’s grown a second head, and then starts laughing wholeheartedly.

“Really? You want me to believe you’re having a midlife crisis at what? Thirty?”

Flins gives him a flat look in response.

“Sorry, not thirty then…but you don’t look much older than twenty-eight so—”

“Try older,” Flins mocks.

It’s a curious feeling that suddenly emerges from the depths of his existence. It’s the playfulness of a Fae coming to the surface. A Will-o’-the-wisp who wants to rope his target into a guessing game before parting with his treasure. The wicked expression must have shown on his face as the Young Master stills and looks at him in earnest.

Seconds tick by until Illuga guesses, ‘forty?’

And Flins throws him a look that says try harder.

Illuga curses under his breath and starts handing Flins number after number, to verify his age, their count rapidly increasing. All the while, the Lightkeeper wears an expression of determination that makes the Fae in Flins want to tease the mortal some more.

Little does the Fae know that two can play this game, as Illuga fires a ‘You’re not human, are you?’ after he reaches ‘one hundred and twenty’.

Flins’ joyful expression vanishes as he finally admits, “Indeed, I am not.”

There’s an awkward pause, and Flins guesses that this might be the end of their encounter. Surely the Young Master will now part ways with him, steering clear of what is inhuman?

“So?” comes Illuga’s very unexpected reply.

Flins is confused. “I just told you I’m a being that transcends the human limitation of age, and you go ‘so’? Goodness, Master Illuga, next thing you claim to care greatly about, little old me, to the point where you come running to my humble abode just to check on me.”

“Oh, don't get me wrong, I am shocked! It just doesn’t change the fact that I do care greatly about you to come running, as you so eloquently put it.”

There is a subtle smile to the reply, like Illuga’s mocking him, and Flins doesn’t know what to say to that. The Fae in him is quiet. His feelings, however, run rampant, silently urging him to ask more.

“Go on,” Flins says.

“What you’re feeling is real. Doing what we do—fighting against the Wild Hunt—it’s not easy. It gnaws on our souls, our devotion to the cause. And I guess it might be even worse for you when you’re….” Illuga struggles to find the right words and eventually settles on “when you’ve lived for a long time. The burden of outliving your comrades must be a heavy one.”

Flins’ gaze softens. “You are very wise for one so young,” he chuckles, and Illuga’s ears turn a lovely shade of red. He reaches for a cup as well, presumably for comfort, and Flins chuckles. He hopes it does work for Illuga.

They sit there for a while until Flins asks, “Master Illuga, I have a request.”

“Sure, whatever it is…” Illuga hesitates, eyes wide as he continues, “actually no, I’m not letting you suck my blood if that is your request!”

“Goodness no, why would I do that?” he replies, genuinely surprised. “I wanted to try putting my head on your shoulder.”

“Are you that weary, old man?” Illuga jabs at him with a little smile on his lips.

“Perhaps, or perhaps this old Fae has never felt the comfort of an offered shoulder before.”

It’s not entirely true what Flins says, but it’s not wrong either, as he longs for Illuga’s presence—his warmth, the feeling of his body next to him. He does, however, not expect Illuga’s heart rate to spike before the man scoots over in a rush, with his chair in tow.

“What squad leader would I be if I could not lend my shoulder to a Ratnik in need. It’s all yours, Sir Flins,” he says and pats his own shoulder reassuringly.

Flins may have cracked a smile at that. He’s not entirely sure anymore, as he lacks control of his facial features out of sheer excitement. As his head hits the fur of the captain's coat, Illuga’s thrumming heartbeat draws him in. Flins’ head rises and falls with the steady intake of air from the Captain.

When Flins closes his eyes, he feels a calmness that’s hard to describe, as if for a moment the world stands still. It’s similar to his slumber centuries ago; a state of utter peace and tranquility.

They stay like this until the sun peeks over the horizon, warming their cold skin from the long night at the graveyard.

At one point during the night, the Young Master's head had found the top of Flins’, warm cheek resting upon a blue crown of hair.

"This is nice," Illuga says.

And Flins has to agree, it truly is.

Ever since that fateful night, Illuga comes by regularly.

It’s always under the premise of needing a mission report or simply bringing supplies. Flins doesn’t mind since Illuga always stays the night until the sun comes up.

