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A heat is supposed to make omegas amenable, going sweet and needy for their alphas. Lohen has seen the reality of it often enough.
Seen a lot more he didn’t want to, too.
Needless to say, heats put Lohen in a mood.
Which is why he is currently beating—excuse him—training the knights in the courtyard.
The alphas are having a particularly hard time of it. For many, it’s the first time they are experiencing an omega’s heat scent wielded as a weapon. It’s the day before Lohen’s heat hits, riding the razor edge, his senses sharpened and his pheromones honey-thick. Some alphas go dazed, most are driven to distraction, even the betas aren’t unaffected.
All receive their just desserts for being lured by a basic honeypot tactic, embarrassingly easy.
It’s not fair, he hears the knights murmur to each other.
Instead of whining, they should be thanking him. Outside the coddling safety of Mondstadt, this kind of dirty trap wouldn’t end with just a few bruises.
“Don’t tell me you knights can’t handle a little heat?” Lohen drawls boredly, the heel of his boot digging into the spine of the alpha on the ground, the butt of his spear planted on stone. “Next!”
The casualties of previous bouts on one side watch on with a strange sense of vindication as one knight after another is tossed out of the ring to join their numbers.
It’s not enough. The stickiness of sweat on his skin and the slick heat between his thighs makes him want to taste blood on the blade of his spear, the clawing need raking his insides making his blood boil for a good fight. He’s on the edge of going too far, fevered violence trembling beneath his skin, but it’s not something he needs to give attention to when that person is around.
Right on cue, the Grand Master of the Favonius Knights saunters up to the crowd, greatswords slung over his back. “Hey, Vice Cap,” Varka calls out to Lohen from the fringes, a sly smirk on his face, “why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”
Lohen’s eyes go wide, and then he’s laughing until his stomach hurts, nearly doubled over, because Varka is ridiculous. He’s not the only one, joined by a bright smatter of laughter from the knights. Varka looks obnoxiously pleased with himself, but Lohen will give it to him this time. He can’t remember the last time he laughed like this. “I didn’t know you could be funny,” he says when he finally winds down, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. “Ah, actually funny, I mean.”
“Hey,” Varka says, feigning hurt, but there’s a telling quirk to his lips. “I’m got a great sense of humor.”
Lohen scoffs. “The people who say that are the ones who don’t.” He maintains his façade of composure, while nearly vibrating out of his skin with excitement. “My own size huh?” Smirking, he makes a show of looking Varka up and down. “You look about right, Grand Master. C’mon,” he all but purrs. “I’ll take you on.”
(Favonius Knights in the background, whispering: “He means in a fight, right?”)
**
Varka isn’t immune to the siren lure of Lohen’s impending heat, but it also doesn’t slow him down a whit, dual blades slicing through the air at the same impossible speed that Lohen barely manages to dodge. The alpha’s nostrils flare, an impish gleam in his eyes, and then he shows Lohen why he told the knights, If you’re staying for the show, pull back. It might get ugly.
Varka hits Lohen right back with his alpha pheromones, giving like for like, turning the lure tactic into a double-edged sword... with Lohen receiving the cutting edge.
It’s a dick move to pull on an omega nearly in heat, even if Lohen is playing dirty. Because alpha pheromones are a command, one that omegas are biologically programmed to want to obey.
It’s mean, it’s nasty, and Lohen is delighted.
Other alphas have tried it before, but Lohen’s pull is always stronger than their push, and the moment he feels that desire to obey, it makes him, well, stab happy. Defensive aggression, one of the docs called it, their tone disapproving.
In this game, he’s never been the one put at a disadvantage.
“You really are the best,” Lohen exclaims, grinning wildly. He drives in with a flurry of blows when he should be retreating, just to feel the delicious weight of the alpha’s pressure.
Throwing it off is a special kind of thrill.
Varka’s expression is one of long-suffering amusement. “Glad to be of service,” he says, and locks the spear with his blades for a sudden grab, taking Lohen to the ground.
The moment Varka is off him, Lohen initiates round two. Three quarters of the crowd have retreated by then, driven off by the suffocating scents.
(“Gods, please just fuck alr—Mmph!” some foolish knight says as he is dragged away. Lohen memorizes his voice because he doesn’t have the breathing space to look away from his opponent.)
It’s three rounds in all before the itch for violence is finally scratched, his muscles burning with pleasant soreness, his back bruised to hell.
