#The Oblivion's Wordless Knot

[fluidsf]

Fluid Artist Focus on Haarvöl 3

Haarvöl: The Oblivion’s Wordless Knot (2018)

Reviewed format: review copy of self-released CD Album in digital format as kindly provided by Haarvöl

Welcome to the third review in my series of reviews about the albums of Haarvöl in which today I’m reviewing Haarvöl’s self-released album from 2018 titled The Oblivion’s Wordless Knot. The Oblivion’s Wordless Knot was also performed in full as a “film concert” at The Family Film Project in Porto, Portugal in 2017 and as such this album also has a noticeably more “soundtrack” like feel to it than previous albums with the 5 pieces on the album either flowing into each other as well as there being a very prominent focussed singular sound to this release, meaning that this album has more of a consistent planned sound to all the tracks which coherently binds the full album together rather than being, like on the previous albums, more like a collection of pieces that at times jumps a bit in terms of approach and textures from track to track. The album’s description PDF file also lists the concept of The Oblivion’s Wordless Knot in a very similar description to the recent album Unwritten Rules of A Ceaseless Journey, with again, three “dimensions” of time being used as guides and inspiration for the pieces that form both the album and its live film concert performance. Past, present and future. In terms of execution within the album, the time concept is much more abstracted on this album however, although the heavy Industrial sound already predicts the diffuse mixture of field recordings, metallic sound manipulations and instruments in the aforementioned later album, but a rather fluid approach to dynamics and duration of the pieces is especially apparent in the usage of very long fade outs that also contain sections of the music that are much quieter than the sections before and a lot of the material on this album seems to be focussed on “stretching” and bending time in a way, at times using actual time-stretching, with the pieces at times feeling like continuous streams but also suddenly changing or evolving. Less focussed on a path of sonic events and more on sonic streams and the effect of changes in general, without using a predictable system of structures. An intriguing album again, with quite a different amalgamation of sonic elements this time. Materials included in my CD rip review copy provided by Haarvöl are the 5 album tracks in 16-bit/44.1kHz lossless audio as well as the album description PDF file.

The Oblivion’s Wordless Knot begins with the piece An Unstoppable Will To Resist, which right starting from the title already points at a much less “controlled” kind of attitude Haarvöl have to their compositions on this album and the album description PDF also references “rebellious times” as being a conceptual inspiration for the compositions contained on this album. The piece can be combined with second track Times Of Mutiny as the second piece sounds like a continuation or second chapter of An Unstoppable Will To Resist’s heavily mechanic and Industrial ambience and composition. An Unstoppable Will features a remarkably less Drone oriented composition, instead being full of machinery whirring, heavily time stretched metallic artifacted recordings, classic style glitches, which have more of a CD skip sound or zero-point crossing click to them as well as metallic elements which have some heavy flanger action effect on them. Droning in this piece comes in the shape of more blended in filtered resonances that might also have been sourced from machinery sounds but at times also sound like synth drones. This first piece is definitely a whole different kind of listening experience than the compositions on Bombinate with a much rougher texture based approach in which the listener is invited to dive into the sonic details and edges of the Industrialised soundscape. Recognisable real world sounds are herein combined with heavily effected synthetic sounds to blend “artificial intelligence” like sonic elements with the man-made parts of factory and industrial labour. An interpretation of the rebellion in this piece could be that through these rough edged sounds and fuzzy in-your-face mass of sound, the rawness and pressure of factory and industrial workers could be put into a sonic expression which especially showcases the “human machine” these workers have become part of, working under all this pressure and perhaps under bad conditions just to produce these products or source materials. However besides this interpretation, the piece could also more be described in a more abstract way as being a futurist fully automated machine in which AI has overtaken human labour and human workers are only supervising the actions. Second track Times Of Mutiny follows up quite smoothly from this piece, starting with metallic resonant clangs that lead into a more subdued Industrial soundscape which is less noisy in its sounds but even with its seemingly serene ambience, the music is quite eerie as well. Metallic resonances form most of the drones and scraping tones throughout the piece, pointing at continuous repetitive intense labour in perhaps a steel factory and while the glowing droning resonance in the background might at times make things feel relatively calming and peaceful, a rising stream of fuzzy noise in the second half leading into an eerie brooding dark section tells us that this environment is only misleading us into being the perfect working environment. The scattered crackling glitches within the piece as well as the eerie dark resonant section of the second half featuring bell like glowing resonances also hint at a threatening, dangerous element about the environment, with the glitches feeling like an abstracted version of Geiger counter ticks (which especially with the current popularity of the HBO series Chernobyl and related videos feels particularly eerie). The second half’s heavily high frequency focussed sonic spectrum is also especially intense, pointing towards either constant screeching machinery sounds or even towards hearing damage induced tinnitus from continued work and exposure near very loud equipment. On Curtain Of Bars Haarvöl brings us a darker and harsher composition which is formed out of various metallic clangs, hisses, crackling sonic details, time stretched sonic structures and a distorted drone that’s encased in a gloomy ambience of constant hard labour sounds and intense resonator effect manipulations. The drone fluctuates in tone overtime in this longest piece from the album and the Industrial sounds and metallic manipulations form various processes and actions throughout, at times heavily sjidechaining the drone into fuzzy scattered patterns and at times details like cicada like chirping and ghostly eerie screeches can be heard. It’s a soundscape that seemingly turns industrial labour into a dystopian nightmare, but besides the dark ambience there’s also plenty of enjoyment to be had to the wildly varying details and metallic sounds and manipulations that keep organically morphing the piece in many shapes and arrangements overtime, very nice. Between Coal And Diphtheria then is one of Haarvöl’s most straight on Industrial piece, feeling very much like classic style Industrial / Noise music though with a very strong digital granular sampling sound to it which already starts with an awesome stutters metallic speed manipulation of granulated sound. The whole piece is overwhelmingly metallic, resonant and quite harsh too in that the hissy metallics fill up almost the entire piece. An upbeat warm flowing drone plays in the background of the Industrial mayhem, which does feel quite ironic in an amusing way for a piece that has quite a dark title but in the second half of the piece things do indeed get quite dark and alien and the metallic soundscape starts to deteriorate as it were into a squelchy molten mass of iron and steel pipes until evolving back into the granular metallics which fade out in a particularly long fade. Final piece Painful Shout (Of Silence) For Freedom reminds me more of the previous Haarvöl albums a bit, and the phased worm like organic sounds sound quite familiar to me, it is however still a more Industrial oriented dark piece and the ghostly washes of voice within the piece are proper scary and haunting combined with the filtered hollow and resonant machinery like sounds throughout most the piece. The whole soundscape also plays out in a very big sonic space which makes the vocals, phased crackling sounds and machinery sounds sound especially threatening and doom-laden. The second half of the piece lightens up the atmosphere somewhat however subtly stripping down the layers of the piece accompanied by a warmer high pitched drone, as the piece also gets softer and softer, forming a very slow gradual fade out near the end of the piece. A sweet Dark Ambient kind of piece which in the middle still has quite some energetic Industrial outbursts as final piece of the album.

The Oblivion’s Wordless Knot is once again another great entry in Haarvöl’s consistently great stream of album releases with which they have released quite a body of quality experimental Drone music and soundscapes in only a few years time. This album’s soundtrack based focus and much more Industrial tinged sonic signature once again give listeners a new listening experience of an album that bends the Industrial genre into new immersive cinematic expressions and the innovative pacing and usage of dynamics throughout the pieces make for a very captivating and compact yet also expansive sonic journey. The blend of real world field recordings, synthesised tones and (digital) stretched manipulations adds an excellent contemporary futuristic granular Glitch element to the group’s sound that adds fresh new colours to their compositions but also builds on the group’s continuous evolution of their sonic signature. With this more Industrial tinged sound I can definitely recommend this album to fans of the Industrial and Dark Ambient style, but also listeners who are into Haarvöl’s previous albums or Drone in general will find a lot of enjoyment in this album as Haarvöl’s approach to composition brings out rich resonances and drones even from sonic elements that appear to be harsh or piercing at first. Varying from cinematic doom laden soundscapes to metallic workouts the album remains fresh and surprising throughout its 45 minutes playing time and again a highly recommended entry of an album within Haarvöl’s discography. Check this out.

CD and Digital Album are available from Moving Furniture Records' mailorder store on Bandcamp here: https://movingfurniturerecords.bandcamp.com/album/the-oblivions-wordless-knot-haarv-l-self-released

[fandomfluffandfuck]

How do you think worlds most loved jerk is spending his birthday? Unwrapping any punks?

Mmmm I think Bucky is definitely unwrapping a few gifts while his punk watches, eyes soft and heart fond, gentle affection seeping from his pores. I think they're together by themselves, relaxing somewhere in the woods in a cabin. Deep enough in the woods that the frost laid down over earth and plants and creatures (as they awake from winter hibernation the deeper into spring the season gets) still sparkles in stray rays of honey flavored sunshine because it never is quite warm enough to burn them away. It is only March after all. Outside the window of their rented dim log cabin, the evergreens are dark and shivering, they've got just the slightest impression of bright green- tips of new growth. Steve had just taken a peak at them and a passing red fox, sneaking through the undergrowth, ferns, bushes, and nursing logs, all wrought with plush, healthy moss, to appear in the little clearing of the yard, when he was in the process of feeding their fire. Dancing in the wood stove, emanating just enough heat for them both to dress as if it's June instead.

After his glance out into the quiet, peacefully remote wilderness and placing another log on the fire, Steve had turned on his heel, venturing back into their bedroom. The small space is cozy with thick, soft blankets piled nearly all the way up to be level with the top of headboard (even though they don't need a single one, between the two of them). And hidden under the bed is what he packed most carefully. Tucked safely into the car, under other items to be out of sight, curled up in old newspapers and tied with string that lived a double life as Alpine's toy briefly. Before holding it's special cargo proudly like it is.

Steve takes the package carefully in his calloused hands, holding it as if it weighs nothing in strong palms, his fingers thick, knuckles knotted. The sound of the paper rustling accompanies his padding feet on the old, sturdy woodfloor.

He makes his way back to Bucky and places the twine and newspaper wrapped gift in his lap, wordless. They don't need them more often then not nowadays.

Bucky's fingers curl the pages of the book he's been lost inside, the fluttering reminiscent of his gift's wrapping. He sets the book down, its cracked spine facing the ceiling, the world paused but not forgotten. Never forgotten with Bucky. He's always been able to tear through books, since before Steve can recall, memories dusty, hazy, and well-worn. Loved into oblivion. Bucky's hair swishes over his shoulder when he looks up.

Steve lands in the easy chair, flicking his hands up with a wry smile on his lips, "just open it, Buck," he says, knowing how hard it is for his husband to accept gifts and niceties. Voice warm and affectionate, not quiet a whisper but not normal talking volume.

The man in question squints at him but does as he suggests. Pulling at one of the ends of string to unwind the bow and unveil the treasure.

The string is removed entirely, brushed aside as he unfolds layers of newspaper.

Steve watches with bated breath. It's not that he thinks it's a poor gift, he's worried that it might be too well.

With the wrapping still under and partially entangling the gift, Steve's better half opens it. He pulls the cover of the scrapbook open. It's spine cracks as if it too is their age, its joints popping upon movement after lying down and resting for so long. It hasn't excised since Steve put it together months ago anyway.

Bucky's own breathe hitches, his heart kicking his ribs as he cradles the half undressed treasure.

Once.

Twice.

Three times, Bucky blinks.

His eyes don't close again, instead he stares down at his lap and what he holds. His metal and flesh and blood thumb stroke back and forth.

"Steve," he says.

Steve doesn't answer, he knows it's not something that requires an answer, not yet. He will be there to answer anything Bucky needs after he really knows what is contained, taped and artfully arranged into the old stale and specifically perfumed pages between his shivering palms. Decades pressed into nothing but paper- paper that was strangely abandoned, never used, a scrapbook that was printed and made the very year Bucky was drafted. Though all the elements that Steve added into the book are modern, this year or about there.

The book is like them. A mishmash of two otherwise unconnected, untouchable times. An analog clock and a digital clock, placed at the head and end of a hall, facing each other but not touching. They're the only ones, Steve and Bucky, who pace the hall. Back and forth. Urging each other to one side of the other.

The scrapbook is a collage of Bucky's journal entries from his days immediately following his bewildered, agonized but undescribably courageous moments breaking his bonds to HYDRA, are pasted onto the left pages; on the right pages are illustrations Steve carefully sketched and then used transfer paper to move onto the delicate paper and finished, representing whatever memory he had been piecing together. Steve carefully selected the parts that he had the best memory of himself.

Which was more difficult than anticipated, Bucky entrusted his journals to him when he finally trusted that he would remember all he had built back and it became too painful to look back. Steve wouldn't've dared to think that they would ever make it here.

But they have.

Melting to the sturdy easy-chair with Bucky on the marshmallow sofa, dwelling in a log cabin rented for the occasion of Bucky's birthday, they've made it. Time has swept them from whitewater rapids to the lazy river for the first time since sticky hot Brooklyn summers as boys, Bucky taking his smokes on the fire escape, Steve panting on the floor in a pool of sweat surrounded by pencil stubs, his creativity exhausted by the heat. There's finally enough mileage between them and the pain for Bucky to accept the gift.

Tears still build in and overflow from Bucky's smoke-blue eyes, escaping down to his cleft chin, his hands still shake, flipping gently between the pages, and he still sniffles, setting it too down while leaving it open like his beat-up paper back book but Bucky doesn't recoil into himself and he doesn't hate himself for not recalling such details. He does not wilt under the person he was, trying to un-shatter himself, then.

He instead sets the gift aside and climbs into Steve's lap. Legs over the arm of the easy chair and arms around Steve neck. Bucky buries his face in Steve's neck and shoulder, trembling.

"Thank you," he whispers, "thank you," his tears smear into Steve skin. Not for the first time. Not for the last. Steve cradles him, rocking them a touch. Kissing the top of his head as he keeps talking, "I love your drawings. I love that you helped me remember and will keep helping me, if I need it, when I need it-" he lifts his head, kissing him and saying the words right there, against his lips, "I love you."

"I love you too," Steve promises, cupping his face, thumbing the lines of his tears away tenderly, "end of the line and back, you an' me, sweetheart."

