Chapter Text
“Regrets?” Einar asks, a wave of mead sloshing from his near-empty mug. “We’re Lightkeepers! There’s no time for regrets while the Wild Hunt knocks on our door!”
Illuga toasts the sentiment, his own tankard barely touched. They’ll be setting off from Piramida at daybreak, and he—like the other seasoned Ratniki—knows how miserable the march to Cliffwatch Camp will be while hungover.
He shares a good-natured smile with Bjorn, who is also drinking light. At times like these, Illuga has learned to teach through experience. Einar will make the march, vomit along the way, and swear off mead for the foreseeable future. In short, he’ll learn. All the new recruits do.
“C’mon kid, there’s got to be something,” Anleifr says, patting Einar firmly on the back. “None of us are long for the grave, anyway, so you might as well tell us. Who knows, we may be able to help set things right before the Wild Hunt gets its sights on a green little thing like you.”
Einar’s face pales over the rim of his drink, and Rollon has to swat Anleifr on the shoulder to keep him from making it worse.
Nearly three years into his captaincy, Illuga is used to his squad’s antics by now. He breathes a laugh and leans over the edge of the table, addressing Einar directly.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “The duty we share is a dangerous one; I won’t pretend otherwise. But, I have no intention of letting you die under my command.”
The small bit of reassurance seems to work. His shoulders relax, and the crease to his brow softens.
“Right…” Einar says, gesturing to the rest of the group. “Well, what about you lot? What are your regrets?”
Bjorn shrugs. “Don’t look at me. When I go to face Veyde, it’ll be without regrets.”
A somber presence settles over the group at the mention of their fallen comrade. Beside him, Anleifr nods sagely and holds his tankard out.
“My only regret is not kissing my wife one last time,” he says. “I’ll fix that when I see her again.”
The mood sobers as they toast. Illuga watches the young recruit stare down into his empty mug, the cogs in his brain working. In a way, that’s all they can hope for as Lightkeepers, to march to the grave without burden.
Illuga himself has never really dwelt on his regrets. He supposes it’s easiest to write the question off, to answer much the same as Bjorn and Anleifr had. Except, that… if Illuga lets himself think of the afterlife and who’s waiting for him in it, if he tries to remember what they look like, if he falls too deeply into the past—
He extinguishes the line of thought, like snuffing a lantern. Easier to leave it unexamined. He can’t regret something he doesn’t think about, after all.
“I guess,” Einar starts, pulling Illuga from his darkening thoughts. “If I had to pick something, it’s that I don’t want to…”
The end of his admission is muffled against the side of his mug, too quiet to make out. Rollon makes a face.
“What was that? Didn’t quite catch it.”
“Idon’twanttodieavirgin,” he rushes out in a breath.
Illuga’s eyes widen, his cheeks flushing with secondhand embarrassment. Beside him, Anleifr grins.
“Sorry kid, you’re gonna have to speak up—”
“No,” Illuga interrupts, beginning the process of confiscating their tankards to a chorus of groans. “That’s enough of that.”
Einar looks at him gratefully and Illuga smiles.
“Let’s just focus on getting to Cliffwatch Camp,” he says, not unkindly. “You can deal with that regret after.”
The thing Illuga failed to consider is that some people don’t get an after.
He slumps against his front door as soon as it’s closed behind him, silently sinking to the floor, staring off at a blank spot on the wall.
At some point, he’ll cry. At some point, they’ll gather in the Hall, and he’ll weep into his tankard of mead. Right now, he only feels the cold numbness settling into his bones. It reminds him of the harsh Nod Krai winters, snow sweeping over the perilous terrain, biting through his coat, snuffing out life.
It’s not winter in Nod Krai right now. It’s early summer when the weather is kind and the sun graces the sky and the dark fog of the Wild Hunt is supposed to be confined to known areas that they’ve spent weeks mapping.
Supposed to be.
