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A nobleman's pride is a fickle thing. Back in his days at court, Kyryll had witnessed many a duel over the smallest of offences. He'd watched from the sidelines as the highborn fae squabbled among themselves, eager to uphold their supposedly insulted dignity.
No, the real dignity, the real pride, he’s always thought, resides within the person. Is it even possible to tarnish it if one’s will is unbending? In his humble opinion, a true show of nobility, not just in title, but in spirit, would be to weather any indignity life throws at him with his head high, resolute and unyielding. Although he's never had a chance to test his convictions - soon, the Court had fallen apart with the passing of their Tsar, and he found himself journeying to a distant land, looking for a place to rest in his eternal slumber.
He's never forgotten about them, however. Fae, by their very nature, are exceedingly curious creatures. And Flins, even among them, has always been curious to a fault. That's why, when presented with the opportunity to test the limits of his own pride, he simply couldn't pass on it.
He wished to see how far this road would take him. And so, when a large gauntleted hand pushed him down to his knees, he submitted, although not without a fight.
Which leads him to the present, to the dark and deserted expanse of Starsand Shoal.
The Sinner's considerable cock is buried in his throat, choking him. Flins' knees dig into the sand, hands grip the dark bandages over Rerir's thighs. He's at his very limit, held in place by his hair, forced to take the invading length as the air in his lungs runs out.
Just as the fae starts to feel light-headed, Rerir pulls out, his heavy cock resting against Flins' face, smearing saliva and precome over his nose and cheek. Afforded a moment of respite, Flins dry heaves, drool running down his chin and dripping on the ground. His throat burns.
“Pathetic,” the low voice sounds from above.
Flins looks up; the hot weight of the Sinner’s length shifts to rub against his slightly parted spit-slick lips. Their eyes lock. Rerir’s gaze burns with cruel intensity.
Not wasting any more time, he grabs Flins by the back of the head and pushes back in, unheeding of whether the fae can take it. Abused throat invaded once again, Flins does his best to relax, going limp in the cruel hold. The cock is so deep inside of him the fae is half sure it could reach his collarbones if Rerir pressed forward just a bit more.
His jaw aches, more saliva escaping the stretched lips in a messy, shameful display. Rerir uses him like an object, with no regard for his discomfort or pleasure. The fat length presses deeper in measured thrusts and withdraws just enough for him to get a bare minimum amount of air. Flins can feel it twitch in his throat.
The Sinner grunts, his red eye still locked on Flins' debauched expression. Just as he gets close to the edge, Rerir pulls out and takes himself in hand.
A few quick pumps, a quiet sigh, and his release spills over Flins' face. It's hot and there's so, so much of it. It lands on his still open lips, his trembling eyelashes, his disheveled bangs, the top of his coat. The fae gasps, affronted, but his utterly ruined throat can't produce even the slightest sound of disapproval.
Rerir sneers down at him in pure contempt, relishing in his humiliation. The hand in his hair abruptly lets go, and Flins almost collapses.
“I see what you are now, Ratnik,” the Sinner says, fixing his pants and turning away. He’s gone in a swirl of abyssal energy a second later, sparing no glance at the kneeling Lightkeeper.
It takes a few minutes for Flins to steady his breath and regain his bearings. The Sinner's release slowly dries on his skin, burning like a brand. And if Flins' tongue darts out to taste a few drops that landed over his lips, there's no one to witness it.
*
It isn't often that the Wild Hunt shows itself at the cemetery. Flins' surging flames burned a mark of ownership into this place all those years ago; it is his home, his dominion, and it has no place for the wicked abominations.
The Master of the Hunt heeds no such rules.
The battle is over before it even starts. Rerir moves with terrifying speed, not even bothering with conjuring a weapon. Flins evades the first few blows, parries the next, but his efforts are in vain. The polearm is wrenched out of his hand, the lantern grabbed and thrown away. He’s punched in the face, twice, sharp metal slicing his cheek, and then the ironclad fist hits him in the solar plexus, knocking him off his feet. Flins retches, catching himself before he can fall face first in the mud.
