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Illuga swings the door shut behind him and slumps against it, a frustrated groan caught in his throat.
It was supposed to be a simple recon mission. Get in, observe, classify, fall back.
The Wild Hunt is getting bolder, he thinks, recalling the fight, the way that dark fog had rolled in around them, eclipsing the midday sun. They hadn’t been prepared for an ambush.
He hadn’t been prepared.
If Rollon hadn’t called out… if Anleifr hadn’t covered his blind spot…
What a rookie mistake for a captain.
Now that he’s finally alone, he grits his teeth and sucks a breath through them, cataloging his injuries. There’s a nasty bruise over his ribs, a sharp pain lancing through his arm. The worst of the damage is hidden by his tattered sleeve, but he knows it’ll need dealt with soon.
The sting of failure is another fresh wound, still open and oozing self-disgust. Illuga pulls off his coat and throws it, leaving a smear of blood where it slides across the floor. The slice on his arm is a flesh wound, running from his bicep to his elbow. It’s bad enough to scar, probably bad enough to warrant a healer, but he couldn’t bring himself to be around anyone after the Nightmare Orioles had limped back to Piramida and delivered their report.
The cut must have re-opened when he tore his coat off. Fresh blood creeps down his arm, like tendrils of the Wild Hunt weaving through the mist. He pushes away from the door and heads to the kitchen, rummaging through his drawers for alcohol and gauze.
A flash of blue light flickers in his periphery.
Adrenaline spikes, hot in his veins, like it had back on the battlefield. Illuga spins, pulling a dagger from his belt, refusing to be caught off guard twice in a single day.
His breath catches.
“Master Flins…?”
But Flins isn’t standing in front of him—only his lantern, strange and familiar as it is.
He drops the roll of gauze and tucks the dagger away, craning his neck to look down the hallway. “Sir Flins?” He calls, louder this time.
No answer.
The lantern is suspiciously absent its owner, it seems. Illuga checks the bathroom, glances around his bedroom, takes the stairs to the top of the light tower. He’s half way back down when he begins to wonder if he’d imagined it, if it were some blood-loss-induced figment of his exhausted mind.
Despite Illuga’s invitation for him to ‘drop by any time,’ Flins has never chosen to visit him in Piramida before. He much prefers to make Illuga come to him, lugging supplies to the cemetery, forcing a modicum of social interaction over grilled fish and a game of cards.
Illuga stops at the end of the hallway, peeking out into his living room.
Not a hallucination then, he thinks, blinking at the ghostly lantern.
Perhaps Flins had some business with the old man, he reasons. Nikita probably told him he could leave the lantern here for safe keeping. It is the most logical explanation, after all.
His eyes narrow at it. It’s floating idly next to his favorite chair, the one he sits in to go over paperwork. Illuga steps toward it cautiously, like the lantern is some sort of strange creature, easily spooked. He’s never seen anything like it, never known fuel that could produce such beautiful azure flames.
He had asked about it once, to which Flins had gleefully spun a story with so many loops it was like he was trying to knit a sweater. Illuga never brought it up again.
But, it feels odd to be this close without Flins to accompany it. Illuga reaches out, holding his hand near the blue fire, feeling the warmth radiating from it. Even the heat is strange, like it’s breathing, like it knows him. And Illuga has the sudden, irrational urge to reach into the flames, to shake its hand like an old friend.
He moves closer, transfixed by its beauty. His wound continues to bleed, trailing in thin rivulets down his forearm, across his palm, beading at his fingertips.
A single drop falls into the fire.
Without warning, the lantern flares, a blinding flash that casts the room in brilliant cerulean blue. Illuga jumps back with a gasp, holding his injured arm close.
Okay, bad idea, he thinks, stumbling back toward the table. Very not good bad idea.
As quickly as it had reacted, the lantern dims, returning to its calm, flickering flame. Illuga hopes he hadn’t damaged it, hopes more that Flins won’t notice any lingering traces of his blood.
He busies himself by tending to his injury, a menial task to focus on. But, even with the job of cleaning and dressing his wound, he can’t help the occasional glance at the lantern, the way his mind wanders to thoughts of its owner.