The way their route to Cliffwatch Camp was supposed to be clear. The way they weren’t supposed to be ambushed. The way Einar wasn’t supposed to be hungover during his first real battle.
The way Einar wasn’t supposed to die under his command.
Illuga curls in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest.
It’s his fault. He’s alive and Einar is gone and nobody says they blame him, but Solovei help him, Illuga blames himself.
The Wild Hunt takes. It keeps taking. It never stops. It never gets easier.
Illuga should be crying.
Why isn’t he crying?
‘You must remember to stay silent. Promise me, ástin mín. Promise me you won’t cry if they come.’
Illuga scrambles to his feet, crossing the room in a few strides. He grabs the dust-covered bottle of Fire-Water from a cabinet he never touches, hesitating with his hand on the stopper.
He shouldn’t drink. Not after Einar. He doesn’t deserve to drown himself, he doesn’t deserve to feel the comforting burn or warmth. What if the Lightkeepers need him? What if they need him the way Einar needed him?
Illuga grits his teeth, fingers shaking where they still grip the bottle.
Nikita had ordered him to go home, to take a few days off. Some people say that to love someone is to let them go. Illuga’s not quite sure he believes it, because he’s never once thought to question his dad’s love for him, but the old man’s always struggled with letting him go.
No, Illuga is off duty, at least for tonight. The sky could split open and Nikita would still hold on, still hesitate to throw him back onto the frontlines. There will be no knocks, no nighttime visitors to distract him.
He pops the cap.
The fumes waft up to meet him, burning his nose, promising respite from the numbness. Before he can think better of it, he holds his breath and takes a three-second pull directly from the bottle. It burns all the way down his throat, keeps on burning as it seeps into his veins.
Illuga sighs in relief.
I can still feel pain, he reminds himself. I can still feel.
Outside, the sun has begun to set. The room grows dimmer, illuminated only by Aedon who sets idly upon his perch. Illuga sinks into one of his kitchen chairs and takes another drink.
More pain.
He wonders if someday the alcohol will stop burning. If he’ll reach for the bottle and crack it open and still feel numb. And then what will he be? A captain who can’t keep his own men alive? A Lightkeeper who can’t cry for those they’ve lost?
What is a human who can’t feel anything at all?
Illuga takes another drink, knowing the answer like he knows his own lantern.
They’re not.
Knock, knock, knock.
His head snaps toward the front door. For that first heartbeat, Illuga considers ignoring it. He had been ordered to take time off! He’s not on duty!
But…
What if they need help?
Illuga is out of his chair before they can knock again, setting the bottle on the table and swinging the door open.
“Captain Illuga reporting for—oh…” Illuga trails off, eyes widening once the identity of his visitor registers.
“Young Master,” Flins says, bowing politely. “I thought it past time for a visit. I do hope I am not disturbing you.”
“Uhh…”
Illuga glances at his overstuffed mailbox, then over his shoulder at his messy house with its empty pantry and scattered books, the old reports he still needs to return to the archive.
He considers—if only briefly—slamming the door in Flins’ face and tidying up.
But, wait! Mr. Flins has never visited me before, he realizes.
It’s always the other way around. In fact, Illuga has a sneaking suspicion that if he were to close the door, Flins would simply leave, disappearing the way he so often does before anyone even realizes he’s in Piramida.
He turns back around.
“Yes—uh, I mean, no you’re not disturbing me.” He steps aside, holding the door open. “You can come in.”
Flins nods, his eyes dropping to the threshold as he steps over it. Illuga thinks he might catch a flash of something on his face, but quickly writes it off as the alcohol affecting his head.
“So, umm,” Illuga says in a daze, closing the door behind his guest. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He watches Flins peer around his main living space. It feels almost… wrong for him to be standing there, surrounded by Illuga’s things. He’s always had a certain presence, but here, it’s as if he affects the very atmosphere. The room feels much smaller than before, the air thicker, the azure light of his lantern alive where it dances across the walls.
