#//If you listen to monster by skillet while reading this its even better

[caffeinexandxgasoline-blog]

::Out For Blood-Drabble::

TW: Violence, blood, drug mention, torture...

Honestly if you can’t handle even a little gore this isn’t the drabble for you

High key suggesting that you listen to Monster by Skillet on repeat while reading it cause it helps

“The secret side of me, I never let you see

I keep it caged but I can't control it

So stay away from me, the beast is ugly

I feel the rage and I just can't hold it.”

Leonis Aries Karisova had been far too nice for far too long.

He’d ignored every instinct, he’d fought every urge to just blow up, he’d bitten his tongue more times than he could count... He’d been playing the part of the doting, loving, caring, patient boyfriend...

But now? Now that he was on his own and he didn’t have anyone around to hold him back...?

Heh.

That little red monster of wrath started to bubble up in his chest.

He’d already effectively terrified Special K into submission, getting all the information he needed, and now he felt a humourless smile etch it’s way onto his lips. He was hunting, and his beast was thirsting for blood.

Bullet could feel himself melting away, that evil bastard that used to call himself Leonis taking his place and itching for a little fun. His fingers drummed silently on the steering wheel, not really even registering the song that was playing on his old cassette tape. He didn’t care. His eyes flicked briefly to the list of names Special K had given him, mouth twitching into another smirk.

Nineteen Killjoys. Two neutrals.

He’d already gone through every name on the list at this point, somehow remaining polite until he got the information he needed, and now he just had one name left on it...

Nuke Forward.

Bullet sighed at the name, rolling his eyes. Lord, and people told him Bulletproof Racer was stupid... At least he got his from Dr. D, plus it was a lot better than what he used to roll with... The raven haired monster put his beater into park, staring silently at the club in front of him, rage humming through his veins.

“Tiger’s Gentleman’s Club” the sign outside boasted, and Leonis scoffed with a note of obvious sarcasm to it. The men at this fucking place were anything but gentlemen... His jaw went taut for a moment, and he breathed.

That familiar sense of relaxation washed over him as he decided on what he was going to do, and he smiled quietly to himself. This was only the beginning, it was the calm before the storm.

Bullet finally willed himself out of the car, shutting it behind him before taking stock of the place, noting every window, every door, every alleyway, every car, and every patron in sight, nodding to himself as that side of him he tried so hard to repress kicked into full gear. The killjoy elected to leave his jacket in the car, deciding that he quite honestly didn’t want to spend the time it would take cleaning blood out of it. He took a glance to the night sky, sent a prayer to the Phoenix Witch, and that was the last time that Bullet showed himself that night.

Leonis took over from there.

Gloved hands pressed the door of the club open, blocking out the sound of bass as whatever shitty synth mix they were playing tried to pound it’s way into his head. He searched the inside with a piercing gaze, blue hues falling on a pretty thing all dolled up.

“Hey...”

“Heya, handsome~ Lookin’ for a date~?”

“Actually, I’m looking for a friend of mine, Nuke Forward... is he here...?” At the name, the pretty brunette’s face almost instantly fell, glancing off in a corner.

“... yes...”

“Mind leadin’ me to him, Sugar...?”

“Hey... ain’t you Quix’s—“

“There’s twenty carbons in it for you.”

“... carbons first, hot shot.”

Leon promptly complied, handing over the cash to the suddenly eager prostitute who pocketed the plastics and took him by the arm. They weaved through the room, Bullet’s shoulders tensing a little at the numerous tables of pills, pipes, rocks, needles, and lines that were in sight, causing his head to spin and his stomach to clench and that hungry little monster inside him to flare up and will him to reach out to take one pill just one pill just one pill just one and suddenly he was taking a deep breath and counting to six in his head particularly upon seeing the pills with those taunting smiles printed on them He didn’t need them he didn’t need them he didn’t need them he didn’t need them he didn’t—

“Over there with the orange jacket, Sugar. Good luck.” Leon was broken out of that mild panic that had so suddenly flooded him, and he nodded his head in reply, silently thankful that the kid had spoken. He watched as the brunette slipped away from him, and his eyes fell on a his target. Suddenly it was as if the room had faded away, melting into the background as the man locked eyes with him. Every ounce of anxiety in him disappeared at that second, and he found himself straightening up, a charming smile sliding to his lips. He felt naked without his jacket to surround him, but at this very moment, watching as those drug fogged brown eyes slid the length of his form, he was thankful that he’d left it in the car.

This was far too easy...

Then again...

It wasn’t like this was the first Killjoy he’d hunted...

The man in question had shoulder length, greasy hair, dyed green like toxic sludge. Quite honestly the whole dye job was wretched, then again if he’d had any dignity or class to him he wouldn’t be holed up in this joint feeding heroin to prostitutes for sex now would he? Combat boots moved forward of their own accord, and Bullet tilted his head just a tad, a trick he’d seen Quix use on himself to get what he wanted.

Usually it always worked, and it seemed to be working for this bastard as well...

“Well well well... aren’t you pretty~?” The man purred in such a way that Leonis had to keep himself from gritting his teeth in disgust, but still he smiled and even let out a fucking giggle.

Damn wasn’t he a good little actor?

He watched as Nuke stood up, taking note of how tall he was. He was shorter than Quix (then again, wasn’t everyone?) but he couldn’t be more than 6’2 or 6’3... the two pretty things that had been hanging off him on the couch looked particularly nonplussed, but at a sudden, wicked glare from Bulletproof they seemed to think better of opening their mouths and sunk into the couch.

“You Nuke Forward...?”

“Yeah, Sugar, I am~”

“A friend told me I could get a little fun outta you...”

“What friend...?”

“Quix...” The recognition in Nuke’s eyes at this made Leon seethe with anger, fingers suddenly itching with the urge to gouge his beady eyes out.

He hated this man he hated him with every beat of his heart with every breath he took with every—

“How’s about we go somewhere more quiet, Cutie...?”

Leon elected to just smile and nod, motioning for the man to follow him out a side door into the nearest alleyway. He was focused now that they were alone and out of the den of drugs and sex, taking in a calming breath of fresh air.

“So, What is it you were wanting...?”

“What Quix was gettin’, sounded fun~”

“H? I think I got some in my car—“ The Killjoy reached out as he spoke, putting one hand on Bullet’s slim waist, but he instantly regretted doing so.

He didn’t even have time to scream.

In a flash, his hand was pinned to the wooden wall beside them, a razor sharp switchblade driven straight through the middle of his wrist as the man- no, the demon in front of him suddenly stared into his eyes with a gaze that burned hotter and more wickedly than the flames of hell. Cold fear flooded his veins, and suddenly the searing pain in his wrist registered to his head, but he didn’t have a chance to shout as a shockingly strong hand forced its way over his mouth and slammed his head back against the wall.

“Shut. Up.”

It was an order, not a suggestion.

“If you make one fucking sound I swear to god I’ll tear your tongue out with my bare hands and make you eat it.”

Honestly...

Nuke believed every goddamned word.

When Bullet was sufficiently pleased with the fact that the man would stay quiet, he twisted the blade, looking him straight in the eyes. He watched as the man bit his tongue until it bled, and smirked dangerously at him. “Hm. Good. You’re not as stupid as I thought...” He promptly yanked the blade free, grinning as Nuke trembled with wide brown eyes that were suddenly incredibly clear.

“W... what do you want with me...” He whispered out hoarsely, caught and stuck like a deer in headlights.

“Blood.”

Nuke swallowed at this, and shrunk in on himself, suddenly not looking so tall.

“W-what...?”

“Quix almost died because of you.”

“W-wha—“

“Heroin overdose.”

“I... are you gonna kill me?”

“No.” At this point, Leonis calmly and deliberately wiped the bastard’s own blood off on that stupid orange jacket of his, giving a deadly smile before spinning the blade again in his hand in a wicked manner, driving it deep into his shoulder. Nuke bit his tongue again, willing himself not to scream, and suddenly, reflexively, he moved to lash out with his uninjured hand, trying to hit his attacker.

A second switch drove itself so deep into his hand it went through his fist and all the way through his palm.

“That was a bad idea on your part.” The words were said as, in a scarily practiced manner, the blade was withdrawn in a sharp sideways movement, slicing open his palm and effectively relieving him of two fingers and half of his thumb.

This time he screamed.

Leonis decided he was done playing nice and slammed the blade into his other shoulder, careful not to hit anything major as he swept his feet out from under him and Nuke hit the ground hard. The dealer’s head was positively spinning from shock, terror, and pain, breathing heavy and panicked as he spun right into a bout of hyperventilation. He watched, helpless, as the beast of a man stood over him with evil intent in his ice like eyes, teeth bared in rage and sick amusement.

He was enjoying this.

He was actually enjoying this.

“You think I’m the only thing that’s caused Quix to almost die? Not even close! Newsflash, hotshot, your boyfriend is a fucking wreck.” Nuke hissed through everything, suddenly in hysterics. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t fuckin’ killed himself.”

Those words rang in Bulletproof’s ears and his heart rate picked up almost instantly, anger swirling in his head as he remembered the words of a certain someone a week or so before.

‘—Is he still alive or has he offed himself yet?’

Issac’s words burned in his mind, and the raven haired killjoy locked eyes with the man beneath him.

“Lucky me I get to take it all out on you then...”

Nuke Forward’s blood ran cold.

— — — — — — —

It took five hours for someone to find him.

