#feeling a little untethered with ao3 being down

[strawlessandbraless]

‘It’s not gay if I’m just checking to make sure my dick is bigger than his’

[uncouth-the-fifth]

click - Sam Winchester/Reader

read it on ao3.

Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (circa season 1) Tags/Warnings: cabin-in-the-woods moment, fluffy bestie banter, virgin reader, first time sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, and of course, Sam is a pussy god, as per usual. Word Count: ~20k (shhhh don't talk about it i have a problem) Notes: that's right, i make moodboards now bitches. these photos were collaged by my wonderful commissionee @daffodil-mania, who asked for: ""a reverse (you are a) natural, baby? where sam is the reader’s first time + a smutty cabin in the woods-type situation." Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!

“Okay, okay,” you thought out loud, thinking hard, “my turn—if you could have anyone as a dinner guest, alive or dead, who’d you pick?”

A few paces ahead of you, Sam hummed in thought. His puffy winter coat made the outline of him against the swirling snow thicker, and if it was possible, taller, a menacing wall of deep blue between you and the woods. Something hiding out here and spying could even mistake Sam for something scary. Luckily, you weren’t that stupid.

Sam, for the millionth time in the last minute, checked that you were where you were supposed to be. (Two immediate steps behind him. Or he’d die). Looking back at you made the wind mess up his hair every time, and every time Sam tucked the same two strands behind his ears again. Like the shy girls in rom-coms did. Truly, monsters trembled at the sight of him.

He geeked at your question, but managed to play it cool: “Gandhi. Feel like he could teach me something. We’d probably like the same food, too, so it’d make for a good dinner.”

“Oh yeah, he was a vegetarian, right? You two could have a nerdy little salad together.”

Under the soft swell of the wind, you thought you heard Sam laugh, but it picked up in loud gusts at times that swirled skirts of untethered snow around your ankles. Well, your knees. The snow was tall enough here to seep into your boots. You’d given up totally on finding your own footing and started walking in Sam’s tracks, which were wider than yours almost all the way around. You told yourself that this was to confuse anyone tracking your prints in the snow, but really it was just fun to compare your shoe size to Sam’s. This set the walk back to the cabin at a snail’s pace. But with the way this conversation was going, you didn’t exactly mind freezing your ass off.

John had left his boys yet another unfinished hunt to distract them. Sam and Dean, tired of being distracted, changed tactics and split up. Dean was following a lead in Montana that could actually take him to John, and you and Sam were tying up John’s loose ends in upper Washington. The two of you had spent the last three days researching bloody disappearances in the area. An area in the thick of its snowiest, blurriest season, mind you, miles from anything but one of the Winchesters’ off-the-grid apocalypse shelters. This wasn’t how you and your mother had operated when you’d hunted together, but. Things changed. Parents disappeared.

Sam seemed to be shoving himself through John’s absence as best he could. You got smiles out of him here and there, but especially today, playing question games to pass the time mapping the woods and putting down traps.

“Gandhi was a fruitarian,” Sam clarified. He shielded his face from the snow by hiding in his collar, so you may have misheard when he added, “So, yeah. Him or my mom.”

Months ago, a mention of Sam’s mom would’ve shocked you into a full-on coma. He kept her memory even closer to his chest than Dean did, in some ways, and either brother even sneezing in the direction of their storied past had been a once-in-a-lifetime event. Before this hunt, that is. Now you couldn’t get Sam to shut up. Either the isolation had made him lonely or something else had pushed him to trust you, because the last two days had been spent this way—trudging through snow and spilling your guts about everything under the sun together. Sam loved to read and watch documentaries, he was fascinated by astronomy and meteorology and organized crime history and Native American folklore, and, hey, big surprise, reading. You’d never heard him talk about anything with so much passion. You hadn’t heard that passion in your own voice since before you’d lost your mom.

Still. As comfortable as you suddenly felt with Sam, you were sure to tread lightly. You risked a glimpse at his broad, snow-dusted back. “Mary would be nice too. Maybe you’d get to try some family recipe she’d make or something.”

“I think I remember my dad tellin’ me once that she hated cooking, actually, but m’ not sure,” Sam said, a bit of humor in his voice.

You thought of the soup Sam had turned to lava over the wood stove that morning, and grinned, “Yeah, I think you got that from her.”

Keeping casual eyes on your feet, you tried to see how fast you could get your boot through each foothold in the snow. Sam would make deep gouges in the powder with his longer strides. Crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch. You’d clear them three in a row, sometimes four, then stop short a step behind Sam and wait for him to make more tracks. Like hopscotch, almost. Every once in a while a huge gust of wind would force Sam to stop, and without a word he’d form a wall between you and the blast. You’d learned pretty much everything there was to know about Sam these last few days, but out of all his best dorky qualities his chivalry was your favorite.

“S’ not that I hate cookin’, I just suck attit.”

And the accent. The accent was gold, when the pretty drawl of it crept through with Sam’s boredom.

A little further and the spindly, snow-heavy trees parted for the lake you and Sam had been using to navigate. On your first day scouting you’d noticed how the icy surface had frozen like a misshapen heart, and since then Sam followed the point of it back to your cabin every night. Southeast of it was the abandoned mining facility that’d swallowed three people whole, and to its far right was where three more had disappeared. Your guess was a couple of territorial tree nymphs or werewolves, and Sam was betting on a Winter Hunger. The loser would take the first shift driving down to Montana.

Seeing the lake, Sam starts to arc your march around the edge, his sharp eyes on the treeline across the ice. The wind was stronger with room to run over the lake, but you reminded yourself that being a little cold was the gentlest way to die out here and forged ahead. Besides, most of your body had gone stark numb miles back. When you remembered how bad your cheeks were stinging, you’d bring your scarf tighter around your face and watch Sam, his long legs cutting easily through the snow.

The wind cooled down to a whisper. You reminded him, “Your turn.”

You’d reached a point where coming up with good questions had become harder than answering them, so Sam took a bit to stew on something good. There’d been a silent agreement on who was responsible for which kinds of asks. You would probe Sam with the deepest, most personal shit you could come up with, and after he explained what his life’s accomplishment was and what friendship means to him, Sam would go, uhhhh, what’s your favorite color? He was definitely the smartest shovel in the Winchester shed.

“How about this,” Sam cleared his throat. “Would you ever wanna be famous?”

You must’ve made a noise that gave away your surprise at the quality of his question, because he made a snooty sound back that had you seriously considering shoving him in the snow. You put your hands on his shoulders and everything, but where there should’ve been normal guy shoulders there were buff guy shoulders, which wouldn’t budge an inch. Sigh. What a lousy, muscly jackass.

Sam planted his feet, whining your name. “C’mon. Answer.”

“I’m thinking!” You laughed, and pushed with your legs until Sam tilted forward into his next step. It took a moment for you to keep your hands to yourself. “Okay. In this hypothetical world, what am I famous for?”

“Supermodel,” Sam answered right away.

You splashed a little snow at his jeans, deciding to save your funny feelings about his answer for later self-reflection. “Dude. Be realistic.”

At this, Sam snickered, and even with him facing forward you could imagine the dry sloping smile pressing into his dimples. “Okay—across the whole entire world, you’re famous for cooking the perfect soup in a can. Like, in ways no one can even imagine, that’s how good. You make millions of dollars off it and become a household name. Would you want that?”

“God, no,” you wuffed out, immediately sending Sam into a fit of giggles. “Are you kidding me? All those strangers knowing me, not giving me any privacy? And don’t even get me started on all those soup-hounds throwing themselves at me for my soup-money.”

“I guess that’s true. You could never marry for love, 'cause everybody would just want your soup,” Sam mourned. Another great Sam quality: he was excellent at going along with a bit. “You’d just have to live with brief soup-flings for the rest of your life.”

You thought about what a soup-fling could entail for all of one second, then burst out laughing, warm clouds of it spiraling into the air through your breath. The shoulders of Sam’s coat shook with glee. It was funny for a few more beats until it warmed into something that was light and airy, something you hadn’t heard from Sam since you’d met him. He had the sweetest laugh. It made your damn teeth rot.