Flins’ gaze lands on the open bottle of Fire-Water before returning slowly to Illuga.
“I was passing through. I do recall your offer for me to ‘stop by any time,’ though, perhaps I have interrupted something?”
Illuga blushes, grabbing the bottle and moving to put it away. He has the cabinet open by the time he remembers his manners.
“Wait, do you… want a drink?” He asks.
Flins shakes his head. “How very kind of you. I’m not thirsty, but, if you require a glass of water, by all means don’t let me stop you.”
Illuga raises a brow and lifts the bottle. “Not what I meant.”
For a second, he thinks Flins is going to say no again. Then: “Ahh, well then. Perhaps one glass.”
Illuga retrieves two lowballs from the cupboard, pouring them each several fingers’ worth of alcohol and sliding one to him. Flins accepts it politely, swirling it before taking a sip.
Illuga studies him as they settle on opposite sides of the table. He tilts his head, tracing the rim of his own cup, considering every possible reason for Flins’ sudden visit. One possibility sticks out more than most.
“Did the old man send you?” Illuga asks, bringing the glass to his lips.
Flins’ expression gives nothing away, but then again, it never does.
“He spoke to me,” he says, carefully. “He did not ask me to come, however.”
Illuga nods, mulling it over. He’s long since learned how to navigate Flins’ words. Nothing he says is ever an outright lie, just as it’s never the whole truth. He weaves his answers from something in between, something that Illuga has become an expert in translating.
So, dad didn’t ask Flins to come. He suggested it.
“He’s worried about me, then?” Illuga infers.
Flins’ smile is small, but it’s there. “It’s only natural for a parent to worry.”
My parents are dead, Illuga thinks, darkly. Just like Captain Olsson and Veyde. Just like Einar.
What happens when pops dies too?
Will I be able to cry, then?
“Why suggest it to you, though? I can’t imagine you’d volunteer.”
Flins takes another small sip, visibly amused by the question.
“He seems to believe that we are quite close.”
“And are we? Close, that is.”
Flins takes longer to respond this time, but it doesn’t feel like he’s planning to say no. It feels more like he’s studying Illuga, trying to decipher what it is he’s really asking.
Damned if Illuga even knows himself.
“I would say you know me better than most anyone,” he says, finally.
Illuga nods, feeling slightly dizzy by the movement. They fall into a comfortable silence, gradually emptying their glasses. It’s not clear how long Flins plans to stay, but he doesn’t refuse when Illuga offers a refill, then another.
The quiet is welcomed. Flins makes good company in that way. He doesn’t pry for answers, he doesn't demand that Illuga open up. Illuga considers asking him to tell a story, but he can’t quite force his lips to move. By now, they only feel numb. Illuga drags his fingers over them, thinking: numb. Just like the rest of me.
“He was a new recruit, wasn’t he?”
Illuga looks up, startled to hear Flins ask about Einar so plainly. Yes, he was new. New and young and determined and so very trusting when Illuga had promised to keep him alive.
“He was.”
Flins frowns, deep in thought. “And… were the two of you close?”
Were you close to the people buried on your island? He wants to ask, petty and childish as it is. A cruel answer for a cruel question.
Only, Flins probably didn’t mean it to be cruel, didn’t realize the way a simple question can sometimes be a hot knife to the stomach. It sinks into Illuga’s skin, rips him open, threatens to spill his bitter guilt onto the table between them. Illuga squeezes his eyes shut, fighting to keep it buried.
Don’t lash out, he repeats in his mind. He’s only asking a question. And he can almost convince himself that Flins cares about the answer. Flins may not have been sincere a day in his fucking life, but damned if he doesn’t understand loss the same way Illuga does.
Flins’ lowball makes a soft thunk as he sets it down.
“I imagine,” he says. “Based on your reaction, you would prefer an alternate topic of conversation.”