They usually talk about their worries. Mostly Illuga, about his insecurities as a Captain, the pressure he puts on himself, and the fear of losing his comrades. Flins mostly listens, sharing his thoughts and offering reassurance when needed. Flins’ nature comes up at times, but only briefly. Illuga never pushes for any answers about who or what Flins is exactly.

He makes the mistake of showing Illuga his little lamp trick with the food, and to his absolute mortification, the Young Master attempts to put his finger into the azure flame a moment later. Illuga laughs it off after seeing Flins’ shocked expression and promises not to touch the lamp and its fire again.

Little does he know of the nature of Flins’ flame. That it is a living and breathing part of him, and to have his flame getting a taste of the young Ratnik’s flesh, awakens impure thoughts. Flins does his best to keep them at bay, but Illuga makes it very hard for him to do so.

“You don’t have a heartbeat?” Illuga says one night and proceeds to put his head on the surprised Lightkeeper's chest.

“You don’t breathe?” he exclaims and snatches Flins’ face between his hands, bringing it impossible close to his own for verification.

“You don’t have a single scar?” Illuga shouts and nearly tries to disrobe him.

At this point, Flins barely holds it in anymore. No amount of ‘Master Illuga, please!’ dampens the young lad's curiosity. It rivals his own obsession weeks prior with his touches, only now Illuga has taken over the reins as Flins struggles to keep him at bay.

Where the Young Master holds back his questions about Flins’ origin, his hands do not rest to unravel what mystery lies behind the Lightkeeper’s perfectly arranged facade. As they sit in close proximity again one night, Illuga offers him his lap to lie on. He claims that if Flins has not known the comfort of one's shoulders, he surely doesn't know the comfort of a lap.

Obviously, Flins has not, but before he can refuse, he gets pulled down by the lining of his coat. His vision is soon filled with the night sky framing the Young Master’s exciting face.

He shall let the indiscretion slide, for the feeling of comfort is indeed heavenly. Illuga’s fingers find his forehead, brushing away the blue strands that usually threaten to obscure his vision. The touch is light, and Flins can’t help but stare into the enigmatic eyes of the person he adores the most.

But those fingers do not stop there. They start to frame his face, sliding past his ears, over his cheeks, to his jawline. If Flins were human, he’d probably swallow at the novelty of such intimate touch, but alas, he’s not, so he lies there in anticipation of what is to come.

“Sir Flins, have you ever kissed before?” Illuga asks. The question is light, almost a whisper in the cold night.

Flins contemplates for a moment, wondering how it’ll be best to answer. He had no interest in dabbling with anyone in the Snowland Fae Court several centuries ago, nor did his interests get stirred later on when walking among humans. That is, until now. The offer, or at least he hopes it’s an offer, is far too enticing to ignore.

“...As a matter of fact, I have not.”

Illuga's thumb brushes over Flins’ lower lip.

“Would you like to try?” Illuga finally asks, and Flins’ azure flame almost threatens to break through his carefully arranged human disguise.

Illuga expression is unexpectedly neutral. The only thing that betrays his possible excitement is the light flutter of his heartbeat. Flins does not answer, but instead reaches for the Young Master’s face, coaxing him to follow his lead and seize what they both so ardently desire.

Their lips meet tentatively, and Flins wonders whether it’s Illuga being considerate of his inexperience or if the Young Master has never done so himself. The thought of Illuga doing anything like this with another mortal fuels his flame of jealousy. His composure slips for a moment, and Illuga gasps into his mouth as blue flames flicker to life, catching his eye.

Flins freezes, locks into place, expecting Illuga to run away, or worse; look at him in horror. But instead, Illuga smiles like he’s just seen the most incredible thing.

“Oh! Are you the Azure Flame? The one who guides lost souls home?” Illuga asks with almost childlike wonder, not letting the blue flames out of his sight.

“Goodness, Master Illuga, where did you hear such a silly thing?” Flins says, voice light, feeling incredibly relieved to still bask in Illuga’s presence.