“Y’know, speaking of flings,” you hollered over the hissing wind, “I have no idea how your brother does that shit.”

Dean was safe and familiar territory; he was the centerpiece of everything you had in common with Sam, so your conversation circled back to him plenty. Every conversation you’d had with Dean orbited around Sam some way, too, so you’d come to expect it. You’d never seen two brothers care about each other as much as they did. Which was hilarious, since the moment one of them got you alone all they did was bitch. Dean’s been driving me up the damn wall. Sam keeps stickin’ his nose in my business. Neither of them had ever had a trusted third set of eyes before, or at least one who understood that their complaints were overshadowed with love. John had been someone to look up to, to emulate and impress, but you were a fresh outlet available for family baggage. The boys were your outlet for bitching too, since it was understood that your bitching also came from the heart.

“A girl in every port sounds fun in theory, but I feel like I’d get sick of it fast,” you confessed.

The snow underfoot began to crunch harder with each step, packed down into a firm sheet. Soon Sam’s prints were so shallow that you could see the tips of your boots again. Taking the chance while you had it, you fought against the snow to walk side-by-side with him, then fought again to match him stride-for-stride. Sam’s poor face had been pounded with so much snow that his bangs were soaking wet, but he still managed a half-frozen smile seeing you next to him.

“And, I dunno. I think I care about hurting people’s feelings too much to just…” you gestured stiffly, “head to the next town after sharing a night with someone.”

“Same here,” Sam sighed, then gave a very subtle cough as a sign to shift gears: “But, uh, I think it’s kinda a stress relief thing for him.”

You probably should’ve guessed that Sam wasn’t the fling type, since you’d been there every time he’d shied away from Dean’s plans to pick up girls, but the idea… sat there. Staring at you. It’d be stupid-easy for Sam to live that lifestyle. Dean had his own notions about what girls were most into (bad boys, leather jackets, you know), but you happened to be certified in what girls were into, and you had it on good authority that Sam was a total dreamboat.

You nudged Sam with your shoulder, coaxing him open with a well-placed smile. This was unearthed territory. “Not your thing, huh?”

The snow had pinkened Sam’s face enough as it was, so what he was capable of on his own was downright impressive. Even his ears went red. “Uhh,” he chuckled, too skittish to look you in the eye. “No, not really. I’m. I, uh, I’d rather get to know her first, y’know. Before we’re intimate. And hopping towns doesn’t exactly give you the time to do that.”

Yup. Total dreamboat.

“Oh, so that’s your plan, asking me all these personal questions.”

Sam controlled his sputtering by pressing his lips into a firm, flat line, which refused to indulge your silly flirting. “You’re a jackass,” he said, and the growing smile in his voice betrayed just how little he thought that was true.

When you were done laughing at your own joke, Sam guessed, “So that’s not your thing, either? One night stands?”

You were having fun—pulling Sam’s leg, for one, but also talking to him in general, so the truth glides right out of your mouth.

“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never had sex.”

Sam had left his filter two states behind on the drive up, so he doesn’t even think to cap his disbelief. He scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

His mortification with himself makes contact two beats later, and while you’re smirking and floating unbothered across the snow, Sam nearly goes belly-up falling over himself to apologize.

You soak up his groveling until Sam’s embarrassment hits a breaking point, then, in your humblest and kindest princess voice, you say, “It’s cool, Sam. No worries. I’m not at all offended you think it’s weird I’m a virgin.”

“I don—I-I don’t think it’s weird,” Sam stressed, going a little wild in the eyes. “It’s great! …I mean, not like, great, I just mean. It’s not a bad thing or anything.”

You meet his awkward silence with a smug, pleased one of your own. Sam’s smart enough to realize he’s stumbled into your trap, but not quick enough to find an escape, so he sputters for a long time and falls back on his third option.

“I’m just wondering,” he winces, knowing his question is stupid, “why are you still a virgin?” You’re about to laugh in his face, but the earnestness in Sam’s voice makes you hesitate. His question is a genuine one. “...That sounds awful, m’ sorry. But, c’mon. You’re smart enough to know how pretty you are. Charmin’ enough to use it, too. I mean, I’d…”

He caught himself. “—Anyone, would, uh…”

Sam didn’t finish his thought. He changed his grip on the shotgun swinging from his hand, self-conscious, and cleared his throat.

Well. That wasn’t obvious at all. No way in hell you were leaving that alone.

“You’d what?”

Sam didn’t say anything. He just tucked his hair behind his ears again, too shy to say what he was thinking but bold enough to let it be spoken in his silence instead. And it was a very, very telling silence.

Your brain scrambled to cram as much as possible into the blank Sam had left. There was so much potential in that one little word. I’d…

I’d understand if someone wanted to have sex with you.

I’d have found someone by now, if I were you.

I’d have sex with you.

I’d take that opportunity, ______, if I could.

Hm. Okay. Okay, huh. There weren’t a lot of people in the world capable of making you question your life decisions so quickly, but of course, this was Sam. His silence persevered. Your train of thought became an internal trainwreck.

A few opportunities had cropped up over the course of your life—third dates with guys that hadn’t totally sucked, a few handsome barflies—but nothing had… clicked. Because there was supposed to be a click, right? Before sex? Some compass in your body, moving you in a certain direction? You hoped to drift toward something that fit better than a stranger, but like Sam had said, that level of commitment wouldn’t be waiting for you out on the road. You could hook up with civilians or hunters as you pleased, but just the thought made your chest ache. Real connection wouldn’t be waiting for you in the back of a truck or a sleazy motel. Hunters lived short lives, sure, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be a hopeless romantic.

You’d held onto that notion for a long time. Someday, something would click, and it’d be worth the damn wait.

Now, Sam was here, blinking coyly at you through his bangs, keeping you close to him, listening when you spoke. Click, goes your brain. Like a gear notching into place. He has those mossy, sensitive eyes that pry right open just for you and the prettiest rasp to his voice. Click click.

“C’mon,” Sam coughs. “Cabin’s just ahead.”

I’d… Sam had said, and left you to fill in the blanks.

_

The next day, both of you were proven wrong. You found out the hard way that the disappearances weren’t caused by cannibalistic spirits or werewolves. After getting mauled by living hills of snow and almost swallowed by an avalanche, you and Sam got the very subtle and not-at-all-lethal impression that you were dealing with an insane case of cursed ground. (Cur-sed, Sam had said, because he was fancy.) It took some on-the-spot ritual work and a day’s worth of walking to bury hex bags in the right spots, but by dusk you were alive and comfortable back in the cabin.

“I say we stick around for one more night—make sure this place is clean,” Sam suggested, shaking himself out on the welcome mat. When he shucked his coat off, the silky interior and the back of his shirt were dark with melted snow.

You glanced between Sam, who was blue at the edges, and the shifting tides of flakes on the wind outside. If you stared long enough the whole mountainside seemed to come alive in the dark.

“Uh,” you told him, “are you sure? If we got even one of those spells wrong, what’s stopping this thing from burying the whole cabin?”

But Sam had already thought of that, like he’d already thought of everything else. He rose from where he’d been kicking off his boots to give your icy hands a quick, warming squeeze. “I got it covered. Go—get a fire started, and fast.”

Since you were still riding the wave of adrenaline that’d kept you alive against moving, living forces of nature, you were already following Sam’s orders before he’d finished saying them. He didn’t act hardly as hurried. Being soaked and half-frozen was apparently second nature to him, since he navigated uninhibited through the duffle of ingredients you’d unloaded on the cabin’s floor. Your fingers were so numb that it took three tries to scrape some fire out of your matches, and by then Sam was already tying off his millionth hexbag of the day.

You didn’t regain your senses until a few minutes later, which passed as slow as hours did. Somehow in that sliver of time you’d hauled more firewood inside, hurried it into the fireplace, lit it, helped Sam bury the protection spells around the yard, raced back inside, and laid all your wet clothes out in front of the hearth. The second the doors were locked, your high started to tank. Sam was talking.

“—will last us through til’ tomorrow. Then, in the morning, we can use the spell to see if the land is purified. It might even be a good idea to check with the dowsing rods, too. If this ground is as cursed as we think, the hexbags will be just fine, though, so you don’t have to worry. You listenin’?”