Illuga opens his eyes, staring at him from across the table, completely hollowed out. He takes another drink and feels nothing, runs his hand over his eyes and it comes away dry.
“And you call me clever,” he says tiredly.
Flins tilts his head. “You’ve earned the approbation. I doubt anyone could have survived as long as you have if not for—”
Illuga interrupts him before he can deliver another knife to the gut.
“I’m really not in the mood for your flattery, right now.”
Flins closes his mouth, offering an appeasing nod. “Duly noted,” he says.
This time, the silence weighs heavily around them. Illuga ignores his Fire-Water now that the burn of it has abandoned him. In hindsight, drinking had been a foolish decision, momentary comfort he should have known wouldn’t last. It compounds his problem now, makes him feel closer to a glass bottle than a human being. Just another object to be emptied and then thrown away.
“My companionship seems to be lacking,” Flins says, forcibly pulling him from his head. “You’re drifting.”
Illuga looks across the table and finds himself wondering—not for the first time in the past four years—what kind of person Flins is. He almost laughs, then, at the word ‘person’. He suspects ‘fae’ would be more fitting, but Illuga’s pretty sure he’d sooner squeeze water from a rock than get Flins to admit it.
He sits up a little straighter, feeling an undercurrent of determination begin to swirl. There’s a chance that Flins isn’t human, but he’s a Lightkeeper, same as Illuga. He puts himself in harm’s way for the sake of others, mourns their loss in the Great Mead Hall. What does that mean to him? Why does he put himself through it? Will he one day die with regret? The way Einar died with regret?
“I have a question,” Illuga says, surprising even himself with the suddenness.
Flins lifts his cup. “I have an answer. Shall we exchange and see if they are a pair?”
“What does it mean to be human?”
It’s clear that Flins wasn’t expecting it. His smile falters, eyes widening a fraction before he quickly averts them.
Illuga studies his reaction, wondering if the alcohol has any effect on him. Wondering if it makes it difficult for him to weave his half-truths. The silence stretches out, spanning a minute, then two. Long enough for Illuga to realize he’s not getting a response.
“What is it? Your answer didn’t match my question?”
Flins looks up. “Ahaha… you ask a very thought provoking thing. I’m simply giving it the consideration it deserves. That is the very least I can do given your hospitality.”
Illuga scoffs. “I told you, I’m in no mood for your flattery.”
“It was merely an observation.”
“Fine. Another question, then.” Illuga says, leaning forward, emboldened by the Fire-Water. “Are you a virgin?”
Flins’ eyes flicker, silent again as if he’s debating not answering. And then: “No. I am not.”
Illuga’s gaze drops to the surface of the table, the twisting wood grain that reminds him of fresh wounds, the metallic smell of blood, the stickiness of it under his fingertips. The knots, so similar to his own tangled guilt, to the drunken laments of a young man whose life was cut short.
“That was Einar’s one regret,” he says, quietly. “He didn’t want to die a virgin.”
For a moment, Flins assesses him before asking: “And did you…?”
Through the insensate grief and the thick haze of the alcohol, it takes Illuga a second to realize what he’s asking. Once he does, his cheeks flush hot, no doubt redder than his earring.
“W-what? No! I didn’t… we weren’t—I was his commanding officer!”
Flins nods steadily, as if taking it in. “Forgive me for being presumptuous, Young Master. I assumed too much.”
Illuga gapes at him, feeling both shocked by the absurdity of it and deeply offended by how Flins must view him.
“I wouldn’t fuck one of my subordinates!” He insists.
Flins stiffens at the use of fuck, as if the word is too crass for his gentlemanly nature.
“Alright then. I have a question,” Flins says, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the rim of his drink.
Illuga crosses his arms, still irritated by the accusation but privately grateful for the change in topic. “I have an answer. Maybe this time they’ll match.”
A flash of amusement crosses his face, the way it always does when he’s trying to get on Illuga’s nerves. He schools it before asking, “what do you think it is to be human?”