(P.S. I assume you wanted this to be horny but... I was thinking about gifts Steve might give him and then this happened lol)

[keilemlucent]

mean to me

( r18+)

hawks | takami keigo x reader

ao3

word count: ~3.5k

daddy’s a bit mean

warnings: daddy kink, light bdsm in terms of dynamics, use of a safeword, spanking, light degradation, choking, a smidge of age play, subspace, aftercare 

...

oh, more daddy kink brain rot? nice. have a little snack, loves 💕enjoy!!

...

Keigo owned you, passively and completely. 

His hands settled on your hips far too easily, like they were made to lay along the curves of flesh. There might as well have been imprints of his slender fingers with the way they squeezed and held you as often as they did. You weren’t made in your shape for him, but rather he worked you into whatever form he wished. 

You loved every moment of it, love him.

Sat up in his lap with Keigo was upright as well, his wings remained tense and flattened against the headboard. They twitched every so often as your cunt fluttered around his cock, but his resolve remained firm and he remained largely still. 

“K-Keigo, please—“ Your voice wobbled as your fingernails dug into his shoulder.

He quieted you with a slap to your thigh.

“You can’t expect me to give in if you don’t even speak to me proper, right, little bird?” Keigo was obviously being harsh, this was a ‘punishment’ after all. Though, in many ways, it was more of a test of will for the both of you.

Keigo showed his own exertion and restraint on every facet of him. 

His muscles were bunched, poised and more than ready to pound you into oblivion (If only you’d been good that evening, but you hadn’t, hence why you were in the situation that you were).

His expression was desperate, but still so fucking smug. The quirk in his swear-coated brow spoke volumes about how smitten he was to keep you wanting and warm around his cock.

“You’re mean,” You tried to spit, but it left you as more of a whine. 

“Am I?” Keigo raised an eyebrow, tapping your cheek with a single finger, “I think you’ve earned this treatment.”

You definitely did, but you wouldn’t admit that to him.

Your thoughts had wandered all throughout the day to him, and it was only natural that you sent him at least a dozen very whorish photos of yourself in the new, big mirror Keigo had purchased for the two of you.

(Specifically for ‘fucking’ reason, but once again, besides the point.)

You sort of did deserve to be teased. The pictures were meant to work him up, but you hardly expected the treatment you were receiving. 

There was a wordless, nagging ledge in the back of your skull that kept you from finding a more comfortable, softened headspace, leading to any number of slipups.

Namely, referring to Keigo by his name and not the title he loved to brandish. 

“I’m sorry—“You started to say before Keigo moved his slender finger to your lips, slipping the digit into your mouth and pressing down on the flat of your tongue.

He went far enough back to gag you, tears welling at the corners of your eyes.

“‘I’m sorry’,” He mimicked, rolling his eyes before giving your cheek a few forceful pats. “Not gonna cut it. Apologies need to be genuine.”

He rubbed just below your eyes, smearing away any wetness and giving you a sinful grin, “You can’t just be a crybaby and expect me to give in. That’s not how this works.”

Sometimes, it did, notably. Keigo would crack on plenty of days if you got weepy, the reason didn’t matter too much. He only liked seeing you hurt if he had full control of the situation and could drag you back easily.

Your tears only egging on his insults. You tried to ignore the burning in your nose, sucking down any potential cries welling up in your throat.

You must’ve looked pitiful.

And Keigo must’ve loved it.

He was clearly in a particularly nasty mood, a bit more vindictive than a normal night.  Less softened and crueler.

A normal punishment would’ve been pulling you over his knee for a tender lesson that involved turning your ass hot and red. Maybe a bit of writing lines, a dash of extra chores (in that sinfully short and ruffled apron Keigo purchased for you) while he supervised and directed you as needed.

He’d never simply sat you on his cock and refused to move or let you move.

It felt a bit odd in your gut. 

If your mind had fallen deeper, you would’ve enjoyed this more. If your psyche had been floating as you both liked, his cruel words would’ve felt so fucking good, but at this point, you felt nothing but burning shame as you tried to hold yourself together beneath his words. 

Keigo noticed to some degree. He was so tuned to you and your body and expression, he could write a damn novel on the way each angle of your lips and crinkle of your eyes meant a different complex emotion.

And you had no doubt he could see you struggling with this punishment more than normal. 

You shifted your knees, trying to ease the ache of your burning thighs. It earned you a hard slap to your ass, one with enough force that Keigo had to brace your waist to keep you upright. 

“Behave,“ He warned, pulling his fingers from your lips to smear spit on your inner thighs, close enough to your pussy to make your breath hitch. 

You should’ve known not to try and defend yourself, “I wasn’t gonna—” 

“Nope, stop whining,” Keigo gave your thighs a series of sharp pinches and twists. “None of that, you aren’t getting shit.”

Keigo was being mean. 

So mean, it made your chest hurt.

Maybe you were slipping deeper, maybe not to the right place, as your head fell forward to his shoulder, a little weak attempt at hiding your budding, fatter tears. 

“P-please be nice,” Your whispered, hardly audible. “Please.”

Keigo clicked his tongue, slapping your already reddened ass, “Do you think you deserve me being ‘nice’?”

“I—“

You didn’t get a chance to answer as Keigo delivered a quick succession of spanks, all of which had you tensing around his cock and clutching at him and the headboard. Little cries and wails slipped from your slip-slicked lips, all falling on what you assumed were unhearing ears.

“You don’t deserve anything but this, little bird,” Keigo hummed. He punctuated his words with another stroke. “You just love being a little cocktease, isn’t this what you wanted? Sitting on my dick and having your fill?”

No, this wasn’t. You thought the handful of pictures you sent him, draped in one of his own shirts, would get you ponded into the mattress, not held on his cock without a hint of agency or kindness. 

Tears leaked from your eyes, even as you tried to wipe them away as fast as you could manage. 

His hand reared back, poised for another spank—

And you hurriedly gave him two firm and clear taps to his shoulder, “S-sunset, sunset.”

He froze mid-motion. 

“D-daddy, I’m s-sorry,“ You clung to his shoulder and rocked yourself. “It doesn’t f-feel good.”

You felt him take a few measured breaths, hand returning to your hips to press into any knots he could find. The deep inhales were surely meant to calm him from his own high. 

His entire mood shifted nearly instantly. Keigo jolted to rub at your lower back, up and down your spine. 

“No need to be sorry, dove,” He whispered, pressing a few kisses to the side of your head. “I’ve got you. Do you want to lay down?”

You shook your head, laying your hands over his, pressing them into your hips more firmly.

Keigo sweetened, even more, expression creasing with concern, “Can you tell me what doesn’t feel good?” 

“U-um,” You swallowed, withdrawing from the safety of his neck to meet his gaze. His pretty ambers were sharp, watchful, and immediately tender as they met your own. You licked your lips nervously, trying to find proper words, “Doesn’t feel... normal.”

“Does something hurt?” Keigo inquired, tucking some sweat-matted hair behind your ears. He dropped a few kisses around your face, stilling your both as was needed. 

You shook your head. 

“Not the right headspace?” Keigo asked, catching on quickly and speaking softly. 

You nodded, pressing your nose to his cheek, “Uh-huh.”

Keigo knew you better than you knew yourself in moments like this.

“I see why you didn’t appreciate me being so mean,” Keigo clicked his tongue, smoothing a hand over your naked waist.  “I’m sorry, little bird. Do you want to stop, or do you want me to help you?”

You thought for a moment, worrying your bottom lip.

“Can you h-help, daddy?” You kept your words as soft as you could. “I-I’ll be good this time, promise.” 

Keigo practically purred, content either way, but happy to help you settle. This was as much for you as it was for him. 

“You’re already good,” He shifted beneath you, some of his own bound up tension releasing, “Of course, little bird. I’ve got you now.”

There was an unspoken apology in words, one that was felt a moment later, as he pressed his lips to your, cupping your jaw with tender hands.

His thumbs wiped away any residual tears as you pressed closer, burying your hands in his hair. His feathers shifted and rippled nearby, his cock twitching inside you. 

“You hold on good to me, okay?” He murmured against your lips, holding you close as you massaged through his blonde waves. “Nice and tight, perfect.”

You nodded as if you’d ever let go.

Carefully, he repositioned the two of you. Your shaking thighs were given rest as he tipped you onto your back, helping you flatten atop the sheets. His cock remained buried, still hard, and somehow, Keigo’s will to not rail you remained intact.

It was surprising, given how impulsive he was so often was.

Then again, Keigo liked doing this, liked holding you close and tender while stroking the part of your mind that needed to feel smaller, weaker, and taken care of well and thoroughly. In turn, you held the part of his mind that desperately couldn’t stop taking care of others, that self-sacrificial nature that needed an outlet that was healthier than throwing himself at the evils of the world without pause. 

In the cultivated home you two had made, you cared for each other how the other needed.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Keigo hummed, hovering over you, splaying your legs out with wide palms. “You’re gonna listen really well, and I’ll let you have my cock like I’m sure you want, understand?”

You nodded, trying to muster up some self-confidence.

Keigo looked smitten with himself once more, though his features and poise were slack and gentle. Any of his earlier meanness had dissolved, tucked away for another night where you both could handle it.  

He nosed against your cheek, dragging his lips across your jaw to the shell of your ear. His hand drifted over your navel, higher to tease your yummy and then to your tits, twisting a nipple before he delicately laid his fingers, one by one, around your throat.

He gave a preliminary squeeze, watching your reaction. 

You swallowed around his hold, taking a shaking breath at the pressure.

“Does this feel nice, little bird?” 

“Uh-huh,” You nodded, his hold tightening a moment later. 

“Good, perfect,” Keigo grinned against your skin and nipped at your ear. “You’re doing so well.”

The simple praise made you shudder.

Keigo pressed his lips to your own, holding around your throat firmly and unwavering, throat, applying pressure just right to make your head spin.

The moment he pulled away, eyes shining, he let up.

You took sucked in a quick inhale, just before he kissed you again, repeating the pattern. Mounting, delicious pressure on your throat with each kiss, with just a moment or two or reprieve that he gave you.

It sank you perfectly. 

He kept at it, dragging you to arch underneath him with just kisses and tongue, pulling your breath from you with his hands and his own quiet groans.

If you tried to chase his lips, he easily pushed you back into the sheets, bearing down on you with the weight of his chest, wings fluffing up and fluttering. A quick nip or two had you lax into the mattress within moments.  

It was all so perfectly enough, your head spinning with each of his touches. 

And finally, he pulled away, both of your lips kiss-bitten and pupils wide and black.

“There we go,” He stroked the side of your face, kissing down your neck to your collarbones. “A little bit mean, a little bit nice. You did so well— such a good girl.“

The praise made your cunt tense, fingers curling at the base of his wings. 

Keigo looked equally as content as you. He wanted to see you slip and puddle beneath him. As much as he still had a mean streak for the day, he could channel it elsewhere, pepper it in as needed. Not teasing you at all would be sin. 

“C-can I have your cock now?” You asked, voice high and sweet. Your gaze was reverence itself, all for him.

Keigo chuckled, rolling his hips just the /slightest/ bit, “You’ve got it already, greedy girl.”

Your frowned, eyes already growing wet, “That’s not w-what I mean.”

“That’s too bad,” Keigo sighed, rubbing little circles along your hips. “Guess this is all you’re getting.”

“N-no!” Your voice almost broke as you tried to tug him closer. “I want you to be fuck me, p-please, I’ll do whatever you ask!” 

“You should already be doing that,” Keigo snorted, stilling any movement. “I don’t know if you really want it.”

Of course, he knew how much you craved him, he could see it in every twitch and desperate whimper that got caught in the back on the back of your tongue. 

“I do!“ You tried to move your hips against his own, but he held them flat and steady.  “Please, please, please—“

Keigo paused, tilting his head slowly and regarding you with pensive eyes. 

You reached out for his wrist, pulling it to your lips to lay gentle kiss after kiss over the skin. The touch, no matter the setting, always had him shuddering. Keigo was a whore for many things, but genuine, heartfelt affection was reliably near the top of the list.

Still— 

“Bribery?” He snorted. “Cute.” 

You were getting desperate. Tears started to leak from you once more, sobs held themselves in the back of your throat. The stretch of your cunt had started to burn. The lack of touch anywhere near your sex made you so needy, it hurt.

“D-daddy, please—!”

And you started babbling. 

It was Keigo’s favorite thing to see you so desperate and wanting that you lost the ability to have coherent thought beyond wanting him in the rawest and unbridled way.

Your words were dribble. Pleads and begging that your floating little mind drew up without pause. Details and filth that he’d coaxed from you so well, he couldn’t help but be burningly proud. Each word was so shameless, it made Keigo’s his split into a cocky smile. 

Losing yourself beneath him, good and proper. And you hadn’t even been fucked yet. 

“There we go,” Keigo hummed, groaning as he fucked into you once, hard and deep to where the top of his cock brushed against your deepest parts. “Let go for me, little bird. Daddy’s got you.”

And he did—

And you knew it. 

And so with the next slam of his cock into your cunt, you let your eyes roll back into your head and be enveloped by sensation. Heat buried in your yummy, slick dripping from his cock, sticky the skin that was shared between the two of you.

You both dissolved into the other.

Keigo didn’t hold back, all of that pent up stress and anger projected into the cant of his hips, the grip that bruised your hips, and the way his wings arched and stretched to the ceiling. 

He muttered to you and himself, cursing with each thrust about how much he ‘deserved to have your tight little cunt—his tight cunt however he wanted’. About how your body and all its curves and features were ‘his, only his’ and he could fuck you in and fuck you up in whatever way he pleased.

Each dripped word pushed you hotter and hotter. 

You drowned so pleasantly in his words as your peak snuck to hit you hard and fast.

You were so pleasantly high on him and his words and body, you didn’t notice his hand slipping between your bodies, hiking your legs over his shoulder in one motion, and circling and tugging on your clit the next.

Keigo might have commanded you to come, you couldn’t tell. The moment he gave your clit the slightest cruel twist, sweet pain igniting, your vision went white and you wailed.

Your nails dug into the base of Keigo’s wings, pushing him over the edge in the same breath as you. He cursed, loud and breaking as his arms collapsed on either side of your head.

He didn’t fuck you through his own orgasm, just pressed the tip of his cock to your womb and circled your clit as you twitched and cried, all for him.

And things stilled.

Your legs were lowered, your gooey mind understood. You pawed at the wetness on your face, a mix of tears and dripped sweat between the two of you.