As a girl and her client stepped outside to make a transaction, she screamed in sheer terror at the bloodshed before her. Barely breathing Nuke was passed out cold on the ground, missing two fingers and a piece of his thumb on his right hand, and the index, middle, and ring finger of his left hand. Upon further inspection it was clear that both shoulders had deep stab wounds and his shirt had been torn open.

“P I G”

The word was carved deep into Nuke’s chest, covering the entirety of it with wide, horrific gashes.

Whoever had done this had been out for blood...

This had been personal...

[educatedinyellow]

2, 10, 46!

Thank you so much for your asks, @thetimemoves! (we’re playing this ask meme)

2. Grilled cheese or PB&J? 

Oh, this is not even a close contest. Grilled cheese wins by a HUGE margin. Mmmm, grilled cheese.

10. Do you own any signed books/memorabilia in general? 

I do! Largely through the kindness of others. My best friend went to one of Terry Pratchett’s book signings many years ago and asked him to sign Men At Arms for me. I’ve never been 100% confident I could read what he wrote -- he had very loopy handwriting! -- but I think it says, “To Rachel - Lots of wishes, Terry Pratchett.” My mother is a renowned eBay adventurer, and she managed to get a postcard with a picture of Granada Holmes sitting in his chair with his knees pulled up (like the Paget painting), and it’s been autographed by Jeremy Brett. It’s sitting in a frame on my bookshelf. She’s also, over the years, found about a dozen late 19th and early 20th century editions of The Strand with Sherlock Holmes stories in them. The Strand used to put out an end of year compilation of its monthly issues, bound together like books, and I’ve got some of them lined up on my shelf, while she’s kept others at her house for me. She also knows that I find Bobby Kennedy an interesting historical personality, and she has bought a number of bits of memorabilia surrounding him over the years, mainly photographs from press junkets and that sort of thing.

This isn’t exactly memorabilia, but...it’s better. My father used to take me to science fiction conventions every now and then when I was a kid. When he was in college, he self-published a fanzine about Ray Harryhausen (the special effects pioneer who was famous for his stop motion animation.) As a result, he was sometimes invited to help a little bit with the behind-the-scenes stuff at conventions where Mr. Harryhausen was appearing, and we sometimes got to meet the other special guests there, too. So, because of this, I got to meet Mr. Harryhausen several times, and also Ray Bradbury (who was a dear friend of his), and Forry Ackerman (also old friends with both), who ran the Famous Monsters of Filmland magazine and basically knew everybody in 20th century science fiction. I have been to lunch with them (as part of a larger group), and sat around a hotel lobby listening to them talk about how much they loved King Kong, etc. It was pretty special. I told Ray Bradbury that I wished he hadn’t killed off Clarisse in Farenheit 451, and he said he heard that all the time, LOL! What an amazing bit of luck to have gotten that experience, which is in no way typical of conventions -- it was a privilege to be allowed behind-the-scenes a little.

46. What’s the freezer food that you stock up on when you go to the grocery store? 

Ah, the eternal quest for frozen meals that don’t taste like garbage. I’ve tended to have the best luck with the types that you pour into a skillet and cook for ten or 15 minutes, rather than anything microwavable (though I have reconciled myself to Scott and Jon’s Shrimp Risotto, it’s not bad, especially if you dump a bunch of feta cheese on top of it when you pull it out of the microwave). For skillet meals, I like different kinds of Bertolli’s pasta: chicken parmigiana, shrimp asparagus, or chicken florentine. PF Chang’s skillet chicken fried rice is good, too. And each bag generously serves two (or, in my case, makes two meals, since my husband prefers to cook for himself). Whole Foods used to carry, in the frozen food section, bags of falafel stuffed with lemony hummus or tzatziki. You just popped them in the oven for 10 minutes and then warm, delicious goodness, and even though they were labelled as snacks they were incredibly filling. I loved those things. But I haven’t seen them in months; either our store stopped carrying them or they went out of business. BUT I MISS THEM.

Also, is there an occasional Klondike bar in my freezer? Yes, there is. Not nearly often enough. But that sounds like a good Mother’s Day gift to myself for next weekend :)

[lady-charinette]

For the title/story ask: The Beast in Her Home :1/6/7/13/14/15 For the ship ask: 1. Marichat 2. Lukanette 3. Kataang 4. Tokka 5. Chloe/Luka With you explanation/emotion towards each ship. And my own questions: which of ur fics do you like more : The Beast in Her Home or Dinner for Two and why? Which is your fav fic ever written? What is your favorite scene youve ever written? What is the steamiest scene youve ever written? How much forshadowing and lil hints do u put in ur writing? -ʕ♥ᴥ♥ʔ

1. My inspiration? Huh…it’s actually kind of funny. So, I watch crime shows every Friday night (also during the week, but Friday’s I write while I watch). It’s either watching Special Victims Unit or documentaries based on real life crime/investigations/criminals. I wrote out a scene on my phone I had thought of while watching (it was the scene where Marinette first brought home Chat Noir, where she typed on her computer and he was behind her trying to intimidate her). I thought of different ships and fandoms to go with that scene, since I really wanted to write it and (miraculously) thought of Marichat. Thus, the birth of The Beast in Her Home! :3

 6. Ohhh 6) is such an interesting question! *_* Ahem, well for once, I guess the tone of it all. It’s serious and tense, it reminds me a bit of a different fic that’s still ongoing (Fandom: FF7 “Zack Fair the Bad Boy”) and yet it’s so different. It’s a bit edgy, but has a bit of realism to it. All my stories have some elements of realism, but I guess TBiHH (The Beast in Her Home) is that AU that turns an originally canon kids show into a dark adult world with criminals and corruption, with blurry lines between right and wrong and criminals who may not be *the* true criminal of the story. There’s more to come in the story later, but it’s also about how humans react not just as a private person, but the choices they make as the person they are while “on duty” and the ones they do off it and how it changes their decisions.

 7. Oh that’s a cool question too! The title stemmed from the idea I had of Chat Noir in the AU. At first it was a criminal, then a broken, self-loathing man. I thought of his backstory, the origin, of how ‘the birth of Chat Noir’ Paris’ first ranked criminal came to be. It’s still yet to be revealed, but despite who he really is behind the mask and his criminal record, there’s also a side to him that’s ‘feral’, like most brand him a monster, a ‘beast’. Marinette’s view of him at the beginning is also like that, the moment she looks at his eyes she thinks ‘beast’. He’s also (symbolically)  something like the lion with a thorn on his paw in Marinette’s home, he roars and people are terrified of him, but once you remove the thorn, he’s calm and good-natured. ‘Beast’ is an intruder, a monstrosity that’s only associated with evil, but as the story progresses, we find that the ‘beast’ in (Marinette’s) home might just not be what he appears.  

 13. I did listen to some songs. Hmm… in no particular order: The Asking Price by FFH, Angel by Aerosmith, Diablo by Simon Curtis, The Monster by Eminem ft. Rihanna, Fight Back by NEEFEX, Good to You by Marianas Trench, The Reason by Hoobastank, Monster by Skillet, Hero by Skillet, Someone You Loved by Lewis Capaldi. Some of them you can listen to when there are action/tense scenes (like Diablo, Monster or Fight Back) but others are meant to portray the ‘softer’ moments (yet to come, some written). :) Good to You may seem out of place, but I already pre-wrote a scene for that particular song :3

 14. Haha, it’s a small scale story really, but what I thought that may stick with readers (or will as it progresses)… How people should stay open minded, try not to have prejudices, especially against people who had rough pasts or even criminal backgrounds. Institutions like prisons should be correctional and help convicts to learn the error of their ways, shape them into better people and re-socialize them into society when they get released. I realize it’s very often not like that, sadly. Sometimes, certain life decisions force people who are normally good-natured to make bad decisions, do stuff they would normally never do…etc. Like I said, Chat’s story has yet to be revealed, but it should reflect that. Also: even when he is a criminal (according to laws), he has another moral code he follows (like some real life criminals do).

 15. Oh so many things, things the FBI might find suspicious once they start looking for me (“I swear, my search history is purely for research for my fics! I don’t plan to kill ANYONE!”) haha but jokes aside, a number of different things. For one, the justice systems of several countries I’ve researched, how many prisons with fearsome reputations (check: ‘the world’s worst prisons’ you’ll get a shock for sure) there actually are in the world, that are allowed to still operate 0_0 Just how thin the line between ‘good’ and ‘evil’ and ‘lawfully correct’ but ‘morally questionable’ is. It’s like those RL cases you sometimes hear of, a husband cheats on his wife/does morally very questionable things, but it’s not against the law and yet it still brings great mental harm to a person. I also learned something about myself, after reading/watching the news about all the things going on with the world: many people say, they would change so many things if they get to a position of power. I used to think that too, but I’d rather enable other, more qualified good people to rise to power and distribute and handle it responsibly, since, while my ideals are good-natured, I have no idea how to realize those ideals or run something like a country responsibly. My role is better suited as an enabler for those who can and want to do good, not just those who want to. 

Ships Asks:

Ranked from Favorite to Least Favorite:

1.      Marichat/Lukanette (I’m sorry I can’t decide, they share first place), 2. Tokka, 3. Kataang, 4. Chloe/Luka. 

So, I’ve been a Marichat shipper since day one, but since the arrival of Luka…ahem, anyhow, I ship both Marichat and Lukanette and can see the beauty in either of the ships. Fanon Marichat of course, canon disappointed me a tweeny bit in that respect. Both ships not only give respect to the guys, but to Marinette too, she’s appreciated and loved and put as an equal in those ships, which I love and find sometimes lacking in the show (for now). 