Sam was a big, fuzzy-edged shape sitting criss-cross on the ratty rug a few paces from the fire. His silhouette was outlined by it in handsome shades of gold and honey-white, ‘cause of course he was the kind of movie beautiful that suited romantic fire lighting. Like, really romantic. Your brain had been baking in the panicked sludge of fleeing and hunting all day, but even it was capable of looking at that image of Sam and going, Uh, yeah. There’s something going on here.

For the last few days, the two of you had purified the ground of the cabin, too. It was the most telling relic of Sam and Dean’s life with John Winchester: rationed, unglamorous, and harsh. John was usually an out-of-bounds subject for the boys, but Sam had spent the last few days describing him at length. He was paranoid and obsessive—hence the cabin’s military rations, hidden weapons, traps, metric fucktons of salt, and next to nothing else. John hated any music and technology post-1980—hence the cabin’s record player. It was the only source of entertainment on hand, and the same three records only lasted so long. Even as hunter’s hovels went, this one was impressively oppressive.

Sam, plagued by abysmal hunter-kid memories of being stuck out here, had warned you about it ahead of time. You’ll get bored and miserable. He’d said that and you’d thought to yourself how hard it would be to get bored and miserable around Sam, who mystified you just sitting there. Still, you splurged on some big fluffy blankets, the shittiest and cheapest chess set you could find, pillows, and s’mores. Not exactly the John Winchester essentials, but. Just in case.

Stuffing the footwell of Sam’s stolen truck with cozy bullshit had been worth it in the end, purely because you wouldn’t wish the sleeping situation in the cabin on your worst enemy. There was a single, boxspring-less bed crammed in the bedroom’s corner, with a blanket too pitiful to put into words. It only had one pillow. This pillow also happened to be of unknown origin and age, and you were only brave enough to touch it because you’d worn your big girl pants that day. Sam had banked on the two sleeping bags he and Dean had left there as kids, but they were unfortunately still kid-sized. The two of you would’ve been forced to share body heat under one petal-thin blanket. Now, loaded up with massive, fuzzy comforters and heavy quilts, the two of you were happily sharing body heat under enough blankets to drown in.

Sam had insisted on making a bed for himself on the floor the first night. You’d let him, purely because he was pouring on the chivalry by the truckload and you were too grateful to know what to say. Any plans to argue were pinned down by that stern, unguarded stare. S’okay, I’ve been sleepin’ like this since I was little. Just a few minutes sinking into your snug nest made you rot with guilt. Being on the road with the boys put you in a bed with Sam plenty of times, and though the quarters were a bit tighter in the cabin, the cold was sharper too. You confessed your guilt to Sam the next day, and after the usual research marathon that night you felt his weight fill the untouched side of the bed.

Okay, Sam had caved. But—you’re sleeping on the inside, by the wall. I’m a lighter sleeper. That way if somethin’ comes in, I can protect you.

Hearing that, you’d grabbed his wrist and pulled it over your side. You’d kept one hand fisted around the knife under your pillow and the other folded over Sam’s hand, as if to say, I can protect you, too. Sam must’ve understood, because he’d pressed his cheek against your shoulder blade and succumbed to sleep. The rest of the week was spent like that, Sam herding you against one side of the slim bed with his legs and his arms and his sleepy-soft breaths. Though the bed was toasty and the contact was a one-stop sleeping pill, you stayed up with your knife for company. Sam deserved to feel safe while he slept.

You didn’t get that often as a hunter. Especially the touching part. Touching of any kind only really happened when you trusted someone, and trust was earned on the road with all the ease and painlessness of pulling teeth. In Sam’s case, he was an untapped well for little doses of affection. The moment that line was crossed, the second you’d taken a hit in his place for the first time, the second you’d torn your own clothes to wrap his wounds, Sam was open to you. He would never reach for your hand first (not if he was still Sam, who thought he didn’t deserve it), but you could reach for his and he would take it without question. You could pull his arm around you and Sam would wrap it tight, pressing his nose into your back. There was an exchange that occurred. He trusted you to give him something he was too proud to ask for and you trusted him to let you in, the two of you careful not to break the magic.

While he poked at the fire and lit candles, you flitted to the other room to scoop up a blanket to wrap yourself up in. The constant back-and-forth insanity of the day had made you too nauseous to eat, but you knew your stomach needed something. Preferably something sweet to trick you into feeling rewarded. Military rations really weren’t your thing, so you opted for the pomegranate Sam had avoided to keep his research papers clean.

He’d been going through your plan for tomorrow, right. “I’m listening, Sammy.”

When you circled back to join him on the rug, you opened up an arm of your blanket-cape for him. Sam, without comment, ducked under it, and you shuffled around for a minute to give his broader shoulders some fabric to work with. “All we can do for now is wait,” he told you, “so… whaddya wanna do?”

You put a bowl down in front of you and started splitting the pomegranate with your knife. “Chess again?”

Sam’s lip slanted in a frown. All his energy for smart stuff had been spent on the hunt today, so you weren’t all that surprised at his reluctance.

“Cards, then?” You guessed. Beads of rich red fruit started to fill your bowl, which Sam didn’t hesitate to sneak a hand into.

“There’s only so many rounds of Go Fish a guy can handle losing, _____,” Sam teased.

It was true. You’d obliterated him every round so far, the poor bastard.

Sam leaned into your side, filling your peripherals with his know-it-all smirk. “Unless you—”

“We’re done playing poker,” you said, having suffered your fair share playing against him. The emptiness of your wallet must’ve reflected in your voice, since Sam started snickering into his lap—and yeah, maybe the whole cute-shy-guy routine had worked on you, but knowing Sam he’d find a way to sneak the money he’d won out of you back into your bag. He was sweet that way. Evil, but sweet.

“Okay,” Sam wet his lips and wracked his brain. “...I could read my book to you. It’s the one I was telling you about—”

“—with the corrupt cops in L.A,” you filled in. Separating the pomegranate seeds from their core was bloody work with your knife, so when the natural halves of it were happily in the bowl you picked the rest apart with purple-stained fingers.

“Uh-huh. And we’re at a part I think you’d find pretty interesting, all the crazy trial stuff.” Sam shrunk into his shoulders a little bit, then added in a quiet voice, “If you, y’know. If you want.”

Hmm. You swiped the book from Sam’s other hand, the planes of his fingers making brief, electric contact with yours. A sharp flash of heat whipped through your belly, sizzling through your nerves. It took a bit for you to refocus, but the pause made you look like you were some deep scholarly person really inspecting the back cover, which Sam seemed to appreciate. You took care not to get any fruit stains on the pages. When you turned to pass it back to him, Sam was rubbing his bruised knuckles into his sleepier eyes. How he could keep reading after staring at nothing but old newspapers all week, you had no clue.

You reeled the book back toward you. “...How about I read it to you?”

Sam froze, considering this. He considered it so long that you could watch his cheeks color in real-time, the same red they’d been in the snow, until he broke out of his trance and managed a warm, surprised sort of smile.

“Okay,” Sam melted.

“C’mere, lawboy,” you decided on a whim, and pat the top of your thigh. True to form, Sam took his permission and ran with it, twisting shyly to lay on his side and prop his cheek on your leg. “Lemme impress you with all the big words I know how to say.”

Sam chuckled, and it was the kind of laugh that told you just how many weird law words were about to trip you up. It was also the kind of laugh you could feel, rumbly and real through your leg, which was. It was. It was something. He got comfortable, curling a lazy arm around your knee and using you as a proper pillow.

You really should’ve put more thought into having Sam this close. Like, really should’ve, since he’s so big and warm that it has you running on nothing but instinct, and your first impulse having Sam in your lap is to go straight for that gorgeous hair.

You take the lock Sam’s been messing with all day and tuck it behind his ear, just because his head is there and you need a damn place for your hand to rest. Right. A deep and draining sigh airs out of Sam’s nose being touched like that, and you start to wonder if this was something he’d masterminded. He seeps into your lap like he’d been chasing this all day, all week, and something about it makes you feel special in ways no one else could manage.