Lohen doesn’t get to keep the bruises with Barbara already on site. Varka must have asked her to come.
With the training session ended, and his underthings disgustingly soaked through, Lohen returns to his quarters for a shower and a change of clothes. Something in him is still restless, unwilling to be confined by the four walls a single moment before it is absolutely necessary.
Descending the steps to the first floor lobby, he finds Varka leaning on the wall by the front door, his arms folded.
The omega instincts promptly sit up and take notice, cloying and fawning with a strong alpha in sight. Lohen exhales a slow breath, annoyed at Varka, and even more annoyed at himself. “Grand Master, what can I do for you?”
“Going out?” Varka remains relaxed, his tone light.
Regulations dictate that knights isolate themselves during their active heat or rut period and take appropriate precautions.
It’s practical and necessary. Lohen is a pragmatic person, he understands this.
It still feels like confinement, like days he doesn’t want to remember.
At present, Varka has no legal grounds to block Lohen. He isn’t in full blown heat yet… just riding the knife’s edge of one.
“My personal time isn’t your business, sir. Somehow, I’m sure your actual job is waiting for you in your office.” Lohen doesn’t need any alpha to defend him when he can crush (most of) them beneath his heel. “If that’s all—"
Lohen halts, stopped by the large hand that lightly touches his wrist. It’s barely a brush of fingers yet the phantom sensation of the other person’s heat burns his skin, freezing his other hand on the handle of the door.
“I think you’ve misunderstood something,” Varka says slowly. “My job is to protect Mondstadt. I’m exactly where I need to be.” Lowering his hand, he straightens from his slouch, drawing up to his full height. “I’m sure whoever receives your blade or poison during this time deserves it, but you should also know some people are more susceptible to pheromones. Let’s keep the casualties to a minimum, yeah?”
Lohen frowns. “I don’t need a babysitter. I can control myself.”
“It’s not your control I’m worried about,” Varka says dryly, “and I’m not looking to be your minder. Let me buy you a drink, as a fellow knight.”
Lohen’s hand clenches, knuckles turning white.
It’s an excuse, but it’s a reasonable one. The knights go for after-work happy hour sometimes. Lohen rarely attends; the chummy atmosphere really isn’t his thing.
His wrist still tingles.
If Varka had just grabbed his wrist like a normal person, he wouldn’t still be feeling it.
Letting out a long, silent exhale, he relaxes his fingers. “Did the winds of freedom call you to the bar again?”
Varka’s mouth quirks. “Let’s just say it’s that. Angel’s Share is quiet this time of day. C’mon, I’ll even let you poison my drink.”
Lohen snorts. “Don’t do me any favors. Giving me permission takes all the joy out of it.” Pushing down on the handle, he steps out into the warmth of the afternoon sun to the sound of Varka’s deep laughter. “Let’s go.”
He doesn’t think too hard about why he is agreeing to this… why an offer of company so near his Time doesn’t have him bristling as it would with anyone else.
**
Heads turn when they enter Angel’s Share, some turning away with a frown while other hungry gazes search out the source of the thickly sweet omega scent. They are quickly convinced to put their eyes elsewhere when Varka releases his pheromones, a heavy-handed warning.
It’s Charles behind the bar today, giving the Grand Master a measured nod.
“We’ll take a table upstairs,” Varka tells him quietly. Putting a hand on the small of Lohen’s back, he hustles him to the second floor landing.
Lohen lets him, irked by the way his body automatically reacted to the alpha’s show of intimidation, the place between his thighs damp again. There’s always so much damn laundry to do after his cycle.
They take a table in the corner.
“The usual?” Varka checks with him, removing his jacket.
“Sparkling.”
“Sure thing.”
Standing by the table, Varka looks down at him. “Your heat scent has gotten pretty heavy,” he notes neutrally.
Lohen leans his jaw on his knuckles. “And?”
Varka hefts up the coat still in his hand. “Can I cover it?”
After a grudging pause, Lohen agrees, as if they both can’t smell how badly he wants it.
Varka doesn’t try to put it on him, simply handing the jacket over and going down to get their drinks.
Pulling the heavy coat around his shoulders, Lohen watches the head of blonde hair disappear down the steps. After waiting a few seconds, he draws the sides of the jacket in close, turning his nose into the fur to draw in that person’s scent. The coat is stuffy and a little too hot, sweat beading on his nape, but it smothers his scent as effectively as it does the useless clawing need inside.