I always shipped Tokka tbh, Toph seemed like she had a crush on Sokka in ATLA and with their chemistry and their personalities, I think they would go well together (even if I like Suki, Tokka is the one for me!). 

Kataang…oh boy. I’ve never really seen the appeal of the ship, even if it is canon and the main one of the show. It’s basically the whole discourse, not necessarily concerning their age difference, but just their chemistry, Katara has always striked me as more ‘motherly’ towards Aang and there are just too many hints pointing at Zutara in the beginning (the chemistry, the Oma and Shu parallels, the ‘opposites attract’ trope, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers trope, the hard earned bond they formed…etc.

Chloe and Luka, huh? I’m sorry, I did see some fan content for them, but I just couldn’t really imagine a good pairing to come from Chloe’s personality and Luka’s (but I can recognize why some other fans would fancy the idea).

 Your questions:

-  That’s a tough decision, Beast in Her Home or Dinner for Two…hmm… they both have different appeals that make them special in their own way. ‘Beast’ is more dark, more gritty but also hopeful and speaks of broken things being mended again. Dinner is more cute, fluffy,  but has it’s deeper mysteries (which will soon be revealed!) and (I think) speaks more to my readers (I’ve read so many comments that relate to Marinette, with her daily life, job and her reactions etc. it’s so cute!) I brushes more with daily life as we know, while Beast is a darker version of it maybe more familiar to people from that milieu (it may not be as realistic, but for the crime/enemies-to-lovers fans out there). If I think really hard, I THINK I just may like Dinner for Two a tweeny bit more (I’m a sucker for the stuffed toy in restaurants for lonely people idea CHEERS TO MY FELLOW LONELY BRETHREN!)

-  My fav fic? (wipes tear) it’s “Shikuro: A Caribbean Fairy Tale” by Inuma Asahi De (a Inuyasha fic) on FFnet, I’m not sure if it’s my favorite, but its pretty darn close. I’ve read it years ago, but it’s so fresh in my mind, the beauty of the writing, the magical mood it sets for every moment. Read it. I highly recommend it. I wish I could write as magically. Cheers to my fellow fic writers with such talents!!

-  My favorite scene I ever wrote? Ah damn…that’s hard to pinpoint. I have many, I can’t decide.

-  Ohh the steamiest, huh? Hm…I rarely ever write steamy stuff. I think a few are Marichat based (I posted it on tumblr, called ‘Feral’) the few others I can remember are from different fandoms (they’re never very direct, always a bit subtle ;)). The other ones I can remember are from different fandoms (Kakuriyo no Yadomeshi and such)

-  Oh I normally try to pace myself (pff as if that ever works), I guess you could say a lot. Not too much, but I always try to have an organized structure when it comes to foreshadowing, not just one day be like: SURPRISE BITCH, didn’t see that coming! ^_^ In any story I wrote, there’s always some type of foreshadowing and hints, some more obvious, others more subtle. :3  

 P.S. OMG, I’m SO sorry if this went far too deep into the questions! I just got caught up with everything, I’m sorry! >.

[punishandenslavesuckers]

She has no throne. Girls without thrones should not have knights, but hers won’t go. Princess Zelda – the girl who killed Calamity – would love to fade into legend, but Link’s bought a house, he’s fighting off monsters, and he’s selling giant horses to strangely familiar Gerudo men. She'll never have any peace now. (ao3)  

There’s only one bed in the house at Hateno and the first night there, he tries to give it to her.

It’s very normal of him. Like she’s a visitor. Like she’s just stopping by. Link shows her where she can hang her cloak (his cloak) and stow her shoes (by the door) and where the extra blankets are (in the closet). Zelda isn’t sure how to explain without embarrassing him that she already knows the layout – has ghosted these simple hallways, kept vigil on the blood moons. She knows this modest kitchen, knows the creak in the third step up. She knows the stains in whorls of the table top, which ones are wine and which are blood.

Link smells like clean cotton and grass, which seems strange.

She thought he’d smell of black powder, resins, metal – the hard scent of battle and the road. Strange that it doesn’t stick to him, or maybe he took a special effort to scrub it off before coming back into the house. His hair’s damp. He left his boots by the door. The window’s open and distant thunder almost hides the sound of his breathing. When she listens close, his breath sounds loud in her ears, a disharmonizing with the thump of his heart. If he was uncomfortable with her request to sleep next to him, it never reached his face.

Not that much does. Even at the end of things, a century past, she had trouble reading him when he didn’t try to be read.

Link sleeps for a full two days. On the third, he wakes in a panic. She must pry his fingers from the grip of a broadsword and, for ten minutes straight, convince him that the battle is over. He sleeps for another two days. She gardens, straightens up the house, sweeps, sits in the grass outside and rolls around in the wild flowers. Does laundry. Rolls in the grass again. Does more laundry. She borrows a pair of trousers and a shirt that (to her chagrin) are a little too small for her.

The man at the general store is curious about her.

“So, you came in with Link last week. That so?”

Zelda looks up from the grains in the basket, finger worrying the braid in a single head of wheat. “Oh, yes. I’m from… out of town.”

“Well that’s nice,” he says, thoughtfully stroking the brush of his moustache. “Good to see new faces. When he bought the Bolson house across the bridge, we were wondering if he intended to bring family out here.”

Zelda hesitates, not sure if that means she is family or just that the town, generally, assumed that was why Link might buy a house.

“Nice guy,” continues to shopkeep. “The shepherds on the hill pay him to keep Bobokin off the beaches and grazing lands. You also a swordhand or…?”

She’s flattered he might estimate her a co-worker of Link’s, but also not sure she should start lying without his consult. She says she’s a friend. Link is helping her with a survey she’s conducting. (That is true. They talked about that.) The shopkeeper nods.

“Ah, yeah, that makes sense. Would you do me a favor? Nothing big, I have something for Link.”

“Of course.”

The man ducks behind the counter and stands up with a basket heavy with vegetables and grain. He looks at the basket, then back at her. “Sorry. This might be a bit big for you…”

Zelda loops two arms around the basket, the weave-work creaking as she hefts it up onto her hip. “No. It’s fine. Thank you.”

“You sure?” The shopkeeper appraises her biceps for the task. “Meant to send it along the week before last, but he didn’t come by.”

Zelda pauses. “He was… busy.”

Blood on the atrium floor, ozone and fire, the blue light banked silver in the blade. There’s a window in her head that she can look through and he’s still there in that tomb: armored in ancient metal, breathing magic like heat from a kiln, lightning behind his teeth. He’s also where she left him this morning: snoring gently with terrific bedhead and a quilt tangled in his legs.

This is where she finds him when she returns to the house. She leaves the basket on the table in the living area and pads back up the steps to the loft. She avoids the creak in the third stair. A warm square of sunshine is making its way lazily across the comforter onto Link’s lower back; it sets a glow to his cotton shirt, puts sections of gold in his hair. For a moment looking down at him, Zelda is overwhelmed by a paralyzing weight behind her breast bone, sudden and vicious, taking hold of her so tight the muscles in her throat clench and burn. Then the moment passes and she clears her throat.

“Link,” she whispers, hovering near the bed.

Nothing.

“Link,” she says at regular tones.

Snores.

“Link,” she says rather loudly.

He wrinkles his nose and rolls over, taking the edge of the blankets with him and thus cocooning himself in quilts. It’s… probably the most childish thing she’s ever seen him do in their travels together and she stands there, nonplussed, for a moment.

“Well then,” she says, “I will… just make a proper breakfast without your input.”

It’s ten minutes later as she’s well into burning a trio of speckled eggs that Link – very much awake now – jumps the loft bannister to rush her and snag the smoking skillet from her hands. He gives her a look.

“I tried to wake you up,” she says.

He takes the billowing pan to the door and hucks the contents into the yard.

“I was going to fix it.”

He turns and shows her the charred bottom of the pan and gestures to it with his other hand.

“Okay. Perhaps not.”

Zelda stews over a small mug of tea (provided for her when Link became alarmed by her use of the kettle somehow) and acknowledges that food, of course, was the thing to break Hyrule’s light out of his post-battle catatonia. Obviously. Link scraps the burnt food off the cast iron and sets about making a real breakfast. The small house immediately smells of… burnt egg and aroma of grilling ham, eggs, onion, and mushrooms. The hot scent of spices from a handful of glass bottles. He drops a perfect omelet on a plate in front of her a few minutes later and, yes, there it is, gives her another look.

“I thought I had it,” she says.

He takes a seat, shaking his head.

“Oh. Hush,” she says, picking a mushroom from her plate and flicking it at him.

He eats the mushroom off the back of his knuckles where it landed and Zelda rejoices (silently) the tiny boring familiarity of it. Link dedicates the rest of his attention to eating breakfast.

“I sealed Ganon you know.”

Link looks her straight in the eyes, then rolls them.

“Hush!”

She cleans the dishes. Link goes outside to wash up. When he’s done, she listens to the faint sound of her housemate changing clothes upstairs, glances up to catch him pulling his hair into a fresh knot at the back of his neck, studying the small ritual of muscle memory as he combs his fingers from his forehead and temples and pulls back a few times, gathering it where he can tie it. Link is, according to the housewives of Hantero, ‘So pretty you don’t even want to take him home. That kind of pretty.’ Zelda isn’t sure what that’s supposed to mean or why it sounded a little like an insult. He finishes with his hair, then notices her watching and tilts his head at her.

She waves his concern away. “It’s nothing.”

He leans against the banister, looking down at her, one brow arched.