You open to the page Sam left off on and start to read. Sam doesn’t move an inch, laying statue-still in your lap. He only moves to sneak pinches of pomegranate seeds. Stiff as he is, he’s there, the furnace you’ve relied on for the last few days to keep warm. You get through a few chapters this way, Sam pausing you every ten seconds to explain something or hum or snootily translate some lawyer-speak for you. The whole time you do an excellent job of keeping your hands to yourself. Ever since Sam’s comment from yesterday, the little pieces you’ve gotten of him have made you greedy. Click.

The fire and the candlelight create a perfect bubble of heat on the otherwise icy floor, so it doesn’t take long for Sam to go from resting in your lap to downright oozing across it. From your point of view he’s nothing but a mop of shining hair and a big hand curled around your knee. His presence seeps into you as much as his warmth does, and after so long it’s almost overwhelming to taste someone else’s vulnerability this way. Click click. You’re reminded of how much you care about Sam, and how long it’s been since you’ve been allowed that. There was something about him that would always be worth protecting. Maybe it was how fucking good he smelled.

“Doctor Janen’s contributions to the investigation, especially her knowledge of luminol, were,” you trailed off, “were…”

Sam’s breathing had evened out in your lap. Or, you thought it had, until his posture shifted under the sweater he was wearing. He rolled out of your lap and onto his hands with a reluctant groan. Tired as he was, Sam was always capable of being a smartass. “D’you know what luminol is?”

“Yes, detective,” you scoffed, maybe a teensy bit disappointed that he’d left your lap. The outline of his touch on your thigh burned like a heat beacon. “Should I go back and read the last few paragraphs, or was that you just pretending to sleep?”

Sam rubbed at his face, like it was possible to physically scrub the sleep from it. He sat up next to you, blinking slowly to get his bearings, and for no logical reason your heartbeat built to an ear-ringing throb in your chest. You were completely alone with him. For once, you had Sam all to yourself. Soft shadows kissed his arms and hands and neck. He was made up of nothing but full endless sloping lines, a charcoal sketch come to life.

“I was restin’ my eyes,” he sassed. “We should stay sharp through tonight, though. Stay up. I can take the first shift, since you’ve taken the last three.”

You didn’t miss the little nod to your sleeping habits. Which meant Sam had also laid awake long enough to know you hadn’t fallen asleep until late, which meant he’d laid awake next to you. In bed. Thinking with that big brain of his. It made your own big brain run around in crazy circles, chasing whatever conclusions he might come to.

You stole a glance at the nearest window. The salt lines were laid neatly on its sil, on the off chance boarding up the glass turned out to be useless. “That’s okay. I’m not exactly tired yet.”

Sam popped a few pomegranate seeds into his mouth, humming in thought. “Then it’d probably be smartest to keep each other up.”

“Samuel!” You gasped. He froze mid-chew, confused, and remained confused until you started poking him and laughing. “I’d expect a line like that from your brother, but never from you.”

You were a tease-first-ask-questions-later kind of person, so you understood Sam’s particular brand of banter and how he liked to respond to yours. Typically, you’d annoy him with a playful little taunt and Sam would let you know you were funny by calling you a jackass. You waited for Sam to hear your line and brush you off as an idiot. Instead, he did something much more interesting: he got defensive.

“I meant stay up like, like talking,” he sputtered. “I would never—y’know. I wouldn’t. Do, uh. Do that. Why don’t we keep up our question game from before? It’s, it’s your turn, right?”

“Okay. What was your first time like?”

Well. Shit.

This was the fastest question that either one of you had managed to whip out all week, and that fact hung so obviously in the air that you could feel it between you and Sam on the floor. It dropped so hard in the middle of the conversation that it shut you both up, silencing Sam’s sputtering and veering your train of thought to a shrieking, sparking halt. Sam was smart. His big brain would put together—had probably already put together—that you’d thought about asking him this. He might even be smart enough to intuit why you’d been itching to bring this subject back up, and for the first time in your life you prayed that Sam was the dumbest, most thick-headed man to ever hunt with you.

He did a great impression of someone less clever than himself. “Like. The first time I…?”

You chewed a few pomegranate seeds. “Uh-huh.”

“...Right.” Sam registered. He conveniently decided to fixate on the fire instead of you, which should’ve helped your sanity, if that was even possible anymore. The bulb of his nose and the swell of his lip curved just perfectly in profile, made even prettier by the firelight. God.

You panicked. “If that makes you uncomfortable—”

Sam swallowed. “No, no. You’re okay. Just thinking.”

You bit down on your tongue. Oh, awesome. Thinking! Exactly what I want you to be doing right now!

Sam swiped two sweaty, corded hands down each of his thighs. Tucked his hair behind his ears. Made your belly flutter and twist like a huge gust of wind going through a spring-fresh tree.

“I was seventeen,” Sam cleared his throat. “We were in Utah—well, I was in Utah, Dad and Dean were… Whatever. But I was sort of, um, on this rebellious streak at the time.”

You lazed back on your hands. “So, in hunter-kid terms, counting the days til’ you’re eighteen and packing your rucksack?”

An abrupt laugh barked out of Sam. His gaze loitered on your face with renewed comfort, remembering, again, that you’d both hidden your acceptance letters where no parent could see them. This was another Sam-move you knew the steps to.

“Yeah,” his eyes glittered. “Exactly.”

(The day you met Sam, the one reference you’d made to your associate’s degree had him crossing his legs under the table. He’d asked in a husky, tight voice what you’d gone to school for. Just hearing the words folklore and mythology had the guy close to pitching a tent.)

Sam managed to take his eyes off you. “But, uhm. There was this girl at school my Dad had ordered me not to hang around, so… I hung around. After a school dance. In her car.”

You were a very mature adult who was not at all jealous of a teenage Utahn, and thus sculpted your face into something playful. “Dirty,” you snickered. Sam’s light smile was encouraging, so you said as an afterthought, “Sounds like a squeeze, though. Don’t know if I’d want my first time to be in a car.”

“Especially in a tiny, cramped Nissan,” he agreed, chuckling. The smidgen of regret in his voice shouldn’t have made you feel like you’d earned a point against Random Utah Girl, but it did. You scolded yourself for it (your imaginary point gripped in one fist).

It was now Sam’s turn to ask a question, and he asked it fast. Impressively fast. “Okay, so. No car. Where would you want your first time to happen, then?”

Though you were an absolute animal when it came to Go Fish, your empty wallet was proof enough that you were a lousy poker player—due to an even lousier poker face. Hearing Sam’s question, it did you no favors. Even before you’d formed any thoughts about… everything, your body knew its answer, pointing every delicate nerve in your body toward the open doorway to the cabin’s bedroom.

You flicked a glance at the warm, intimate darkness waiting for you there.

It was only a second. But that one look was enough. Your hand was exposed, and Sam, by comparison, was an excellent poker player.

In a rush, you scrambled to put some distance between yourself and your obviousness. You winced. No way out. “Uhh, anywhere cozy. For the first time, I dunno if I’d wanna be cramped in a closet or something, no matter how sexy it may be. Is it lame to say… a bed?”

Sam hummed. As you’d talked, he’d become more and more relaxed in front of the fire, lounging on a propped-up arm and picking out of the fruit bowl. There was a long silence from him that could’ve been the weighted silence before a judge’s verdict.

…You’d never seen a judge draw his hand up to his mouth, suck pomegranate juice from the pads of his fingers, then pull off them with a noisy pop, but. But maybe they took a different approach at Stanford.

“It’s the standard for a reason, right?” Sam shrugged, amused.

He pushed the bowl across the floor with his wrist instead of his spit-slick fingers. It made a hollow scraping sound that brought your head back to the conversation, thank god, since the last seconds of your life post-fingers-to-mouth action had been spent elsewhere. The specific “elsewhere” that entailed Sam’s thick-knuckled fingers and Sam’s pretty pink mouth. You’d had the occasional intrusive thought about men creep up on you before, but the tricky part was that those thoughts pushed their way in. They jolted into your life then jolted back out.