“Such rage. Did you treat your would-be fiancée like that too?”
His opponent growls in barely contained fury at that. The hand, still wet with his blood, grabs the Lightkeeper by the hair and hauls him up. For a second, Flins is suspended in the air, feet a few inches off the ground. Another second, and his head is slammed against the gravestone, the one he built for himself all those centuries ago. Pain explodes in his skull, his ears ring.
Something warm runs down his chin and the back of his throat. He tastes the metal on his tongue: blood from the broken nose.
Rerir throws him back to the ground with little care. Flins' right eye is quickly swelling shut, and his remaining vision swims as he gasps for breath like a fish out of water. Blood pounds in his ears with an almost deafening roar. He's sure he's concussed.
The Sinner's heavy boot connects with his ribcage, the force enough to punch all remaining air out of him. Another kick makes his bones creak with the impact. A hit to the back of his skull, and his vision blacks out for a moment. His broken nose is pushed against the ground. He can taste the soil on his lips.
A mere beating, no matter the severity, would not kill him, as they’re both aware. The Sinner could tear his head clean off his body and be done with it if he so wished, but it's not what he’s here for. Instead he takes his sweet pleasure in making sure there's not a single spot on Flins' body left undamaged. His arm is wrenched backwards and tugged until the shoulder joint pops out of its socket, his ribs stomped, his neck and face bruised.
The hits stop only when Flins starts coughing up blood and bile.
Rerir pushes him to lie on his back with a malicious nudge to the dislocated shoulder. Stone steps dig into Flins' battered body. The gloomy sky above the cemetery fills his failing vision, the dark silhouette of the Sinner covering the view of the lighthouse.
A boot comes to press against his groin. Flins keens weakly, a wet, reedy sound leaving his throat. Rerir presses harder, grinds his sole into the side of Flins' cock. It hurts, a different kind of pain to the treatment he’s been subjected to so far. It feels like a purposeful, intimate touch, even if disguised as violence.
When Rerir's heel compresses his vulnerable balls, Flins’ hips jerk involuntarily towards it. The movement is excruciating, his whole body is weak and sluggish from injuries, but that harsh press feels so right, so good.
“You're getting hard.”
He is. Flins’ quiet chuckle comes with a gurgling sound of blood in his throat, a few foamy bubbles forming and bursting on his lips.
“This is repulsive. You insane, deranged slut.”
Rerir bends down, pulls the bandages off his lips and spits in the Lightkeeper's mouth. With his nose in its current state, Flins has a choice to either swallow or forget about breathing. And he does swallow, tasting his own blood, hips grinding up into the press of Rerir's sole, hard edge of the heel digging into his tender shaft. The Sinner watches with mild amusement as the fae below him pants, battered face red with shame. His foot remains unmoving, content to let Flins take this dubious pleasure.
It doesn't take him long to come in his pants with a barely audible whimper. The weak satisfaction of his orgasm quickly drowns in the wave of pain and humiliation.
“You liked that? I’ll give you more.”
The Sinner's foot slowly moves from Flins' groin to his hand, clenched by his side, and pushes it into the stone step with full force until the delicate bones grind together and break.
*
Wherever the Knights of Favonius are involved, there sure is plenty of alcohol and entertainment to be had. Today, the Flagship is full of loud and rowdy armor-wearing patrons, celebrating a birthday (or a marriage anniversary, or a firstborn, at this point no one is quite sure) of one of their comrades.
Flins, strictly speaking, wasn't invited. He just happened to be in town on business, but the moment he stepped his foot inside he was treated as one of the Knights. The Lightkeeper’s jug is never empty on this night, and neither is the seat by his side, new faces changing constantly, eager to hear of his recent feats on the battlefield. Varka sits across from him, his inquisitive gaze lingering on the Ratnik's bruised face, but in an astounding show of tact he says nothing.