The young Ratnik reaches for his face. He intensely studies the little flames that flicker with every light touch of his fingers. Flins could hide them, collect himself again, but seeing Master Illuga be so enthralled over it, stokes his playful nature anew. He teases him a little by letting the flames lick over, until they gradually enclose Illuga’s hand as he’s cupping the Fae’s cheek.

“My Mother. She used to tell me about the Azure Flame when I was little. It’s funny how I hardly remember her face, yet I remember this story very vividly—It is my favourite.”

Flins hums, bringing Illuga’s hand to his lips, kissing it softly.

“You are my favourite too,” he states.

It’s then that Illuga jumps him, pressing their mouths together eagerly. His hands cling to Flins’ overly intricate coat before they wander off to his hair and yank him down by force. A human might have felt pain from the rash action. Flins, on the other hand, revels in the fierceness he gets devoured with.

His face flickers. The flames break through again, but Illuga doesn’t care. Flins’ mouth gets pried open before an eager tongue pushes against his own, and hungrily traces the roof of his mouth. The sensation is delightful, and Flins groans in return.

“Flins,” Illuga breathes out, breaking away for air.

“Yes, Master Illuga?” he gleefully asks while mapping out the slender neck of the Ratnik with his mouth.

Illuga moans into him, pressing his body impossibly closer. “Take me to your room, please.”

Illuga is barely able to finish his sentence before a storm of black and blue engulfs him. Flins whisks him away through the night into his little abode. He’s so eager, he forgets for a moment that the Young Master might not be accustomed to his unnatural speed, and indeed, Illuga looks rather green when he lays him down on the bed.

“Master Illuga, are you okay?” he asks, his worry springing to life like a newborn Fae.

Illuga blinks at him before Flins gets yanked down the second time tonight. The Lightkeeper soon finds himself pinned to the mattress, with an eager-looking Illuga straddling his hips.

“There is just one surprise after the other with you, isn't there?” Illuga mocks. “Any more tricks you’d like to share with me before I die of a heartattack?”

“I apologize. It’s hard to stay calm in your presence,” Flins states plainly for once.

Illuga regards him with a look that’s hard to decipher. He almost looks pleased.

“I’m going to undress you now, and while I do so, your hands will stay above your head. No touching allowed.”

Flins does as instructed, but not without a mocking reply. “How cruel of you to deny me the pleasure of tasting your skin.”

His Master’s lips twitch, transforming into a wicked smile that makes his fire burn harder. He ignores Flins’ remark completely and yanks the protective coat open instead. The breast armor is unclipped and removed faster than Flins can come up with another snarky comment. The black shirt doesn’t last either, landing unceremoniously on the ground next to the pile that is Flins’ usual daynightwear. All the while, Illuga looks like he has the time of his life, and who is Flins but a smitten Fae to spoil such a joyful expression?

As his pale skin is exposed to the cool air of his room, Illuga takes one of his nipples into his mouth. It tickles as the soft tongue laps over it. Flins barely feels the suction, but the heat that comes from their contact has him throwing his head back in ecstasy.

Oh, how he longs to touch his Young Master.

He must have voiced his desire out loud because Illuga chuckles around his light pink nipple before biting it hard, punching a guttural moan out of Flins.

“In due time, Flins,” he says while kissing and biting his way up to the Fae’s neck. “See it as retribution for teasing me all those weeks ago.”

“How cruel,” he spews, but it’s a lukewarm complaint at best, and Illuga knows it. The Young Master’s mouth has found Flins’ as he licks into him, letting him explore the warm confines of his partner. He does so eagerly, biting that enticing bottom lip before Illuga slips away again, traveling south, where his pants threaten to burst.

The way Illuga unbuckles his belt and pulls down the garment with ease makes it abundantly clear that this is not his first time. Flins’ possessiveness awakens anew. Fae do not like to share, especially not beautiful and rare gems like this one. But before his jealousy can take flight, Illuga takes his length into his mouth.

Flins chokes out a startled “Master Illuga, you musn’t—” only to receive a roll of said man’s tongue over the tip and a deliberate pump with his hand.

Oh, to die a human’s death.

Flins has heard of the little death that mortals call an orgasm. He knows the technicalities, yet he’s unsure whether his body can replicate such a thing. But with Illuga so eagerly wrapped around his shaft, gripping him so tightly, he’s pretty sure he’s going to combust any second now.