By the time he’s done, the sunlight that streams in through the windows cracks has turned orange, heralding the coming night. He looks down at his handiwork in the low light, flexing his fingers and testing the tightness of the bandage.
“Good as new,” he says, satisfied. Then, to the lantern: “Just one more scar added to the bunch.”
A pause.
“…and I’m talking to it now.”
He runs a hand over his face in exasperation.
With nothing left to occupy him, his frustration is free to bubble back to the surface, to plague him with a scathing self-review of his lackluster leadership qualities. There’s a restless buzzing lying beneath it, making him feel on edge, his clothes too tight, his skin too tight. For a fraction of a second, he considers pouring himself a glass of Fire-Water to relax, but then discards the idea immediately. If anyone comes looking for him in an emergency, he needs a clear head.
Not that his head is exactly clear right now.
Illuga huffs, wishing there were some foolproof way to relax and unwind that didn’t involve alcohol. Something like—
His lips form a small O, realization sinking in.
He looks at his lap in consideration. From the corner, azure light dances.
“How long do you think we have till your owner comes back?” He asks.
When the lantern doesn’t answer—because lanterns aren’t really known for speaking—Illuga looks to the front door, then back to his lap.
If I stay where I am, I’ll be able to hear the front door unlocking, he reasons. And, with the table in front of me, I should have ample time to tuck myself away in a pinch.
Illuga ventures one last look at the lantern and thinks of the risks:
Gramps walking in on him. He shudders with preemptive embarrassment.
Flins walking in on him. He shudders with—
No sooner has the thought crossed his mind than his cock is stirring to life.
Oh, he thinks. Oh no.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, glaring at the lantern defensively. “Archons, what is wrong with me?”
He’s pent up, that’s all it is. It’s bound to happen from time to time. Completely normal. Not weird at all.
(Illuga doesn’t really believe that, but after the day he’s had, he thinks he deserves his little delusion.)
Throwing caution to the thousand winds, he unbuttons his pants and pulls the zipper down. He still has some pride, though, so when he tugs a glove off with his teeth and pauses with his hand below his face, he looks anywhere but the lantern.
Here goes nothing…
He spits in his palm and reaches into his pants. The lantern flickers as he wraps his hand loosely around his cock. Illuga ignores it, focusing only on the sensation of physical touch, the pressure, the wet slide of his hand. A breathy groan escapes him, low and involuntary. He tilts his head back and works himself slowly, his pulse quickening, breath leaving him in short bursts.
He doesn’t remember the last time he did this. It’s not exactly easy when stationed at Cliffwatch Camp, or when he’s traveling with his men, sleeping in thin canvas tents. He knows he won’t last long. Technically, it works in his favor. Fewer minutes pleasuring himself means less time to be caught, but he still wants to savor it while he can.
He keeps his pace steady, pushing the front of his pants down, mesmerized by the pearl of precum at his slit, glistening in the blue light. The only light in the room is now the lantern, making its presence all the more known.
What would happen if Flins walked in right this very moment?
He bites his lip, hand working faster.
What if he’s on his way back? Just outside of the door?
Illuga looks to the lantern with heavy-lidded eyes, moaning as he grips the head of his cock. He smears the precum down his length, gasping and shuddering at the sweet friction.
“F-fuck,” he says aloud, nothing but Flins’ lantern there to hear him.
With each stroke it seems to glow brighter, though he knows he’s imagining it. He lifts his hips from the chair and bucks into his hand, so close to the precipice of release.
“What…” he pants, half delirious, eyes fixed on the lantern. “Wh-what if he walked in right—ah, gods… what if he walked in right now?”
And then he’s coming, pumping his release onto his stomach and the edge of the table, spilling more of it over his knuckles.
Illuga slumps back into the chair, gasping for air. In the quiet of the room, he can hear the crackle of azure flames, mixed with the thudding of his pulse in his ears. The edge of frustration has ebbed away, replaced by a different sort of buzzing. He cracks open an eye, looking down to the mess at his lap.
He’s still rock hard.