“Honestly. It’s nothing. I’m glad you’re up, is all.”

His expression crinkles a little, apologetic.  

“You know,” she says, giving her attention to the dishes, “for one hundred years I didn’t have to eat anything. Or sleep. Its… so strange sitting down to a meal now.” She says this directly to the dish she’s drying. “I didn’t realize I missed it. Can you miss things retroactively? I didn’t think you could, but now it’s as though… I remember all those times I didn’t have breakfast and it makes me sad. How silly!” She stacks the plates. “Ignore me. I’m just… I don’t know…it’s not as though time was linear for me when I was… I don’t know why I’m even talking about it.”

She senses Link’s coming down the stairs to stand near her elbow, like a shadow with weight. She looks over her shoulder.

“There should be a word for that look,” she says.

Link takes the plates from the counter puts them away in a cabinet.

  She has no throne.

It goes without saying, but Zelda’s still not sure how to say it. Link saddles a horse for her at the Dueling Peaks Stable – a pure white mare so like her old horse that she momentarily believes her to be that every mount. But it’s a trick of the tableau. Somehow, against all odds, Link has recovered the purple and gold riding accoutrements of her house and a wild horse from Castle Town bloodlines. He outfits the horse for her, murmuring softly to it, and she doesn’t know how to tell him to re-tackle her mount in lesser gear. To take off the colors of Royalty. His gesture is too great. The gift too impossible to refuse.

He smiles, patting the mare’s velvety nose while she gingerly feeds it a sugar cube.

Link’s own steed, a mare as well, is a stocky animal with dark coloring and mottled hide. It snorts and stomps impatiently in her stall. There are chunks missing in the spotted coat of her hind quarters. A Bokokin branding. Link explains, later, that he prefers her for travel because she won’t spook at the scent of Bokokin and is already trained for bridle-less combat. Zelda knows, only because Link told her a century ago, when they were first mounting up for travel, that he only rides horses he can break to take guidance from his knees, not the bridal.

At the time, this had only annoyed her and so… “They don’t teach that in the Guard.”

Link hesitated.

Looking back, she can see now that was a symptom of mutism, not uncertainty, but his silence irked her back then, so she’d raised her voice a little. “Why don’t you ride a stallion? You’re a knight now. They’re bigger. Better for mounted combat. Do you mean to protect me or not?” And at another hesitation, she added, “Never mind. I don’t require an escort for this outing. You should report back to the Guard.”

And then she left him in the stable.

Zelda lies awake thinking of this conversation, one hundred years in the past and still clear as the day it happened. Link dozes by the embers of their fire and the soft nickering of his mare, Epona, keeps off the quiet. She shakes her head. Tries to throw off the memory, the condescension, the slights. Petty moments she knows Link has forgotten but she cannot, even in after the war’s been won. Later, she re-saddles her horse with a sizable saddle blanket and bags. This mostly hides the house colors. If Link notices, he doesn’t comment.

  The first trouble arises in Hebra.

They’re settling in for the night at the stable in Tabintha where the locals report six killings this season – the dismembered parts of travelers found by search parties. Consumed by wildlife but killed by much worse. Lizalfos most likely. The arctic air hides their unique method of killing – a nitrogenous breath that freezes the flesh on contact, causing limbs to crack off and shatter. Too tough to be eaten by anything but the biggest mountain wolves.

“I’ve a cantrip for that,” Zelda is saying. “It will stop them even freezing your thermal wear.”

Link, doing an inventory of his combustible arrow-heads by lamp light, nods, chewing a stick of jerky while sorting through the small arsenal on the table. It’s a soothing, kind of meditative routine for him so she can tell he’s only partially listening to her. He hums a little while he does it.

“Give me your hand, I’ll put it on your sword arm.”

He stretches out his arm, absently, then whips it back when he feels her start to push his sleeve up. He gives her a suspicious eye.

“It’s not going to hurt, you big baby.”

He continues to eye her, a long blue glare.

“That was one time and it’s not my fault you didn’t listen when I told you it would sting.”

She’s about to really dig into why, honestly, it won’t even tickle this time when a largish sort of man in a heavy doublet and snow gear moves toward their table. Zelda, facing him, notes that three other men hang back but seem to be with him nonetheless, watching. Link, for his part, gives no sign that he hears the man other than to place one hand in his lap. His lap where his sword rests across his knees. He looks over his shoulder only when the man is close enough to be un-ignorable.

“Hello,” Zelda says.

The man ignores her, staring down at her companion. “You Link?” says the man.

“Yiga?” says Link. The jerky stick is still between his teeth so it’s not with any kind of… fear that he says that.

Zelda tenses, but the man just looks confused, the wind-red skin around his eyes crinkling.

“What?”

“Never mind.” Link does not take his hand from his lap.

“You Link or not?”

Link shrugs. Its kinds of infuriating from an outside perspective.

Zelda pipes up. “Sorry, sir. But what business do you have?”

“None, unless one of you is Link.” His lip curls. “Now that I’m up close, I can’t rightly tell which of you is the woman.”

“Thanks,” says Link, ripping the jerky in half between his teeth and chewing. Zelda gives him a look of her own.

“Okay, smartass, I think you’re Link.”

He shrugs again. It makes her want to laugh. It should not. There is a large person with a threatening demeanor hovering over her partner and he appears to have a large ax strapped to his back. To her younger self, this would be cause for alarm, but to this new version of herself, this situation seems exactly as laughable to her as it must to Link who has the divine blade in his lap and no interest in tavern cock fighting. The man’s friends are beginning to make their way across the room now though. Zelda sighs.

“Sir, you’ve found your man. What is it you want?”

“You always speak for him, girl?”

“No. Just right now. What’s your business?”

“My employer needs to speak with him.”

“We’re here on a task of some importance,” Zelda explains, careful with her tone. “There’s been violence and death in the region. We’re here to remedy that. If there is some specific need your employer has of him, then relay it, and we can make our own way there when our tasks are at a close.” Zelda is on her feet now, hands on the table in front of her. Link, sitting still facing her, is looking up at her through his bangs. His eyebrows are up. Zelda ignores him. “So, sir, what is your business and how does it supersede the needs of the good people here?”

It’s only then the man seems to notice the rest of the room watching. The stable hands and inn keeps and small groups of local trappers and traders all eyeing the confrontation with the idle readiness of people with a stake in the outcome. There are swords now, staves, and casual weaponry suddenly visible, on table tops, by hand where they were previously packed away.

The man hesitates then, appraises her. Link, in his seat – Zelda watches his calm blue stare rove toward the man, a dangerous stillness in his stature. The man doesn’t notice.

“What’s your name, little miss?”

“Unless you tell me your business, I see no reason to tell you.”

The man points a finger. “You’re her.” He takes a step forward. “You the one calling herself Zelda, aren’t you?”

Link hits the man. Zelda doesn’t see him do it. He’s too fast. It’s just the follow through, the aftermath – a man twice Link’s size, flying staggering backward, clutching his gut and Link on his feet. The blade is out. The naked metal one hand, the sheath in the other. He doesn’t move to raise it, only stands there, feet apart, shoulders set, directly between her and the four men sent to find them. The blade doesn’t glow. No. It only does that in the presence of evil. But the light catches in the metal, give it a purposeful shine.

“Leave,” says Link.

He barely says it above a whisper, but into the dead silence it drops like a coin into a pan.

Zelda grabs his shoulder. He glances at her. He does not relax even slightly.

“Tell us who sent you,” she says to the men. “You might as well.”

The man holds up two hands. “No trouble, little miss,” he starts to say, but one of his man blurts, “I’d be careful using that name!”

“It’s my name,” she snaps, but the men are gone into the snow outside.

Later, she will tell Link she wishes he hadn’t done that and he will just shrug. This time, it’s infuriating.

  They have a nightmare.

Zelda knows it’s ‘they’ not ‘she’ when the scream cuts out of her and, in the same instant, Link lunges up from his cot and buries a broadsword halfway through a tree. Epona, nearby, just looks up from a small bag of oats, snorts, and goes back to eating. The humans present stare at each other for a very long moment. Link is first to move. He wrenches the blade free, bracing one boot against the trunk and yanking. A sigh. He takes a seat, cross-legged next to her and plants the blade point down in the grass by her sleeping cot. He rubs two hands over his face. Then he just looks, tiredly, into her eyes with a question there.

“I dreamed that we lost,” she says. “I mean… that we lost again.”

Link shudders.

“You too?”

He nods, then kind of absently presses his palm to his throat, cupping the crushable curve of his windpipe like a ghost pain still plagues him. Zelda, watching, feels a cold prickle run up her spine and down her arms, raising the fine hairs all the way down to her aching hands. She stops clenching her fists.

“Calamity killed you in front of me.”

Link stops touching his throat, hand hovering uncertainly for a moment before he drops it in his lap. She can see him working up to saying something. He always mouths a word once or twice before pushing his voice behind it.  

“It’s okay,” she says quickly. “It wasn’t real.” She pulls her hair back from her face, re-doing the band “Maybe… maybe it was me. I had a nightmare and I, perhaps, shared it to you. That’s possible. I maintained a certain level of… awareness of you all through my time interned with the Calamity. Those paths are still open to some degree. I apologize –”

He makes a cutting motion, interrupting her. Then he raises two hands and, in terse but fluid hand motions, signs, ‘Maybe it was my nightmare.’

She blinks. If he’s signing, he must be shaken. He hasn’t done that in a while.

He shrugs and goes on, ‘I have nightmares. It was probably mine.’