The Young Master, blissfully unaware of his struggles, continues with his delightful assault. Sucking him in while letting his tongue dance around the tip. Another moan escapes Flins’ lips, torn from his throat. It’s a startlingly raw sound, one he’s very unfamiliar with.

As the suction increases, so does Flins’ need to touch the Young Master—just the tip of his hair, or the soft planes of his cheeks. The urge grows incredibly strong until, with a soft pop, Illuga’s mouth leaves his hard, and very much leaking, form alone.

Flins stares at the captivating face that is the Young Master. Pupils blown wide, face flushed, and lips glistening from his earlier endeavour.

“Please,” he begs, half delirious with want.

“Begging now, are we?” Illuga unbuckles his own pants, throwing them on the pile on the floor, his bulge clearly visible through his underwear.

“For you, anything, Master Illuga.”

Illuga stills for a moment, a slight frown on his pretty face. He gets up without a word and starts rummaging through Flins’ shelves until he’s found what he’s looking for: a vial of oil.

Flins is curious as to how this will go. Whether he’s going to have the honor of opening Master Illuga up or if he’s bound to watch again. Both options sound terribly delightful.

Illuga pushes him down again before removing his harness over the white turtleneck. A curious sound leaves Flins. It almost sounds like a whining dog in heat. Illuga chuckles at that.

“Patience, Flins, you’ll be able to touch me soon.”

“I fear if this continues any longer, I might perish from waiting, Master Illuga.”

There goes this expression again. Illuga frowns, just for a moment, before he continues what he’s doing, exposing light skin, flushed at times, and marred at others. Illuga’s scars look like enclosed veins, like the many gems in Flins’ possession. They are as beautiful as the human that has him straddled in all his naked glory.

“Hand,” the god-like creature on top of him demands, and Flins follows like he’s under a spell. His fingers get swallowed, taken in that little mouth, and deliberately coated in saliva. The sensation is sadly over too soon, as Illuga guides his hand to the cleft of his round buttock.

“You’re allowed to open me up. Do you know how to?”

“In theory, yes.” Flins’ fingers brush over the puckered rim of muscle, and Illuga, on top of him, shivers.

“Yes, that’s it. You’ll need the oil to make it all soft, so I can take you in—All of it.”

Fins likes the promise of that. Without further ado, he pours plenty of the silky liquid down the cleft of Illuga’s rear, massaging the tight entrance until it quivers. A single finger sinks in, engulfing it with the impossible warmth of a human’s body. Illuga moans softly, eyes closed as he pushes himself against Flins, urging him on to go deeper.

Flins nearly chokes out a startled profanity in Fae. He can’t continue doing this while lying down. He sits up, eliciting a sudden yelp from Illugas, as he sinks to the base of Flins’ digit. Flins’ other hand finds the Young Master's nape, gripping it with all the gentleness he is able to muster, and kisses him deeply.

Illuga melts into him, hands roaming while he fucks himself on Flins’ finger. Soon, a second and a third follow, stretching him open. It's mesmerizing how the heat of pleasure paints rosy patches on Illuga’s skin. He’s panting in Flins’ mouth between kisses, clearly enjoying the feel of the Lightkeeper’s knuckles buried deep inside of him.

It is then that Flins finds a curious spot. It's a subtle swelling, and as soon as he presses against it, the Young Master lets out a guttural sound that has Flins on the edge of insanity.

“Yes, right there!” Illuga huffs before letting out another moan.

Flins’ erection is as hard as a rock, but he's in no hurry to sate his own desire just yet, far too enthralled with the Young Master's display of pleasure. He wants to swallow every gasp of air, lick every drop of sweat away. After the third time of massaging the curious spot, Illuga tightens around his long fingers and comes loudly all over his stomach. Flins watches, enthralled, as white liquid spills forth in little gushes until eventually dying down, and with it the Young Master’s little cries of satisfaction.

Flins kisses Illuga’s damp forehead, rosy cheeks, and the small bridge of his nose until he reaches soft lips. The younger Ratnik kisses him back lazily, looking content and slightly exhausted from the onslaught of his orgasm.

“You did well,” he compliments Flins.

“I strive to please, Young Master.”