And unlike Flins, Illuga doesn’t hesitate.
“To be human is to feel,” he says, definitively. “To be human is to hurt, to bleed, to cry. And then wake up the next day and do it again. Wake up a thousand times and do it again, knowing that the pain doesn’t stop.”
Flins’ gaze is piercing. “Why?”
“Because if we can still feel pain, we can still feel joy.”
They’ve both leaned over the table, gravitating toward one another, their heated eyes locked. It feels like Illuga is creeping toward the edge of a cliff, wind in his hair, nothing but a sheer drop below. It feels like—
It… feels.
“Are you a virgin?” Flins asks next, tone measured.
I don’t have to be.
“Yes.”
Flins’ responding expression is absolutely predatory. It slices through the numbness, sets Illuga’s blood on fire in a way the alcohol never could.
“And… is that a regret, Young Master?”
For a fraction of a millisecond, Illuga considers lying. He could do the smart thing, say no, turn around, put some distance between himself and that precipice. Unfortunately for both of them, he’s always been more prone to running leaps over the edge.
Illuga shoves the Fire-Water aside and lunges over the table. The force of it sends the bottle flying, shattering into a thousand fragments against the wall. A fitting metaphor for the way his self-control shatters.
For all his propriety and chivalry, Flins doesn’t balk at his forwardness. He pulls Illuga off of the table and into his lap, knocking his own glass off of it. The taste of Fire-Water lingers on his lips and his tongue, mixed with something sharp and smoky, like sitting next to a campfire, breathing deeply as the wind blows it his way. It makes his head feel fuzzy, the numbness giving way to pinpricks that start in his ears and trickle down his limbs.
Illuga pulls away and grips Flins’ jaw, long enough to force eye contact.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says, firmly, searching his face for shared understanding.
Flins goes perfectly still, those peerless citrine eyes boring into him, full of something Illuga can’t place. Then, after a moment, he nods.
“Of course,” he agrees.
Illuga dives back in for more. Flins should know that it doesn’t mean anything, can’t mean anything, isn’t allowed to mean anything in their world.
Illuga loves Flins. He loves him in the way he loves the coming dawn and cooking someone’s favorite dish. The same way he loved Einar. The same way he loves every single member of the Lightkeepers, those people he considers his family.
But, Illuga can’t let himself love anyone beyond that. Nothing clouds the mind quite like romantic attachment—a distraction, sweet and comforting as it may well be. His heart is a tattered mess as it is. There’d be no surviving that loss.
He strips his coat off and tosses it aside, feeling Flins’ hands immediately dip underneath his sweater. Illuga shivers at the contact, realizing that Flins had removed his gloves at some point. His hands are unnaturally warm, contrasting the cool air that brushes his skin.
Already, Illuga is unbearably hard, straining against the fabric of his pants, searching for friction. He can feel Flins in a similar state through the layers between them, a solid pressure beneath him, a promise for what is sure to come. Illuga sucks Flins’ earlobe between his teeth and grinds down against him, eliciting a harsh gasp and sending a shock of pleasure through them both.
Oh, he thinks, eyes going wide.
The sensation is intense, tearing his numbness to shreds, making him feel so, so very alive. Illuga clings to it, rolling his hips again, searching for more—the way the alcohol had been a search for more. Goosebumps cascade across his skin, awakening something within him, a voracious need he hadn’t known existed.
He reaches between them with frantic movements, feeling for Flins’ belt. Flins nods when he finds it, offering silent permission for Illuga to undo it, to slip his hand inside.
Archons, it feels like reaching into fire when his fingers find Flins’ cock, when they wrap around the hot, velvety thickness of him. Illuga groans against his lips and strokes him experimentally, dizzy at the idea that it’s supposed to fit inside of him. Or would Flins want it the other way around? Illuga wonders, blood rushing south so quickly his vision swims.
“Ha–s-slowly…” Flins manages to say.