As Keigo slipped out of you, after so long, you hissed, cunt sore and thighs aching.

“H-hurts,” You murmured, tugging Keigo closer, though he’d hardly gone ar. 

Keigo hushed you, stealing a kiss or two before rolling sideways onto the sticky sheets, tugging you to his chest.

His hand slipped between your legs, pushing a bit of leaking cum back into your sore cunt, as he so often did after stuffing you so full. Kindly, he rubbed at your thighs, any of his earlier snark gone.

“Does this feel better?” He smiled into your hair, you could feel it. 

You made a noise of affirmation, all you could muster, and leaned into Keigo, properly sated. 

Your eyes went half-lidded, exhaustion and euphoria holding you equally. After the teasing and torture you’d endured on Keigo’s cock, you imagined you’d be walking oddly for at least a day, and sore for a few more. 

You frowned, Keigo beaming you a smug smile and tugging you closer, “Something wrong, little bird.”

“D-daddy,” You huffed, patting his chest weakly. “You were so mean!”

“And you,” Keigo tapped the tip of your nose, “did a perfect job at telling me it was too much and didn’t feel good. I’m so proud, you do so good for me.”

Part of you wanted to be a brat with him, puff and sulk a bit more, but you couldn’t muster up the will. Keigo knew that praise made you the sweetest and happiest you could be and consider how he had struck a few nerves, enough to make you light-safeword, you deserved it all.

You grumbled in the back of your throat and buried your face in his chest.

“Will a nice massage and a warm shower make it up to you?” Keigo asked, the pads of his fingers flitting down your spine, less for comfort and more for looking for any visible bruises or scratches. 

“Almost,” You sniffled. “Can we watch a m-movie too? I can make tea.”

“That’s a given, we can snuggle all night, little bird, I’d like that very much,” Keigo sighed with his own contentment. “And I’ll make tea too.”

You let out your own trail of high laughter as Keigo peppered kisses wherever he could, heaping you with sweetness as his wings, still trembling from orgasm, fluttered with his happiness. 

“I can pick you out a nice, comfy outfit—  maybe those cute, toasty stockings you like so much,” Keigo knew how to stroke the most melted and small parts of your mind, so well. You fell into his offer and kisses with a smile.

“Your favorite stockings? The knit ones?” You teased, nipping at his jaw, and letting your own touch drift and linger around the tender flesh where the base of his wings met the muscles around his spine.

(Keigo wouldn’t admit it to many, but they ached most days. His body, though trained immaculately, wasn’t truly meant to bear the weight it did.)

(But, you were happy to lift some his own burdens.”

You massaged the flesh, touch firm even through Keigo’s initial arch and startled jolt. 

“Can I rub some of that oil on these too?” You murmured, tangling your sweaty legs together. “You’ve been working too hard lately, daddy. They’ve gotta hurt.”

“Hm,” Keigo cupped your jaw, drawing your face away to nuzzle your noses together, something warm and so precious, you only saw it in his most comfortable moments. “Aren’t I supposed to be taking care of you?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t help,” You wanted to, you liked to, and you liked seeing daddy— Keigo, relax after scenes, sessions, and long days. “Please?”

“Of course, dove,” Keigo’s eyes crinkled at the corners, with a smile all for the two of you. “Let’s lay for a little longer, alright?”

His touch, honeyed and kind without a hint of teasing, drifted to the lowest part of your back, finding the roots of your tension and tending to them, as you tended to his. 

You were happy to tangle with him, content and intertwined. 

 ||||||||||

thank you for reading!! 💕

ko-fi 

[casmoments]

Marriage of Convenience ; part 1

Prompt: “Arranged Marriage” -  Certain factions of heaven are on your tail, the consequence of your death a trigger to greater destruction.  In order to protect your life and others, you agree to an old custom that prevents any heavenly agent from harming you.   The basic ritual?  You have to marry an angel.  First part in a series.   Reader Gender: female Word Count: 9800 (sorry! other chapters will be shorter) Warnings: virgin!reader, grace/soul stuff, arranged marriage.  there is an acknowledged attraction between the reader and Cas but i’ll say dub-con because without the marriage, they probably wouldn’t have hooked up.

special warning: there is no blood or disturbing content, but if you’re squicked out by anything happening to the lower arm/wrist region, then note this chapter has a moment when that area is used to access the grace/soul.  

-

This right here. This was the answer to everything.   If enquiring minds ever sought an explanation—how is it that you, Y/N, renowned for an easy heart and easier libido, could possibly live with two hunky hero types and not spend your days conceiving inappropriate scenarios?—then this was the answer.    Dirty laundry.   Because the boys were often swamped with work, a fair enough justification, you had shouldered a fair deal of the bunker chores.   You had consequently seen enough dirty underwear to last a lifetime.   Bumbling and awkward as you might have been upon meeting them, after six months as resident prophet in their admittedly kickass bunker, any menial tension had dissolved.  

Completely.  

You would sooner kiss a gerbil.

Well, you thought frankly, grimacing as you dropped a pair of boxers into the washing machine, there is one lingering possibility…

You supposed there were few mortals who could resist the temptation that was Castiel, Smouldering Angel of the Lord.   He was a collection of contradictory attributes bound in one dreamy, mysterious, husky-voiced  package.   You had barely spoken with him, exchanges limited to polite greetings and vague acknowledgements, but that heated blue stare and handsome form supplied enough fantasies on their own.  

Unfortunately, despite a colourful mind, your experience in the sex and romance department was limited to… well, did airport frisks count?  

With a resigned sigh,  you poured laundry detergent into the appropriate compartment.   Maybe if you didn’t aim your prospects so damn high—angel?  really?—then you would have better luck with the relationship pursuits.   Not that it really mattered now seeing as you couldn’t exactly party hard outside the bunker.    As usual, the only thing fucking you over was your shit luck.  

You were not only a prophet but apparently the prophet.   You were the human source which heaven could utilize to completely eradicate all future prophets.   That meant killing you in some backward ritual, effectively killing countless people down the line as well.   That was a catastrophe even without the  collateral damage that could spring from having no prophets ever, ever again.   Heaven was warring, as per usual, but if you fell into the wrong hands then a lot of people would suffer.

You especially.

You weren’t sure why you were so special, though Castiel had explained it that first night.  Something about being a prophet but also a strong vessel and being born under a certain cosmic alignment or something.   Honestly, your brain had been scattered that night.  Not to mention Castiel was kinda hard to listen to when he was simultaneously marching around with an intense stare, heaving chest, blood streaked face, taut muscles, silver blade—

You cleared your throat and closed the laundry machine.   It was probably a good thing Castiel’s visits were few and far between.   Sparse in your case, at least.   He helped the Winchesters on their hunts but you rarely saw him.   Castiel clearly held no interest in you.   It was probably for the best, however bitter you were.

“Hey, Y/N!”  Dean’s echoing voice startled you.  The boys had left on a case and though you expected them back today, you hadn’t heard them come in.  You placed the laundry basket on the floor and left the room, making for the library.   You were still dressed down, sweatpants and a t-shirt, hair unwashed and knotted in a messy bun, but it was just the Winchesters and you didn’t particularly care.

You regretted those innocent musings immediately.   Sam and Dean were nattering about something but your attention shattered.   The remaining broken pieces fell onto Castiel who, upon your appearance, glanced over.   You froze in place, holding that stare with plain horror.   Castiel was standing between Sam and Dean though he was not invested in their conversation.   But he soon looked away from you as well, an almost angry furrow in his brow as he turned his head.

Rude, you thought, pouting.  You weren’t exactly Miss America at the moment but you hardly deserved to be shunned into oblivion.  

But you conceded your assumption was ridiculous.  Whatever bothered Castiel had nothing to do with you.    The shit was hitting the fan up in heaven, spilling across the earth in consequence, and his mind was no doubt occupied with higher deeds.     The glance he spared you was fleeting and empty, his dark expression leant to a greater purpose.

“Hey, Y/N,” Dean suddenly interjected.   You looked at him, staring dumbly.   “Doin’ all right there, Cinderella?”

“What?” you asked, then shook your head to clear your thoughts.   “Yeah, yeah.  Of course.  What’s up?  How’d the hunt go?”

“We weren’t hunting,” Castiel surprised you with an answer.   His brow was still creased, jaw stiff.   He glanced at you before turning aside, taking a few steps nowhere.  

“Oh,” you said, confused.   “I thought—okay.  What did you do that took a week and a half?  Or is this one of those ‘Y/N, don’t ask because you’re not crawling into my bed when you get nightmares again’ things?”   In fairness, you totally only did that once.

“It’s not our beds you should be worrying about,” Dean said, tone jesting but the joke beyond you.  You looked at him strangely while Sam heaved a breath, tossing his brother a dry regard.

“Dean,” he said sharply, then looked at you.   “What he means is… it concerns you.”

“What concerns me?” you asked, not sure if you were scared or annoyed.   You stepped closer to the table which divided you and the boys.   Castiel had wandered a few chairs down and seated himself.   He propped his elbow on the table and rested his temple against his fist, gaze cast aside.   You didn’t trust yourself to look at him for long, something weirdly sexy about the casual arm slung over the back of the chair, so you looked at Sam and Dean.  They appeared to be sharing a wordless discussion before Sam gestured to the table.  

“You should, ah, probably sit down for this,” he said.   With a wary glance, you pulled out a chair and slowly sat.  

“Are you kicking me out?” you asked, though you didn’t think that was the case.   That would be news worth celebrating because it meant the boys had vanquished the threat looming over your head.    You might have received the news poorly, having almost no life to return to after everything and having grown fond of your new friends, but they had no reason to struggle.  

“Not exactly,” Dean said, light-heartedness fracturing beneath a frown.

“Yeah, you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you want,” Sam said, sitting opposite you.   He looked at you with those soft eyes usually reserved for special cases.   Your tense shoulders slackened and you nodded a bit, following.  

“So what’s going on then?”  you asked.

“Well,” Dean said, “the good news is, we found a way to get heaven off your ass.”  You smiled, legitimately relieved now that they extended an invitation to stay.    

“Well, that’s great,” you said, then considered Dean’s phrasing.   “What’s the bad news?”

“Bad news,” Dean said, sweeping his hand in gesticulation to Castiel.   “You have to hitch a flyboy.”

You paused for a moment, reconciling Dean’s odd idioms with what they entailed.   When you realized exactly what he meant, you paused for another moment and almost forgot to breathe.  

“What?” you eventually burst, mouth suddenly dry, tongue scraping words like sandpaper.   “What… what do you… what…”

“It’s part of some ancient canon,” Sam quickly said, scholastic facts pouring like they could soften the blow.   “Basically… while angels were mostly condemned for fraternizing with humans, there was this exception written into the code of heaven that basically said an angel could take a vessel and, so long as the vessel was empty, that angel could marry a prophet.   Not just any prophet, though—”

“Let me guess,” you grumbled, bare toes idly stabbing the cold floor, “Prophet.  Vessel.   Stars and destiny and stuff.”

“Uh, kinda.  Yeah,” Sam said.  “The rule was clearly designed for something like this.  Heaven knew that if the right prophet came along, they could pose a threat, intentional or not, so they created a loophole to save themselves.”

“Hey, look, we don’t like this anymore than you,” Dean said, stepping up to the table and leaning over.  “That’s why you gotta know that you can back out if you don’t think you can do this.   We can find another way.”

“We’re kinda running low on options here,” Sam said, tentatively.   He looked from Dean to you.   “But Dean’s right.  We won’t force you to do anything.”

“What… what does this marriage even do?” you asked, this torrent of information flooding quickly at your feet.

“It marks you as, you know…”  Sam looked for the word.  “Holy.  No angel, not even anyone working for an angel, can hurt you once you’ve been bound.”

“It’s an everlasting accord,” Castiel said, standing up.   He looked at you with a no-nonsense expression.  “It will protect you for eternity but… it expects reciprocation.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked.

“It means once you’re married, you’re married,” Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly growing uncomfortable with the proposition.  “You can’t just get a quickie divorce and hit up Vegas for round two.”

“No adultery either,” Sam said.  “There’s not necessarily an expectation that you’ll love your husband or anything, but if you intentionally break the vow itself then the entire marriage is annulled.”

“And you’re back to square one,” Dean finished.   You rubbed your temple and then took pause, your stomach knotting indubitably.   You supposed the answer was fairly obvious and still, you really had to ask…

“Who will I be marrying?” you asked.  Dean went to answer but Castiel, without hesitation, spoke.

“I volunteered,” Castiel said, looking at you more tenderly now that some of the awkward tension had subsided.  “Of course.”

“Of course,” you repeated.  You could feel the heat in your cheeks but the boys thankfully refrained from commenting, obviously reading your faint distress and respecting it.  Any other time, they probably would have teased you for it.  They didn’t necessarily know about your crush on the angel but you supposed anyone could infer from your insistent blushes and stammering phrases.  At this particular moment, you couldn’t even conjure a stammer.  It felt like your stomach had flipped upside down—hell, it felt like the world had flipped upside down.   Not five minutes ago you were standing by yourself over a pile of dirty laundry, mourning your sorry excuse for a love life.  Now you were some blushing Victorian maiden being bartered off to a baron to secure your family.

You knew the boys would never make you do anything.  They were the captains of free will and they never went down without a fight.   If this didn’t work, they would probably search for something else.   Would it be to any avail though?  It had already been six months and this was the first thing that could do any good.  And you liked living here but needless to say, you missed the outside world.   Sam and Dean took you out on occasion but they were glued to your side the entire time.   You missed taking walks by yourself and just enjoying the quiet of your activities.

This marriage seemed like an easy out.   Honestly, you weren’t convinced you would otherwise marry anyway.   You wouldn’t exactly be leaving a string of broken hearts in your wake.

And it was, in the end, Castiel.  You had no delusions about the outcome of events.   You knew this was a strictly professional arrangement.   All the same, glancing at him now, your heart palpitated with promise.   You could marry Castiel.   What a strange universe.  There was actually a legitimate reason for you to marry him.   Anxious and fidgety as you were, it would be ridiculous to refuse this.   Perhaps you and Castiel would become better friends and, in the process, you could ensure your own safety, your own freedom, the safety and freedom of generations to come, and, on more superficial terms, you could tell people you were married and your husband was a babe.

The boys watched you puzzle this out.  Feeling a little better, though a faint blush still coloured your cheeks, you smiled.   You were a bit too scared to glance at Castiel, fearing your blush would worsen and nerves return, but you nodded to the Winchesters.

