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Varka woke with a hiss through his teeth. Again.
He didn’t even need to look to know what it was this time. His shoulder throbbed under the blanket, the kind of dull ache that only came from very specific sources—namely, one (1) possessive fae curled beside him pretending to sleep.
Snowlight from the window spilled across the bed, catching on strands of silvery hair that had somehow gotten tangled in his collar. Flins lay half draped over him, face serene, hands folded neatly like a saint in a painting. If not for the faint red mark at the corner of his lips, he’d have looked innocent.
“Archons above, Flins…” Varka muttered, dragging a palm down his face. “You bit me again, didn’t you?”
No answer. Just a tiny twitch of Flins’ ears—those delicate, traitorous things that always gave him away.
Varka shifted, trying to sit up, and immediately regretted it when a sharp sting flared near his neck. He checked the damage: a fresh crescent of teeth, just deep enough to threaten a scar. “That’s it,” he growled under his breath. “We’re having a talk about this. I’m not your breakfast, sweetheart."
At that, Flins finally stirred. His lashes fluttered open, eyes still heavy with sleep, pupils catching the pale light. He blinked at Varka in that slow, bewildered way he always did when freshly awake—like someone gently dropped into reality against his will.
“…Did I?” Flins’ voice came soft, guilt laced with the faintest hint of mischief.
“You did,” Varka said, tugging the blanket higher to show him the evidence. “And last night it was my arm. Before that, my ribs. I’m running out of unchewed parts, love.”
Flins’ lips parted in a quiet gasp, expression folding immediately into one of sorrowful catastrophe. He looked like a cat caught stealing from the pantry—wide-eyed, miserable, and absolutely impossible to stay mad at.
“I—didn’t mean to,” he murmured, drawing closer as if proximity might help his case. “You smell too warm.”
Varka groaned. “That’s not a solid defense,"
But the sound Flins made—small, wounded, and heartbreakingly sincere—cut through his irritation like a knife. He tucked his face into Varka’s chest, voice muffled. “Then I’ll freeze instead. Don’t push me away.”
And just like that, Varka’s resolve shattered. Again.
He sighed, pressing a rough kiss to the crown of Flins’ silvery hair. “Archons, you know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”
Flins peeked up at him with a faint, guilty smile. “Hmmm," he whispered, eyes gleaming like moonlight over snow. “Only instincts.”
By the time Flins entered his second trimester, things started to change. Not the obvious ones, like his belly beginning to round beneath his shirt or the way he sighed every time he bent to pick something up—no, those were expected. The strange part was what came after.
It started small. A bite on Varka’s shoulder when he came home late from patrol. A nip at his wrist when he reached for Flins’ tea without asking. A faint bruise blooming at the side of his neck, followed by an apologetic kiss and a murmured “mine.”
At first, Varka thought it was just hormones. Flins was fae, after all—half of what he did defied human logic. But as weeks went by, the habit worsened. Mornings found Varka peppered in new marks, some faint, some worryingly deep. Once, he even woke with a line of teeth impressions along his jaw.
Flins, of course, denied all responsibility in his usual soft, perfectly articulate manner. “It’s instinct,” he’d say, eyes downcast, as if explaining a natural phenomenon. “The little one wants you close. I… can’t help it.”
Varka didn’t know whether to laugh or worry. His once-calm, composed spouse—who used to glide through mornings with the quiet grace of snowfall—had turned restless and territorial. He followed Varka from room to room, muttering about “keeping you warm,” glaring at anyone who so much as greeted the Grand Master too warmly in town.
Even the townsfolk of Nasha Town started whispering. They adored Flins, but lately, they’d seen him hovering possessively by the market stalls, pair of eyes flicking whenever someone got too near Varka.
Still, Varka never once raised his voice. He tried—really tried—to understand. If Flins needed reassurance, he gave it. If he needed comfort, Varka was there, even if it meant sleeping half-sat against the headboard with Flins curled around his chest like an oversized cat.
And when Flins bit him, he simply sighed, rubbed his sore skin, and muttered, “You better be done by the time the baby arrives, love. I won’t survive both of you gnawing on me.”
Flins, already half-asleep in his arms again, only hummed in satisfaction, whispering something too soft to catch—something that sounded suspiciously like never.
The morning drifted in gently, all frost-glow and kettle steam. Snow still dusted the windowpanes, and the little stove crackled in the corner of their kitchen. Varka moved about in his undershirt, sleeves rolled up, cooking one-handed because the other was busy guarding his neck.
Flins sat at the table wrapped in a blanket, watching him with the fixed intensity of a cat studying a canary. His hair—usually braided with patient precision—hung loose and silvery over his shoulders. The faint swell beneath his shirt was growing more visible by the week, a quiet, miraculous weight that Varka still couldn’t quite believe.
“You’re staring,” Varka said without turning, flipping a pancake.
“I’m admiring,” Flins corrected softly.