“Really?” He groans, momentarily cursing his virility.
He knows he can’t risk another round, because then he will last, and Master Flins will have a much better chance of catching him in the act.
Oh gods… his cock throbs, leaping with interest at what is seemingly a newfound kink. Illuga wishes the earth would open up and swallow him.
He looks around the room, trying to get his mind onto other things, like the maps in the corner or the stack of recipes or the old mission reports he could pore over or that fucking lantern.
Illuga releases a heavy sigh, realizing that he’s not getting out of this one.
But, maybe he can make this time quicker. He pushes out of the chair and makes toward the bedroom, his pants still open, flushed cock peaking out of the waistband. Movement catches his eye.
Illuga spins. He could have sworn…
No, he thinks, the lantern didn’t move. He writes it off as a trick of the light and keeps walking.
From his bed, it will be harder to hear someone coming, but the room affords him some privacy. And if he can keep quiet enough, then maybe Flins will only retrieve his lantern, not even stopping to check if Illuga is there.
Or maybe he will… maybe he’ll hear Illuga’s whimpers, walk in on him spread out on the bed, fingers shoved deep in his…
Illuga nearly breaks the handle off his nightstand drawer. He retrieves a small bottle of oil and drops it onto the sheets so he can discard his dirty, blood stained clothes. The movement makes him wince, sending pain shooting through his arm, but all it really does is remind him why he’s doing this, why he needs a few moments to get out of his own head and simply feel.
Illuga decides to let himself fantasize about Master Flins, just this once—consolation for his terrible day.
He settles onto his knees in bed, completely exposed. The real Flins might balk at the patchwork of scars that crisscross his body, but the Flins in his head calls him beautiful and makes it sound like more than vapid flattery, and it’s enough to fortify his resolve.
He slicks his fingers with oil, this time reaching between his thighs, moving past his cock to feel for that place between his legs. Already he’s breathing heavily, lips parted, brow furrowed when he makes contact. He circles his opening, teasing it with one finger, gently pressing against the muscled resistance.
If it’s been a long time since he stroked his own cock, it’s been twice as long since he’s done anything like this. He feels his skin flush hot when he slips inside to the first knuckle, painting him red from his ears down to his chest. He moans at the feeling, squirming on the sheets as he slides in further.
The slight stinging feels almost pleasant compared to the pain in his arm, and so when he pulls his finger out, he quickly adds a second, gasping at the stretch.
“Flins…” he whispers, moving his fingers in tandem, sliding them in and out slowly.
Would Flins fuck him like this? Taking care of him? Taking his time, drawing out every last drop of pleasure?
Illuga finds his prostate and groans, thinking of how much longer Flins’ fingers are, how much deeper they would reach. His eyes flutter closed, making everything feel more intense, more pleasurable. He doesn’t wait much longer to add a third finger, to work them in and out with obscene, wet noises that make his head feel light.
A loud moan tumbles out of him and he thanks whatever archon will listen that Aedon had stayed with his lantern while it’s being repaired. He already has Flins’ lantern to judge him for this, he doesn’t need his nightingale knowing the extent of his depravity, too.
Illuga tries to reach deeper and falls forward, catching himself against his mattress with a pained hiss. He has to pull out to adjust, laying on his chest with his ass in the air. Then, he’s back to it, reaching behind with his good arm, plunging back inside as he drools into the pillows.
Between his legs, his cock hangs, dripping from the flushed head, forming a damp spot on the sheets. Through his eyelids, he thinks he can almost see that intoxicating lamplight, can almost imagine the way it would bathe his skin a beautiful shade of blue.
He flutters around his fingers, trying to suck them in further, to reach deeper than is possible. It’s not enough. He finds himself needing. Desperately needing.
“Flins!” He cries out, like a prayer, hand working faster, the lewd sounds getting louder.
He hears a shuffle from behind him and swears to Solovei his heart stops. Slowly Illuga turns to look over his shoulder, slowly he locks eyes with the subject of his fantasies.
“Apologies, Young Master. It was not my intent to disturb you.”
Illuga nearly screams.