Illuga feels like he could come on the spot, just from the feeling of Flins in his grip and how his rich, elegant voice wavers.
“Is that… fuck, is that how you like it?” Illuga forces some restraint, twisting his hand lazily, bringing it up to his leaking tip to turn the tables, to tease Flins the way Flins is always teasing him. “Have all of your partners taken it slow?”
Flins flashes his teeth as he laughs, the sound of it going straight to Illuga’s dick. “Now who’s being presumptuous, Young Master? I simply wish to t-take my time—ahh…”
“Don’t call me that,” Illuga says, squeezing him forcefully. “Just for tonight. I… can we…”
Flins watches him, his otherworldly face so open, radiating something Illuga hesitates to name. Not quite pity. Understanding, maybe. He takes Illuga’s face into his hands, pulling him into a deep kiss, siphoning the air from his lungs and the thoughts from his mind. When he finally pulls back, Illuga finds himself chasing after him, mouth hung open, lashes fluttering.
“What is it you need, my dear Illuga?”
Illuga tries desperately to extricate need from want.
Illuga wants to fuck him, to shove him down on the bed and make him lose a modicum of his composure, to see if he takes a cock as beautifully as he evades truth. Unfortunately, he thinks he might need to relinquish every bit of control, to let Flins bed him, hurt him, take care of him, make him cry, make him come, make him feel anything.
Anything but numb.
“I need to be human,” he says, a supplication. “I need to… please, just make me feel something.”
Flins nods then, reaching between them, freeing Illuga’s arousal and taking them both into his large hand. Illuga’s breath catches in his throat, cut short by the exquisite pressure and sweltering heat.
“With pleasure,” Flins purrs.
Illuga nearly collapses at the first stroke of his hand. He falls against Flins’ chest, burying his face into the crook of his neck. That same laugh floats around him again, making a home beneath his skin, worming its way into the recesses of his long-term memory. Illuga is going to give his virginity to Flins. He’s going to beg for it and hand it over willingly and pass out and wake in the morning, and that laugh will still linger with him. Long after he sobers up, long after the bruises fade.
His pace is agonizing, a torturously slow pump of his hand that is gradually driving Illuga insane. Illuga clings to him and whimpers, trying to roll his hips, trying to fuck into Flins’ fist. The Fire-Water is making the room spin, making his awareness narrow to this singular feeling: his cock pressed flush to Flins’, caged by those deft fingers.
“Please,” Illuga chokes out.
Flins pets his hair, as if consoling him, his hot breath ghosting over Illuga’s ear.
“Please, what, my dear?”
“I want you,” he says, uncaring of how pitiful he sounds. “Take me to bed.”
Flins strokes him gently, holding him like he’s something precious and fragile, less like an empty glass bottle and more like a jewel to be treasured.
It causes a sudden sliver of panic in Illuga’s gut. Frottage is one thing, but sex is another thing entirely. Is Flins going to reject him? Is he too much of a gentleman to take advantage of Illuga’s vulnerable, drunken state?
‘You’re not thinking straight, Young Master. You should be with someone you care about. You should save yourself for someone special.’
Oh gods, he’s going to say no. He’s going to leave.
Flins’ lips part and Illuga pulls away from his neck, pressing a palm to his mouth, heart hammering in his chest.
“I don’t need it to mean anything,” Illuga insists. “I don’t need it to be special. It’s… I trust you to make it feel good. That’s all it is. You don’t have to worry about me falling for you or growing attached. You don’t need to worry, please, please don’t leave.”
Flins’ hand has left their cocks. He wraps it now around Illuga’s wrist, gingerly pulling him away, freeing his mouth to respond.
“Still so presumptuous,” he says. “I am not half so noble as you think I am, to expect that I would walk away, now.”
Illuga releases the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, slamming their lips together once more. Flins returns the kiss with an equal amount of fervor, picking him up as if he weighs nothing.
