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It isn't a secret that Flins likes to watch.
Every so often, when Illuga comes to visit, he'll stare out of the window of the lighthouse just to see the unguarded look on his face. His hair swaying in the breeze. How long can he stand there, all still and patient, before he decides Flins simply isn't home? It's an awfully long time, he's found. It makes him feel wanted.
Now, with him sitting on the side of the bed, fingers clenched in the sheets, it'd be impossible not to want him, too.
Flins watches Illuga's thighs tense from his vantage point on the floor, that pretty face flushed, and spots a new scar inching its way down his side and across his stomach. An injury healed, and his young master back safely in his arms— that's worth appreciating. He follows the mark with a finger, tracing it all the way through to his hips. They jump into his touch. Every little reaction is so adorable, he can't help wanting to see them.
“Kyryll,” Illuga says, a sigh in his voice, as if flustered by the attention paid to him without all of the usual tricks in between. Flins kisses the soft skin, right atop a mole on his thigh, pulled forth by some inexplicable desire to hold someone so sweet close enough that he squeaks.
“Yes?” Flins responds, shameless and endeared. From where he kneels between his legs, Illuga's eyes are glistening pearls in the low candlelight.
“Is the staring so necessary, when you've got,” he swallows, aimless, blunt and charming in his embarrassment. “Your face in my crotch?”
“Very much so, Young Master, very much so.”
—
Sometimes, when Illuga settles on Flins’ lap, he becomes startlingly aware of the fact that he runs feverishly hot. It's been a while since he realized (and interrogated him for hours after he returned from that grand fight safely, admittedly) that something was different about him, yet he still feels surprised when reminded of just how warm he can be.
Like holding a flame in my hands, he thinks, hands settling on his waist, thumbs digging into sculpted flesh. Flins’ hair falls over them in a curtain, long and silky smooth. All he can see from here, hidden from the world, are his eyes.
When Illuga lets one hand sneak down to wrap around him, those eyes narrow just a bit, and he can feel arms snake around his chest. Tight and close. Impossibly, it feels as if Flins gets warmer beneath him.
“You can be so clever, Young Master,” he whispers, nuzzling close enough that his breath tickles. Illuga doesn't stop moving his hand, stuck in-between them. His lips settle on the point where a pulse should be, although he can only feel the flickering of fire. Unafraid, he kisses the porcelain skin that can't be marked. “Kind, capable, and virtuous as well, you put the stars to shame.”
Illuga laughs fond and proud when Flins’ voice falters on a shaky gasp, his compliments strangled by nothing else but Illuga's determination— and his mischievous sense of theatrics, perhaps.
“Save your breath, Kyryll,” he warns without hesitation, digging a hand into that long hair and pulling him back gently. He can see his own blushing face reflected in his eyes, cheeks burning for more than one reason. There you are, he thinks, watching the way his smile, so damned enigmatic, warps into something sweet and thrilled. “If you want to play it up, I'll give you a reason to do so.”
“So clever indeed,” Flins repeats, candid and eager. There’s no shame in Illuga’s heart as he pours oil on an open flame.
—
Illuga has found that, surprising as it sounds, Flins is very easy to please.
He makes no complaint when he kisses him for so long that it would leave anyone else breathless (of course, himself included), nor does he grumble about how careful Illuga is when he prepares him, though they both know by now that his body is far less fragile than that of any ordinary human being.
His expression never has changed as much as his own, but it can make it difficult to tell where like and love come into play.
As long as he spends time with him, Flins seems satisfied with just about anything— card games, fishing, listening to his stories, or curling up against him in the shoddy lighthouse bed.
That, perhaps, is why Illuga pours so much of his energy during their intimacy into figuring out just what pleases him the most. It's nice to see him happy. And he has no time to spend on being selfish, he thinks, even if Flins tells him he could afford to be.
It seems, however, that finding out what Illuga liked most was part of what ‘did it’ for him, so to speak. That this - Flins beneath him, their hands intertwined, pale eyes soft and full of mirth, hair askew and nothing noble about him, his amused adoration pouring from every pore - was one of Illuga's favorite sights to see, and that he admitted it with far less embarrassment than seemed expected…
Well. Illuga treasures the memory of that surprised, fond expression very much.