“I’ll do it,” you said.  “This is important and… and yes, I’m fine with it.”

“You’re sure?”  Dean asked.  “Because there’s no turning back.   Once you’re married, that’s it.  You’re stuck with this mook for eternity.”  He jabbed a thumb in Castiel’s direction.

“I understand,” you said, a soft pit aching in your stomach.  You had no delusions about Castiel, true.   You never did.   But in the back of your mind, there was always a romantic yearning for something somewhere.   If you agreed to marry Castiel then that would never happen.  But if you hid in the bunker for the rest of your life anyway, wouldn’t the same fate unfold?  Even if they did find another way to save you, which sounded highly unlikely anyway, how many years would go by?   How would you feel by the end of it?   You had to resign yourself to the simple truth that an epic romance was simply not written in your cards.  You had been dealt your hand and there were no substitutions for human life.   You had to play the game before you.  

“There is one more thing,” Castiel said.  You swallowed a lump in your throat and blinked over, found him staring at you.   “The marriage must be consummated.”

You actually felt the heat laden in your belly.  Consummate was a relatively unsexy word but every last fantasy and daydream suddenly exploded in your head.  You didn’t say anything but your breath caught.  Castiel continued, maybe a bit flustered beneath a serious countenance.

“The marriage is invalid if it’s not physically consummated,” he said.  “It���s between the mortal and divine, so it must be committed in human terms and celestial ones.”   You had no idea what a celestial consummation entailed but god, you could feel it in your toes.   Your blush had returned full force and your gaze locked on Castiel while he spoke.   “Until it’s done, heaven won’t recognize the marriage.   You would, effectively, be swearing yourself to nothing.”   He paused, reading your apprehension and speaking with what reassurance he could muster.   “You don’t need to worry,” he said, “I won’t intrude on your space or bed after that night.”   That fell over you like a cold blanket, shocking you out of your existing surprise.   You blinked rapidly, looking away from him.   “I am sorry, Y/N,” he said, voice low.  “If there was another way—”

“No, no,” you said, voice squeaking.   You cleared your throat, smiled at thin air.   “No, it’s fine, Cas.  Really.  I just… didn’t expect heaven to get so physical.”

“Heaven is a determined congregation,” he said.   You looked his way but did not meet his eye, your gaze falling at chest level.   You followed the buttons of his trenchcoat with fake interest.  “They won’t rest until they’ve achieved what they sought to do.   With a look at your soul, they can decipher whether your marriage has been validated.   It’s a means of proving the union.”

“Proof of purchase, basically,” Dean offered.   You looked at him, having almost forgotten the Winchesters were there.   Sam was looking at you with concern, gentle and kind.   Dean crossed his arms.  You braved face even if your insides had turned to mush all over again.  

“I get it,” you said.  “No worries.  It’s just…”  You pushed your chair out and they all straightened, bracing themselves as if they expected you to swoon or something.   God almighty, you inwardly swore, I really am a Victorian maiden.  Someone was going to be running off for smelling salts at this rate.    “It’s just a lot to take in,” you finished, smiling, backing out of the room.   “I… I’ll still do it, of course.  I just… I just need to… rest, I think…”  You almost tripped, stumbling through the doorway.  The boys leaned forward and you waved your hand.   “Fine!  I’m fine!  I got it.  I’ll, uh, see you all later.”

With that said, you sprinted down the corridor and made for your room.

-

The wedding, if it could even be called that, was scheduled for a Saturday.   You barely slept the night before, nervous when you thought about being declared someone’s wife and when you considered that this time tomorrow, you wouldn’t be alone in your bed.

The big day arrived without any pomp or ceremony.   There were apparently a few rituals to enact but the boys would no doubt take care of it.   You figured your biggest worry was “I do”.    Not that this was a typical, straightforward wedding.   The process was more complicated, long-winded, and there was no literal “I do” or even kiss at the end.

The ceremony apparently had to be conducted by a cherub and Castiel knew a trustworthy cupid.   He would be brought to the bunker to bind you in excessively holy matrimony, your sole spectators Sam and Dean.  The cherub was delivered to the dungeon, Castiel in charge of wrangling him.   They weren’t about to give away the bunker’s location, even if Castiel promised the cupid was trustworthy, but getting married in the open would basically send a beacon to the troops of heaven.   Last chance to capture me, fellas!  No, it was better this way.   Even if it meant your wedding was conducted in a dungeon.  

You hoped that wasn’t a poetic reflection of anything.

The boys made some effort to ease the weirdness.   Sam gave you a dress, not a wedding dress but a formal lace thing, claiming Dean picked it out and Sam wasn’t supposed to say.  The boys wore their FBI suits even though the formality was unnecessary.   Somehow, it did make things easier.  It allowed you to comfortably address the obvious—this was a marriage, technically—while also keeping spirits light.

Sam escorted you to the not-so-lavish quarters.   Dean was standing there in his FBI suit, adjusting Castiel’s tie.  Castiel was in his usual ensemble, eyes downturned.  Dean looked over when you entered the room.   He grinned wolfishly.

“Would you look at that,” Dean said, tugging on Cas’s tie.  “Prophet cleans up nice, hey?”   Castiel’s glance was somewhat dry.  He adjusted his own tie and Dean stepped away.

“Thank you, Dean,” you said, gathering some of the lace in your hands and spreading the skirt.   The dress only fell to your knees but had a slight poof nonetheless.   “My compliments to whoever picked it out,” you teased.   Dean glared at Sam, good-humoured.

“Yeah, I’ll pass that on to the son of a bitch,” Dean said.  Sam rolled his eyes and you smiled between them.   Castiel, who was spending way too much time adjusting that tie of his, still hadn’t met your gaze.   He flipped the fabric a couple more times, shifting the knot.   Then he swallowed and turned, nodding to you.

“Y/N,” he said.   His gaze only briefly appraised you but it sent your heart fluttering anyway.   “You look very nice.”

“Thanks, Cas,” you said.   Not much else could be exchanged because another character ambled out of the shadows, holding a book in his hand.    The excited cupid wasted little time, launching into commencement—and dramatic embraces.

The ceremony began in the morning and did not end until late afternoon.   Though you understood Enochian fluently, an aspect of your prophetic gifts, the language was superfluously embellished and often ancient in its chosen vernacular.   You barely followed along but Castiel knew the way, guiding you.   At a moment, he held your hand, and you thought it was part of the ritual.  Not so.   Your nerves had bested you and he must have sensed it, his thumb running soothing patterns over your knuckles.   You weren’t sure if it helped or made things worse.

It took eternity and a day, but the ceremony did conclude in the afternoon.  With the officiating complete and ceremony ended, you knew very well what came next.

Or, at least, you thought you knew.  

Your marriage could be consummated at any time—and you attempted not to shiver when you thought too deeply—but for some reason you assumed it would follow the sacrament.  Apparently not.  

You were separated from your husband—husband, husband!—as Sam led you to the library, leaving Castiel and Dean to return the cherub from whence he came.   Sam tossed his suit jacket over a chair and loosened his tie, distracting you with light-hearted commentary until the other two returned.

And when they returned, they had pizza.

So it was an unusual wedding and an unusual marriage.  Anyone could admit that.   But as afternoon bled into evening and eventually night, you forgot every oddity and fell into a comfortable peace with your friends.   Sam and Dean broke out the liquor, pizza boxes scattered across the library table, a pie prepared at Dean’s behest.    You didn’t drink much, honestly a little worried to lose your inhibitions.  You weren’t sure if it would help or worsen the situation you would inevitably face.  You decided to keep your faculties clear.  

The evening progressed.  Stories were swapped.   It was nearing midnight when things slowed down.   You glanced at the clock and the radio fizzed out, and you felt your stomach knot and nerves coil, a blush already painting your cheeks as you ground yourself in the moment.  

You chanced to look at Castiel.  He was watching Sam and Dean but glanced over.  This time you did not look away, heart not so much racing as beating loud in your ears.   Castiel returned your stare, a pensive gleam in his eye, then he turned aside to muse privately.   You exhaled and looked down, fidgeted with the hem of your dress.  

“We’ll go to bed now,” Sam said, barely sober, nudging Dean through the doorway.   “You guys, uh…”

“Good night!” a drunken Dean bellowed, stumbling out the library.   Sam just smiled sympathetically.

“Yeah,” he said.  “Good night.”

And then they were both gone and it was just you and your husband.   Your almost husband.  There was still one more step to legitimize the union.  You tried to quell your nerves and smiled tensely at a quiet Castiel.   A table sat between you, one he slowly approached.   His hand swiped the polished oak before he lifted his gaze, blue eyes burning into yours.

“Do you want to go to bed?” he asked.  By the natural gravel of his voice, that question could sound dirty without knowing its double meaning.  But you did know what he meant.  It suddenly wasn’t so easy to hide your nerves.  Your chest heaved with a shaky breath but you maintained your smile.

“Yeah,” you finally said, your own voice scraping low tones.   You cleared your throat, circling the table.   “Sounds good.”

The walk to your room was quiet, Castiel’s footsteps echoing behind you.

“You should wear shoes,” he said, noting your bare feet. You wondered why his gaze had fallen so low on your body that he would notice.    “There are strange things in this bunker.  You wouldn’t want to contract something by accidental—”

“Look at you,” you interrupted, attempting to joke because it seemed like a safe fall-back.   You reached your bedroom door and paused outside.   “Barely even married and you’re already trying to tell me what to do.”   Castiel could confuse humour on the best of days and your uncertain tone didn’t help matters.   He heard your words for what they were and nodded solemnly.

“I apologize,” he said.  “It wasn’t my intention.  I only meant to suggest—”

“It’s okay, Cas,” you said quickly.  Wow, this was not off to a good start.   “Um, why don’t we just…”  You stopped short, not sure you could finish.  Castiel tipped his head.   You turned away and cranked the doorknob, rushing into the room.   You held the door open and Castiel stepped in, somehow looking so big in the doorway.   You swallowed as he swept past, slowly closing the door as he wandered further in.   The door closed and locked with a gentle click.  

You remained there for a moment, hands on the doorframe, gaze falling nowhere particular, breath levelling.

“Y/N,” Castiel said, and your name was spoken with a sort of sorrow.   You looked over your shoulder, saw him standing in the middle of your room.  His hands were at his sides, his regard gentle if not wary.   “I won’t force myself on you,” he said.  “Please, don’t feel obligated…”  He stepped to the side, his gaze never leaving you.   “You’re safe in the bunker.  We can consummate our marriage when you’re comfortable.”    

You supposed it was easy for him to conflate your nerves with reservation.   You faced him squarely, wrung your hands.

“I am comfortable, Castiel,” you said.  “Don’t worry, I… I am definitely okay with this.”   He didn’t look entirely convinced, gaze focussed like he analyzed each breath you took.   It was then a thought occurred to you, a very reasonable one.  After all, your attraction to Castiel was more than apparent, but he never showed any signs of interest in you.   If there was anyone grappling the strings of basic consent…   “Cas,” you said quickly, absolutely not wanting to hurt him anymore than he did you, “if you don’t feel comfortable then we don’t have to.  I know I’m not—and we’re not—and it’s okay.  Like you said, the bunker is safe and I can wait—”

“Y/N,” he said, and seemed faintly amused now, “sleeping with you would not be difficult or burdensome.”

“Oh.”  Oh.  “Well, I… good.  Good.  That’s good.”

You received a faint smile at that, a barely perceptible nod of his head.   Then he sighed a bit, looking around himself.

“Should we… begin?”  he asked, looking at you.  You were still recovering from the implied compliment.  Tumbling out of your own silly mind, you measured the large gap of space between you and Castiel.   Your blood thundered hotly with promise of that distance shortening.   You nodded wordlessly, head bobbing.   You took another breath and placed your hands on your own waist, glancing at Cas just as his fingers prepared a snap.    

“Whoa—wait,” you said, guessing his objective.  He paused, hand still in the air.   “What are you doing?”

“I was… removing our clothes.” His brow furrowed, confusion evident.  

“I thought so,” you said with a gasp, waving a hand.   “Um, don’t do that.  Not like that.  I  just… let’s go slow, yeah?”   Good thing you caught that one.   Suddenly standing naked across a naked Castiel might have sent you hurtling to the floor.   Hopefully those smelling salts weren’t off the table.  

“I apologize,” Castiel said sincerely, lowering his hand.  “I assumed you would want to finish this quickly.”

“I, um,” you stammered, tearing your gaze from him.   You weren’t sure why it was so hard to admit but you couldn’t force your next words.  Castiel watched you, mildly fretful.   You sucked in a breath and exhaled it just as quickly.   “I’m sorry,” you said.  “I’m just… I’m just kind of nervous.  I’ve never…”   He tipped his head, attempting to find your roving gaze.   You slowly looked at him, his imploring regard.  It eased your nerves but barely, your stomach still wound in knots.  

“Never,” he repeated, vast celestial mind uncovering multiple truths.   He straightened and looked at you dead-on, seeming confident in his supposition.   “Sex with an angel,” he said.   He stepped closer to you but not with intent, more like a sage mentor delivering a lecture.  “I understand it can be daunting.   There was a reason heaven outlawed our relations in the first place, though I confess that most of those laws have proven to be archaic and unreasonable.   But you don’t need to have any fears.   You’re not a normal human… and truth be told I’m hardly a normal angel.   And I can prevent pregnancy, if you fear that as well.”   He just kept going and you couldn’t find an appropriate moment to interject.   “There is only one deviation from human intercourse in our case, consummating our union on the celestial plane, but I will show you what to do.   It’s a very simple matter.”

“Cas,” you said, his words reassuring in all ways but one.   For some reason, you still couldn’t force the v-word past your lips.   Castiel looked at you oddly.   You gestured sort of helplessly around yourself.   “That, uh, that wasn’t what I meant.”

He looked a bit confused, contemplative, eyes squinting.

Then realization dawned on him all at once.  You had never seen his face commit to such open and sudden expression.   His gaze dropped over your body and then settled on your face, his voice once more certain.

“You’re a virgin,” he said.   You nodded.   He stared at you a minute and then frowned, seeming truly distressed with this information.   He turned away and creased his brow.  “I wish you would have told me,” he said, mind clearly somewhere else.   You crossed your arms self-consciously over your chest, a bit surprised at his response.   It was tricky for you to vocalize but you were a human and silly insecurities were inherent in your nature.   But it wasn’t a big deal, in the end, and you had no idea why Castiel was so badly affected by this.