Nearly, because he’s in too much shock to do anything other than blink and stutter out a quiet: “Y-you’re in my room.”
Flins nods thoughtfully, as if it’s a perfectly normal conversation. He’s sitting gracefully in Illuga’s favorite chair, having dragged it from the living room to the foot of his bed.
“You called my name.”
Illuga barely breathes. He’s completely aware that he still has three fingers shoved deep inside of his own body, and completely unaware of what to do about it. Does he stay frozen and tell Flins to leave? Does he pull his fingers out and give him a full view of his stretched hole?
Worst of all, Illuga can see that his cock hasn’t softened in the slightest. Flins can see it to.
“Please, don’t mind me, Young Master,” Flins says, after the long moment of silence. “Pretend I’m not here.”
Illuga’s whole body grows hotter at the implication.
Does Master Flins want me to keep going? Does he want to watch?
He’s looking at him like he wants to join. Like he could open wide and devour Illuga whole. The thought has him clenching.
“Flins…” he breathes, eyes wide, nerves alight with anticipation.
“Would you prefer it if I left?”
“Flins.”
A slow, predatory smile creeps over Flins’ face. Illuga shouldn’t find it as hot as he does.
“It doesn’t appear as though you’d prefer—”
“I’m trying to tell you to get over here!” Illuga snaps, finally.
Flins is on him in a blink, rolling him to lie on his back. He takes special care not to hurt Illuga’s injured arm, maneuvering it gently, purposefully, like he knows what lies under the bandage.
Illuga stares up at him in disbelief, once again wondering if his mind is playing tricks. But what a wonderful trick this would be: those hungry, citrine eyes staring down at him, the body caging him against the mattress. Illuga’s pulse is rabbit-quick. He feels somewhat like a rabbit, too. Open, vulnerable, frozen under the gaze of something with much sharper teeth.
“Would you be so kind as to tell me what you were thinking about just now?”
His face reddens. Flins knows what he was thinking about! He had watched him finger himself open from the end of the bed! He had heard Illuga call out his name!
Illuga tries to look away in embarrassment, but Flins’ hand is on his chin, tilting his face back toward his own.
“Indulge me?” He asks, so innocently, so sweetly that Illuga thinks he might forgive him.
“You,” he rushes out in a breath.
“I didn’t quite catch that…” Flins says. Illuga decides he’s not forgiven at all.
“I’m mad at you, you know,” Illuga huffs.
Flins raises a brow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to elaborate. I am, after all, a humble Ratnik not so adept at reading minds.”
“You could have—” joined sooner. “Knocked.”
He smiles like he can read minds. “And how would the Young Master desire I make up for this egregious lapse in propriety?”
“Take responsibility.”
“How—” Flins begins.
Illuga interrupts him.
“Finish what I started.”
He’s rewarded by an immediate, involuntary reaction, a flash of surprise that spreads across Flins’ face. Illuga finds immense satisfaction in it, in getting the upper hand for once, especially after what Flins had just walked in on.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t last long. Flins recovers quickly, dragging his fingers down Illuga’s body, brushing against his flushed cock as he ventures past it.
“Anything for you, my dear Young Master,” Flins whispers, and then Illuga is being filled again.
He shouts. That’s the only word for it.
Illuga had known—tangentially—that Flins’ hands were bigger than his, but he was in no way prepared for it. Somehow, Flins had managed to put oil on his hand, but he hadn’t removed his glove. Illuga has only a second to consider it, because then those long fingers are moving, and his mind goes perfectly blank.
“Is this what you had imagined?” Flins asks lightly.
Illuga thinks he might nod, because Flins laughs low in his chest and spreads his fingers, stretching his hole wider.
“It is quite different, is it not?” Flins says, finding Illuga’s prostate. “Do you prefer my hand to your own?”
“Yessss,” he says, embarrassingly fast.
He’s writhing on the bed, trapped between wanting to keep his eyes closed and wanting to watch the way Flins works, the way those captivating eyes stare down at him with barely contained desire.
It’s all too much. With Flins’ pleasuring him, Illuga is coaxed to the edge of his orgasm too soon. He doesn’t want it to be finished. He needs more, needs to feel Flins moving over him, thrusting inside of him with something other than his fingers.