They stumble in the direction of Illuga’s bedroom, falling into the bed in a tangle of limbs, unable to separate for even a second. Illuga spreads his legs and moans when Flins slots between them, when he grinds against him harshly.
Like this, Illuga doesn’t have to worry about feeling. The alcohol makes him float, but Flins brings him back down, clearing his mind, reminding him that he’s alive and he’s human and he isn’t becoming so desensitized to the horrors that he would dishonor the memory of everyone who’s ever died so he could live.
“More,” Illuga demands, trying to shrug himself out of his clothes.
Flins helps him, stripping off layers of fabric until they’re bare before one another.
“Flip over for me,” Flins says, and Illuga obeys without hesitation, moving to lie on his stomach.
His eyes go wide when he feels hands on his ass, spreading him open, and then—
“Solovei’s fucking torch~”
Flins buries his face against him, dragging his tongue across Illuga’s hole. Illuga clutches at the sheets, tearing them away from the corners of the bed, his knuckles white, his back flexing. One-by-one, his muscles begin to relax, going loose and syrupy as Flins tastes him. Illuga pants into the mattress, letting the new feelings wash over him, already so close he could burst.
Flins swipes his tongue over his opening, swirling around the rim, planting a kiss there. When he begins to press inside, Illuga nearly comes. His slick, warm tongue stretches him open, feeling impossibly long as it reaches where no one has before.
Illuga has pleasured himself, certainly, but it’s never been… it hasn’t felt…
He didn’t know that this is what sex was supposed to be. He wonders if he would have made time for it before, had he known. Another part of him wonders if this is just what sex with Flins is like. And then, suddenly Illuga doesn’t have the mental capacity to wonder anything, because Flins’ tongue is leaving him, replaced by two wet fingers.
His body goes rigid, spine drawn into an arch. Illuga is caught somewhere between wanting more and wanting to crawl away, denying himself the gift of pleasure. Surely Flins would let him go if he began to beg.
Or would he?
‘I am not half so noble as you think I am,’ he’d said. Illuga’s cock leaps at the thought of squirming away only to be pulled back by those strong hands. Maybe he’s more drunk than he thought, or maybe it’s just impossible to go through the things he has and not come out the other side some shade of fucked-up.
Before long, Flins is adding a third finger, fucking into him, coating his insides in what must be saliva. Illuga clings to his pillow and takes it, tries to focus less on how foreign and strange and new it is, and more on how fucking good it feels for Flins to reach so deeply, for him to tease that spot that makes Illuga see stars.
“M-more,” Illuga only just manages to say.
He responds by pulling out, and Illuga whines, pushing himself to his hands and knees to chase the contact. Behind him, he’s aware of Flins shuffling on the bed. Then, there’s a hand between Illuga’s shoulder blades, pressing down slightly until he goes willingly to his chest, keeping his ass in the air.
Something hot and thick and wet makes contact, and Illuga breathes an insatiable groan against his pillow. Flins’ cock teases his twitching opening, frozen there at the point of no return. Illuga’s body flutters around the tip, so empty, so desperate to be filled again, to be claimed.
“Are you… absolutely certain?” Flins asks, a thread of concern woven through the desire.
And Illuga—with his love of cliffs and all—answers by throwing himself back.
At once, he’s being penetrated, stretched open with a sudden, burning pain. It overrides all thought, makes Illuga’s body stiffen on instinct. He’s shaking, clenching around him, unable to think or to breathe.
It’s so much more than he ever could have expected. Flins is saying something, but it doesn’t register. A normal person might cry and beg, might try to escape the pain. Illuga only needs more of it, needs to remind himself of just how much he can still feel. He tries to press back into it and doesn’t budge, finding himself stopped by a bruising grip on his waist.
“Please,” he gasps, not knowing if Flins can even hear him with his face buried in the bedding. It’s too much and not enough. He thinks that maybe this is the same as the alcohol. He needs to feel the ache, the stretch, the pain, needs it the same way he needs to smile, to stand up however many times he’s thrown to the ground.