“I’m sorry,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.  Castiel looked at you again, startled by your words.

“Sorry?” he repeated, stepping towards you once more.  “Why should you apologize?  I’m the one responsible for this.”  

You laughed, a choked sound, at the absurdity of his remark.  

“Uh, Cas, I’m pretty sure you’re not responsible for my virginity,” you said, attempting to keep your voice light despite how you felt.   “The culprit for that one is just, you know, my general face and personality.”  

He looked even more bewildered by this, taking a minute to digest every word.   He was flustered, like he didn’t know where to begin.  He finally spoke and looked you in the eye.  

“I am responsible because I should have given you an opportunity to be with other people,” he said.   “I never even thought to ask.   Now our spiritual vows have been sealed and you’re bound to this, to me.”  He turned away again, growing more irate with himself.   You felt a bit better when you realized what bothered him.  It wasn’t the fact you were a virgin on its own; he simply thought he wronged you by stealing you from your oh-so long line of suitors.  

“Cas, it’s okay,” you said, uncrossing your arms.   You stepped closer to him, the distance between you reduced to three feet.   You reached over and gently touched his arm, fleetingly.   “Trust me, I wasn’t going to be sleeping with anyone else anyway.   Face and personality, remember?”   It was a joke but he looked at you with utmost seriousness.

“Why do you keep saying that?” he asked.  “You are a beautiful human, Y/N, both in terms of physical appearance and spiritual characteristics.”  

He said it so fervently, so sincerely.  Your eyes must have watered, though you didn’t really notice, because Castiel’s ire crumbled.   He looked crestfallen.

“I’ve upset you,” he said.  You blinked, the strain from your eyes gone as quickly as it came.

“What?” you asked.  “No, you haven’t.   That was a nice thing to say.   I just…”  You stared at one another for a minute, neither daring to move or speak.   He seemed to study your face for a sign of distress or upset or anything.   You, on the other hand, actually felt better now.   The compliments were nice, as was Castiel’s care for your wellbeing, but this moment was good for its honesty.   Until now, you and Castiel tread on eggshells around one another, everything a bit strained, tense, awkward.   That border slowly faded, the space between you smaller.  

You wet your lips, tongue swiping your bottom lip.  His eyes fell to the motion before resettling.   Your stomach was still coiled in warm, nervous knots, but you breathed easier and even managed a genuine smile as you stepped that little bit closer.  

“Maybe,” you said, grinding lace between your thumb and forefinger, “we should just… stop talking… until it’s… until we… you know…”

“If you would prefer that,” he said gruffly, nodding in acquiescence.  “But… we’ll go slowly,” he verified.   You nodded, smiling.  

“Slowly,” you agreed.  “Sounds good.”

There was an awkward moment where no one moved.  You just stared at each other, weighing the moment.   Your hands lifted and lowered in unison before silently agreeing upon a verdict.   You undressed yourselves, Castiel loosening his tie and pulling it over his head.   You wore a slip beneath your dress and, despite the fact you would eventually be naked, you pulled your arms into your clothes and removed the slip without taking off the dress.   It fell to the ground at your feet and you kicked it aside, pushing your arms back out.  

Castiel watched, seemingly charmed with the odd moment.   You barely noticed, blushing too hard and distracted with what came next.   Castiel pulled off his trenchcoat and suit jacket, stepping away to place them on your desk.   While his back was turned, you figured you would quickly remove your dress.  It would give you a second to compose yourself before he looked at you.  

Easier said than done.   The zipper was on your back and you twisted and turned, attempting to grab it.  Sam had zipped you up earlier, a casual affair especially with the slip for modesty.   This problem should have occurred to you then.   Thankfully, Castiel kept his back turned while kicking off his shoes and socks, so you had another minute to figure something out.   You attempted to grab the bottom of the skirt, hoisting it up around your waist.   No good.   You weren’t pulling this thing off without ripping it apart, if you even had that strength.

With an aggravated huff, the skirt fell back into place.  

“Cas,” you said, embarrassed and forlorn.  He turned around, fingers halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.   Trying not to look at the bit of exposed skin, eyes resolutely fixed on his curious face, you smiled weakly.   “Um, I need some help.”

“With what?” he said, approaching.  He stopped right in front of you.

“Can’t reach the back,” you said, turning around quickly.   You curved your hand over your shoulder and pointed down.   “If, uh, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” he said, speaking cordially.   You swallowed, wringing your hands as he stepped closer.  You weren’t sure that angels usually breathed but you supposed his vessel would overcome much of his wont right now—his warm breath ghosting across the back of your neck with his proximity.   You fought to stay still, offer no distinct reaction.   His hand landed on the curve of your shoulder, palm against your bicep, his other hand between your shoulder blades.   He dragged the zipper down, a  faint chill goosing your exposed skin.   You supposed it would be okay to shiver now.

You were about to turn around and thank him when both his hands went to the middle of your back.   Before you could think twice, he had unhooked your bra.   You supposed that was your fault.   You told him you couldn’t reach the back so he probably assumed you meant everything, not just the dress.  

“Thank you,” you said, slowly turning around.  A flood of heat rushed below, his stare headier than you anticipated.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and his already rough voice sounded huskier.   He took a step back, looking down at his shirt to undo the buttons.   You were distracted for a moment, watching as he drew the garment off his shoulders and pulled it down his arms.   You always knew Castiel was a sight for a sore eyes but you weren’t braced for all that.   Everything was tingling below your waist, your eyes roaming the strong, beautiful planes of his chest.   He gathered his dress shirt in his hands and crumpled it into a ball, tossing it onto the desk from where he stood.   He looked at you briefly, seemed to notice you hadn’t moved, but he did not comment.  His hands looked a bit shakier, reaching for his belt.

If your silly self was so easily swayed by a bare chest, you probably shouldn’t have lowered your gaze.   He was half-hard already, a very slight tent against the front of his dark trousers.   A short breath escaped your nose, eyes watching calloused fingers against the belt.   You somehow managed to break your own trance, realizing he struggled.   You weren’t sure if he was out of touch with manually undressing or if he was nervous too.  It seemed odd, Castiel, Smouldering Angel of the Lord, being nervous to be with you.    He fumbled with the belt either way, the prong of the buckle jabbing his fingers.

“Here,” you said, not lifting your eyes, stepping closer.   “Let me.”  

It was almost a compulsion.   You slipped your hands past his, his fingers skimming your knuckles as he pulled back.   You unbuckled the belt and parted it, gently pushing the leather through the foremost loops on his pants.   You looked up at him then, his eyes already set on you.   Your hands lingered by his hips, moving only when his own returned.   He pulled the belt off, flattening the leather against his palm.  

“Thank you,” he said, then promptly walked away.   You blinked yourself back into reality.  Castiel returned to the desk to deposit his belt and you turned your back, pulling the dress down until it pooled at your feet.   Blushing already, you picked it up and draped it over a chair, removing your bra and laying it nearby.    You looked at Castiel over your shoulder, saw him watching you from the corner of his eye.   He was folding his pants, standing there in a pair of white boxers.  You both looked away from each other when your gazes met.   You heard his pants hit the desk and then the ruffle of more material.

Oh god, you thought, hands frozen on your hips.   There was a naked Castiel standing somewhere behind you.   You weren’t sure you could breathe right.

“Y/N?” Castiel said.  By the sound of his voice, he was near the foot of the bed.  “Are you all right?  Are you having second thoughts?”

“Um, no, fine,” you said, shaking your head.  That reminded you about your hair.   You wasted a moment, your back still turned, taking apart your updo.   Lock after lock tumbled free, the final elastic snapping in your nervous haste.   Only one thing left to do.  You took the plunge, breathed in deeply, breathed out again.   Then you pushed your underwear down your thighs, past your knees, and kicked them off.    You turned around and faced him before you could second guess yourself.

You didn’t actually see his initial reaction, your own reaction at the forefront.   You looked him over, managing to feel both aroused and annoyed because ugh he was built like a freaking Adonis.   You almost felt like covering your body but decided against it, mostly because you didn’t think you could move at the moment.   It was Castiel’s voice that summoned you, and you realized you had been staring right at his half-hard cock.   If you thought you were blushing before, you definitely were now.

“We should perhaps…” he said, looking at the bed.   Breathing unevenly, you nodded.

“Yeah,” you squeaked.   “Right.  Of course.”

You shuffled over to the bed, debating how to position yourself.   Castiel stood waiting, looking between you and the bed like he wasn’t sure which was more appropriate.   You eventually sat down, shoulders curving inward, your arms awkwardly crossing your chest now that you could think straight.   You laid back,  eyes directed to the ceiling, head slowly placed on your pillow.   You kept your knees bent, your hands on your chest, your breath laboured.  Your heart was positively hammering.

“Human sexuality can be awkward,” Castiel said, your gaze moving to him.  He looked at you kindly.  “But I‘ve come to understand it is not necessary.   Do you trust me?”

Your heart melted, easing the thunderous rhythm.   Of course you trusted Castiel—Castiel who saved you from death the very first time you met him, who delivered you safely to a new life, who might have been distant but never unkind, and who sought to be a gentleman when he could have bypassed your nerves and simply settled the affair.   You smiled, nodding.

“Yeah, Cas,” you said.  “I do.”

“Then turn over.”

All right – so you hadn’t been expecting that.    You watched him for a moment, confused.   He waited with perfect patience.   You eventually complied, supposing there was no reason to refuse, and you rolled onto your stomach, stretching your legs out.   His weight sunk onto the mattress beside you, his bare hip against yours.   You folded your hands beneath your chin and stared at the headboard, your muscles tensing all over again.

“I’m going to touch you,” he said.  That voice really was too much.   You nodded your consent, expecting his hands to land anywhere but where they did.   Fingers curled over your shoulders, palms pressing your stiff muscles, gently kneading the stress from your body.   You bit your lower lip, eyes fluttering closed.   His hands were warm, palms a bit rough, grip strong.   His thumbs swept down your shoulder blades, pressing in, then he followed the curve of your spine.  You fell soft and pliant beneath his ministrations, remaining so even when he moved.  The warmth beside you vacated and then hands were on your thighs, parting them.   “Tell me if you’re uncomfortable.”  

You were only capable of a content “nghhh” noise, your head nodding once.  Then he was settled between your legs and his hands were on your waist, continuing to massage the restless nerves.  You squirmed when his hands moved too low at your sides, tickling you.   He paused at your sudden reaction.  

“Sorry,” you giggled.  “Bit ticklish.”  

Cheeky bastard purposefully swiped his fingers there, earning more giggles.  

“Cas!” you exclaimed, looking at him over your shoulder.   He was smiling.

“Apologies,” he said.  “I like your laughter.”  

This guy was gonna be the death of you.

“I guess I forgive you,” you teased, facing forward again.   You wiggled your hips, settling in again, amazed with how comfortable you felt considering your vulnerable position.  

His hands left your sides and went to your lower back, massaging deftly until his thumbs swiped just above your rear.   You knew what view you afforded him this entire time, but you suddenly felt a little more naked knowing where his gaze had fallen.   But your nerves gave way to anticipation as you waited to see—or feel—what he would do.   He did not disappoint, drawing his hands a little lower to hold your hips, thumbs tracing small circles over your skin.   He waited for a protestation but met nothing, one hand sliding over the curve of your rear.  You shoved your mouth against a pillow, not wanting to make a noise for such a simple action.

“You are very beautiful,” Castiel suddenly said, and all hope of composure went out the window.   You swallowed, lifting your head to glance back again.   He was on his knees, knelt between your legs, his hands on you and his gaze very low on your body.   His hand moved back up, thumb skimming the soft skin before tentatively settling at the crease of your ass.  He pressed down gently, drawing his thumb down the cleft.   Your hips lifted instinctively, your bare chest rubbing against the bedclothes, heat pooling below at the gradual build of sensation.   You swore you saw the moment his pupils dilated, watching your hips roll for him, hearing your breather stutter.   “I’m a fortunate husband,” he said, causing your stomach knot deliciously.  “Even if only for a night.”

Castiel, the great seducer.  Who would have thought.  

“Cas,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to your shoulder.   You breathed unevenly.   “I—I—”   You knew all the graphic mechanics of sex, had sought your own pleasure from time to time.  You were a virgin, not a saint.   All the same, you found it hard to ask for what you wanted, not sure of the words.    But he understood your wanting phrases, hand sliding beneath you.   Then he was right where you needed.  Careful fingers parted your damp folds, middle finger finding your clit fast.  You allowed yourself a verbal reaction, a small mewl into the skin of your shoulder.   You turned your face down, forehead against a pillow while he rubbed two fingers back and forth.  

“This should make it easier,” Castiel said, words barely registering.   You rested your cheek against the pillow and closed your eyes, biting your lower lip when he eased a finger inside you.   “Is this… all right?”   He sounded legitimately unsure, drawing back his finger then inching it forward.   Your back had curved, ass lifted a bit obscenely to grant him space.   You just nodded, gripping the pillow beneath your head.

“Yeah,” you breathed, “good.”

He added a second finger,  the most you had ever pressed into yourself.  But his fingers were thicker than yours, textured differently, and there was a faint stretch as he carefully worked them in and out.  It felt incredible, eased by how wet you already were.   He curled his fingers slightly, causing you to moan and shudder faintly.  You ground yourself onto his hand, moaning again as his fingers stretched deeper.   He made a sound behind you, his fingers moving a bit faster, then scissoring slightly.  His movements were hesitant but growing surer.   He obviously understood what he had to do even if the effectiveness was an uncertainty.   You most definitely proved he was correct.

“I am privileged to be the one to see you like this,” he said, voice lower, breath running ragged.  You moaned again, canting your hips back.   He pulled his fingers down and carefully added a third, easing them back in.   Your grip on the pillow tightened, your head minutely turned, a breathy sound leaving your mouth before you bit your bottom lip.   His free hand reached for your face, suddenly and gently touching your lip.   You stopped biting it, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.  Your gaze could not hold, eyes closing the further his fingers went inside you.   He dragged his free hand down your shoulder, over your back, down your spine, settling on your ass and gently rubbing the flesh.    “Your body…” he said, sounding a little amazed, hand on your hip while the other worked a bit faster, harder, “feels…  right.  Good for this.”   He paused his action, leaving you panting, keen.  “It should be loved.  Often.”   You groaned, writhing until he pinned your hip down and slowly removed his fingers.   “On your back,” he said, wet fingers against your thigh, his other hand drawing your hair out of your face, smoothing it down.   “When you’re ready.”  