“Please,” he gasps, hoping Flins goes easy on him. “Please, Flins…”
“Tell me what it is that you want and you shall have it.”
“You,” he whimpers. “Just you.”
Flins responds by pressing into him with a third finger, twisting them cruelly. “Ahh, but you have me already, do you see, Young Master?”
“St-stop calling me that…”
Flins leans in, hot breath ghosting over his ear. “What is it you desire, then, dear Illuga?”
Illuga groans loudly, shaking with need.
“Please fuck me,” he begs. “I want to feel you inside of me, I need to feel you…”
The azure flames of his lamp flash through Flins’ eyes, gone so quickly Illuga is sure he’d imagined it.
“With pleasure.”
Flins slides out of bed and undresses gracefully, the way a noble might undress. Illuga watches him with threadbare patience, feeling that the scene is missing a half-dozen attendants to help him. His belt comes off, then his overcoat. Illuga’s mouth waters as he strips himself naked one piece of clothing at a time.
Where his own body is a mess of scars, dotted with dark freckles like errant splashes of ink, Flins’ body is pale and beautiful and unmarred. His skin nearly glows in the dull light, delicate blue veins visible at his wrists and throat. His cock is hard and flushed, proportionate to his body the way his fingers had been.
Illuga has the urge to crawl toward him, to lean over the edge of the bed and take him into his mouth. He tries to lean up and winces at the pain in his arm.
Flins clicks his tongue. “You mustn’t strain yourself, Young Master.”
“Illuga,” he says. “I told you to call me Illuga.”
Flins settles wordlessly back onto the bed, hovering over him, hooking one arm under Illuga’s leg to lift it. Illuga spreads his other leg wider, bringing them so close that he can feel the heat radiating from Flins’ cock—just like that lantern, warm and strange and familiar in a way he can’t describe.
“Please,” Illuga says up at him, his hole clenching around nothing.
Flins slicks himself with oil and lines up for that first, hot press of his head to Illuga’s opening. Illuga groans a high, desperate noise, fluttering around the very tip, trying to draw him inside.
“Please relax, Master Illuga,” Flins says, gently. “I only wish to bring you pleasure.”
Illuga nods, his mouth hung open on each shallow breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Flins pushes inside.
Illuga throws his head back and comes without warning, pulsing around the first half of Flins’ cock. He shakes with the intensity of it, seeing azure fire dance behind his eyelids, the phantom feeling of flames licking his skin. He digs a heel into Flins’ back, and Flins interprets what he needs, bottoming out obediently. Illuga gasps and moans and writhes around him, legs shaking uncontrollably with the aftershocks.
Through all of it, Flins remains perfectly still, rubbing circles over his thigh, his eyes flickering from Illuga’s face to the slight bulge of his cum-covered abdomen. They stay like that until he can breathe properly again, long after his release begins to cool. And even though it must be killing him, Flins, ever the gentleman, doesn’t move.
“That was…” Illuga says, breathless and hoarse.
Flins only nods. “Indeed.”
It makes Illuga laugh even though it probably wasn’t meant to be funny. He’s learned that sex can do that sometimes, get him out of his head, make him feel lighter.
Only, it’s never been like this before. He blinks up at Flins through a haze. This man who mystifies and frustrates him to no end, who tells him stories and always ends on a cliffhanger, who keeps drawing Illuga back to him, moth to flame. Flins has never treated him like a moth, though. He’s never treated him like a kid either, the way so many people do.
No, Flins treats him like they’re both lanterns, shining different colors, leading lost souls through the fog all the same. It shouldn’t comfort him the way it does.
“You can move,” he says, because he doesn’t really trust himself to say anything else.
Flins looks like he’s going to say something, but Illuga shakes his head. He squeezes his eyes shut and feels wetness on his lashes, wills it to go back to wherever it came from.
“As you wish,” he says, sliding free.