Eventually, Flins has to bid the Grandmaster and his company goodbye and retire to his room early. He has a long trip to Piramida ahead of him; unlike the Knights, the days when he could drink all night and march all day with his fellow soldiers are way past him.
Although it seems his rest will have to wait.
On his bed sits the Sinner, arms crossed over his chest, boots dirtying fresh linens, expression stuck in a perpetual frown. Flins sighs. Way to ruin a festive mood.
“The Rächer of Solnari. A surprise.” Not a pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. “What brings you here?”
His words are ignored. The man rises to his full impressive height, cloak trailing behind him.
“You took your time, Lightkeeper.”
“Please excuse me. I was unaware we had an arrangement,” he replies smoothly. The nerve to show up unannounced, ruin his bedsheets and act as if it was Flins who's at fault. “Any chance we could reschedule? I was really looking forward to a full night’s sleep.”
Not sparing another second, the man lunges forward and grabs Flins, spinning him around and pressing his smaller body against the wall. His head reels from the sudden assault. The metal claws roam, tearing the Ratnik’s west open, pulling his shirt out of his pants, shredding leather straps that get in the way.
His coat is torn off his shoulders, his torso pressed forwards until he's bent at the waist. A hand threads through the hair on his nape, grabs the short strands and pulls, tilting Flins' head back. The Sinner examines him, the other hand coming to grip his jaw.
“Your face. Why is it bruised?”
“Is your memory failing you?” The fae casts an unimpressed glance at Rerir from his uncomfortable position. “You caused the injuries yourself.”
“Don't play with me,” comes an angry snarl. “Your broken fingers are healed, but these bruises remain. Why?”
Because Flins wanted them to last, to fade away naturally. He tells Rerir as much. There's nothing wrong with carrying a lasting reminder. The claws dig into his cheek. Flins can tell the Sinner is taken aback by his easy admission.
“Did you enjoy showing your marked face around town?” Rerir asks, bemused. “You told them these were from some heroic battle when they asked, didn't you?”
Flins might have. It wasn't a lie; he did fight the Wild Hunt and sustained the injuries, after all. The rest were insignificant details.
His admission spurs Rerir on. The fae's pants are pulled down, the fastenings torn apart in the process, cool air of the room on his bare bottom. The hand on his nape pushes harder, forcing him into a more indecent pose. He hears the rustle of fabric, clanking of metal, and that huge cock is suddenly resting at the small of his back, already hard and leaking. Flins himself is not yet fully aroused, though it surely is of no concern to the Sinner. Rerir spreads his cheeks, baring the fae’s hole to his gaze.
“Hm. Tight,” he says as though surprised by what he's seeing, and the Lightkeeper almost takes offence at this assumption about his virtue, or lack thereof.
Fingers, mercifully devoid of sharp metal tips, invade his mouth with force and briefly toy with his tongue before withdrawing. Flinn spreads his legs shamelessly in anticipation of the wet touch against his hole.
Another issue becomes glaringly apparent as two fingers at once slide into him, exploring his insides. After an evening filled with drinking, he had no time for a bathroom visit, and his bladder aches when the fingers graze just below it.
Soon, they're replaced by the fat head of Rerir's cock and the unrelenting pressure against his barely stretched rim. Flins has been given the bare minimum for the Sinner’s own comfort, and nothing more. The almost dry stretch is excruciating, like he's being torn in two. Unable to stifle it, he cries out in pain.
“Did you guys hear that?” comes a concerned voice from the other side of the wall. Flins stills, palm clasping over his mouth.
Rerir chuckles meanly, not pausing for a second. “Go on, scream louder, little thing.”
Flins bites down on his gloved hand to silence the pained whimpers as he's impaled further on that cock. The massive length goes too deep, reaching the parts of him that have never been touched with a terrifying ease, making space for itself inside him. With a slight change in angle, it presses right against his full bladder. Flins gasps, shudders in discomfort before willing himself to relax and stop thinking about the mounting need.