Oh god – oh god – this was it –

Arms shaky, you managed to push yourself up and turn over.  Your nipples had hardened, every nerve sensitive but no longer anxious.  Castiel stepped off the bed so you could manoeuvre yourself.  You flopped onto your back, hands at your sides, chest heaving and your sex aching for attention.   Castiel placed himself at your feet, fisting his cock and running lazy strokes back and forth.   He was as hard as you were wet, a bead of precum at the tip of his cock which he swiped, expression flittering with pleasure, drawing his hand back down his length.   Your legs were already slightly parted but you spread them further, urging him to move closer.    He did, hands falling on the outside of your thighs.  One gripped tight, lifting your hips, while the other reached up and snagged an unused pillow.   You weren’t sure what to do with your hands, placing them on your stomach, then at your sides, then tucking one beside your head.

“Are you comfortable?” Castiel asked, securing the pillow beneath your hips.   You could hardly mind such matters with his cock brushing the inside of your thigh, your need for him launching you past lingering shyness.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding vehemently, “definitely.”

“Tell me if I…”  He frowned, clearly imaging the prospect of hurting you.   “My grace should make it easier.”   He placed a hand on either thigh, holding you open.  You shivered, fisting a hand in your own hair, the other in the bedsheets, while looking at him.   He looked down at where he held you, his chest visibly rising and falling with breath now.   His body had almost completely overcome him but you could see him fighting to restrain himself.   Then his fingers were at your sex again, a hand on his cock, and then the head was nudging at your entrance and your breath caught.   He pressed forward, gentle as he could without prolonging the moment to pain.   Your held breath collapsed and you started breathing hard, knuckles whitening where they clutched the bedsheet.   Castiel looked at you, cupped your jaw and caressed the side of your face.   Your eyes closed, leaning into his touch as he moved inside you, inch by solid inch.   Your knees bent at his hips, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip, breath escaping through your nose.   You could feel the faint stretch and burn, but it was not as painful as you thought it might have been.   Whether that was your body alone or Castiel’s grace, somehow healing whatever damage caused, you were not sure.   All you knew was that by the time your bodies touched, Castiel buried completely inside you, it felt right.  

“Ah, Cas—” you wheezed, hands grabbing his shoulders.   He curled one hand into your hair, holding tight, his expression heated and blissful at once.

“You feel—” he began, his other hand below your thigh, drawing it against his hip.  You moaned, head tipping back, his grip on your hair tightening.   He seemed to think better of whatever he meant to say, face falling to the juncture between your shoulder and neck, warm breath swiping your skin.   “This constitutes as consummation,” he rasped, clearly fighting very hard to hold still.   His lips moved against your skin as he spoke, your nails lightly scratching his shoulders.   He might have been able to hold still but you were aching for something, feeling whole and full and needy for more.   “We can… stop here.  If you prefer,” he finished.  

In a bold move you would never regret, you hooked your other leg around him.

“I didn’t take off all my clothes for that,” you teased, feeling him laugh lightly against your skin.   He lifted his head, looked down at you, shifting his hips slightly.   The marginal movement caused you to hold him tighter, lips parting in a soundless reaction.  

“Then it’s my responsibility to make your sacrifices meaningful,” he said, and then his hips drew back slightly before pushing forward again.   You groaned, grappling at him like he was an anchor to your boat in a storm.   His fingers wrapped in your hair, pressing into your scalp, his face staring down into yours as he moved inside you, a gradual, slow rhythm.   Your breathing fell into measure with him, your fingers pressing hard enough into his shoulders to bruise.

“The marriage is a good thing,” you found some words to say, and if Castiel wasn’t currently rocking you into a tempest of heat, you might have been embarrassed at your own confession.    “After tonight, I don’t think I could have anyone else inside me.”   His moan turned into something of a growl, hips beginning to thrust with a little more verve, mouth dropping to your shoulder.    You tightened your legs around him, your next sound louder than necessary, falling into more delirious phrases.   “You feel so good there,” you gasped, throwing your head back.  “Better than anything or anyone.  All… all a wife could ask for…”

He sucked a kiss on your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin and tongue dabbing the spot.  It was probably the weirdest and most mild kink to have, but he was clearly enraptured with the marital titles.

“A husband should care for his wife,” he rumbled, shifting so you balanced better on the pillow and he could drive further into you.   You gasped, raking your nails down his back.  “Especially when she takes him so well.”  

“Oh, Cas—”

“I need to see you now,” he said, kissing below your ear and then lifting his face over yours.   “Y/N, give me your hand.”   One of his hands was wrapped around your hip but he held the other up, near your head.    Your hands were still gripping his shoulders, not wanting to let go as he rode you with such unrelenting passion.   But you did as he asked, crashing your hand into his.   He clutched it, kissing your palm before drawing it close.   He slowed inside you, breathing hard, eyes on your wrist.   “I must expose the brink of your prophetic elements,” he said, like that meant anything to you.   You rolled your hips beneath him, causing his eyes to flutter closed for a moment.   He pressed down on top of you, fingers clamping around your wrist.   “Please,” he said.  “Once this is consummated according to heaven’s second will, I promise,” he kissed your wrist, teeth gentle against the soft skin, “I promise,” he repeated, eyes dark, “I will fuck you into the bed you lay on.”

“Cas,” you breathed, “since when do you say things like that?”  It was meant to be a thought more than legitimate question but he just smiled, the sort of smile you only saw in moments of grave consequence and confrontation, intense and steadfast.

“I’ve been on earth some time,” he said.  “And inside you long enough to know what you want.”

“Well, fuck,” you smiled gently, “get on with it then.”  

He held your wrist in his hand, fingernails gentle against the skin.   He drew them a few inches down to the middle of your arm, then held steady.   He looked at you with more seriousness.

“This is likely to hurt,” he said.  “Are you prepared?”  

You nodded, braced.   You weren’t sure what to expect when his nails suddenly punctured your lower arm.   Bewildered, you watched as the broken skin did not emit blood but light.   Golden and warm and simmering hot like burn marks where he scratched.   You stared down, mouth agape.   Then Castiel was lifting your arm to his face and you swore your heart leapt into your throat, pain momentarily forgotten as he opened his mouth and gently lowered his lips to the bleeding light.  It was a soothing sensation, mouth soft and damp against the searing heat of bright gold, lips deftly pressing around the skin.  You shuddered, a full tremor shaking your spine when his tongue stroked the skin.   Every sweet spot seemed to sing at once, his mouth against some intimate, noncorporeal aspect of your humanity.    Then he returned your arm, lacing your fingers with his.

“You must do the same,” he said.  You had no idea how, not too sure what he had done.   You went to voice this concern but he shook his head, gently rocking his hips into yours.  Your worries tumbled from mind.   “It will work,” he said.  “I trust you as well, Y/N.”  

Breathless, you unlaced your fingers and lowered them to his arm, resting against the skin before dragging your nails as he had done.   The ritual did something because you thought nothing substantial to enact it.   All the same,  his light bled in a bluish colour, blaring through the cracked skin of the vessel.  

“It must be inside you,” he said, eyes glowing a brighter blue than normal.  “It binds your soul to me.”

“Forever,” you whispered, bringing his arm to your mouth.

“Yes,” he said, watching with those inhumanly blue eyes.   “Eternity.”  As he had done, you closed your mouth over the light.  You felt nothing at first, just his skin beneath your lips, so you followed his example and swiped your tongue.   A warm sensation immediately flooded you, seeming to run along every vein, muscle, bone, and sinew.  Castiel made a low noise, a barely stifled grunt.  Then he pulled his arm back and grabbed your hand, pressing your arms together so gold and blue blistered into a hot white together.   You cried out, immense amounts of pleasure flooding every last pore and nerve, almost too much to bear.  It faded and when you looked into his face, for a moment you thought you saw many faces—beautiful and bright and warm and gazing at you from a hundred vantages.   Blinking and breathing, you fell back into the human moment, your arms healed and Castiel panting.

Then he was moving inside you again, making good on his promise to fuck you into the bed.   Castiel moved onto his knees and grabbed your hips, lifting you right up against him as he thrust down.   The pillow helped somewhat though your back still curved.  Honestly, that celestial action had felt similar to an orgasm and it slightly wore at you, even while your body begged for more.   You couldn’t believe you had ever worried about this moment.   Now you were only worried it would never happen again.  

But that thought fell from mind as Castiel’s expression slowly changed, features tight, his hips snapping erratically.  You clenched around him, watched that beautiful expression fall apart as he slumped forward, thrusting a few more times as he came inside you.    

After it ended, both of you lay there for a moment, Castiel softening inside you, your gaze blurry, breath hard.   The celestial interlude had clearly affected you both.   You never thought you could feel so fucked out without even technically coming (at least the human way).   But you were exhausted, more tired by the second.   Castiel regained his strength first, though perhaps only marginally, lifting himself off of you and moving aside.    You hummed contently, pressing yourself into your bed as he rearranged the pillows and tossed aside the one beneath you.   He sat behind you, leaning against the headboard, and you rolled over and peered up.  

“Are you leaving?” you asked.   He lay down, his arm circling your shoulders and drawing you against him.   You rested your head on his chest, wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Not if you wish for me to stay,” he said.

“I do,” you replied, yawning thereafter.   Sleepily, you nodded again.   “I do.”

He smiled against the top of your head, kissing your crown.   His hand smoothed down your hair and settled on your shoulder, holding you close.  

“I do too,” he said.  

part 2

castiel x reader masterpost

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 56 - A Long Day Later

Chapter Rating: Mature Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Action/Adventure, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots In Love

Also read on AO3 First chapter

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Twenty-sixth day of Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon

Rosslyn stirred from sleep, rising from unconsciousness with the faint impression that something had roused her. Yet all was quiet. The world remained dark behind her closed eyelids, frigid beyond the cocoon of warmth that the blankets wrapped around her body, and it lacked any appeal that might entice her curiosity. It must not be important. She shifted, intending to find the tipping point back into oblivion, and became aware of a heaviness in her limbs, an ache in her muscles that spoke of exertion and made her even less eager to move. A tiny moue of sound escaped her lips as she exhaled, and in response came a wordless mumble against her hair, the tightening of an arm across her waist as the solid presence behind her pressed closer along her back. Remembering, she smiled and fumbled for Alistair’s hand. The murmur against her skin grew into a path of lazy, half-formed kisses along her shoulder as her fingers threaded with his, a leg nudged between and folded around hers as she leaned into the touch.

“G’morning…” he rumbled, the low, sleep-scratched pitch of his voice raising gooseflesh along her spine.

She stretched. “S’not morning yet.”

“Shall I leave you be, then?” he teased, and chuckled as she made a disgruntled noise and followed the retreat of his hands, seeking the lost warmth, until he relented and tangled around her again like a briar. For a long moment they lay together, suspended between waking and sleep, breathing together and content to have their limbs belong to each other.  

“How are you feeling?”

She hummed when her slow mind processed that she hadn’t dreamed the question, reached backward to wind her fingers across the back of his neck. “Good. What about you?”

“You wore me out, woman,” he answered, with another laugh and a slow flex of hips that pointedly suggested otherwise.

A slink of heat knotted itself in her belly, anticipation that brought a sly smile to her lips. “It doesn’t feel that way. Maybe –”

Someone knocked on the door.

“Your Ladyship?”

Rosslyn tensed. “It’s Morrence.”

“Don’t answer,” he breathed, running fingertips over her waist.  

She shook her head with huffed laugh, calling the command to light the glowstone, and picked herself from their tangle of limbs. As she sat up, she secured the covers under her arms to keep them in place, as if a bared chest would be her biggest problem if her captain chose to break in and found Ferelden’s Crown Prince in her bed. Cold air seeped across her exposed skin, held at bay where his hand still circled her waist. In the harsh light cast by the lyrium enchantment, he stretched against the pillows, all bleary eyes and mussed hair, and her stomach fluttered as she tracked the darker line of fuzz down his chest, trying to remember when he had removed his shirt again.

She had slept with him. He had stayed. The bashfulness that had been entirely absent the night before squirmed in her gut, the heat in her cheeks blooming into a furnace under the tender smile curving his mouth, until the feeling became too much and she had to tear her gaze away.

She cleared her throat. “What is it, captain?”

“You said you were to be woken at dawn, Your Ladyship,” came the reply through the door. “Clara came to me worried when you didn’t answer.”

The covers shifted, the mattress dipped behind her, but she tried to not be distracted.

“That’s alright,” she called out. “What’s the state of the company?”

“Being roused now.” Morrence paused. “Clara tried the door, she said it was locked.”

“Yes, I –”

Light fingers brushed her hair away from her shoulder, then began a slow, appreciative trail down the length of her back.

“Make her go away,” Alistair complained, muffled as he pressed his mouth to the skin just below her ear.

Her eyes slipped closed. “Uhm…”

“Should I stop?”

It took all her concentration to shake her head.

“Your Ladyship?”

“I locked it,” she managed.

“Why?”

“Is it my door or not?” she snapped, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Carrying on a half-shouted conversation through a door struck her as entirely undignified, but the floor would be cold and the rasp of Alistair’s unshaved chin continued to be a distraction along her neck, and all in all, she really didn’t want to move.

“I’ll be ready to ride in an hour,” she said finally. “See to it everyone is ready.”

“Aye, Your Ladyship.”

She listened for the creak of the floorboards as her captain turned away, and when she was sure of safety, twisted to capture her lover’s face so she could kiss him and vent some of the frustration he had been building in her so deliberately. A giggle escaped as an arm snaked around her waist to draw her back under the covers. Alistair, as her lover – it felt unfamiliar still, but she liked the sound if it, liked more the way his mouth slanted over hers, the way he touched her as if amazed by every inch of her.

“An hour isn’t much time,” he pouted, turning his attention along her jaw.

“It’s –” A scrape of teeth over the sensitive spot he knew too well already. She tugged on his hair to make him pause, smirking. “It’s plenty for you to sneak back to –”

“Your Ladyship?”

Her gaze snapped to the door. “Y–yes?”

There was a pause, and she imagined Morrence running her tongue over her teeth. When she did speak, the words held a deliberate air of nonchalance. “His Highness’ valet mentioned he wasn’t in his room this morning,”  

“Uh… What do you mean?”  