Illuga frowns again, but this time he finally voices his irritation. “Stop it with the Master nonsense. Call me Illuga, please."

“How can I when you are the Master of this poor fool's heart?”

Illuga rolls his eyes. “You know there is a time and place for jests, Sir Flins, and this clearly isn't it.”

Flins chuckles and snuggles into their embrace. “As you wish, Illuga,” he breathes against the shell of ear, seeing it flush to life. “Would you like me to continue with my fingers, or are you craving a different kind of sensation?”

Illuga groans. “You and your way with words.”

“Are they not to your liking?”

“Oh, they are, you get me all horny talking like that. Do you want me to help you get it up—” Illuga shifts, reaching with his hand for Flins’ dick, only to stare at the still very much hard erection. It's slightly blueish, but not from loss of blood and more from the fires that burn excitedly below his skin.

Illuga blanches, “Archons, are you in pain?”

Flins laughs, “Why would I be?”

“Because it's—it's… It’s blue like your fire, isn’t it?”

Ah, Illuga seems to have connected the dots.

“Indeed, it is.” Flins takes the little flask of oil and coats his dick with the rest of it for good measure. “Is this enough?” he asks, deliberately innocent, basking in the pleasing reaction on Illuga’s face—slightly parted lips, pupils zeroing in on the oil making its way down to the base, and color springing back to life on his cheeks.

Excited hands wrap around him, gliding along his length and tracing the tip. “You’re right, if this continues any longer, I might die too,” Illuga whines, sinking into Flins’ embrace, noses touching, lips but a breath away from each other.

“We can’t have that,” he says, leaning in, catching that enticing bottom lip before trapping Illuga under him. Flins spreads him apart, legs parting willingly and swiftly, exposing a glistening pink hole. His tip sinks in easily, and this time, a curse clearly falls from his lips.

The fire beneath his skin basks in the heat of Illuga’s body. Flins attempts to push deeper, but a slight resistance makes him hesitate. He tries to pull back, but lean legs hold him tight.

“It’s alright, you won’t hurt me,” Illuga encourages him.

Flins isn’t too sure about that. The heat around him feels divine, but he’s reluctant to push further if it means hurting the Young Master.

“I can adjust myself to your liking,” Flins groans, almost pleading.

Illuga blinks at him, and then, to Flins’ surprise, the pressure around his hips grows. Strong legs threaten to crush him if he’s not sinking down into Illuga’s welcoming heat while blue eyes glare at him.

“You can do what?” Illuga grits out.

Oh, how Flins likes the infuriated gaze of his little light. How needy he is, and how much he yearns for him.
The frustration he wears sends deep tremors into Flins’ fiery core.

“Let me just catch my breath so I can adjust—oh!”

Words evade him as half his length gets suddenly swallowed by the furious Ratnik. Flins moans out of delight, feeling that telltale prickle of his fires rejoicing under his skin.

“Lucky for me, you do not need to breathe!” Illuga mocks.

He still looks angry, but there's also that spark of playfulness behind the blue and red of his eyes that Flins wants to tease some more.

“Is that a threat or a compliment? I can't really tell with your legs promising to break my back if I dare move in the wrong direction.”

“A little bit of both, and don't play coy, Flins. We both know I wouldn't be able to break a bone in your body even if I wanted to.”

“You are underestimating your strength, my dear Illuga,” Flins goads, but catches the little gasp of air that leaves the Young Master's mouth upon hearing his name. He playfully rocks into him, ever so slightly, and Illuga’s glare immediately softens. His eyes flutter, his bottom lip quivers, and his heart rate skips a few beats to Flins’ delight.

“And you—ah—are underestimating my ability of—uh—”

With every roll of Flins’ hips, Illuga grows more breathless. The gleeful Fae inside of him revels in the display of vulnerability. But Illuga does not like getting played with for long.

“Flins, stop teasing me!” he insists while catching his breath. The glare is back, and Illuga’s legs try again to make the Fae go deeper. To take the last plunge, but Flins wouldn't be Flins if he'd give in so easily to his little light’s demands.

“Why would I ever—” he starts, but gets interrupted by Illuga spewing the most unsettling nonsense he's heard tonight.