In a second, the thing inside of him starts pulling back, and it feels like it's drugging his insides with it. He can feel something slicking the way now – his blood? The cock stretches his hole to its very limit, and as the Sinner starts a leisurely pace, Flins thinks intimacy is forever ruined to him now. No one else could give him this. No one else would dare to treat him this way. He grows painfully hard just from this, without being touched.
He chose an above average height for his vessel, and yet the Sinner's bulk makes Flins feel small. Rerir occupies so much space: around him, in him. There's no room left for anything else except his cock, the tight grip of his hands. Another push against the fullness inside of him, and, to his mortification, Flins can feel a small spurt of wetness escape him against his will.
“Let me go,” he whispers with urgency, trying to move away. “I need… I need a moment.”
“No.” The grip on his hips tightens, pulling him even closer, the cock pushing even harder into him, bullying his prostate. Flins knows Rerir has noticed his desperation, even if the other party doesn't comment on it. Something akin to tense anticipation flutters in his stomach.
On the other side of the wall, the Knights continue their celebration, unaware of his struggle. He can hear Varka’s signature laugh, the clinking of glasses, music playing on that strange contraption of Miss Aino’s. Inside the room, the only sounds are his own: the labored breathing, the quiet, restrained moans, the wet squelch of his hole. The Sinner is silent, save for an occasional pleased groan, but Flins can feel the way his cock twitches inside him, the way his hips move faster to chase the pleasure.
The urgency of his predicament grows. Flins clenches harder, attempting to preserve what little dignity remains with him. That doesn't go unnoticed either.
“Look.” A hand comes to grip him by the chin and guide his gaze down, where, to the fae’s horror and astonishment, a slight bulge can be seen below his navel.
Rerir presses his palm against the bulge and Flins trashes in his hold, so full and desperate while his body is assaulted with pleasure. His hole stretched around the cock, his prostate abused relentlessly, his bladder trapped between the Sinner's palm and the length inside of him.
He sobs as he comes untouched, seed painting the floor in spurts. Rerir curses behind him, still moving, trapped in his tight heat. His hand doesn't let up.
This is too much.
Flins loses control of himself, liquid gushing from his softening cock, splashing against the wall, against his own abdomen, wetting his shirt and lowered pants. The relief feels so good, almost as good as coming, and he moans in bliss, urine running down his thighs.
“Disgusting. Can’t even hold it.” The Sinner laughs at him from behind, low and mocking. His voice is hoarse with his own pleasure.
Flins burns with embarrassment, hiding the reddened face in his elbow. This is so degrading, so unbecoming of a nobleman, of a Lightkeeper, wetting himself in front of the enemy as his companions celebrate next door. It almost, almost makes him shed his human form and turn into a small ball of fire just to escape the Sinner’s scrutiny.
And Rerir enjoys it, feasts on his shame, digs his palm into the fae's abdomen until the very last drop is squeezed out, fucks into his overstimulated body with cruel persision. When he comes, Flins is once again left feeling full, this time with his copious release.
It leaks out of him as the Sinner pulls out and steps away, adding to the mess on the floor, pale drops tinted pink with his blood. His hole is left gaping, puffy from abuse. Flins' weakened legs give out, and he slides against the wall, coming to sit in the puddle of his own waste.
Rerir just leaves him there. It is a blessing he has nothing else to say about the state the fae is in. Too exhausted to move, Flins watches with half-lidded eyes as the loathsome man rights his clothes, wipes his hands on the bedsheets and walks to the exit.
Surely Rerir isn't planning to just walk out of the Flagship’s front door? He can imagine the commotion, the panic it would cause among the patrons. The Knights rushing in to check on the Lightkeeper only to find him like this…
The Sinner's form shifts, condenses into a smaller figure: long hair, dark clothes, a lantern clipped to his waist. Flins' own yellow eyes look back at him, the doppelganger lifting a finger to his lips with a satisfied little smile. Then the door hinges creak, and pseudo-Flins makes his exit, elegant, almost dancing steps so different from the Rächer’s usual prowl.