Single-handed, Sam had hooked you, reeled you in, and pulled you “elsewhere.” Keyword: pulled. Not pushed.

…Then… maybe… pulled you again. And pushed you back. And again. Pulled out, then pushed in. Pulllled out slow, only to ssssink back in, deeper than before. Pulling and pushing with rhythm. Pulling, pushing, faster, deeper. Making you gasp and yelp his name, his fingers—Sam’s fingers—digging into your waist, your belly—

Click. Click click click click click click.

“_____?”

You’re so self-conscious you think you could feel the individual atoms of your body clanging against each other. “...Uh-huh?”

It’s your turn to ask a question next. But Sam breaks the rules and speaks first, since he knows exactly what he wants to ask you. He glides up onto one hand, his whole body a twenty-page study of lanky coyness, and tilts in close to you.

“If you could lay it all out—the timing, the place, the person…” Sam’s face glittered with a poker player’s curiosity. “What would your perfect first time be like?”

Or: Give me the manual, and I’ll follow it.

Your mouth was watering. It was one of a million things making it impossible for you to speak right now, including the sudden, nigh-unbearable heat of the room under your collar, and, oh right, the metric fuckton of slick soaking your underwear. The speed at which your arousal hits you is enough to make you dizzy, and in the haze you swear you start to hear something. Click. Click. Click click click click click click click—

Fuck. Sam is waiting for an answer. Fuck.

“I guess I’ve never thought about it before.”

Which was a blatant lie, since you’d spent the last ten minutes thinking of nothing else. Sam either sensed you weren’t telling the truth or was looking for something more, because he let you linger in your own answer, prying the rest out of you with his hanging silence.

Really, you should’ve been tougher, but the first long breath without anything from him shredded your strength. You caved and filled the quiet.

“I mean,” you toyed with your hands in your lap. “No matter what, I’d want it to be special. Bein’ out on the road, marching around, that’s not really a luxury we’re allowed to have. It’s like you said yesterday. I wanna be with someone I’m connected to, and I don’t think that’s gonna be in the back of a bar or—”

“—in a stranger’s bed,” Sam softened with understanding. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” You echoed. The fire crackled and popped, loud enough that you could use the sound as an excuse to look elsewhere. “And if I happened to find that person, they’d have to be in the life. We can only trust other hunters, nowadays.”

Sam snorted. “If we’re lucky, maybe.”

It disappointed you how much you had to agree with him. There used to be a sense of mutual understanding among the hunters you’d met, but something had shifted since you were little. The world was a much scarier place, and the hunters that’d survived to see it had darkened to meet it. You’d dodged all shades of skeevy, selfish people before you’d landed in the Impala’s backseat. Even Dean and Sam had colored the list of hunters you’d been warned to avoid. Of course, every inch of it had turned out to be triple-hand gossip. Maybe you were quick to judge or the boys were just good seeds in a shitty crop, either way, ending up with them was the kind of good luck that beat the devil.

You’d never had the chance to tell Sam that before.

“I dunno. Not to go all mushy on you, but I do feel pretty lucky.”

Sam indulged you with an inviting tilt of his head, impressed that either one of you had a sliver of luck between you. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. This last year, before I joined up with you n’ Dean, there wasn’t a single living soul out there I thought was worth putting my faith in,” you said, easing your mushy confession onto him under the guise of fact. Sam couldn’t digest it any other way. “I’m really grateful you changed that for me. It feels—it feels good to trust people. To feel like somebody knows you.”

Sigh. The side of your personal bubble filled with nothing but Sam started to seep with quiet, disbelieving fondness, and you could tell because Sam was giving you the eyes. The eyes. The ones that people brought out their wallets for and sent girls like you into romantic psychosis.

You dared to face them head-on, which was a reckless idea (probably brought on by romantic psychosis). Sure enough, his gaze was big and soulful and heart-rending. Sam was sitting so close now that you could almost soak up his body heat. The biting wind wormed its way through the thin walls and the fire was fading with it, but Sam oozed magnetic warmth by comparison. Stuff-your-face-in-his-neck kind of warmth.

“Do you feel like…” Sam rasped. He brushed the flats of his knuckles down your arm, breaking that final touch barrier. “...like I really know you?”

Your entire nervous system implodes with fluttery feelings. It’s just two fingers, brushing soft down your arm through your sweater, but. It’s confirmation. It’s Sam’s yes, I want this, and it puts into perspective how the two of you have spent the last week: alone together. Curled as one shape in bed. Talking just loud enough for only the other to hear, and never an octave higher. Never more than a few feet apart. If you reached for Sam first you knew he’d accept your hand, your boots in his bootprints, but when he coasts his palm down the swell of your shoulder it’s him reaching out for you.

You reach right back. You curl a hand up to cover his hand with yours, those big doe eyes asking that same question on repeat. Do you think I know you? Do you trust me? Do you want this?

“All I’ve got is me, you, and Dean. And it wasn’t him that I told all my deepest hopes and shittiest moments to,” you laughed. “So…”

Every other time you’ve hit this point, you’d been distracted by the logistics and the math of sex—protection, chemistry, the when and how, and the consequences of both. It’s not gonna hit you until two days after this moment, after Sam has you as many times as you want in the plush cabin bed, that there was no math with him. Just want. Just things sliding into place. Click click click.

“So…” Sam’s face tips even closer. Your head fogs with the heat and smell and presence of him, mesmerized.

He puts it all together for the two of you: “Your perfect first time would be with a hunter, somebody in the life that you trust. Somebody who could make you feel special. Somebody who really knows you.”

You smirk before you can stop yourself. “Do I need to drop any more hints, Sam?”

Damn, could that boy put a fireworks show to shame. He lit up. Sam’s shoulders did this really cute boyish swell and his lips parted, telegraphing with every piece of himself, Oh, you really want this, you really want me!

You’d never seen him wear that kind of happiness before, and it made sense why. Thank god the two of you were off the grid out here, because you didn’t doubt that Sam’s smile could pop every lightbulb in the entire country.

Sam aimed a bubbly laugh at his lap, embarrassed. “I don’t think I’m getting the full picture,” he tried to flirt, “a few more, maybe?”

So, getting less and less subtle as you went on, you explained to Sam the hypothetical author of the night of your life. He’d be sweet. Polite. Smart, too, but not the type to rub it in your face. (This made Sam laugh). He’d be gentle and considerate and frankly fucking awesome, but not so shy that he couldn’t give you a wild time.

When he was blushing so hard you stopped needing the fire for warmth, you sprinkled one last handful of flattery on him. “And, jesus,” you whistled, “this guy I’m picturing? Total dreamboat. So pretty it makes me wanna write dumb songs about him.”

Predictably, Sam got so flustered that he went back to futzing with that same strand of hair by his ear. With the touch barrier between you broken, your mind buzzed with a million different ways to reach out and feel him, to draw him in, and all those ideas coalesced seeing Sam’s hand come up to his cheek. Before you lost your resolve, you stroked the messiest portion of his bangs behind his ear for him. Sam melted. He liked to do that around you.

“Now I’d just sound arrogant if I assumed that it’s me,” Sam snorted.

You pressed the flats of your knuckles down Sam’s warm, smooth cheek. “It’s you. It’s been you for a while, actually.”

The easy, loving contact dazed him. Sam’s eyes fluttered closed, and a short, shaky breath puffed out of him in one bracing go. It was clear that he hadn’t been touched this way in a while. He sat there absorbing your touch for a long time, a cat resting his head in the full scope of your palm. You turned your body to face his and Sam’s gaze, which was layer after layer of hazels no artist could mimic, opened for you.

You thought about saying something cheesy like, wow, ain’t I lucky, having the whole world in the palm of my hand, but Sam was much faster (and much, much cheesier).

A leather-tough hand scooped around the back of your neck. The touch was fucking-christ-big and god, so was he, the line of his thumb to his wristbone as long as the length of your neck. You knew this because that’s exactly where Sam placed it, stroking your chin with his thumb. Prickling chills tickled up your legs. He scrutinized you—and you say scrutinize loosely, since the Sam-equivalent was gazing into your face like a fatal decision was held there. Your mental yes, yes, I want you was so loud that Sam could’ve psychically heard it. If he did, it was enough to make his pupils become huge pools of want.