“I’ve taken bigger,” Illuga states, like it’s the most casual thing.

Flins freezes, and then his fire breaks free. It turns his impassive face into a bizarre mask of black and blue.

“Who?!” He hears himself snarl, too shocked and angry at the thought that someone might have hurt his precious gem. Even more shocking, however, is Illuga’s reaction. His eyes light up, lips form into a beautiful smile as he reaches into the smoke and fire that is Flins’ contorted visage.

“There you are. Now give me your all, your everything.”

It's but a whisper, and Flins immediately folds. His fire retreats as their lips meet, melting against each other. He finally gives in and pushes his length further, past that tightness, past his own restraint, and oh, the reaction is marvelous. Illuga moans into their kiss, fingers sinking into Flins’ shoulder blades, leaving crescent moons in his wake.

“Yes, that's it! More! Deeper!”

Illuga urges him on, with every rock of his hips, with every slap of their joint midriff. Flins hears demands, over praise, over curses—it's exhilarating, yet the feeling of being swallowed leaves Flins’ mind in disarray. Illuga’s flesh wraps softly around him at times, only to clench at others. It’s driving him mad. Especially when Flins pushes against that spot that made Illuga mewl on his fingers. It’s like an electric current on fire, flaring whenever he pushes past it, and Flins can only hope, hope he’ll be able to hold on until Illuga comes, for the sensation is too divine to revel in.

“Illuga, my precious, my light,” he sighs into the young Ratnik's ear, his raw emotions spilling over onto his wicked tongue. “Be mine, and mine only,” he mutters, kissing and biting tender flesh.

Illuga quivers around him, shakes and grips him like a vice before he comes. Mouth open, eyes half-lidded, and fingers buried hard into Flins’ back. His skin breaks under the pressure. Where it does, little flames lap at Illuga’s tips before closing the wound, leaving his skin as pristine and unmarred as before.

It's then that Flins loses the battle against the onslaught of pleasure that Illuga’s body inflicts on him. He comes while his form shifts and flickers. The inside of Illuga’s getting impossibly hotter as he spills his seed. Words of praise and devotion spring forth, pouring over Illuga like the thick layer of Kuvahki on Nod-Krai’s soil. It wraps around him, letting the smaller body shiver with delight. He does not understand the words, for they are in Fae, but Flins’ emotions are well delivered nonetheless.

Illuga trembles under him, holds him tight, squeezes around him as Flins rides out the last of his waves, nuzzling his nose in the crook of the Young Master’s neck.

“Flins,” his precious gem rasps, searching for his mouth to reunite. Flins lifts his chin, places tender kisses along the jaw, before he takes Illuga in again, basking in the afterglow of their shared intimacy.

For once, Flins actually feels a little weary. He does not know this sensation well, but does not fight it. It’s like he’s back in that resting place he built for himself centuries ago. Illuga places soft kisses on his neck, whispers sweet sweet nothings in his ear—or so he thinks—for he doesn’t understand a word. His mind is already drifting into that familiar space of bliss and peacefulness. A familiar darkness engulfs him. Gentle, yet unlike back then, his fire flickers in content and not misery.

Flins wakes to the sensation of having his body wrapped in an unusual warmth, considering the cold mornings in the Final Night Cemetery. It takes him a moment to realize it’s Illuga who has wound himself so tightly around him. The heat of his body spills over, warming Flins’ extremities, and with it, his cold flame.

Long fingers weave through silky hair, stroking it back to glimpse at those pretty eyes. What Flins finds, however, are red-rimmed, puffy lids that left a small puddle of tears on his chest.

Flins cannot fathom what has caused the Young Master such distress to the point of crying, but given what has occurred between them, Flins guesses it must have been his fault. Before his mind can reel into the spiral of guilt, though, Illuga stirs to life.

“You’re alive!” Illuga half-chokes and throws his arms around the stunned Fae.

“Of course I am, why wouldn’t I be?” He asks, gazing into those gentle eyes, still welling with pretty tears.

“You weren’t moving anymore, and I know you don’t breathe, but when you didn’t respond, I thought…I thought you were—”

“It’s alright. I’m here, I’m alive, and I will be for a very, very long time to come. Don’t you worry.”