Flins is left alone, ruined and aching.
*
The situations he keeps finding himself in are truly something else.
“How fortunate it is that we are able to meet under such circumstances,” the intruder says with a delighted thrill in his voice.
Flins sits in a chair in the underground archive below the cemetery, naked, hands tied behind his back by an abyssal tendril. The draft is chilling against his skin.
“I have prepared something truly special for today. Something the man of your, ah, proclivities will surely appreciate. Enjoyment, however, is not guaranteed.”
The intruder’s eyes study him, the placid expression barely hiding his devious excitement. His pale face is illuminated by the soft candlelight, hair falling around his shoulders in blue locks, layered clothes hiding his slender frame.
Once again Flins looks at his own face reflected at him.
Humans are often not aware of how they look to an observer’s eye, but Flins is, very conscientiously so. Appearing human doesn’t come easy. His looks and emotions are carefully curated, and so are his behaviors, learned through long years of observation.
Did Rerir study him, his habits, his behavior, his mannerisms? It is uncanny how well the Sinner manages to imitate Flins, down to the very cadence of his voice, the smallest gesture. Even his posture is up to the most demanding etiquette standards of the era long past.
“Have you ever had the pleasure of experiencing water torture, by any chance?” The double’s lips quirk. He sits at the table, legs crossed, hands folded over the knee, and the real Flins can't take his eyes off of him. “I find this method both simple and effective. It doesn't require much effort on the executor's part and leaves no traces. Visible traces, that is. Most importantly, it produces quick results. Quite useful in my line of work.”
The way his own long-winded style of speaking is now turned against him is truly irritating.
“Can't say I have.” Although he'd seen it inflicted on others, back when his flame was no bigger than a candle’s. ‘Come see, Kyryll, humans are so much like bugs when they struggle.’ “Are you nostalgic for the good old days?”
“Aren’t we all?”
The copy takes a lavender-colored piece of cloth from the table – Flins thinks he can recognize his shredded shirt, the audacity – and walks up to the bound captive. It takes him no effort at all to grab the fae by the neck and throw him onto the table.
Flins hisses as he hits the hard surface, tied hands first. His face smiles at him from above, observing his struggle. The doppelganger pulls out a standard-issue Lightkeeper canteen. Flins' own, barely ever used; he hates plain water most of all. The understanding of what's in store makes the fae dizzy, his heart beating faster, breaths coming in short frantic bursts. He is… frightened. What could be a worse fate for a flame than to drown?
“No need to shake in fear, we are simply having a bit of harmless fun, aren't we?” the copy says, the unnatural smile still plastered on his stolen lips.
Flins' head is tilted back, and the cloth covers his face. His frantic heartbeat grows louder as the sight is taken from him. The fae can hear the sound of the canteen opening, the doppelganger saying something, some kind of mockery, no doubt; then, cold water pours over the cloth and he trembles.
The fabric quickly becomes saturated and soon the liquid starts entering his nose. Flins trashes, trying to dislodge the cloth from his face, but countless abyssal appendages grab him and hold so tight he can't as much as shake his head.
More water is poured over, filling his nasal cavities, and when he tries to take a breath, he can't. It does feel like drowning, there's so much water and so little air. His lungs burn, his heart seizes with terror. For a moment, stretched so long it feels like eternity, with absolute clarity Flins realizes he's dying. His flame dims, smothered, and the fae helplessly clings to the last sparks of life, desperately trying to inhale.
Suddenly, the cloth is gone. He’s pulled upright, and the water escapes his airways, runs in rivulets down his naked body as he wheezes and coughs.
“There, there.” A hand pats him on the back. “It wasn't too bad, was it?”
It was beyond terrible. The phantom sensation of drowning persists, and Flins is so shaken and disoriented he can barely tell up from down.
He is also, once again, bewilderingly, inexplicably, unfathomably hard.