“Oh… I… I suppose, but I don’t think…”

He shrugs again. She’s not sure how each shrug has a specific meaning but it does.

“It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not prophetic, I would tell you if it was.”

He nods.

“Link, we’re safe.”

He looks at her. The moonlight through the trees lays lines of silver across his forehead, misses his eyes.

“I swear it,” she says. This small panic rising… she doesn’t know it’s source but she continues, “I would tell you if we were in danger.”

His eyes widen and, after a moment, he says, “I know that.”

Link’s voice always startles her, even when Zelda has ample time to watch him work up to using it. It’s always both softer and deeper than she expects, usually rough with disuse, faintly kinked with an accent she’s only recently identified as a hybrid of eastern Lanaryian and, interestingly, the grammatical pacing in most Zora-learned Hylian. She’s not sure why, but hearing his voice now does damage to something inside her.

“You’ve done more than enough. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to fight anymore.” She shakes her head. “You know that, right?”

His expression smooths out, softens a little. He stands. Zelda watches him calmly pull the sword from the grass, wipe it on his trousers, then pick up the sheath from his sleeping cot and put it away. Then he comes back to her side, close enough to touch and he touches her shoulder, three fingertips pressed against the fabric for long enough that warmth bleeds through and sets gold lines to the roots of her. Fine wires of heat and regret.

Then, he says, very quietly, “I’m staying.”

She can’t say why that makes her want to hit him. Instead she says, “Thank you.”

  When they reach Highland Stable, the inn keep says a Gerudo woman came looking for Link. Not Link specifically, but “the owner of the red and black stallion out back”. The innkeep also mentions, somewhat warily, that they will need to charge extra in boarding fee for an animal of his size and temperament and they would greatly appreciate it if Link would ‘settle him’ before taking off again. Link agrees, pays the fee, and heads back to the stalls.

Zelda, previously unaware of this animal, is stupefied by the size of the beast Link returns with, leading it to the large corral near the front of the inn with nothing but a hand on its massive flank. She can’t say what breed it is. The towering stallion stands a monolith stature beside Link, pure black save for the impossible red of its mane and tail. Broad as a Lynel. The middle of its back so high that Link must take a short running leap to mount. Once seated, the beast is comically too large for him.

The horse tolerates Link’s presence, snorting and stomping, massive hooves cutting deep furrows in the grass.

Zelda comes forward only when Link waves her the all clear. “What’s his name?”

Link just huffs and shrugs.

She lets the huge horse nose her palms. “No name? Are you thinking about turning him loose?”

“He’ll leave if he wants,” Link says, taking a handful of deep red mane.

He clicks his tongue, taps his heels and the great black monster trots out into the corral with the air of an animal that planned to do so all along. Zelda retreats to the fence, ducking outside of the ring so she can climb onto the first horizontal bar and lean against the top most support, watching Link take the giant horse through increasingly aggressive maneuvers around the yard. It’s not a fast animal. But its every move becomes a juggernauting force, unstoppable and uncaring. In motion, Link no longer seems too small for his mount.

“A beautiful animal,” someone murmurs.

Zelda jolts a little, startled because there is a very, very tall person in a traveling cloak and hood standing beside her. She didn’t hear them approach. From this angle, she can’t make out their face beneath the hood, only a sharp line of jaw, dark skin. The road-worn cloak and trousers are patterned in interlocking red and blue right angles along the hem. Gerudo Town make. Zelda re-assesses the person standing beside her – at least seven feet tall, biceps (very visible), broad shouldered, but leaned out by their height, large hands (rough with callouses), one forearm strapped with an archer’s guard. Zelda very carefully leans back a little, still searching…

There’s a scimitar-style sword on their hip.

“Sav’otta,” Zelda says.

The Gerudo standing next to her seems surprised. Then, in very deep Gerudo-tongue, says, “Do you speak the language?”

Zelda hesitates. “I’m a little rusty.”

“You are clear enough and well met, little sister. I am Draga.”

Zelda notes, puzzled, that Draga is using slight variant in conjugation she’s not heard before. “Nice to meet you. I am Zelda. I apologize if my Gerudo is antiquated. I’m out of practice.”

Draga nods, then reaches up and pulls the hood down. Zelda blinks. In the split second between the blink and the shock, Zelda knows it’s too late to hide her surprise. Annoyed with herself, Zelda says firmly, “I love your hair. I’ve thought about cutting it short like that, but I’m too set in my ways, big brother.”

Draga smiles at her.

Zelda realizes now what it was in Draga’s grammar that confused her – not linguistic drift, but male modifiers. She’d learned it, but never heard it used in conversation; before now, she had never met a Gerudo man. Draga’s hair, red as old copper, is short for a Gerudo, braided down against his scalp and clipped with intricate gold rings. Dark complexioned even for a Gerudo, high dramatic features. Now that the hood is off Zelda can see the start of very carefully shaved sideburns only just growing along the sharp line of his jaw, deep cheekbones, a heavy brow. He’s so tall and so broad in shoulder, that he reminds her a bit of Urbosa. His eyes are the same green.

In the distance, Link shouts something and the stallion rears up, then dives back down, hooves slamming into the ground so hard the impact vibrates in the earth. Then horse and rider bolt full speed around the edge of the corral, Link’s body ducked low along the beast’s spine.

“You can speak Hylian. I understand it fine. My accent is the trouble do you know the rider?”

“Yes, we’re friends and he’s the owner, actually.”

 “Then I’d like to speak with him. I’d like to propose a sale, if possible.”

“I can flag him down.”

“I am in no rush.”

Across the corral, Link pulls the stallion out of its gallop and into a slowdown rotation. Afterward, he dismounts, patting the giant horse in a congratulatory manner and saying something to him. Zelda wonders what he says. He is always saying things, specifically just to horses. The black giant flicks its ears forward, then bends its head down to forcefully but affectionately push its gigantic head into Link’s chest, knocking him back a few steps.  

“Link!” Zelda puts her fingers in her mouth and whistles, a high ribbon of sound. “Can you come here?”

Link leaves the horse to its own devices and jogs over. The giant horse trots close behind, like the biggest dog in existence and loiters intimidatingly behind him. There’s horse hair in Link’s clothes, his bangs are stuck to his forehead, mud splattered on his pants. He wipes his hands on his tunic, eyeing the stranger

“Link. This is Draga. He’s interested in the stallion.”

Link blinks. The giant horse noses the side of his head. He looks doll-sized beside it.

“Zelda, would you mind translating?” Draga says. “I want to be clear.”

“Of course!”

Link, hesitating, taps her arm. When he has her attention, he signs, “I don’t speak Gerudo. Can you…?”

“I was just saying that. I can translate. Of course.”

Draga frowns. “He doesn’t speak?”

“He does, but it’s troublesome for him.” Then in Hylian. “You wanted to ask if the horse is for sale, right?”

Draga nods, looking at Link as he does so.

Link thinks about it, then says, aloud, “Maybe.” He signs, “I’d have to see him ride and how Asshole likes him. He’s a bastard.”

Zelda paraphrases. “Link wants to see you ride and determine how the horse likes you. It’s a very temperamental animal.”

“This is acceptable,” Draga says in warm but carefully enunciated Hylian. He unclasps his cloak from his neck. “I would prefer….” He gestures, says in Gerudo. “No point in wasting sunlight.” Then in Hylian. “Now?”

Link shrugs. “Okay.”

Draga braces one hand against the top of the corral fence and vaults it in a single slow but easy motion. The whole fence groans under the brief weight. He lands heavily, straightening to his improbable height and without the hood, Zelda can see his outfit isn’t Gerudo-made. The leather work – bracer, light armor, and gloves – are Rito despite tooling in Gerudo script. The tunic and under-shirt – Faron Highlands. A series of short blades strapped to his thigh glint Eldin-mined amber, a Goron-styled finish.

 Zelda extrapolates from this the gear he left Gerudo town with no longer suits him and he’s been on the road a very long time.

The black stallion snorts at his approach. Draga seems unperturbed. He offers one giant hand for the beast’s inspection. The stallion snorts again, shaking it massive head back and forth. Link seems relaxed, but Zelda can tell he’s primed to jump back in if the monster horse goes berserk. Draga just huffs, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Hello, great king,” he murmurs. Draga’s tone is familiar. “Whoa, whoa.”

The horse eyes him.

“You know me,” he says, for some reason.

Zelda’s nose itches as he says this, her fingers too.

“Settle down. There you go.”

The giant horse picks a cautious path forward, like its navigating unsteady terrain. After another moment, it pushes its nose into Draga’s palm, lipping at his fingers like it does indeed know him. Draga runs his other hand along the beast’s jaw. His face is close enough to the stallion’s nose, that its nostrils flare a little.  Zelda thinks he’s still speaking, but she can’t understand the words. Rather, she feels she almost knows the words. Like she’s just forgotten them and is left with just… impressions of what he says.

She thinks, however, he said something like, “You know your nature now.”

Draga climbs onto the stallion’s back and, once seated, looks at his audience. Then he very casually digs his heels slightly into the beast’s flanks and it trots a tight, easy circle in front of them. Then, just for good measure, he takes two handfuls of the beast’s mane and the horse rockets forward at a clip at least twice the speed Link had it moving. Link laughs out loud, startling Zelda who looks at him with wonder.

“This,” Draga says, bringing the horse back around at a trot, “is a Gerudo horse. Certainly.”

Zelda claps. “Astonishing!”

Link gestures in that animated way that means he’s probably mouthing words, illustrating his amazement.