Before Varka comes back up, he adjusts the collar loosely, leaning back in the chair and crossing his ankle over the knee.
Varka returns with a tankard topped up with dandelion wine for himself and an icy glass of golden sparkling cider for Lohen.
Lohen slides his fingertip around the rim, frosting three millimeters deep of cider within the perspiring glass.
The frosty cold of the drink is refreshing as it slides down his throat, warding off the encroaching heat, fizzing sweet and fruity over his palate.
“You could stand to go a little easier on the trainees, you know.”
“You’re not paying me to train them for playtime,” Lohen tosses back, bored of this old argument. “I’m preparing them for live situations.”
“Mm. I won’t deny that. But that isn’t the only reason you’re being hard on them, is it?”
Lohen taps his fingers lightly against the frigid glass to numb the way they itch for his knife. He gives Varka a not-nice smile. “Like how ‘protecting Mondstadt’ wasn’t the only reason you brought me here?”
“Haha, you’ve got me there,” Varka admits easily.
Ignoring the sense of victory and subsequent rise in his temperature that elicits, Lohen plants his boot on the edge of Varka’s chair, in the relaxed space between his knees. “Want to fuck me, Grand Master?” he asks, each word as precise as an arrow, dripping with sweet poison.
Varka’s brows lift slightly, his tone mild. “Not at the moment.”
“Li-ar,” Lohen enunciates, leaning on his elbow. His eyes narrow. “Or what, am I not good enough for the noble Knight of Boreas?” Malice has him moving to nudge the toe of his boot against the slight bulge in Varka’s trousers, but Varka stops the motion, firmly gripping his ankle to keep it in place.
“No, sweetheart,” Varka says, something gentle in his eyes, “because you don’t want an alpha during your heat.”
The simple statement gives Lohen a moment of pause. The people of Mondstadt are fairly open-minded, but the prevailing stereotype is still that every omega is gagging for a knot during their heat.
“I want you,” he says, testing. It’s not even a lie. Not really. He’s been wanting Varka between his legs since before the heat. It’s just that thinking about it now also makes his stomach churn.
Varka takes a long drink of his wine, the tankard thumping back on the table. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, then leans an arm on the tabletop, his voice going low. “Try picturing it,” he says conversationally. “Let’s put me underneath and you spread on top, your knees over my hips.” The alpha’s pheromones drift lightly into the space between them, Varka holding Lohen’s unblinking attention. “Me inside you, filling you up, locking you on my knot—” Varka abruptly stops. His gaze moves slightly to the side, then casually back to his drink. Picking up his tankard, he tips it back.
Lohen is breathless and hot all over. He feels a little ill.
There’s a dagger clenched in his hand. He didn’t know it was there until Varka brought his attention to it.
He does want Varka, but he can’t guarantee he wouldn’t try and cut the alpha’s throat in the middle of it.
If it were any other alpha, the guarantee would be that he would cut their throat.
With Lohen distracted, Varka takes the opportunity to gently push away the foot between his legs, and Lohen lets it drop to the floor.
“You don’t want an alpha during your heat,” Varka states again, as if it’s that simple.
Lohen flicks his fingers, the knife disappearing into his sleeve. “I know what they say about me,” he mutters, bitter. “That I’m just repressed or playing hard to get.”
Varka gestures vaguely with his tankard. “Psychology isn’t my forte, but I think if someone is getting stabbed in a not-fun way by the end of the night, it means one partner or the other is not having a good time.”
Lohen stares blankly, white noise in his ears. Did he hear that right?
“As opposed to being stabbed in a fun way?” A pause. “In bed.”
Varka chokes on his drink, cursing as pale wine spills onto his clothes. “Pretend I didn’t say that,” he hurriedly rasps out, between coughing the liquid out of his lungs. “Not stabbing, there’s no friendly stabbing. What I meant is—between two adults, consensual—ah, fuck,” Varka abruptly knocks his forehead onto the table, groaning. “We are not discussing this here.”
Lohen’s vacant gaze is stuck to the top of the blonde head.
He’s familiar with pain play and power play. He just never expected Varka, of all people, to be—to be—into it.
Maybe.
Maybe into it.
That’s what Varka was implying, wasn’t it? The mere idea has him tumbling uncontrollably into the abyss, one image after another flashing through his mind, fueled by his feverish heat.