Next to her, Alistair bit his lips together, burying his head against her shoulder to stifle his laughter. She poked him in the ribs. He nipped her collarbone in retaliation.

“He said he found Cuno sleeping on Prince Alistair’s bed, but it didn’t look like His Highness had been there himself.” Morrence paused again, far too casually.  “Should I raise an alarm?”

“That won’t –” Rosslyn tried, and realised she should appear at least a little concerned about the supposed disappearance of a member of the royal family. “His Highness has probably gone for a walk to clear his head before we leave. If he doesn’t turn up by the time we’re ready to go, we’ll call a search, but I see no need to worry yet.”

“That’s so callous,” he chided in her ear, grinning. “Anything could’ve happened to me, I could be freezing to death for all you know and you’re all tucked up and warm…”

“She’ll hear you,” she hissed, cheeks flaming, with another light prod to his side.

“She already knows I’m here,” he pointed out, but settled next to her with an apologetic brush of lips along her cheek nonetheless.

“Where is Cuno?” she asked her captain.

“I convinced him to the kennel for breakfast,” Morrence replied.

“That’s good, I’ll collect him before I leave. That will be all.”

“Aye, Your Ladyship.”

This time, she held her breath until the corridor outside fell utterly silent, and let it out in a rush of air as she shielded her eyes with the back of her arm. Already, Alistair was sliding limpet-like into the thin space between her body and the covers, half around her and half on top of her, propped on his elbows as if out of worry for pressing her too closely.  

He hummed as her touch feathered blindly over the back of his neck. “I thought she’d never leave.”  

“Don’t smirk.”

“What makes you think I’m smirking?” he asked.

“I can hear it in your voice,” she replied, though she pulled her arm away to check, just in case.

“Even if I am, why shouldn’t I?” his smirk widened. “I’m in bed with the woman I love, and who told me only a few short hours ago that she loves me, too. Oh, and she’s very naked,” he added, with a sly glance downward.

“Those are all things that can change if you’re going to be so glib,” she retorted.

He laughed and leaned closer. “I get it, I get it – You talk too much, Alistair, get to the kissing already.”

She rolled her eyes, but pulled him down all the same. “If you’re offering…”

“For you?” he asked as their lips met. “Always.”

She might never tire of his mouth. He moved languidly, unhurried, letting his hands wander, and the sounds she took from him, the little gasps and moans as she explored in turn, fired through her blood and settled deliciously between her legs. Blunt nails skimmed her side so that she arched upwards, clung harder, squirmed against the hot weight of his erection pressed between them. One of those same hands found its way behind her knee and helped guide it over his waist, coaxing her to follow him so they lay, side by side and face to face, somehow more intimate that before.

“I wish we could stay here all day.” He leaned towards the corner of her mouth, and paused. “What is it?”

She dropped her gaze to her hands, watching the shape of her fingers in the glow of the light as they carded through the hair on his chest. A reply lay on her tongue, but the taste of it grew ashen as the ever-insidious shade of the future rose to break the careless peace that had settled over them.  

“When we reach Highever, we won’t be called away,” she said at last. “At least not for a few days.”

His nose nudged against hers, drawing her gaze. “You’ll have to give me a tour.”

“I don’t know how much of it will be left,” she admitted, as her mind turned to memories – the view from Harrowhill, the demon in the Fade wearing her father’s image as if it were nothing more than a mask in a mummer’s play. “I don’t know if I’d even recognise it.”

“We can rebuild it,” he replied. “This war won’t last forever.”

“And you’ll be needed in Denerim.”

“Oh, Rosslyn – that wouldn’t matter if… if you needed me in Highever.” When she still refused to look at him, he sighed and wriggled closer, his hand splayed warm against her back. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Her breath faltered. Even in the artificial light, conviction shone in his eyes, bright enough that she lost herself wondering how he found it so easy to burn away her doubts, how loneliness lost its grip in his arms.

“I…”

“Yeeeeeeees?”

Her grin spread like certainty across her face. “If – well. If you’re going to stay, you’ll have to have a room.”

“Really?” he asked, with a sly quirk of his brow. “I think I already know which one I want.”

“You haven’t even seen any of them yet,” she reminded him with a playful tug on his fingers.

“But surely yours is the nicest?”

She gasped. “Rogue! And where, pray tell, am I supposed to sleep if you take my bed?”

She saw the pounce an instant before his arms twined around her waist. Laughing, she let herself be pulled onto his chest, until she straddled him, braced on her arms bare inches from his face with their hearts beating erratic rhythms against each other. Her hair got caught between them, but he helped her tidy it away, twisting it over her shoulders so her skin wouldn’t chill where the covers had fallen to the small of her back.  

“You’ll sleep right next to me, my love,” he purred, as his hands trailed a lazy path to the base of her spine. “Every day, if I have my way. Especially with a view this good.”

“You like this position, do you?” she asked.

“Mmmhm.”

“Good,” she answered, leaning down to hide her blush in a kiss. “Because so do I.”

--

The sun still had yet to peek over horizon when Rosslyn gathered in the stableyard with Leliana and the troop of soldiers hand-picked for the assault on Highever, her breath fogging in the freezing air and the horrid taste of the tea lingering on her tongue. She had added enough honey to turn it from bitter to sickly, but she wouldn’t call it an improvement.  

Only a lone blackbird called. Most of the camp had yet to stir, and wouldn’t move for a few days yet, but whatever stillness they might have enjoyed for the time being was ruined by Lasan, who had realised he was being left behind and decided to make his dissatisfaction known by kicking his stall door to splinters. His bugling did little to agitate the horses they were taking, who dozed under their rugs while the riders stamped their feet and blew warm air into their gloved hands to try and fend off the cold. Satina’s bright disk still hung in the sky, its pinkish glow a rival to the dawn. If they didn’t get going soon, they would waste what few hours of daylight they could use.

At the end of the line, Leliana straightened. “Here he is.”

Rosslyn turned to follow her gaze to the door of the keep, where Alistair tripped down the stairs still trying to fit his helmet over the padded cap that would help keep him warm as well as distribute the helmet’s weight evenly over his head. He was in splintmail, as she was. It would make for an uncomfortable ride, but the Westmoreland breed used by the relay messengers were too lithe to carry riders in heavy armour, and their plan relied on avoiding recognition.

“It’s good of you to join us at last, Your Highness,” she said in clipped tones as he puffed to a halt beside her.

He blushed deeply enough as he took his horse’s reins from her that it made a beacon of them even in the low light. Fortunately, she was able to hide the colour growing in her own cheeks behind her scarf as she turned and led the way towards the gate. The guards who hauled open the doors for them saluted as they walked through, but nobody else marked their passing.  

“We have a lot of ground to cover, and not much time to do it,” she told them as she checked her horse next to the mounting block that had been left for them. “We’ll walk to warm the horses up but if we’re to make the checkpoints the rest of the day will be spent at canter. I understand this won’t be easy for all of you, but speed is key, and the king is counting on us. There’ll be plenty of time to nurse your backsides once we’re out at sea.”

There were nods and a few low chuckles as she gathered the reins and vaulted up, then guided her horse aside to fix the girth strap and adjust her stirrups. The volunteers she had taken from the infantry had all been schooled in horsemanship during the camp at Aeylesbide, and had been given the quietest mounts, but still she watched with a critical eye as each of them clambered into their saddles with only the barest shade of grace and turned their mounts to the road.

They left the blankets over the horses’ quarters as they started off, following the dim line of the road west so that the rising sun cast long shadows in front of them, and set a blaze on the surrounding hills where it struck through the trees to bare clearings of winter bracken. A small herd of deer led by a grey doe paused on the path ahead of them, curious, before vanishing once more ghostlike into the brush, and once, a fennec barked, but aside from the growing chorus of birds in the hedgerows, the steady clop of hooves encompassed the only sound in the world. Despite the brisk pace she set, Rosslyn let herself enjoy the peace, the fleeting break from duty, watching as colourful gangs of finches darted among the bare, berry-laden branches of a nearby rowan.

There had been many mornings like this when she was growing up, camping and following loggers’ trails through Highever’s ancient countryside – and many more that had dawned wet and cold and miserable, and weren’t half so fond to remember. Her father had insisted. Adamant that a ruler should be intimately familiar with their domain, should know how to work with the land and not against it, he had taken both his children into the wilds and made a play of hide and seek through the trees, teaching them about game and mushrooms and the best place to find shelter. And she would never forget the black night in deep Harvestmere when she was ten years old, when he had poked the embers of their campfire and woven a story about his upbringing as an exile in his own country, caught between the desire to keep his people safe and the knowledge that every day he fought for their freedom they only suffered more. He had wanted them prepared to face the same tough choices.

She shook the memory and called a halt to prepare the horses for the run. If their blankets were left as they were, the animals might overheat, or spook when the material flapped in the wind, so each saddle had a strap attached to the cantle that allowed the rug to be folded up and stored like a bedroll, and it was far easier to use if the horse was standing still. Alistair was having trouble twisting around far enough to secure his in place, so she nudged her own mount over to him and casually batted his hand away.

“Thanks,” he said as she fastened the buckle for him. His hand brushed her shoulder to steady her as she straightened again.

She glanced to the others still securing their horses. “It’s a beautiful morning, don’t you think?”  

“Almost worth getting out of bed,” he agreed, smirking, and even though his voice was low enough not to carry, she had to look away. Her horse’s tail swished.

“How are you coping so far?”

He shrugged. “My feet are frozen, but that’s all. I’m sure I’ll have some fascinating bruises later, though. The pace you set, If I can walk after I get off, it’ll be a miracle.”

She shot him a chiding look. “You know you could’ve stayed behind if you –”

Someone snickered behind her. She caught the words ‘hard ride’ and nothing more, but the audience of guilty looks when she whirled to face the perpetrator told her everything she needed to know about the rest of the sentence.

“Do you have something to say, soldier?” she demanded.

The man avoided her gaze. “No, Your Ladyship. It wasn’t –”

“In that case, I’d suggest you keep your mouth closed in case one of the horses decides to shit in it,” she snapped. “If I didn’t need every body I can get for this mission, I’d send you back to Deerswall in disgrace to gossip with the rest of the washerfolk. As it is, you’re taking middle watch every night until this is over. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Your Ladyship,” he answered, still with his gaze on his horse’s withers.

She waited a moment longer to make sure her point had properly struck, determined not to be embarrassed even though she could hardly be surprised at the flavour of the comment. Soldiers, after all, were worse than servants for rumours. Alistair tried to catch her eye as she ordered them back onto the road, but every moment was precious; discipline had to be maintained. She couldn’t regret the night they spent together, the sighs and touches that still ran hot in her blood so many hours later, but her authority required a distance already drawn in by the necessities of their mission, and she couldn’t afford for it to slip further.

--

They travelled quickly. At the waystation they reached just after midday, they paused only long enough to relieve themselves and change to fresh horses, without even a break for food. Instead, they took hard rations straight from the saddlebags as their new mounts warmed up and ran for the rest of the afternoon until the quick winter fall of night made it too dangerous to go any faster than a walk.

Rothsbridge came into sight a few hours after sunset, its lights sparking like jewels nestled in black velvet. As the bottleneck for trade coming from the Waking Sea into the central Bannorn, it had grown wealthy in the decades of peace since Maric became king, and had outgrown its defensive walls years before, spilling wealthy streets of well-appointed villas into the surrounding countryside like apples from an overturned sack. The mayor still liked to keep up appearances, however, and so the gatehouse had stayed, complete with a burly porter who saw the party coming and halted them with a raised lantern.

“Who goes there?” he called, muffled through a thick, knitted scarf.

“Soldiers, in service to His Majesty King Cailan,” Maddow replied at the front. He kicked his horse forward and offered him a writ bearing the royal seal. “You are to let us pass and complete our business here.”  

The man squinted at the parchment, frowning as his mouth laboriously formed the outline of each word, then looked up to pass a leery eye over the rest of them. Wary of being recognised, Rosslyn and Alistair hung at the back, but their layers of splintmail and fur hid them well, and they garnered no comment from the gatekeeper.  

When he was finally satisfied, he handed back the document and shuffled away to unlock the gate. “Sorry to keep ye, lads. Canna be too careful these days.” he coughed. “If yer looking fer a place, Crow’s Head’ll have stabling room, and a good hot meal fer ye an’ all.”

“Thank you, serrah,” Maddow replied as he replaced the writ in the message satchel. “We’ll take your recommendation.”

“It’s on’t left after Silver Street – big sign,” the gatekeeper supplied. He waved them through with his lantern and quickly fell behind them, lost behind the first of Rothsbridge’s tightly-packed rows of terraces.

The Crow’s Head inn lurched into view a few moments later, under a sign of a painted black bird’s head on a pale blue field. It presented a narrow front to the main street, stone foundations with timbered walls on the upper floors, warm light glowing through the swirled windowpanes, and carved rosettes of painted flowers on the lintel of the front door. A sign for stabling pointed down the alleyway next to it.

Rosslyn dismounted. “Hobbs, see to it the horses bedded down while His Highness and I ask about rooms.”

“Aye, Your Ladyship.”

“Meet us in the taproom when you’re finished.”

She handed off her reins and stepped out of the road, and with Alistair following at her heels, pushed open the door into the inn’s welcoming interior. Paintings of river boats dotted the walls between lengths of signal flags hung like bunting, lending a festive air to the array of mismatched chairs and scrubbed, beerstained tables. A stuffed raven eyes them from its perch above the bar and several patrons glanced at them as they passed, but either their weapons discouraged attention or strangers were common, and they went unchallenged.

“Is this about what happened earlier?” Alistair asked as they picked their way between tables.

“We should have been more discreet,” she said, and stopped. Her hand reached for his arm. “Don’t think for an instant that I regret it – any of it – but until this is over, maybe a little distance would be best.”

He sucked in his cheeks, disappointment clear, but nodded, robbed of a response as the innkeeper put away the glasses he had been cleaning and rapped broad knuckles on the bar.

“What’ll it be, sers?”

“We’re a party of fifteen, with horses,” Rosslyn answered. “The keeper at the north gate recommended this place. We need dinner and rooms for tonight – we don’t mind sharing.”

The innkeeper scratched at his beard in a pondering sort of way. “I got two dorms, twelve beds each, int’ attic. Not got anyone in ‘em. Men and women to be separate, mind.”