—
Flins kisses his collarbone with the patience of someone who has all the time in the world. Slow, careful, and gentle. Illuga's hand combs through his hair like he's going to combust in five minutes tops, fast without pulling at him to move. His thighs clench hard around Flins’ waist, trying to hold the hunger for more in.
Endlessly warm, and prone to stillness at the worst of moments…
“You're so,” he starts, faltering as the kisses trace the path of a scar up his neck. “Roguish sometimes, you know that?”
Chest to chest like this, Illuga wonders if Flins can feel his heart hammering. He sure can feel his muted laughter, fond and tucked into his skin as it is. There's a little bite, not something that would break skin, and Illuga gasps.
“Roguish.” He repeats, his fingers tightening as Flins kisses the mark in unapologetic amusement.
—
By the time Flins has tugged off the last of his many layers, clothes neatly placed across the desk chair, Illuga's remarks have turned from admiring to bewildered.
“…Mr. Flins,” he says, watching as he peels off his undershirt with careful fingers, voice marked by confusion. “How many belts does one man truly need?”
“This was fashionable when I was younger,” Flins responds, as if the answer was very obvious. He watches Illuga's eyebrows furrow so hard his entire face scrunches up, and wants to place a kiss between them.
When he leans down to do it, Illuga puts a calloused hand on his chest, holding him off just a tad. Flins pouts.
“Please tell me that they aren't made of iron, at least!”
Because he does not want to lie so openly and directly to his young master, and perhaps also because he does not want to go without affection, he does not say anything. Illuga groans, then laughs. The bright little sound makes Flins smile.
“I never said what they were, or weren't, Young Master.”
“Your silence spoke for you! You have got to be more careful with what you go around buying for yourself.”
Flins leans down, and quiets Illuga’s complaint with a kiss.
—
With him bent over the desk like this, Illuga can see the entire pale expanse of Flins’ back. His angular shoulders, Illuga's gloved hand following the gentle curve of his spine, the narrow indent of his waist. There's no scars, no bruising, not a single sign of battles fought and won except the solid warmth of him.
“You look like something out of a painting,” Illuga murmurs when his fingers press into muscle, surprised at how even a fae can have stress-induced knots. Maybe it's a manifestation on purpose, a bid for attention— the thought makes him laugh just a little. He massages him anyways, moving not an inch before he feels the tension in Flins’ back ease.
Flins leans his head to the side, cheek pressed against the wood. His gaze is just a little petulant. Words intent even as they're muffled. “I could say the same to you, Master Illuga.”
“Mm,” He hums, cheeks burning. Is it bad that he feels confident, dependable in some way, just because he's covered up when Flins is naked beneath him? Calling him that silly nickname, too… Illuga leans down to kiss him, warm and gentle even as Flins licks against his lips. A sharp noise leaves him when he moves his hips, and Illuga swallows it. He can't tell which of them is hungrier for the other.
“You can have what you want, Lord Flins,” he says, grinning against Flins’ lips even as he feels his face heat up further. “But you have to stop flattering me and let me do the work, alright?”
“Are you going to lose your composure if I don't, Young Master?” Flins asks, tone too fond to come across as particularly taunting. Illuga kisses him deeper that time, grinding against him with slow, steady movements. Beneath his hands, a warmth grows.
Illuga rises, watches as something bright and fiery flickers in front of him, and his eyes widen at the sight of wings. Small, delicate. He'd always known Flins was handsome, beautiful even, but these are pretty in a dainty way, so much more like Kyryll's long fingers and silky hair than the rough attire required of a Lightkeeper.
His marveling must make Flins feel just a tad neglected, because there's a noise that sounds adorably annoyed. “Sorry, Kyryll,” he murmurs, gloved finger smoothing over the skin of his cheek. The other he leaves right between his shoulder blades, on the curve of his spine, where his wings flutter like a flame caught in the wind.
When he leans back, Illuga can see Flins’ eyes fluttering. His heart skips a beat at just how relaxed he looks. How safe. Truly, just like a painting. He's so warm around him that the cold outside feels like it won't ever get in. “I've got you, so you don't have to worry about a thing.”