“C’mere,” Sam grinned.

You laughed. “M’ practically nose to nose with you, Sam, I don’t have any further to—”

The rest of your teasing was lost to a louder yelp. Sam scooped his arms around your middle and. And hauled you. Into his lap.

His—lap.

There was no way to survive this landing. You were plopped right on top of his barrel-wide thighs, your every sense instantly stuffed full to bursting with every wonderful thing that made Sam himself. A steam of woody body wash and aftershave put you under his spell. Two massive hands soothing down your back glued you happily in place. Sam’s warm chuckles seeped through his chest and into your hands, because, oh yeah, you were allowed to touch him. And there was so much of him to touch now, too. The entire front of your body was cozily smushed up against his firm, longer frame, filling your hazy vision with the soft shadows on his throat and collarbones and those fucking dimples. What the fuck.

“Is this okay?” Sam asked you.

The only time you’d been permitted in another person’s space like this was to hug them. Overwhelmed with choice—you could kiss him, touch him, run your fingers through his hair this close—you defaulted to what you knew. Sam hesitated, but with a breath, the coil of his body unwound and the two of you slid together with a satisfying smush. (Or maybe a click).

Oh my god that’s good, your senses wailed, but all you could manage with your face muffled in his neck was, “Warm. Sooo warm, Sammy.”

“Is that a yes?” He hoped.

You pulled your face out of his shirt to sigh. “The biggest yes of your life.”

Sam gleamed. Being so close to the source of all happiness on earth (the toothy grin he was biting back for your benefit) should’ve instantly pulverized you and every other hot-blooded being on this side of the planet. It should’ve. But your soul was still ringing around in your feeble body, and sure enough, your calves were still snug around Sam’s thighs like they’d been before. You’d survived being inches away from Sam’s face while he smiled all shy for you, and succeeded in feeling only a teeny bit like a pile of smoking ash because of it. For a second you tricked yourself into thinking you could survive him.

That is not the case.

With impeccable timing, Sam kisses you. Just a brief, firm peck on the mouth. Testing the waters. The waters that are now a fucking ocean in your underwear, thank you very much. It’s only a two-second kiss, but the instant Sam’s lips pop off of yours an embarrassing happy squeal follows him out. Definitely not the suave reaction you were expecting from yourself. Sam just laughs, which translates as a sexy hum under your free hand.

“That was cute,” he whispers, eyes crinkling.

“Shut up, Sam.”

He hums, still brimming with that big spoiled grin. He takes you by your prickling arms and starts to pull his hands down them, again and again, squeezing the anxiety out of you in huge handsy swaths. You feel a bit better about being such a nervous wreck. His hands are trembling too.

The first kiss was good. Really good. Wetter, warmer than you were expecting, but so fucking—good. His mouth was soft and stained by the pomegranate, but, oh no, you’re already forgetting what it was like to taste him. It’s so tempting… to just… lean in…

He’s just as tempted. Sam meets you in the middle for a second kiss that he finds so satisfying, so right that this deep rumbling moan purrs right out of him. The pink swell of his lips are, of course, pressed hot to yours, filling you head to fucking toe with that single bassy note. You gasp through your nose—because nothing is worth breaking his kiss. Not a desperate breath of air, not an uttered word.

Sam kisses you with his hands as much as he dazzles you with his mouth, laying heavy touches down your back, then your waist, then your legs, inspecting and absorbing. You’re hardly as methodical. He is a wonderful beach and it’s your first time seeing the ocean. You take the biggest fistfuls of him that you can, feeling the silky sand of him slip between your greedy fingers.

Sam is apparently into being your metaphorical beach, since after he’s done melting your brain and your underwear in the most intense make-out session of your life, he pulls away to speak.

Sam rasps. “Can I take care of you?”

It takes you a moment to respond, because. Well. A, that’s the sexiest way someone has asked to have sex with you, no contest, and B, you’ve been waiting this whole time for the moment where you don’t want this anymore. With other men, your body had just never found the spark that should’ve been there. Was this time different? Had things click click clicked into place?

You take a step back to put this in perspective for your future self. As vividly as you’re able, you think about having sex with Sam. You visualize Sam’s sharp eyes, his naked back, the cut of his hips, all of it, as he fucks you straight through the shitty mattress in the cabin’s bedroom. All the sweat-twisted blankets shoved to the floor. Sam’s hips canting your thighs apart. The worn-smooth slope of his—of his fucking paws, essentially, squeezing your tits and your tummy and your waist in achy handfuls. You think about it some more. How Sam would moan, how his lashes would screw shut in ecstasy as he filled you. You keep thinking about it. When your mind starts to deviate toward the filthy, thick sound of him… o-of Sam plunging into you over and over again, smushing you under his weight… uhm. Uh.

Yeah. Yeah, this is everything you fuckin’ want.

It takes conscious effort for you to close your gaping mouth, then pry it open again to blurt: “Please, yes.”

A tiny piece of his posture relaxed in relief. Sam smushed a cute, giddy peck into your cheek, reminding your entire tingling nervous system that there was a really sweet guy underneath the deadly-efficient hunter you knew.

“Okay,” he beamed, and shyly tipped his head toward the bedroom. “Shall we?”

You feel like you should be doing more than being demure and nodding a lot, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind. After you climb out of his lap and find your footing on your jellified legs, he unfolds off the floor like bucks do, knowing on instinct how to conduct the body he has so much of. The fire’s sleepy and weak in the hearth, and with it dead, Sam is the new center of heat in the room. He takes your hand and just touching the middle of his palm spurs shivery warmth down your legs. Now, you’re all too aware of Sam’s proportions—how encompassing his hand feels, how easily his shoulders fill the doorway to the little bedroom. Feeling mature, you fill the next room with bright giggles. You see in real-time how Sam melts at the noise.

Like you have the last few nights, you each scoop up a candle and find a place for it amidst the hunter clutter. It takes a beat to find your way through the dark. The space is just big enough for the slim bed pushed snug into the corner, and already you know from experience how you and Sam fit into the nest of blankets and pillows. (Hint: extremely well).

Sam uses his candle to light a few others on the bedside table, keeping a free hand stretched toward you to reserve his spot as your only hand-holder. You drop your candle on the dresser and consider the only thing next to it while you wait for him. The Winchesters had three vinyls total for their ancient record player, and seeing it unused and wasted in front of you, you have a stroke of romantic genius.

The second you drop the needle on the first jazz record and turn back toward the cozy, honey-lit room, Sam’s there, sliding into your open arms to plant a kiss on you. And another. And another. And another, coaxing little happy sighs from you. They’re such deep kisses that you dip back with each one, until the curve of Sam’s towering body is diagonal over you and you have to clutch his shoulders to stay standing. Both of his rough-sawn hands cup the scoop of your back to support you. All your daydreaming about him had convinced you that he’d be a head-to-toe brick wall, but Sam’s teddy-bear soft instead, the gleaming skin you have access to yielding and plush. His lips most of all, puffy pink and shining.

Sam persists, pressing closer, kissing you deeper, panting under his breath. Whatever it is about the happy sounds you make wake up something dark in him. There’s a tight, delicate rhythm he likes to follow, and the more of Sam you get the less of it you see. That straight-arrow persona is there, and then—poof! Sam’s tongue is laving wet and hot and perfect across your parted lips, ruining your underwear in one fell swoop.

He tilts in to start sucking on your tongue—

“Fuck, Sam,” you choke out.

The situation in your panties graduates to unbearable levels. If you have to makeout with Sam fully clothed for even a second longer, you think your core will enter a full reactor meltdown. You try to get the words across, grabbing helplessly at his sweater and whining, but Sam interprets it as something else.

“Everything okay?” He worries.

Dazed, you nod more than you need to. With your eyes open and his face in full view, you’re hit with a spark of self-consciousness. Sam fills the bedroom with easy conviction, owning his desire in a way you’ve never really been capable of. You don’t exactly have the experience to blow his mind or anything. Why would he want this if there was so little in it for him? Sam wasn’t a selfish guy, but… To you, your eagerness starts to feel more like greediness.