It seems that no matter what cruelty this man inflicts upon him, his body only knows one reaction. There's just something about being at the Sinner's mercy, letting him hold Flins at the very brink of death. They have no trust for each other, share no feelings beyond hate, and yet… and yet.
“Hah… You really are fucked in the head.” Rerir breaks character for a moment, his gravelly voice coming out of the double’s throat. “Very well. I will give you what you want.”
He's pushed back on the table, still shivering, still gasping for breath. The doppelganger steps between his spread legs, undoing his pants.
His knee is lifted up, exposing him. Flins can feel the copy spit on his hole – so out of character, he would never be this crass. It seems he won't be getting anything beyond a little saliva. At least this time the cock is normal-sized and he's still a little loose from the previous encounter.
The sogging wet shred of his shirt is back over his face. A full-body shudder goes through him. The doppelganger lines himself up, pushes in and pours more water over the cloth at the same moment. Flins can barely register the pain of penetration over the panic, before his senses are once again overtaken by the all-encompassing need for air.
His lungs burn, his heart flutters desperately. He can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't… There's that sensation again, like he's dying, his flames surging desperately only to be doused. The other, the cursed impostor, moves in him so slow and sweet, slides against all of his sensitive spots, their identical bodies fitting so well together. It would’ve been so good if not for the deprivation, for the terrifying feeling of encroaching death.
He can't…
He can’t breathe. He's going to die. The certainty of it is terrifying.
Flins comes, body seizing in a desperate arch. The pleasure is so sharp in its intensity, fueled by the adrenaline of his desperation.
His consciousness dims. He floats at the very brink of it, lost in this ecstasy mixed with terror.
The low candlelight burns his eyes as the cloth is removed from his face. He’s being pulled upright again, Flins thinks, although he can't sense it, only register the interior move around him. An open palm slams his back, causing him to desperately choke and cough up the water. It spurts from his nose, drips from his chin, runs down his heaving chest, washes away Flins' own come from his body.
The stale air finally enters his lungs.
He turns to the side and throws up almost immediately, the watery contents of his stomach splashing on the cold stone. His tormentor wraps Flins' hair around his fist to keep it out of the way. Such a gentleman.
He's given a few minutes of respite. Flins takes short desperate inhales, not able to get enough of his restored breathing privilege. Drool and snot run down his face. The doppelganger takes him by the chin, examines his wrecked appearance with satisfaction.
“Look at you. Some proud Ratnik you are.”
The cloth that was just used to torture Flins comes back to gently wipe his cheeks. Then, the cock inside of him slips out. Flins didn't even realize it was still there. The double must've come too, at some point. The fae didn't feel it happen, but the release starts leaking from his loosened hole almost immediately, splattering over the floor, over the doppelganger’s polished boots.
“What a mess,” the impostor shakes his head, looking down at the splatters. “It is unbecoming of a man of your – our – status to walk around like this. I believe some cleaning is in order.”
His gloved hand points at the space on the floor right in front of him.
“Clean my boots.”
Flins gives him nothing but a look of tired defiance. His double tuts, amused, and leans closer to speak into the fae’s ear. Their long hair mixes together, falls over Flins' shoulder in a wave of indigo.
“You know, I could take the form of someone else. And then we could have a round two of this wonderful experience,” the double cradles his cheek, bringing their faces together. “How about that Knight, hm? He seems very fond of you. Or the young Lightkeeper?”
The thought of looking his friends in the eye after this and thinking of this moment, of water and darkness, the memory forever tied to the people he so admires makes a cold shiver go down his spine.
“Do not.” His voice sounds like a wreck, a small shaky thing, barely audible.
“I’m waiting, then.”
Flins collects himself, taking more unsteady shaking breaths, and slips down from the table to the wet floor, hands still tied behind his back. Kneeling in front of the Sinner is a habit at this point. He bends down, reluctant tongue sliding over the toe of the boot, licking up the bitter substance.