Illuga’s head falls on his chest. Flins squeezes the Young Master tight as he lets his feelings pour out, sobbing into his embrace with relief. Flins is there holding him through it, gently stroking his back. It takes a while before the light body stops shaking and Illuga’s tears have abated, leaving him limp and curled up in Flins’ arms.

Eventually, he starts humming as Flins’ fingers wander over his crown, then back over his nape, and all the way to his arms. He’s been doing it for a while now, but it seems his little kitten has only now realized the gentle caress.

“I’m sorry for startling you.” Flins muses, nuzzling his nose in the light fluff of Illuga’s crown, “I haven’t felt this peaceful in centuries, so my mind slipped away for a moment, into the comfortable embrace of my true nature. I guess it’s similar to a state of sleeping or rest for humans. It hasn’t occurred to me that you’d be this worried, however.”

Flins feels the light sting before he realizes that Illuga has just—bitten his chest? Furious eyes glare up at him. The bitemarks vanish as fast as Flins’ confusion rises. Whatever has he done now to receive such an interesting response?

“You think I wouldn’t be worried?” Illuga spits, punching him in the chest this time. “After all that happened, you’d think I wouldn’t care if you just casually died?! And in my arms no less? God, you make me so mad at times!”

Ah.

“Apologies, Young Ma—Illuga. It was not my intention—”

Another smack lands on his chest, and Flins has to calm himself because he likes the sensation a tad too much. But as much as he’d love to admit that fact to the Young Master, he knows that now is maybe not the best of times to explore such thoughts. Illuga continues with his verbal assault, entirely clueless to the turmoil of Flins’ flames in his core.

“Stop it with your platitudes. I’m too mad to accept your apology. At least pretend to feel pain when I hit you, would you? You and your stupid immortal body.”

Oh, he likes this angry kitten’s claws. Be it words or teeth, it has piqued Flins’ playful nature.

“You wound me, dearest Illuga.” He purrs and catches the small, but strong fist to pull Illuga down on top of him. “Didn’t you claim to have wanted this body and its mediocre size just a few hours ago?”

Illuga immediately flushes at the remark, realizes he’s naked, very much naked, and so is Flins under him. Sadly, a second later, he squints, getting his emotions back under control.

“You’re still salty because I claimed to have taken bigger than yours?”

Flins smirks and lets his hands wander over the back of his precious gem. Feeling those lean yet firm muscles ripple under his touch. “The only thing that’s salty is my chest after you cried over my, I quote, stupid immortal body.”

“Mhhhh….” Illuga’s lips twitch in excitement, and Flins feels his fires flare again out of lust and something akin to devotion.

“What?” Flins asks playfully, stroking over Illuga’s lower back before he squeezes his little buttocks. The young Ratnik on top of him practically melts into his touch. Soft hums of pleasure leave damp patches on Flins’ skin.

“Would you like to know who has beaten you in size?” his little light mocks, a gleeful smile on pretty lips.

Flins frowns about the question. And no, he doesn’t want to know, partially because he’s unsure of staying impartial if he ever comes face-to-face with the human who has dared to lay a hand on his precious Master’s body.

“I don’t—” he starts, but gets interrupted promptly.

“The name’s Marilyn. It’s about twelve inches long, gets as big as your fist at its base, and it’s made of pure Hazelnut Wood. I got it for my twentieth birthday a few years ago, and it’s still one of my favourites.”

Flins’ brain comes to a screeching halt. He registers the name, the size, the material, and realizes to his horror he’s jealous over a fucking piece of hardwood. And apparently, Illuga owns more than one.

“You’re joking.”

“Am not. I’ve always had the urge to try something different than my hand on my dick. But I didn’t really know how or where to get anything like that. But lucky for me, the Piramida’s kitchen is my own personal Curatorium of Secrets. The amount of intel you can gather on kitchen duty is baffling. Little did I know that apparently there is a gifted artisan from Sumeru who takes requests, if the price is to their liking.

“So you didn’t do this with anyone else?”

Illuga snorts at that. “Why would I? I’ve had a crush on you since I was a teen.”

“But, you seemed to know exactly what you were doing?” Flins questions, not buying the explanation, even though Illuga’s steady beating heart tells him it must be true.