Draga brings the horse to a stop facing them. “If this is satisfactory, should we discuss price?”

Zelda taps Link on the shoulder. “He wants to know if he passes and if you have a price, Link?”

Link shakes his head. “No sale. He’s yours.”

Draga blinks, frowning. “I think I misheard him.”

Zelda laughs. “I don’t think you did. Link, are you sure?”

Link signs in big hyperbolic sweeps, grinning. “It’s his horse. Obviously. Right? Looks like destiny, doesn’t it?”

“He says the horse is obviously yours, Draga. He can’t sell what is not his.”

“I cannot possibly accept,” Draga says. “He should name a fair price.” He looks directly at Link and, in much louder commanding Hylian, says, “You should give a price.” He looks at Zelda. “Does he understand what this horse is worth?”

Zelda smiles. “Yes. He knows what the horse is worth. He just doesn’t care. If you’re concerned about our financial well-being, you needn’t be. And honestly, if you take the horse then we no longer need to worry for his board and care. Knowing he’s found proper ownership is more than enough.” She glances at Link who’s giving her the thumbs up. “Yes. That’s right. He insists.”

“Your friend is mad.”

“Link, he says you’re mad.”

Link laughs. It’s infectious, sending jolts of warmth through her face.

Draga, exasperated, says, “If he will not allow me to pay him for the price of the horse, then will he allow me to buy the both of you a meal tonight?”

“Oh, he will certainly tell you do that. I feel your wallet may regret it, however.”

Later, having watched Link eat an entire pot of stew, a loaf of bread, a bowl of fruit, and a whole mutton, Draga tells Zelda that he sees now where the tiny Hylian might get his impossible energy from. He says this despite the fact Link has folded his arms on their low table, laid his head down on them, and gone fast to sleep. Zelda is taking the opportunity to balance a small loaf of bread on the top of the Hero’s head, placing it painstakingly until she is certain of its stability. Then she reaches for a dinner roll. 

“He is either impossibly productive or dead to the world,” Zelda assures Draga, carefully stacking the dinner roll on top of the loaf. “I catch up when he’s unconscious.”

Draga watches her finish her tower of baked goods, then says, “Forgive me, but how old are you, little sister?”

She’s practiced this one. “I’m eighteen now.” She folds her arms on the table top. “I’m not entirely certain about Link. He grew up around Zora and they don’t value annual celebrations of birth so he always forgets.”

His brows arch. “The Zora?” He enunciates it Hylian. “That is… unusual.” And in Gerudo: “You two are… business partners?”

“Yes, but we’re friends. We’ve worked together a long time.”

“What is the nature of your commerce together?”

“We protect each other. Link does most of the jobs to do with hunting and security and I’ve taken up as a healer. Between us, we can relieve all manner of suffering and people pay for that.” She hesitates, then adds in Gerudo. “Link has a wide-spread reputation and people all over this realm trust him implicitly to accomplish what others cannot. We are on our way to handle such a task in the next few days.” She shrugs, picks up cup and pours herself some water. “You’ve caught us in an interim period.”

Draga sits forward. He’s so large, that his doing so blots out a significant part of light from across the room. In Hylian, he asks, “Do you require additional hands in this endeavor?”

Zelda thinks his accent is really not that strong.

“Link and I should be fine. It’s quite straightforward. There’s a Lynel we’re bringing down east of here.”

Draga tilts his head. “You are Lynel-hunting?” He gestures between her and Link. “You two?

“Looks are deceptive, Draga.”

Link, still asleep on the table, mutters and shoves his face deeper into the crook of his elbow. This disturbs the dinner roll which slides off his head, bouncing on his shoulder. The bread loaf just wobbles, then settles. Draga, observing this, looks back at Zelda with some incredulity.

“A dozen Lynels he’s brought down.” Zelda sips her drink. “A dozen.”

“It doesn’t seem possible,” Draga says in blunt, skeptical Hylian.

“Link exists to defy expectations.”

Draga narrows his eyes slightly and Zelda is, again, struck by the likeness to Urbosa. “Then if I were simply curious how a Hylian the size of my arm brings down Lynels? Would that be reason enough that you might allow me to accompany you?”

Zelda frowns. “You don’t know us well, Draga. I feel I should be up-front about a few aspects of what we do. The jobs we take on are usually quite dangerous and even the missions that are not martial can be unusual. Our methods are somewhat unorthodox…”

“You have Hylia’s Gift,” Draga interrupts.

Zelda frowns. “Hylia’s Gift?”

He frowns back. “Do you not say that in Hylian?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Magic,” Draga says, in Gerudo this time and Zelda can see how that might translate literally, into Hylian. “You worry I will be offended or suspicious of it. I am not. My mothers were all versed in some aspect of spellcasting, rune-craft, or ward-work. It’s not unusual to me.” He jerks his head toward Link. “Even that one, I sense it. A breath of the wild.”

“Breath of the wild?”

Draga sighs. “Do you not say that in Hylian either?”

Zelda grins. “No.”

“Wild magic.” He ponders this. “In Gerudo teachings, magic draws on three elemental kinds – breath, blood, and bone. Your semblance is blood. His is breath. Breath is rawer stuff. Harder to harness, instinctive.” In Hylian he says, “Wilder.”

Zelda considers this. “In… Hylian teachings, the abilities gifted from the Goddess are of three elemental kinds, but we cite wind, water, and earth. All simply being… attitudes of magical practice all under the same divine source. Air is the most rare and volatile. I… supposed I did not categorize Link’s talents that way.” 

Draga is tearing a piece of bread in half. He looks at her. “Why not?”

She frowns at her drink. “I don’t know. I guess… I always saw him differently than a… sorcerer.”

“I am surprised you did not see it. You both seem very alike.”

“We’re not related.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Draga uses the bread to wipe stew from the inside of the bowl. “I do not think there is a proper word for it. You seem both like parts of a larger thing.” He shrugs and eats the bread. “I do not know how to explain it. When I look at you with truth, that is how you seem.”

“Do you have Hylia’s Gift, Draga?”

“Yes.” He looks at her, picking an orange from the bowl. “Does that trouble you?”

She begins to say ‘no’, then pauses.

“Why are you trusting me?”

When he doesn’t answer, just peels the fruit in his hand, she elaborates.

“In Gerudo culture, magic is… there are rules about who can use it.” She keeps her tone soft. Concerned, not accusatory. She doesn’t specify in what way he is outside their parameters. She just stares up at him, this giant man who reminds her of Urbosa in ways she can’t quite quantify, who Link gifted a priceless horse for no reason than he felt it was natural. “Why are you so sure I am a friend? If the current Chief, Riju, heard word of it, she would be compelled to act.”

Draga studies her face for a moment. “Do you think Riju should act?”

Zelda lowers her voice. “No, I don’t… but I also just met you.”

Draga’s mouth pulls a little, almost a smile, then he goes back to peeling his orange. In Gerudo, he says, “You should not fret, little sister. The Gerudo are wary of magic, but Urbosa herself commanded thunder and much more besides. I am not outside Law if I return within the year and declare myself.” He levels a very calm look at Zelda. “Hylians don’t regulate that, do they?”

“Magic doesn’t regulate every well. But there were licenses you could obtain like any other business and penalties for practicing without proper credentials.” She pauses. “But that was one hundred years ago. It’s… died off somewhat.”

Draga concedes that with a tilt of his head. “And what kind of craft do you practice, Zelda?”

She thinks of rain.

Hot and impossibly heavy, the mud sucking her sandals under. She thinks of her fingers knotted in Link’s bloody tunic. The fucking sword in his hand. Glowing, but not bright enough to stop ancient machinery running them down, racing across the country to cleave their bones from their bodies. She thinks of her prayer – Goddess, take me instead. Leave the one of us worth anything alive. – and then how the Guardians, in that exact moment, found them.

She thinks of tithing. Alters burnt with fruit and grain. Her family, her kingdom, her champions, her own knight: The blood sacrifice Hylia required. She thinks how it hurt. How hot, how infinite, how indifferent the power that screamed through her skin and how none of it hurt as much as that moment when Link stopped breathing. Her nightmares look like this: The sword never speaks. She kneels there in that field until Calamity comes to crush her from existence.

“Healing and protection,” she says. Zelda reaches across the table for Draga’s wine.

“You’re not old enough for that,” he says conversationally.

“I am,” she says and drinks directly from the bottle.

.

.

.

go to part 2

[spearywritesstuff]

Bodies: Chapter Three

Or read it here on Ao3

The trip to Hay took a few hours. Cas noticed the way Dean didn’t speed or even seem concerned with getting there. He just drove, window down, music playing. They didn’t talk. Sam had questioned the trip, even seemed interested in tagging along. Dean somehow made the trip sound like it wouldn’t be much fun for him though, and Sam seemed to pick up on the fact that Dean did not want him to go for some reason. The trip would certainly have been different with Sam along.

They got into town at 11 pm on a Friday night, and things were still lively enough in town. It was a college town after all, and most of the population knew what it was to pull all nighters and live life like a party. Dean picked out a bar a little ways from the college. The crowd was young, too young for them. Cas thought that Dean seemed bored nearly from the start.

“Wanna hustle some pool?” Dean nodded over to one of the tables in the corner. The group that was playing seemed happy and maybe a little drunk.

“Maybe we don’t hustle them. We could just play a few rounds.” Cas took a sip from his glass. Dean had bought him a whiskey instead of a beer. It was different. A lot of things were different lately.

“You think they’d beat us?” Dean asked.