Mentally, he is not at all there. To think he was so close to the eternal slumber once again, a real one this time. His flame, almost extinguished with such ease, in such a manner. The unparalleled sense of dread he felt then is sure to stay with him for a long time. Water keeps dripping from his nose and collecting in his mouth. There's also wetness on his eyelashes, in the corners of his eyes – why is he crying? Flins stops his degrading task to wipe the tears that threaten to fall on his shoulder.
When he tries to bend down again, he's stopped by a hand on his upper arm. Flins looks up at his own visage, dazed. Instead of more ridicule or derision, he's met with silence. The yellow eyes look down at him with somber melancholy.
*
It's just a little past sunrise when Flins returns back to his small room at the lighthouse after a long night’s patrol. He's exhausted, arms heavy with fatigue, coat wet with morning dew.
The Sinner waits for him, leaning against the wall right next to the entrance, his tall figure blocking the early morning light from the singular window. It's been a while since their last meeting (it was for the best; Flins needed a long time to recover, and even then the phantom sensation of drowning still followed him in his nightmares). The Lightkeeper was left wondering when his tormentor would make another appearance.
“Good morning. How have you been?” Flins greets him. Never let it be said that he doesn't treat his guests with utmost politeness. Even if they're uninvited.
Rerir straightens up and takes a slow, measured step towards him.
“May I at least take my shoes off first?”
“You may not.”
Ultimately predictable, unlike the way he doesn't tear Flins’ clothes off right then and there.
Instead, Rerir leads him to the bed, pushes down on his shoulder, until Flins obediently lowers himself to sit. Then, the Sinner kneels. Right in front of him, between Flins' spread legs, the creature’s knees hit the floorboards with a thud. His hands reach out - gauntlets still covered with rusty stains of Flins' dried blood - and start undoing the laces of his right boot.
If he were still at court, Flins would’ve thought this to be some elaborate fae illusion.
“I could do it myself. As of yet my hands are still attached to my person.”
“Silence.”
Rerir takes his boot off and starts unlacing the other one. This is so utterly bizarre that Flins is at a complete loss.
Done with his feet, Rerir moves to undo the belts at his waist - and this, at least, is familiar, although usually the belts do not survive the ordeal. To his never ending surprise, his clothes are treated with a bit of care: Rerir removes his layers one by one, and none of the garments get torn or lose buttons in the process. He even tugs down the bandages covering his lips to grab the fae’s hands and slowly pull the gloves covering them off with his sharp teeth.
Flins is left naked and bewildered. And then, to really get that final nail in the coffin, the Sinner bends lower, hair falling around his face in loose waves, and takes Flins' soft cock in his mouth.
He's clumsy and inexperienced with it, mostly drooling around the length and not doing much of anything. Still, Flins grows harder under the attention. The Sinner's mouth is hot, the long tongue presses just right over the sensitive spot below the head. He even minds his teeth. Rerir's fingers hold Flins at the base as he chokes a few times trying to take him deeper, before giving up and setting for licking around the head and lazily stroking the rest.
Not many cocks in his life, then. Flins would've been flattered if he wasn't so distraught. Rerir touches him with such gentle reverence, free hand exploring the plain of his stomach, the slight swell of his pectoral. Almost like a lover.
Ah. Flins thinks he understands. An unpleasant lump forms in his throat.
The Sinner pulls away with one last lick to the dripping head, pushes down on Flins' chest, until Flins lies under him, spread in the sheets. The crimson cloak and the dark bandages disappear, leaving him bare before the fae for the first time.
Once upon a time, the Rächer of Solnari might’ve been a handsome man. Now, he looks like an incomplete puzzle, with parts of him missing and replaced by gem-like abyssal structure. One eye is gone, a deep cavern full of jagged shards in its place, thin lips covered in glowing cracks, the torso a mess of crystal and flesh.
Anyone in their right mind would consider him, by all means, a monster. But Flins… Flins thinks the monstrous parts make his persevering humanity even more apparent.