“That’ll be fine.”

“Breakfast int’ morning?”

She shook her head. “We’ll be leaving early.”

With a grunt, he retreated around a stand of ale casks to call for someone to go and air out the dorm rooms, before disappearing into a back room that smelled of herbs and savoury roasting meat. While they waited for him to come back, Alistair leaned his elbows on the bar and heaved a long, put-upon sigh.

“This distance thing means not even kissing, doesn’t it?”

She sighed too, and bumped her elbow lightly against his side. “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“I’m not. I’ll waste away, I tell you, and then when I die of not being kissed you’ll miss me very much.”

“Maaaaybe. Why don’t you save them all up and give them to me when we reach –” She bit her tongue to hold in the slip. “– when we get where we’re going?”  

“There’ll be a lot of them,” he warned.

“I can manage that.”

“And if you don’t mind,” he added, leaning closer until his face hovered barely an inch away from hers, “they won’t all be on your mouth.”

He was grinning, tempting her to ignore her own words and sway just that little bit forward to stop all the space between them, but it was a game two could play, even if her only lessons in allurement had come from trying not to watch Oriana flirt with Fergus. She licked her lips, drew the bottom one between her teeth, watching him all the time until with an easy breath out, she leaned away.

“Don’t lose count,” she advised, and folded her hands primly on the edge of the bar.

“Did – you –”

“That’ll be ten silvers,” the innkeeper interrupted, wiping his hands on a cloth as he came whistling back from the kitchen. “Of and find a seat, I’ll bring food out when all’s settled. Beds’ll be ready in a mo’.”

“Thank you, serrah.”

With a nod, the man ambled off to see to one of regulars, leaving the two of them alone once more. As soon as nobody was looking, Alistair so leaned close his lips brushed the shell of her ear.

“Just so you know, that’s five already. I’m going to be merciless.”

[opalfelts]

For hours, Eddie pretends he doesn’t know where he is going. The city streets are full with voices of lovers and of lonely people. As he walks, Eddie hears passion and laughter and life, and none of it is meant for him. 

For him, there is nothing.  

Like a magnet, he closes in on the place with stained glass and knotted wood and cold brick. Our Lady of Saints. 

The nave is empty and disconcertingly austere; the scent of incense hangs heavy in the air, clinging to his hair and his skin in a way that is suffocating. 

He shifts his gaze to the cross, sinking in a crumbled motion to his knees, his body emaciated and broken. Even in his trembling hands, he prays, bowing his head, baring himself to what he plans to wrought, and to add another sin to the list of things for which he has to repent. 

Seeking forgiveness, an answer.

A touch of absolution, a touch of divinity. 

And for a solitary, devastating moment, he believes he is rewarded when a phantom touch brushes over his shoulder. But the touch continues to stretch and doesn't stop, encompassing and violating. Eddie’s prayers fall deaf, a rush of panic overtakes him, and he’s paralyzed. Terror winds a sticky ribbon around his heart and the air cuts with his scream, until an otherworldly being of the night descends upon him, bubbling and filing his empty throat, gagging him. It coats his eyes with tar, soaking up the tears welling in them, and he’s blind. 

A demon?!, he thinks, frantic and pleading. A creature made to destroy him and swallow him whole.  

In the late evening, the moonshine glints through the glass windows; emerald greens, cerulean blues, and honeyed ambers bath the floor in a jewel-hued glow.

Now, it’s a room of darkness. 

Black of ink and the red of blood. A Rorschach blot spilling and intermingling as their physicality and spirit mesh and are set ablaze. 

The creature’s liquid body flows through the arid desert of his own, watering the parts of him that have grown desiccated, and blooming beneath the ruin. Moving swiftly through burning vessels, its matter infuses with each of his limbs and appendages and cells, and he can feel it all and everywhere. 

Shivers wracking in his nerves, Eddie concedes to the oblivion, succumbing his fate. Seeing no reason to continue struggling.

Then there are images. 

Lingering, borrowed memories of pain and betrayal and anger. 

A hallowing voice desperately beckons him in his mind, an echoing call washing out his head in an ocean of loneliness. It reaches out to him, begging, and Eddie freezes, wills himself a few seconds to listen and comprehend. He’s startled to find that he can still breathe, no major injuries to take account for, even with the thick spike of fear running hotly through his throat. 

The creature opens itself, psychically. 

There is wordless agony in and amongst disconnected, unheard words, and Eddie's own abdomen coils in reflex.

He recognizes this agony. And the wicked person who subjected them both to it. 

Instantly, he riles in resentment and allows the hatred to fester and boil on its haunches. He wants, thirsts for their tormentor’s condemnation. To make him suffer as they have.

Eddie goes pliant; already, their thoughts are starting to turn, to connection, to understanding. 

To companionship. 

And suddenly, the twin visions of the two of them, arm in arm, heart in heart, are speaking of accommodations and agreements and promises. 

He accepts, touched by the creature’s blight so similar to his own. No longer will they be denied. Not when they are together, inextricably entwined. 

The creature’s--the Other’s--gratitude is offered silently, without words, and it’s sinking into his flesh again. It’s easier to endure this time; they’re much better acquainted. 

The Other reorients its mass to mold with his, structuring itself to form a new, mutual identity. Nails rupture from their beds and sharpen into points. Teeth shapes into a bear-trap. His vision and senses clear, crystallizes. He tastes adrenaline; new-found vigor buds and pulses into his muscles.

A metamorphosis. 

A portrait of harmonious pieces composed into something supernatural. They drag their sluiced, barbed tongue over jagged fangs, a grin stretches and mangles across their monstrous face. 

Basking in their shared vengeance, fury, and spite, they step out into the light of their future. 

Listening to the night, life courses through them with a breathless flush. They let that vitality strengthen them, making them run faster and jump farther, taking to the rooftops for the simple joy of doing so. 

Eddie has never felt so powerful. Beastly. 

@symbruary Day 23 - Monster

[imnearlyalwaysbored]

Julian had left the rest of his clothes in a pile on the floor. He was standing in the shower in just his underwear, letting the water run down over his face, his hair.

Swallowing hard, Emma stripped down to her panties and camisole and stepped in after him. The water was scalding hot, filling the small stone space with steam. He stood unmoving under the spray, letting it streak his skin with the pale scarlet of light burns.

Emma reached around him and turned the temperature down. He watched her, wordless, as she took up a bar of soap and lathered it between her hands. When she put her soapy hands on his body he inhaled sharply as if it hurt, but he didn’t move even an inch.

She scrubbed at his skin, almost digging her fingers into his skin as she scraped at the blood. The water rank pinkish-red into the drain. The soap had a strong smell of lemon. His body was hard under her touch, scarred and muscled, not a young boy’s body at all. Not anymore. When had he changed? She couldn’t remember the day, the hour, the moment.

He bent his head and she worked the lather into his hair, stroking her fingers through the curls. When she was done, she tilted back his head, let the water run over both of them until it ran clear. She was soaked to the skin, her clothes sticking to her. She reached around Julian to turn the water off, and felt him turn his head into her neck, his lips against her cheek.

She froze. The steam rose up around them. Julian’s chest was rising and falling fast, as if he were close to collapsing after a race. Dry sobs, she realized. He didn’t cry — she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him cry. He needed the release of tears, she thought, but he’d forgotten the mechanisms of weeping after so many years of holding back.

She put her arms around him. “It’s all right,” she said. The water fell on and over them, and his skin was hot against hers. She swallowed the salt of her own tears. “Julian —“

He drew back as she raised her head, and their lips brushed — and it was instant, desperate, more like a tumble over a cliff’s edge than anything else. Julian’s mouth was hot above hers, his lips slanting against Emma’s, jolts shuddering through her at the contact. “Emma, my God, Emma,” he groaned into her mouth, sounding almost stunned. His hands knotted in the soaked material of her camisole. “Can I —?”

She nodded, feeling the muscles in his arms tighten. He swung her up into his arms. She shut her eyes, clutching at him, his shoulders, his hair, her hands slippery with soap as he carried her into the bedroom, tumbling her onto the bed. A second later he was above her, braced on his elbows, his mouth devouring hers feverishly.

Frantic gestures rid them of their clothes. She and Julian were skin to skin now: she was holding him against her body, her heart. He was hot and hard, pressed against her thigh. His hand slid down, shaking fingers dancing across her breasts, stroking her skin, moving down to her hipbone. “Let me —“

She knew what he wanted to say: let me please you, let me make you feel good first. But that wasn’t what she wanted, not now. She tilted her hips upward. “Come closer,” she whispered. “Closer —“

He gave a half-hopeless groan, unable to wait any more than she was. He slid inside her, setting every nerve in her body on fire. They both gasped. He drew back and thrust into her again, swallowing her moans with his kisses. His hands gripped her hips; every movement was fierce, frantic and Emma knew: these were the tears he couldn’t cry, the words of grief he couldn’t speak. This was the relief he could only allow himself like this, in the annihilation of shared desire.

Pleasure was rising inside her, sharp as pain, spiraling. Every movement drove her closer and closer to the edge; her hands slid down Julian’s back, his skin slick with sweat. He was pushing himself closer to that cliff’s edge, too, she knew, but refusing to go over; his fingers dug into the sheets on either side of her, his knuckles white with effort: he was holding on with a grip like iron, determined to push them both further and deeper into oblivion.

Her legs rose to twine around his waist; she saw his eyelashes flutter with pleasure, the deepening look of painful rapture on his face. He threw his head back as she arched up against him, his breath coming in harsh gasps, and Emma knew her own loss of control was fueling his. Stay with me, Jules, she whispered, and let herself go.

She felt her parabatai rune spark against her skin like a brand, and she jammed her hand into her mouth just in time to stifle her scream as everything imploded, pleasure searing through her like blinding white light.

His eyes flew wide open. His body surged against hers, his control shattering into a million pieces. He gasped her name as he fell apart, shuddering against her. Emma thought she might black out: she held onto Julian as if she would drown otherwise; she could no longer think, only feel.

She hung in that suspended space for what felt like a thousand years and a split second, all at the same time. When the world had meaning again, Julian had rolled them both sideways, taking his weight off her body. In the darkness, his eyes shone like glass. “I can’t lose you,” he said. For the first time since the Council meeting, the awful tension was gone from his voice: he sounded like Julian again. “I can’t lose you, Emma. I can’t. I won’t.”

She could not find words. She drew him close, kissed his forehead, and murmured meaningless noises of comfort against his skin in the dark.

[idxchanyeol-blog]

welcome oblivion.

in which chanyeol and @doyoonid find themselves at the beginning of the end.

Poizn have always been on a timer. From day one it had seemed like a silent, unacknowledged truth between them that this was never going to last. They’re trouble, people say, shrouded in infamy. They were a time bomb, waiting to blow and, if Chanyeol had anything to do with it at least, bring down half of the company that he blames for his misfortunes with them. And yet the years creep by, repeatedly they manage to pull themselves back from the brink of oblivion and prove that maybe, just maybe, it could work.

The years have begun to mellow Chanyeol slightly, his spite and disdain for the company diverted to other channels to get what he wants. As much as it pains him to do so, he decides to play the game. They continue their upwards trajectory and he decides it’s best to simply make a quiet exit at the end of their contracts and move onto other things rather than making a show of breaking the shackles. It’s difficult to petition other companies from the courtroom dock or the dungeon after all. When Love Scenario comes around, he begins to convince himself that perhaps the detonator was a dud.

But now the countdown is about to hit zero, and everything is primed to explode.

When the company bring them in mid-way through promotions for Killing Me (The first song they’ve released in a long time that matches his taste, by the by) he thinks nothing of it. One of them has probably just been clumsy, slipped up or put their foot in their mouths again. Usual Poizn things to be swept under the carpet. When they’re pulled in individually, the solemn look on the faces opposite soon cause him to re-evaluate, brows knitting into a frown.

The situation is explained, two of the other members are suing for release from their contracts, and whilst Poizn won’t be formally disbanded they’ll be put on indefinite hiatus and focus on solo careers instead. Chanyeol simply sits, stony faced and staring into their eyes, features filling with more fire and fury with every passing second. After a while the words begin to blur together, Chanyeol too furious to process the barrage of information.

All he hears is that two people are fleeing the sinking ship that they’d swore they’d all go down on together. All he hears is that they’ve waited until the very end, the moment that could cause the most lasting damage to all of them, to do something so objectively stupid. All he hears is that the closest thing he’s had to family is being torn apart from the inside.

All he hears is that he’s been betrayed by those he trusted.

The two in question are conspicuous in their absence, perhaps just as well. Had they had the nerve to show their faces they’d likely have had meetings with his fists as well as management, and right now a low profile is the order of the day. He only realizes that his own meeting has reached it’s conclusion when the room is filled with silence, eyes looking at him expectantly. It sits for a moment, stagnates as he realizes that battle lines have been drawn and that he is on the side of those he’d once considered enemies. A strange feeling, to say the least.

Rising to his feet, he simply bows and makes a wordless exit. He’s not the first to go in, unsure if he’s the last. Head still reeling, stomach tying itself in knots, each step through the halls serves simply to swirl the maelstrom of emotion. At least they’ve had the decency to tell them rather than them finding out through the media; in truth it’s more than he’s expected from them.

Where he’s going is a mystery, home perhaps, or at least some quiet corner of the building to compose his thoughts. Company is perhaps not the best idea given his current temperament, so wherever he lands he knows it’ll be alone. The universe seems to have other ideas though. As he begins in the direction of the lobby a familiar face, though for how much longer is another mystery, stands in his path.

“Doyoon, hyung, what the fuck is going on. Have they called you in yet?” He says plainly upon approach, pulling himself together enough to actually form a sentence. It’s intended as a question, but comes out as a statement. There’s something teasing the back of his voice, something unfamiliar that you’d only notice if you were finely attuned to his usual mannerisms and even only then if you were straining. Panic. Uncertainty.  Fear. “You’re supposed to be the sensible one, tell me that I’m not the only one who thinks this whole thing is insane.” The words come fast and louder than perhaps is ideal, laced with their usual venom and thrown with force before he even has a chance to answer. He can feel the glare still lingering on his face, tries his best to contain the raging beast within, hopes that Doyoon knows it isn’t directed at him. “When they came to me with this idea I didn’t think they’d actually follow through, the fucking morons.”

“They’ll listen to you. You could still talk them out of this.”