You shift from foot to anxious foot, shrinking in place. “...Could you, um? Walk me through it? How we’re gonna…?” You swallowed the frog in your throat. “Sorry, that must seem stupid.”

Leave it to him to make something stupid into something ridiculously, fatally sexy.

“S’okay, don’t be embarrassed. It’d…” Sam wets his lips, looking for the words. A quiet, dirty-minded smile plays across his face. He decides, “It’d be my pleasure.”

His touch moves away from your back, and you’re about to mourn the loss of it until Sam’s hands start to play with yours, twisting them around in his own like a schoolboy. He closes the space you’ve timidly left open between you by pressing your chests together. It’s a small gesture. But this is Sam, so your face is in smolders on that alone. (…And you’d just been french kissed, to be fair).

“Okay. Uhh,” Sam fumbles. He stops to consider his approach. As in, the approach he’ll take to seducing you, as if you aren’t seduced on a level incomprehensible to humankind.

You can’t help but laugh at how much Sam-math must be happening in his head, and Sam laughs too. Sam keeps laughing, until it warms into a handsome, knowing hum, and suddenly he’s laying your hands on his belt and tickling your ear with the hot fan of his breath. You squeak, sensitive, which tempts him into breaking character.

Sam reigns it back in, then whispers.

“When you’re ready… m’ gonna get you out of these clothes.”

The deliciously big set of hands on your waist sidle up under the open strip of skin below your shirt. Just one of his fingers is brave enough to sneak up to draw circles against your tummy. It’s the slightest taste of what it’ll be like to have those hands all over you, sweat-slick skin-to-naked skin, which is just enough to make your appetite for him boil in your gut.

“And I know you’re gonna be freezin’, we both are, but I promise you’ll get real hot real soon. Cause’...”

The bulb of his nose (and the ghost of his smile) brushed your cheek, then down, and the explosive fluttery feeling already lighting up your belly pitches into a whole fireworks show.

“...The minute I see you lying all pretty on your back for me…”

Sam tips in to lay a kiss on your throat. A slow, open-mouthed kiss, suckling soft on your skin.

“...In our bed…”

Our bed, he says. That choice of words alone implies so much. If the two of you sharing it before didn’t count, then Sam was about to make it your bed.

“I’m not stopping til’ you get every single thing you want,” Sam purrs. His kisses become blatant licks, the whole of his capable tongue drawing wet lines on your throat. “Til’ you’re damn spoiled.”

What. The fuck. The universe could dissolve into mist and you would be too turned on to care, tethered to the last atoms of the earth by your hands on Sam’s belt. You gape up at him. Sam, the evil genius, smirks right back. When you’d said you wished your first time could feel special, you hadn’t exactly been planning for Sam to follow that direction to the damn letter. He makes it sound like he’s going to bend to your every whim, and knowing Sam...

You swipe at your face to check that you’re not drooling. “I’m—I-I—you’re—” while you’re sputtering, he swipes a dab of spit off the other corner of your lip. “—Suh-Sam.”

Screw it. You drop both hands on Sam’s chest and twist your fingers in his shirt, forcing the words out in choppy pieces. “I’m not as experienced as you. But I really, really… want this. To be—to be good for us. Wanna give you everything you want, too.”

Sam makes a flattered, yet sympathetic face. “Oh, baby, don’t think about me—”

“—I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Now, it’s Sam’s turn to forget how to speak. Finally.

You wind your fingers into the tuft at the back of his neck, enunciating, “How… do I make this good for you?”

“You’re already here. That’s all I need,” Sam gushes, falling back on his tender chivalrous boyfriend routine. It’s really sexy. Almost sexy enough to work. He tucks back his signature lock of unruly hair, blushing from his ears to his neck.

Well, stream-of-consciousness hasn’t failed you yet.

“Uh-uh. We’ve been alone together in this teeny cabin for a whole week. There’s no way I’m the virgin, but you’re the one without the dirty fantasies.” You take a long squinting look at him to divulge any loose secrets. Thumbing Sam’s hip through his shirt, you press, “Tell me. C’mon. You want me to blow you? Pull your hair? Or do you, I dunno—wanna bite me? Pin me down?”

You can track the second Sam starts breathing harder, but somewhere between then and now his eyes have glazed over with dangerous desire.

Sam clutched fast at his shrinking sliver of self-control. “Okay,” he squeezed his eyes shut. “We’re out in the middle of nowhere. So… if it feels right, and it’s not embarrassing, it would be… I’d, I’d love it if you…”

“Got super noisy?”

After an intensely bashful pause filled with quiet music, Sam nods, hiding behind his bangs. Knew it. He always got so squirrely when you did your oh-I’m-so-cozy moan snuggling into bed at night.

Teasing him any more would definitely be poking the bull. But is it fun to poke that bull? Absolutely. Especially when Sam starts to unbuckle his belt, his whole body crawling with the urge to throw himself at you.

“Alright, I can do that. But how noisy are we talking? Like, normal enjoying myself kind of noisy, or best-sex-of-my-life noisy?”

He gets this nasty, disbelieving smile on his face, and it’s your last warning before—

Snap. Sam’s restraint splits in two. In an instant you’re captured by the underarms and Sam, who’s honest-to-god grinning/snarling about how you need ta’ be taught a lesson on leavin’ well enough alone, flings you onto the end of the bed. You land with a shriek. Then a second, louder squeal, as Sam takes your pantlegs in his fists and whips them clean off.

The next precious moments are filled with all sorts of lessons. For one thing, it takes a lot of force to tear pants off a person. By happenstance, you’re dragged a whole foot further down the bed and right against Sam’s lap. You also learn that pants are connected to underwear, so following that math, it makes sense why your panties are now royally rearranged on your hips. These two factors are too convenient to not be planned on Sam’s part. You’re reminded, again, that Sam is a genius.

You also remember that you’ve never been pantsed before. With and without the sexy context. Keeping that in mind, you, like any other person in your delicate situation, snap your legs closed on instinct. Not because you don’t want Sam there—holy shit, do you want him there—but because he happened to tickle you in the transfer from floor to bed, and you’re not about to let him pounce on you and tickle you to death.

This really works out for you in the long run, since having your legs closed means that it’s inevitable Sam will have to open them.

You’re laughing so hard that your sides have locked up with stitches. Sam pretends he’s not just as amused by kneeling up on the bed as grouchily as possible, ripping his shirt off, and… and, uhm… scooping his huge palms under your knees, and… yeah. He doesn’t have to do any pushing past that. Your legs just fall right open for him, and Sam wiggles in between them where he belongs.

Nothing in this entire world could prepare you to have Sam this close, so the idea that you could even cope with being absolutely towered over by the indecent amount of ab he possesses is fuckin’ laughable. Who the fuck let him have abs? For the health of all people attracted to men on this planet, who taught Sam to work out?

Your giggling trails off into mesmerized, panting silence.

“How noisy?” Sam scoffs, chuckling mean and deep in his chest. “How noisy? I’ll give you a hint how noisy you’re gonna be—”

He falls forward onto his hands, effectively blanketing you in a swath of flushed-smooth, freckly skin. There’s not a thought in your mind about how cold this room is in comparison to the last. Your hands smooth over the planes of his cheeks on instinct, and Sam follows the touch into a soul-shattering, full-body, toe-curling kiss that melts both your bodies into the homey center of the quilts and comforters. His nose squishes into your cheek and a long, satisfied groan bubbles out of him. He barely pulls his lips from yours when he hisses—

“...I’m gonna fuck you til’ you’re hoarse.”

What in the ever-loving fuck.

I cannot put into words how much I want you to do that, you want to say, and it’s true, since you end up making the world’s neediest gasp of glee instead. You’re not pleading up into his face for a full second before Sam gets your message. One can only guess what he’ll do next. (Hint: Sam cannot take in a full breath without kissing you first).