Varka holding him down with that effortless strength.
The reverse, with his hand on Varka’s throat, taking what he wants.
He doesn’t even know which way he wants it more; the possibilities are dizzying.
His hands tied above his head, or Varka, tied down with—
“Stop thinking about it,” Varka barks out the order, the unconscious alpha pressure behind the command giving away the degree of his desperation. His head is tilted back, eyes boring holes into the ceiling, and his hand is over his nose and mouth, breathing shallowly.
Oh. His scent.
Lohen jerks upright into textbook posture, his cheeks reddening. He draws in the edges of the heavy coat to better contain his scent. His thighs are slick.
It’s mortifying. He doesn’t ever lose control like this. He just doesn’t.
Studying the wood grain of the table, he mentally recites Chapter II, Section V of the Knights of Favonius, Codex of Procedures to calm down his body. (He knows that passage by heart now; Acting Grand Master Jean made him copy it twenty times for his last transgression.)
Varka is releasing his alpha pheromones again to cover Lohen’s scent.
It’s helping, but it’s also really not helping.
At least no one has come up to check on them, meaning it shouldn’t be too noticeable on the first floor.
“This is the most inappropriate conversation I’ve ever had,” Varka laments, voice slightly muffled behind his hand. “We’re not even on duty and I feel like I should write myself up.”
Lohen snorts. “Didn’t you just nonchalantly recite pornography to me? How is this more inappropriate?”
“Whoa, hey, no need to pull out the p-word. I kept it pretty modest.”
“…That was modest?”
Varka coughs.
A period of silence passes.
Then, Lohen says to the table, “There’s no rule against fraternization in the Knights of Favonius.”
“There isn’t,” Varka confirms to the ceiling. “It’s still generally discouraged between superior and subordinate.”
“Hm.”
Lohen takes a mouthful of his drink. It’s mostly crystallized into slush, helpful in cooling his overheated body.
A small motion draws Lohen’s attention, Varka’s fingers curling. A wisp of wind slips over to steal some cold from Lohen’s glass, swirling back over to cool Varka’s wine.
It’s not really anything, but using that ability here, so casually. It stirs Lohen up.
Really, Varka should know better.
He kicks up a foot. Varka catches it.
“Lohen. Again?”
“Just checking,” Lohen tells Varka sweetly. Instead of withdrawing, he pushes as if determined to step on a certain part. A crease appears between Varka’s brows, his gaze finally coming down to meet Lohen’s. When Lohen’s bones ache in a way that means there’s sure to be a delicious bruise on his ankle in the shape of five fingers, he is finally satisfied, putting his leg back down.
“…Did I offend you somehow? Just now.”
Lohen shrugs. “Not really.” He just wanted a souvenir he can use during his heat.
Varka lets out a heavy sigh, commiserating with his wine. When he lowers the tankard, there is a lingering glisten on his lips.
Impulse has Lohen saying, “I want some of your drink.”
Varka gives him a curious look, but pushes his tankard over.
It’s nearly empty, a few mouthfuls left maybe. Lohen takes a sip. “I don’t like it.” He takes another slightly longer pull, his nose wrinkling.
“I know.” Varka leans his chin on his palm, his tone fond and too knowing.
Lohen eyes the wine and considers poisoning it. Just on principle.
He doesn’t.
They both know that the Grand Master didn’t really need to be here.
Chilling the dandelion wine lightly, he returns it to Varka.
It’s just a drink, but Lohen feels significantly better when he leaves the tavern. It’s almost irritating, how Varka can have such an effect on him.
“Are you taking my jacket?” Varka asks idly.
Said jacket is currently folded in Lohen’s arms. They’ve arrived at the dormitory and Lohen has made no move to return it.
“You can have it back later.”
Varka’s smile is rueful. “Well, alright then.”
Lohen suddenly slips in close. Hooking a hand in the shoulder harness, he draws Varka down until their faces are inches apart.
“As for the rest, between two adults… we can talk about it after my heat, Grand Master,” Lohen purrs, and receives the gratifying sight of Varka’s pupils blowing wide.
He plans to steal a kiss and slip away, but it doesn’t quite work out like that. When he makes his move, Varka’s huge hand closes over the back of his head, holding Lohen in place for a deep, hungry kiss.
Varka’s returning grin is wolfish. “I’ll look forward to it.”