“You’re plotting to bite me again,” Varka muttered, side-eyeing him.
Flins’ lips twitched. “Perhaps both.”
Varka sighed and set a plate before him. “Eat first, bite later.”
For a while, it worked. Flins ate quietly, small deliberate motions, savoring each bite as if rediscovering food itself. But when Varka leaned close to pour him more tea, something in those fae instincts snapped. Before he could react, Flins tilted forward and caught his wrist between his teeth—gentle at first, then just enough pressure to sting.
“Oi!” Varka barked, trying not to drop the teapot. “Love!”
Flins blinked up at him, looking horribly guilty, mouth still pressed against his skin. Slowly, he released him, eyes wide, breath trembling. “I… didn’t mean to.”
“You never mean to,” Varka said, rubbing at the fresh mark. “But I’m starting to look like a chew toy.”
Flins’ shoulders drooped instantly. “I just— it’s the smell. And the warmth. And—” He faltered, voice thinning. “It makes the ache quieter. I don’t know how else to—”
“Hey, hey,” Varka softened his tone, crouching beside him. “I know. I know it’s strange. You can’t help what your body’s doing right now. But maybe…” He touched Flins’ cheek carefully, brushing away a strand of hair. “Maybe you could try to give me a day or two to breathe? Without a new scar?”
Flins didn’t answer. His throat bobbed.
“Love?”
Still nothing. The fae’s eyes shimmered, glassy with unspilled tears, and his wings gave a faint, anxious twitch. Then came the smallest, most heartbreaking sound—half breath, half sob—as he turned his face away.
Varka froze. “Ah, no—don’t you start crying on me.”
But it was too late. Flins pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, shoulders shaking, trying to hide the noise. His whole frame trembled like thin glass, fragile under the morning light.
“Hey, hey, no,” Varka said quickly, setting aside the teapot and crouching in front of him. “Gods above, I didn’t mean to scold you. I was just—” He reached out, palms warm against Flins’ knees. “I’m not mad, alright? Just worried. You can bite me, just— maybe aim lower next time. Somewhere that won’t show?”
That earned a strangled laugh through the tears. Flins hiccuped, wiping his eyes with the corner of the blanket.
Varka smiled and pulled him into his chest, ignoring the faint sting when Flins’ teeth brushed his collarbone again—half accident, half instinct. “There you go,” he murmured against his hair. “Better to cry it out than chew your husband alive, hm?”
Flins let out a shaky sigh and mumbled into his shirt, “You smell too warm.”
Varka chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. Maybe I should start sleeping in the cellar.”
Flins only tightened his hold, shaking his head stubbornly. “You’d freeze.”
“Then I guess I’m staying,” Varka said, rubbing small circles into his back, feeling the tremor finally ease. “Just promise me you’ll warn me next time before you start gnawing, alright?”
Flins hummed faintly, the sound small but content. “…No lies,” he whispered, voice muffled. “But I’ll try.”
For a while after that, peace returned to the kitchen.
Flins finished his tea, calmer now, his fingers tracing idle shapes on the table while Varka cleaned up. The air smelled faintly of pancakes and snow, the kind of quiet morning that made the world outside feel far away.
Varka leaned down to kiss the top of Flins’ head, half teasing, half tender. “See? No biting. Proud of you, love.”
Flins made a small sound, one that could’ve been agreement—or mischief.
Before Varka could pull back, Flins tilted his head and said softly, almost sweetly,
“...I’m going to bite you now.”
Varka blinked. “Wait, what—?”
Too late.
Flins sank his teeth gently into the curve of his shoulder, careful but firm enough to make him yelp. “Flins!”
The sound echoed off the walls, followed by Flins’ quiet hum of satisfaction and Varka’s half-laughing groan. “You call that a warning?!”
Flins didn’t answer—his mouth was still occupied, but his transculent wings fluttered faintly, pleased. And then Varka noticed something else: the warmth beneath his palm.
Flins’ belly, still small but unmistakably round now, radiated a gentle heat against him. Not burning, just alive—like the glow of a hearth after a long day. Without thinking, Varka’s hand slid there, slow and careful, rubbing soft circles over the warmth.
The bite still stung, sure, but the moment felt impossibly peaceful. The little house was quiet except for the fire’s low crackle and Flins’ steady breathing, the rise and fall of his body under Varka’s palm.
“Guess you’re both in there conspiring against me,” he murmured. “You and the little one.”
Flins only hummed in agreement, still holding him between teeth and arms, possessive and tender all at once.
Varka sighed, a smile pulling at his lips despite everything. “Alright then. You win.”
He kept rubbing slow, lazy circles against that warmth, letting the ache fade beneath the glow of something deeper—contentment, maybe. Love.
Because honestly, how could he be angry?
Every mark, every bruise, every ridiculous bite—it all came from the same thing: Flins trying to keep the world from stealing what was his.
And if that meant waking up sore but with his heart full,
then maybe it wasn’t such a terrible trade after all.