“No, they just seem nice,” Cas replied.

“How can you tell? They just look like some college guys, probably from a fraternity or something. Those kinds of guys roll in the money, and they’re usually douche bags.”

Cas waved casually at the one end of the pool table. “Those two guys are a couple.” He waved at the other end of the table. “The other two are thinking of starting something up, but they’re worried that the other is not interested.” Cas took another sip of his drink and added, “The guys in the middle are friends and live on the same floor as the two other pairs. They all arranged the outing tonight because Tim, the one guy in the middle, got dumped by his long term girlfriend. They’re trying to distract him.”

“How do you know all that?” Dean asked.

“I was listening to all of the conversations in the bar to pick up on anything of interest, people of interest.” Cas gave Dean a pointed look, then turned away from him as he continued, “One of them made a comment about us, so I poked at their thoughts.” Cas glanced at Dean again but didn’t hold the gaze.

Dean took a moment to seemingly process all of that. “What’d they say about us?”

“The two on the end thought that you were good looking.”

“The couple?” Why it mattered to Dean was a mystery.

“No, the other two. I think that the one was a little jealous. Regardless, they quickly moved on to other things.”

“Like what?” 

Cas looked at Dean again, “Classes mostly. Everyone in here is rather young.”

“Yeah, I’m not seeing anyone I’m comfortable hitting on, to be honest.” Dean glanced over at the bar. “Bartender is the only person in here that’s maybe even in his thirties.”

Cas wasn’t sure why Dean would bother noting the bartender since he was a man. “Should we go elsewhere?”

“Nah, this is fine.” Dean elbowed him and added, “Unless you wanted to find someone.”

“We staying here for the night or going back to the bunker?”

Dean looked uncomfortable all of a sudden. “We could stay here, get a room or something if you want to.” Dean looked away.

“It would be a waste of a trip to head home now.” They stayed a bit longer, nursed their drinks, then drove into town for a room.

Dean undressed and got into bed the moment they got into the room. He’d grown quiet. Cas took a seat at the motel table next to the window. “Cas?”

Cas turned to him. “Yes, Dean.”

“You ever wish things were different?”

“Different how?” Cas moved over to the bed next to Dean’s. He sat and waited for Dean’s answer.

“I don’t know, just different. Like would you ever want to settle down somewhere or go back to heaven? You know change the way things are.”

“I have no place in heaven. I can’t imagine settling down in the way you mean it.”

“How do you think I mean it?”

Cas considered poking at Dean’s thoughts, but didn’t. “I don’t think that finding a place to pass the time in like Ramiel did would suit me. I’m not interested in fishing, or taking up pointless hobbies. I like doing what you do. It is more fulfilling.” 

Dean watched him for a moment. He looked almost peaceful. He licked his lips a little and left a little sheen on them. Cas wanted to move closer, press his own lips to him. “Do you ever poke at my thoughts like you did with those guys?”

“No.” Cas folded his hands in front of him.

“Okay, just checking.” Dean rolled over and faced the wall. “Night, Cas.”

“Night, Dean.” Cas got up and went back to the table until Dean fell asleep.

When Dean got up the next morning, he didn’t check out of the motel. Instead he paid for another night. “You never know. We might get lucky.” He winked at Cas and moved ahead of him toward the little diner next to the motel. Cas didn’t know what to make of the trip, and Dean didn’t seem to be trying so hard to find someone to help with his tension. 

Cas figured they’d try another bar that night, or maybe they wouldn’t. It was hard to tell what Dean was thinking. He'd done his own research though, not that it'd matter if Dean had his own plans. After a huge breakfast that included every kind of meat, some pancakes, and a skillet full of eggs, Dean declared himself full. Cas made a point of not commenting on the name of the feast, the “Lumberjack Special.”

They left the diner and Dean didn’t lead them back to the room or the car. “Where are you going?”

“Just thought we’d walk around a little.” Dean turned to him and asked, “Is that okay?”

“Of course.” Cas moved to Dean’s side and walked with him toward the campus. He wasn’t sure what the point was. They’d established the night before that co-eds were way too young and unappealing. It made Cas settle on a different question though, one that had nothing to do with conquests. “Did you ever want to go to college?”

They took a meandering path around the perimeter of the campus. It was nice. Cas tried to picture Dean there as a student. “College was never for me.” He let out a little breath and added, “That was always supposed to be Sammy’s path.”

“Couldn’t it have been a path you both took?” Cas’ hand brushed the back of Dean’s hand with each step. There was warmth radiating from him. Cas focused on the sound of his heart beating steadily. 

“Then who’d hunt monsters and teach angels how to human, Cas?” Dean elbowed him a little as they walked. Cas smiled at him. Dean smiled back. “I suppose I wanted that life at one point. It would have been nice to have just spent my days studying and taking tests. I wouldn’t have been good at it, but it would have been better than a lot of the things I ended up experiencing.”

Cas raised his hand up and settled it on Dean’s shoulder as they walked. Dean’s pace altered a little, almost like he’d stumbled when Cas put his hand on him. “The world owes you a great debt. You are a real hero, Dean Winchester.”

Dean shrugged him off and ran ahead a little, only to turn back and face him as he walked backwards. “Ah, shucks Cas.” He laughed. “Don’t go getting all sappy on me now.” 

“I’ll do my best.” Cas came back to his side and they walked between a couple of buildings toward a central area on campus. It was stunningly green with lush trees framing the walkways between buildings. The quad area was filled with students, making their way to classes and just generally lazing around. “Should we wander through a building?”

“Sure.” Dean stopped and looked around at all the buildings that framed the quad. “Take your pick.”

“Maybe that one with the dome.” Cas pointed to their left. “I read a bit about the campus last night while you slept.”

“Yeah, what’d you learn?” Dean asked as they made their way into the building. They have two telescopes, very large, and a cadaver lab that is impressive.”

“Wow, romantic,” Dean said with a smirk.

Cas said, “Didn’t realize romance was a requirement.” Cas smirked back. “The campus also has a building with a forge and a department that practices making both medieval weapons and art.”

“Well, you lead with that, Cas. Let’s go see that.” Dean looked excited, and Cas wanted to indulge that.” He set a hand on Dean’s elbow and directed him toward the building with the forge.

They spent too much time watching students work. Dean didn’t seem like he had any intention of leaving or even drinking the water Cas brought him. He was transfixed. Eventually though, Cas mentioned lunch, and Dean’s stomach grumbled out a corresponding complaint. They headed out to the quad again and found the commons area with all of its food offerings. It was actually more like dinner time than lunch, but they hadn’t exactly taken the time for that meal.

“This place is great. We should put a forge in the bunker. We could make our own swords, and maybe even incorporate some etchings that strengthen the weapons. There’s potential here, Cas.” Dean was babbling as he devoured his burger.”

“Forges are hot.” Cas was thinking of the way that the temperature would affect the overall climate of the bunker.

“Well, whatever turns you on, buddy.” Dean laughed a little.

“I mean,” he sighed, “never mind. Eat your burger. Maybe now you’ll let me check out the telescopes.”

“Oh, you were really interested in that?” Dean finished off the last bite of his burger.

“I am. I have always enjoyed looking at the stars, the vastness of the universe.” A little smile tugged up at the edges of Cas’ lips, but then he suddenly looked a little sad.

“You ever miss it? The freedom of just popping off to all of that whenever you wanted.” Dean waved a hand at the ceiling.

“Sometimes. Moving about untethered, not tied to a vessel is a wholly different experience, one I can’t explain. You feel vast though and maybe even a little endless. Because of it, though, I’ve learned to appreciate smaller things more. It is funny that in all the infinite universe, I would choose to love such a small place as this.” Cas waved a hand in a circle, signifying everything.

“Earth?”

“Yes, and even smaller spaces than the whole planet. The bunker, the back seat of the Impala, the kitchen in the bunker even. I’ve come to appreciate the intimacy of small spaces, the joy that they can bring.” Cas glanced at Dean then back down at his hands. “The people too. They, you, make it better here.” He glanced at Dean again. Color rose into Dean’s cheeks.

“Finish eating your burger and I’ll take you to your damn telescope.” Dean rolled his eyes. “You do know that we have a telescope back at the bunker?”

“This one’s bigger.”

Dean’s brows came together. “Oh, so you’re a member of the bigger is better camp I take it.”

“In this case yes.” Cas reached over and stole one of Dean’s fries from his plate. 

“And in other cases?” Dean was drilling a hole through the table with his staring. 

“You sound as if you might be concerned about something specific. What are you worried about?” Cas tipped his head a little in an attempt at making eye contact.

Dean hastily wiped his mouth and got up. “We should get going if you want to see your stars.”

Dean was already ten feet ahead of him, before Cas got up.

Cas had done more, the night before, than just researching programs that the school had to offer. He had explored all of that, but he’d also explored the faculty pages. That was how he came across Joan. She worked in the science department, but she had an all consuming love of astronomy in particular. She’d written a few books on the subject. He knew she’d be near the telescopes given what she’d written on her current focus. She was working on identifying an uncharted star.

What first drew Cas to her was her appearance. She looked like the kind of woman that Dean would gravitate toward. In her picture, and now standing in front of him too, she had rich dark brown hair hastily swept into a messy bun on top of her head. All of her biographical information listed her as single. 

Cas introduced himself as a professor from some west coast college. She accepted it. He said that Dean was his assistant. She was kind, and she even showed them her research. Cas could tell that she wasn’t showing them the calculations that mattered. That would have been foolish. It was her discovery to make.