Illuga gasps, his eyes flying open. His entire body feels like an exposed energy core, hot and volatile, ready to detonate from the smallest movement. He can’t tell Flins that that had been his second orgasm, so instead he clings to his shoulders, holding on like he would otherwise slip away, choking on each breath as Flins drives into him with punishing precision.
It feels like he’s burning from the inside out, a fire igniting deep in his gut, catching his overstimulated nerves like kindling. Illuga could feed himself to it, that fire that feels like an old friend, let it burn him to smoke and ash, live with it inside of a lantern until the last moon falls.
The headboard slams into the wall with every thrust, adding to the noise of the room. Illuga gasps and moans, dragging his nails down Flins’ back, taking all that Flins can give him. He feels so full, stretched wide, split open, on the precipice of something wonderful and terrible.
“Breathtaking,” Flins says above him, sounding so different from his normal flattery.
Illuga curses the hot tears in his eyes, tries to bury his face in Flins’ neck to hold them at bay.
But Flins has always seen him and understood him and done with that knowledge whatever he damn well pleases.
“Stunning,” he continues, rolling his hips, bringing them both toward the edge. “A perfect jewel.”
Illuga swallows a sob, the fire inside of him building to an inferno.
“Come for me, my gem,” Flins whispers, and everything goes dark.
Illuga is floating somewhere the moon and stars can't reach. He spins in either direction but can’t make out his surroundings, can’t even see his own hand in front of his face.
“Hello?”
He stumbles forward, catching his footing, calling out again: “Flins?”
A pinprick of light grows in the distance, strange and familiar and blue. Illuga takes a step toward it, then another, his walk turning into a jog, jog turning into a sprint. The fire burns brighter, splitting the dark as would a giant smile, lighting his way like a pair of knowing eyes.
Come to me, my gem, it calls.
Illuga runs and runs and throws himself into the flames.
He comes back to his room with a gasp, Flins’ body still stretched over him, panting from exertion, his face flushed in the aftermath of his own orgasm. Illuga squirms, feeling it deep inside of him, the subtle warmth and fullness that accompanies it.
“Did you go somewhere?” Flins asks with a breathless laugh, cupping his jaw.
Illuga doesn’t know how to describe it, so he nods. “Just for a moment,” he rasps.
They stay like that for a long while before Flins finally pulls out of him and slides off of the bed. He leaves the room only long enough to retrieve a damp towel, gently using it to clean Illuga’s skin and blot at the sheets.
“You should rest,” he says when he’s done, throwing the rag into the corner, a problem for Illuga to deal with later.
Illuga yawns, pulling the covers up over his lap. “Mmhmm. Don’t forget your lamp,” he says.
Flins only smiles, turning to retrieve his clothes. Illuga watches the muscles work in his back, flexing beneath smooth skin—
His eyes widen.
“Your back,” he says, sitting up in bed.
Flins spins around to face him, pulling his pants back on. “Ah, yes. You did seem rather eager to leave your mark.”
Illuga flushes and shakes his head. “No, not that… it’s… your back is perfect.”
“How fortuitous that I should be the subject of the Young Master’s flattery—”
“No,” Illuga tries again, exhaling sharply. “There are no scratches.”
Flins tilts his head, like he’s considering the information, before silently shrugging. “How peculiar.” Is all he says, finishing the process of redressing and righting his hair.
“I’ll be taking my leave, now,” he says, once his overcoat is on. “I am, of course, under no illusions you’ll heed my advice, but it would be wise to rest while that injury heals.”
Illuga pulls the sheets higher, hiding more of the scars that stretch across his abdomen, still feeling confused by Flins’ unmarked skin.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks defensively.
Flins inclines his head. “My, my. You wish to hear me spell it out for you? Very well: you do have a tendency to place the needs of others before your own. And as such, your propensity for overworking yourself does not bode well for that injury.”
Illuga gestures to the bandage. “I do know how to take care of myself, you know.”
“Yes, of course, Young Master. I only ask that you err on the side of caution. We wouldn’t want you…” he pauses in the doorway, a knowing smile stretching across his face. “Bleeding all over things, now would we?”
Illuga’s breath catches at the azure gleam in his eyes.
“Who knows what sort of creature could get a taste for you, then?”