“Please, I have a vivid imagination and enough experience of undressing people to get those wounds treated as soon as possible.” He climbs up to bite on Flins’ bottom lip as if trying to bring the point home. “If it’s any consolation, I like yours better than good old Marilyn. Even if you’re just mediocre, as you put it.”

Flins’ hands grab him. A startling yelp leaves Illuga’s lips before he gets buried under the broader frame.

“Don’t say that name,” Flins growls.

“You’re that jealous, huh?”

“I’d like to burn them all to a crisp if that answers your question.”

Illuga chuckles. “Such honesty for once, what happened to good old Flins’ platitudes? Who are you and what have you done with the cheeky Fae?”

Flins buries his head on Illuga’s chest.

“The old Flins didn’t realize he cares so deeply for you to the point he’s jealous over a mere object in your possession.”

Illuga laughs and presses his body closer to him. There is a certain stiffness poking at Flins’ belly to make him chuckle in delight.

“Goodness, what am I to do with you?”

“Shouldn’t that be my line?” Illuga hums, weaving his fingers through blue strands before gently coaxing him down into another kiss.

“Don’t be greedy. Young Master. These old bones already belong to you and you only.” At that, Illuga’s legs wrap around him, pressing their midriff together, slowly rutting against Flins and his already erect form.

Flins groans. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to Piramida for your morning meeting with—oh, heavens!”

Illuga has slightly adjusted his hip and swallowed Flins’ dick with his still slippery hole. It’s just the tip, but it’s enough to effectively shut the Fae up.

“Please, don’t mention my dad when you’re inside of me.” Illuga groans and pushes Flins deeper. “Gods, you feel so good, I swear I can feel your fires burning inside of me.”

Flins trembles before he slams their hips together, burying himself to the base in the Young Master’s warmth. Illuga chokes out a sound that’s so rousing that Flins feels the impossible urge to replicate his actions. As skin slaps on each other again, Illuga mewls and moans under him. Tears spring to life in the corner of those blue eyes with their red core, only to roll down the second Flins pushes inside of him again.

“Please don’t talk about my fires inside of you if you value my sanity and your life, dearest Illuga.”

It’s supposed to be a warning, done out of love and concern, for the mortal. Though Flins is not sure the Young Master understood, as he smiles and lets out a breathy laugh before he says, ‘I’ll remember.’

Flins lets out another set of Fae profanities as his speed increases. Illuga’s heart rate races along, before it stutters, and he comes loudly soon after, calling Flins’ name while digging his fingers into strong arms.

It doesn’t take the Fae long to follow suit, spilling his essence into the Young Master’s quivering hole.

They sink into each other’s embrace. This time, Flins kisses and whispers sweet sweet nothings in Illuga’s ears, who giggles at the sensation of the man’s breath against his earlobe.

They lay there for a few more hours.

Illuga eventually sent Aedon to inform the old man that he wouldn’t be making it to Piramida today, which Flins found utterly hilarious. He wouldn’t be surprised if Nikita came running and knocking at his steel door tomorrow morning, demanding to know what happened to Illuga.

But that’s a problem for another day. Right now, Flins cherishes the body in his arms and the warmth and peace it brings him. Both body and mind.

He remembers when he was but a dull flame, a small spark of existence left in his makeshift tomb on this very island. He remembers the desperate call for a miracle that roused him that night. He had replied out of curiosity back then and stayed the next few centuries out of obligation.

But now? Now he finally has a reason to stay, to keep living until his time is up. He will not think about their inevitable future and the misery it will bring him, for it will only tarnish their time together.

Flins has finally found his home. His place to be, in the arms of the boy born of ashes. The one who survived the black flames, only to fall into the embrace of another.

How fitting.

— end —

I didn’t mean for this to get so long and having two smut scenes no less, but here we are. I hope you enjoy it. I know I loved writing these two.

And thanks to good old Marilyn to appear again. She already had a brief introduction in one of my silly Kavetham drabbles I wrote a while ago. And I fear I want to keep her around for other asses to destr— alright, that's it. I’m clocking out now.

 Happy to hear your thoughts down in the comments ໒꒰ྀི˶˃ᆺ˂˶ ꒱ྀིა 💕