Rerir's hand comes to brush Flins' hair out of his face, cradle his cheek in a well-practiced gesture of affection. His only eye looks at the enemy trapped below him with something akin to longing.
At that moment, the fae feels intense, all-encompassing revulsion. He doesn't want to see this, this vulnerability, doesn't want to receive tender caresses from this despicable, insane shadow of a man. To be a doll, a replacement for someone else. At least when the Sinner crushed him under his boot, he saw Flins in his own right. This… misplaced, misattributed tenderness wounds him. Out of all the things he was made to suffer through at the man's hand, this may be the one his pride would never be able to recover from.
Rerir bends to kiss him softly, a brush of lips over his brow, on the corner of his mouth. The fae shakes his head, doesn't let him get to his lips properly. His cock softens, despite the Sinner's previous best efforts.
“Not doing it for you, huh? You only get hard when I treat you worse than an animal, is that it?” the man says, bitterness seeping into his tone. “You disgusting filth.”
“I’m not her. Do not treat me like I am.”
“Of course you aren't,” Rerir grits with disdain. “You could never be her. Could never hold a candle to –”
His face contorts in a pitiful grimace. The fae turns away. He doesn't wish to see it. It's not for him to see.
Flins refuses to show even an ounce of reciprocity when his unwelcome lover resumes his affections. He lies there, limp like a puppet with its strings cut, as Rerir places more kisses over his body, entwines their fingers, spreads oil over Flins' entrance and probes it with his fingers in careful motions.
The pain inflicted on him and the hatred they held for each other were honest. Not even she, the one the Sinner imagines in his place, has seen this hidden, masked part of Rerir that yearned to hurt and maim. But Flins has. He'd seen right through the Sinner to his very rotten, depraved core, and pulled this ugly thing out to examine in the lamplight. That was the real him, wasn't it? A force of hate and destruction, a human made monster long before the Abyss ever got to him. Why then, why pretend, why play this miserable game?
Rerir pushes into him with a quiet grunt, pressing deep in one smooth thrust.
It's not nearly as good as he has come to expect. The Sinner is slow and unsatisfying when he tries to be gentle. The slide inside of him is too slick, too easy; it doesn't hurt at all. Rerir wraps a hand around his cock, nose buried in the fae's hair, breath cold against his temple.
Flins is going to be sick.
He’d rather be beaten bloody, spat on, forced to wet himself again than endure any more of this.
His body reacts to this touch nonetheless. That thing in the middle of Rerir's palm feels good against the underside of his cock; he is pleasantly stretched around the length inside of him, and it hits his prostate so easily, occupies so much space inside of him…
Flins bites his lip to stifle the pathetic whine that threatens to escape. His cock twitches in Rerir's gentle – too gentle, too soft – hold when he reaches his peak.
The Sinner keeps moving, guiding him through this unsatisfying, weak orgasm, hips losing their rhythm, palm now covered with the fae's release. He half expects to hear another’s name fall from Rerir’s lips, but the man is silent as he, too, comes, warmth flooding Flins’ insides.
The Lightkeeper feels empty and so utterly alone, despite the man’s presence inside him, around him. He tries to pull away, now that they are done, to turn to the side, but an arm wrapping around his middle doesn't let him.
“Leave. Go play house elsewhere.”
Rerir pays no heed to his plea. He holds him tighter, places a kiss over his closed lips.
“Flins.”
His hand, exposed hand, with no metal, no cloth covering it, almost normal, almost human, with long fingers and filed nails, runs up Flins' body, rests over his chest. The creature by his side is, at the end of the day, a human, same as the rest of them. No matter how twisted and cruel, his humanity remains, and human nature is just as persistent as a fae’s. It is the most human thing to yearn for what one has lost, Flins thinks, disdainful.
“Next time we meet, I will make sure you suffer like never before. If you like being treated like that so much, so be it. I will tear you apart, destroy you piece by piece, fae, until nothing is left. You will see.”
The Sinner's forlorn, downright pathetic expression doesn't match the words. His threat rings hollow.