Some hours later, and Cas had somewhat forgotten to pay attention to Dean. Joan’s work was just that interesting. She let him peer through the telescope, and she talked about stars and charting them like it was all that mattered. When Dean finally spoke up, it startled both of them. “MInd if I wander off for a bit?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Dean,” Joan said. “I feel like we haven’t been including you nearly enough here.” She set a hand on his shoulder. She smiled warmly. 

“It’s not that. I’ve just had a long day. Figured I’d stretch my legs a little.” Dean smiled in that charming way of his, and Joan let her hand fall from his shoulder. 

“We could go if you want.” Cas didn’t get up though.

“No, you stay. If I don’t come back right away, just assume I went back to the motel.” Dean gave him a little shoulder pat as he walked past and out the door.

“He seemed a bit unhappy,” Joan said.

“He’s been hard to read lately.” Cas turned from the paper he was looking over. “Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s sad or angry or just bored.”

“Or jealous,” Joan offered.

“Pretty sure it’s not that.”

Joan just looked at him for a second and said, “Well, you’d know better.”

Cas redirected, “Your calculations here are a bit off.”

Joan came over to his side and took a seat. “Oh really?” Her tone was mocking.

Cas picked up a stray pencil from the table and rewrote her equation. Joan’s face went through several changes. “This should show you what you’ve been looking for.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” she said as she pointed to one part of Cas’ calculations. “If you go with this number, you’re assuming more gravitational pull in this region than there actually is.”

He was assuming that with good reason. “There’s another star there that hasn’t been discovered yet.”

“What’re you talking about? How would you know that?” Her eyes glinted with excitement though.

“It’s new. Well, it’s new by human standards. The light from it hasn’t reached this planet yet. So it makes sense that you wouldn’t have calculated for it. However by not calculating for it, you’re missing key information. Feel free to use my numbers.”

“But how?” She still looked surprised and perplexed. “I’ve been working on this for years.”

And this was the moment Cas chose to confess. “I’m an angel.” Then he showed her with a gentle glow of grace. She nearly fell from her chair.

“I, oh God.” She got up and moved back from him. Cas got up and sent out a calming wave of grace toward her.

“Fear not.” He laughed a little at how many times in his existence he’d had to say that. “I’ve come with an odd request.”

She moved slowly back toward him, reaching out a hand to touch him. “I knew something was different about you. You were mesmerizing. I felt like I needed to be near you.”

Cas hadn’t noticed that. He had picked up on some level of attraction that she was feeling for him, but her words held a different sort of intensity. Her hand dragged up his chest. “I need to be getting back to Dean.” He took a step back from her.

“I could go with you,” She stepped back to him, touching his arm.

Cas wondered if it was right, asking her to do this. It had been his intention, but she was clearly drawn to him, not Dean. He thought of Dean though, and the desire to touch him again, to feel his body pressed to his own, that desire won out. “Would you be willing to let me occupy your body for one night?”

Her brows came together as she processed his words. “Is that a fancy way of asking me for sex?”

“A little. I’d like for us to return to the motel and be with Dean.” It was almost funny how much easier it was to just say what he wanted when he spoke with complete strangers.

“So, we go to the motel and just see what happens?” She was still figuring out the arrangement. 

“Actually, I’d leave this body and occupy yours for just tonight. Then I’d walk back to the motel in your body.”

“And I’d be where exactly?” She sounded skeptical. 

“With me, in your body.” She seemed to still be processing it all. “You would be able to cast me out at any time. You would still have awareness and such.”

“This is odd. I suppose everyone has their kinks.” She leaned in and kissed him. Cas didn’t fight her. He didn’t quite know what to do. After all, he was asking for a lot, and their intimacy would be much more than this if she said yes. “Yes,” she whispered as she ended the kiss.

Cas smiled and left his body.

Cas didn’t leave the building right away. Instead he stood in the room a moment first and breathed from within this new body. He moved his own vessel to a small office. Joan told him that it would be safe there. It was one of the few coherent things that she said once he was occupying her body. She was mostly rambling on about the information he was feeding her concerning stars and distant universes. He made a slight adjustment to her telescope so that she’d see something new when she returned to this place, a little thank you for what she’d given him.

He shut off the lights and made his way out of the building. It was late, much later than he’d realized. Cas noticed the way that the campus seemed rather empty. The darkness, the emptiness, chilled him a little bit. He came down the steps and made his way toward the quad. “Hey there.”

Cas turned mid step. “Dean.” 

Dean moved to his side. “It’s late. You shouldn’t be walking alone this late.”

Forgetting for a moment how he looked, Cas said, “No one here could pose any sort of danger for me. I would easily smite them.” Dean looked at him funny. “Well, incapacitate. Smiting might be a bit extreme.”

“Smiting?” Dean let his hand brush the back of Cas’ elbow to direct their walk. “Hardly a word I’d expect to hear from an astronomer, Joan.” He almost seemed to add the name as an afterthought. 

“Guess you just don’t know me that well yet, Dean.” Cas smiled and leaned into him a little. ‘Perhaps we should change that.” Joan actually told him what to say there, and he was grateful for it. 

They walked together, but didn’t seem to be heading for the motel exactly. “Where to?” Dean asked as they continued their walk. Cas really had no destination in mind. Neither did Joan. He’d assumed they’d go back to the motel, but they just didn’t. 

“I don’t know. Where would you like to go?”

Dean seemed to think about that for a bit before answering. “Cas was saying that he had come to appreciate small places more since he came here.” Dean let his arm slide around Cas’ waist as he spoke. Made me kinda appreciate those spaces a bit more too.”

Cas stopped walking a moment and reached up to Dean’s cheek. He was taller than Cas was currently by a fair amount. Cas pulled him down into a kiss. Dean went along with this willingly. He was gentle with Cas. He stroked his back as he deepened the kiss. Cas soaked in all of the little details. Dean seemed to pour kindness into each small movement. When the kiss ended, Dean just held him close, even rested his chin on top of Cas’ head.

“I’d like to go to the Impala, I think,” Cas said.

Dean let him go a little. “We can do that.” It didn’t occur to Cas that Joan wouldn’t have known about the Impala. Their scenario was flimsy. They knew what was real. They knew and they continued to lie to themselves and each other. 

The Impala was in the student parking lot. Dean must have moved it there while he and Joan had been alone. “You certainly parked it far enough away from the other cars.”

“Wouldn’t want her damaged by some careless college guys.” Dean opened the door for him. Cas looked at him funny, then went to the other door, the one to the back seat.

“Why’d you drive the car over?” Cas asked as he sid into the back, making room for Dean to join him.

“I,” Dean started as he slid in. “I was going to go to a bar or something. Wanted to give you both some space if you wanted it. Then I just came back here instead.” He looked off out the side window and added, “To lick my wounds or something.”

“Lick your wounds?”

He still wouldn’t look at Cas. “Yeah. I thought you’d both made a connection that was more of a private thing. I was sort of a third wheel so to speak.”

Cas sat there motionless for a moment, before Joan spoke up in his head. He’s in love with you, ya know. Might make sense to kiss him through this moment or you know, something more. She painted a little picture for him with her thoughts. Cas moved into Dean’s lap. “You’re never the third wheel.” Not the most romantic thing he’d ever said, but it seemed to move Dean.

“I was jealous, and I’m pretty confused about what this all is.” Cas leaned in and kissed him just below his jaw. He gradually moved his lips down to his neck where he nuzzled in a bit. 

“It’s love,” Cas whispered near Dean’s ear. “It’s meeting someone where they are, and finding happiness in moments.”

“You barely know me, Joan,” Dean said.

Cas moved off Dean’s lap and in an economy of moves, pulled Dean down onto his back on the seat. He lifted Dean’s hips and removed his pants. “I know you. And I  am meeting you where you are, because I love you.”

Dean sucked in a breath and seemed like emotions were overtaking him. So, Cas dipped down and kissed him low on his stomach. Then he peppered Dean’s hips with kisses. Then he ran his hands up over Dean’s legs to part them more. Cas knelt in the small space he had in the foot well behind the driver’s seat. 

He leaned in slowly and took Dean into his mouth. He could feel Dean shaking a little beneath him. When Cas looked up, he noticed that Dean’s eyes were closed. He was gripping the seat beneath him with one hand, and the other had found it’s way to the back of Cas’ head. The taste of Dean on his tongue, the feel of him writhing about a little beneath him, was enough to make him happy.

Dean was thrusting a little now. Time had passed, but it felt like nothing to Cas. He wanted more of this. He wanted the kind of time that was years and days and he wanted it all with Dean. Cas let him go with a pop, and climbed back onto Dean’s lap before he could complain. Dean’s eyes were still closed. Even as he slid into him, Dean did not open his eyes. His breathing just hitched up.

Cas leaned down and kissed him quick. Dean wrapped his arms around him, and they moved together, slow like they had all the time in the world. The smell of the Impala’s leather filled Cas’ nose. The warmth of Dean beneath him was everything he wanted. Dean’s mouth was open as their hips rolled together quicker now than before. And words were tumbling out of him as Dean’s thrusts became more frantic. “Cas, Cas, Cas.” There was no mistaking the words Dean had said. He didn’t open his eyes. 

Cas felt every muscle in this body that wasn’t his, quaking with the orgasm that was reached. This was what it was to fall. This was what he wanted. If only it were easier. Dean didn’t open his eyes. He just ran his hands over the bare skin of Cas’ back. Eventually he laid his head down on Dean’s chest and listened to his heart beating beneath him.