Flins says something else and slides in a little further. It burns. Burns the way the Fire-Water had burned. Illuga’s cock hasn’t softened in the slightest. He thinks he might be obsessed with the feeling, the sparks of pleasure that intertwine with the pain, the way it drives him past coherent thought.
Flins drapes himself over his back, sliding forward a fraction. Illuga is only half aware of it, dizzy from arousal and alcohol. Another centimeter, then another as he coats Illuga’s insides with his saliva, slicking his passage as he bottoms out.
Slowly, the pain begins to subside, replaced by intense pressure, the overwhelming sparks of ecstasy. Flins pulls out a fraction, sliding back in. He brushes against that spot that makes Illuga choke, that makes him wish this would never end.
“F-fuck, it feels so, so good—”
Flins groans a curse behind him, still holding onto his waist, tattooing the shape of his fingers over the scars that rest there.
On the next thrust, Flins pulls out almost completely before driving back inside with experimental force. Illuga tries to speak his approval, but there’s nothing coherent about it. It feels so wet. Not just his skin that beads with sweat, but his insides. Each slide now is effortless, making obscene noises when Flins pushes back inside.
Is it really only saliva? Or had Flins found oil? Had he come already?
Flins is slowly pulling out once more, a feverish glide of flesh that feels too smooth, too easy. The pain has completely disappeared, and in its place exists only the euphoria of their connection.
“Flins,” Illuga breathes. “Did you use something… do the fae—”
Before he can finish his question, Flins slams back inside. This time, he doesn’t give a moment for Illuga to adjust, he immediately sets a punishing pace, until Illuga is being fucked properly, until there is no air left in his lungs to ask Flins about the sexual intricacies of a race he may or may not be part of.
Maybe it’s just the alcohol, maybe he’s imagining things. Illuga can no longer be bothered to care. He tips over the edge with embarrassing speed, shooting his release onto the sheets beneath him with a shout.
Flins pulls out, but doesn’t give him time to catch his breath. He flips Illuga onto his back and plunges back inside, pinning his wrists over his head as he snaps his hips.
Illuga moans, his head thrown back, sheets wet beneath him. He fights to keep his eyes open, fights harder to pretend it’s not because he prefers the intimacy of seeing Flins’ face.
“More!” He gasps, desperate for it. “Harder!”
Flins’ eyes flash hot, his pace speeding. He pulls out further, snapping his hips with so much force, Illuga can only grunt and slide up the bed. He’s going to be sore in the morning, aching and nauseous and nursing a headache, but he’s going to feel. He’s going to feel Flins inside of him for days. Feel the pain in his lower back and stomach when he sits in the Great Mead Hall and sobs into his tankard. He’ll feel all of it, and remember that this is what being human is to him. That living without regrets means reminding himself every day that he’s here, however short that may be.
“Thank you,” he breathes, his eyes stinging. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
Flins’ hips stutter, his pace becoming irregular.
“Illuga…”
Illuga nods, clinging to his shoulders. “In–inside,” he says, barely audible above the slap of skin and the creaking of the bed. “Come inside…”
And perhaps Flins takes it as another invitation, a threshold to blink down at as he crosses it.
Once, twice more Flins plunges into him, and then they’re kissing again, and warmth is blooming deep in Illuga’s belly. Illuga chokes around Flins’ tongue, spilling his second orgasm between them with a whimper.
Silence envelops them, a few liminal seconds where the wave of emotion crests before crashing down. Sound filters back in. Someone is crying, an anguished sob, the familiar, grief-stricken sound that surrounds a funeral pyre.
Feeling returns next, the ache in his lower back, the pressure inside of him, the soiled sheets, Flins holding him in an embrace, something hot spilling down his cheeks.
Relief overtakes him. The sounds are coming from him. He can still feel—pain, pleasure, sadness.
He can still cry.
He’s still human.