All week you’ve been toiling away to earn tiny pieces of the Sam puzzle. The picture you’ve built so far is, frankly, a touch-starved animal, who will wait at the heels of the first trusted person willing to provide. You kiss Sam once and he’s so damn grateful that he’ll multiply it by five. You get adventurous with your hands, squeezing and appreciating Sam’s flushed-smooth back. Because he’s Sam, returning the favor takes precedence over his beloved activity, and your kiss is forced to break so he can sit up and touch you proper.

Well. If any of this can be considered proper, that is. And if there’s one word to describe what Sam does to you with his hands, it’s improper.

“Still ready, _____?” He asks.

You bite back your inner worries and taunt him, “Been ready.”

He splays his fingers on your belly and is so transfixed by its softness that he stoops to smudge a kiss above your belly button. You do your best to pretend it doesn’t tickle, which is the opposite of what Sam wants. He gives your sides two quick pinches that have you squirming and squeaking under him, too shy to keep your eyes open. You’re embarrassed about the girly sounds he gets out of you until you risk a look at his face—plum red, dizzy, and glazed with fond desire.

Sam wasn’t kidding. He does want you at your noisiest.

This brings your horniness to a whole new level, turning the airy fluttery feeling expanding in your belly into the opposite: an emptiness, a vacuum, and one that desperately needs to be filled. Sam seems to do nothing but fill things. The doorways he stands in, the beds he kneels on, the snuggly center of your embrace. Naturally, this makes you insane. His hands fill up the most—big swaths of your belly, your shirt—your bra.

They push the band of the hunting sportsbra you’re wearing clear over your tits and out of his way. Sam rumbles in approval.

You stop your hands from twitching up around your naked chest, now hyper-aware of how much your breasts rise with your breath. Sam breathes you in. His gaze is soft beyond imagination, which makes the whittled-down shards of fear inside you seem even sillier than before. Either he reads your mind or he’d predicted you’d be mousy (and christ do you hope it’s the latter, since that means he thought about this already), because Sam plucks up your closest hand and presses it flat to his happy trail.

“Don’t be nervous,” he soothes. “Touch me too.”

The thought alone explodes you into steam. But you’re no quitter, so you roll with the invitation, stroking the soft pads of your fingers along the line from Sam’s naval to his ill-fitting jeans. He’s not flexing for you, so you get to feel him as Sam really is: butter-smooth and blanket-soft. Without his belt there’s a precious gap hanging between his hips and his waistband. It’s just big enough for your hand to fit inside.

You’re not brave enough to take that final plunge until Sam twists down to kiss your chest. His mouth burns scorching hot on your breastbone, and as he curls over your body, his hands on your belly slide up to take two needy handfuls of your tits. In the same motion you fit your hand into Sam’s jeans and squeeze and—ohhh fuck, you wind in as one, sharing a perfect bow-taut moment of hissing pleasure.

Sam pressed his face where he was kissing, deflating on top of you with a long, seeping, “Shittt.”

Okay. On top of feeling good, sex could be a fun little puzzle to put together. Sam urging his hips into your hand was one piece, and if you put it in the right place (i.e: touched him like that again), he’d be all yours. You do. You cup him through his boxers and follow what you feel, and what you feel is. Fucking. It’s. I-is it supposed to be that big? And, and holy shit, is he hard.

Sam. Sam’s big, thick dick in your hand. You’re gonna be wet for damn weeks.

Stupified, you blurt out, “Do you always get this hard?”

Sam cracks a wry grin, his eyes lidded. “Mm. It’s definitely you. Bein’ stuck out here with you.”

He drops a kiss on the seam of your ribcage. Then lower. And lower, leaving shiny wet circles along your tummy. “Makin’ me crazy… sticking by me every second, pressing yourself into me in your sleep. Lookin’ at me like—like that.” Just thinking about it made Sam shiver. “You turn me on like nothing else. Just last night, even, right here in this bed—I must’a stopped myself from rolling you over and tasting you a hundred times.”

The urge was so vivid for him that Sam’s mouth must’ve been watering, since he sucks the spit back through his teeth before he starts to kiss your belly in earnest. Just that sound burns with lust. Sam wants it, wants you so bad he’s shaking, his hands trembling under your thighs as he slithers down to lay between them. His kisses grow fiercer, open-mouthed and sucking the closer he gets to your panties. Kitten-soft moans start to sneak into the cycle of your panting.

“Don’t think I’m gonna be able to stop myself this time,” Sam husks.

You let him know just how comfortable you are with that by curling your legs around his back. Then his shoulders. Then Sam’s ears, and at that point he’s singeing spit-damp kisses inside your thighs like the world’s most faithful servant.

Nobody but him had ever touched you there. You choke out his name on short, needy breaths. It’s like you’re filling a meter. With enough please, Sams, you hit his limit, and he stops rubbing his face into your soft under-thighs long enough to hook his fingers around your waistband.

You’re treated to the Sam Winchester specialty. He bats long lashes at you over dark, sensitive eyes, and rasps, “Am I okay to…?”

You’re so horny that you start spurring Sam closer with your heels. “Fucking yes.”

This is the A+ answer. Sam doesn’t even wait to get your underwear all the way down your legs, yanking them out from under you and ducking straight below the bridge they make. Just seeing your pussy makes him swear. You’re so swollen and slick and his mouth is so close, so close, but Sam decides to taunt you, blowing across the spit cooling on your belly instead. Heat oozes in hazy lines from his body. From his hands. By comparison, the night has leeched the warmth from the room and you’re cold enough to get goosebumps.

“Please please please, Sam,” you hiccup, “need it. Need you. Need you t’ warm me up.”

“My poor girl,” Sam coos, brows drawn with playful sympathy. He starts to rub some heat back into your freezing legs, tilting closer, closer. “I know just how to help.”

You let your head flop back as you take his cheesiness in, laughing. That’s not exactly a line you’d expect from him. Before, though, you would’ve never pinned Sam as the kind of guy to clamp your knees against your chest, drop his head between your legs and fit his mouth on you, slurping noisily on your slick like he’s eating the juiciest fruit of his life—

“—f-uuuuckkk Sammy yes yes yes—”

Indescribable pleasure pops and sizzles along your weeping core. It’s so fucking—fucking yes all at once that you clap down both hands to white-knuckle the top quilt and howl. Sam sets to work. He covers your entire pussy with his mouth, swallowing you fucking whole, apparently, since you’re the most delectable thing he’s ever tasted. You have to be, with Sam groaning and cursing all fierce and hot between licks.

“Fuck. That’s it, pretty girl,” Sam coaches. He slurps loud and obscenely on your clit, swallowing down the results with a shiver of ecstasy. “Shit, just like that. You’re so good at this already. So good at taking it, ______. Never should’a made you wait.”

But all that must not count as getting a full taste of you, since Sam deviates, splaying his tongue flat and wide to rake it against you top to bottom. His tongue almost drools with liquid heat. At first you’d been disappointed you couldn’t see him over your legs, and now, you’re grateful for the mercy. Seeing Sam like that…

Sam licks you open until there’s no breath left in him. He goes until his jaw is sore and your slick is rolling off his chin in sticky rivulets, wetting the bedspread. He goes and he keeps going, worshipping your slippery-wet cunt between huffy moans.

You make a pathetic attempt at giving as good as you’re getting, but what should be a sexy zinger actually comes out as, “Sam, I-I—oh, god—Sam—!”

After that, your ability to form words joins your other higher brain functions in the endless sparkling expanse of white in your mind. Sam stirs a single long finger through your sopping folds. The stimulation alone has your hips twisting helplessly up to his face, on top of the rapid flicks of his talented tongue, but it’s the easy pressure of Sam’s thick finger filling you to the knuckle that actually earns a scream.

Not your average horror movie scream—an honest, enthusiastic, belly-deep cry that jerks in your chest like a sob.

You can pinpoint the precise moment that Sam realizes you’re a screamer; he hum-laughs to himself where he thinks you can’t hear.

“Next time,” (oh my fucking god there’s a next time), “‘won’t make you wait a minute, baby. Gonna give you everythin’ you want. I’m real sorry, darlin’, do you forgive me? Forgive me for not fucking you the second we were alone?”

You’re too busy having actual, real tears of desire cake your cheeks to string together a better answer than a moan. Holy shit.

Sam gives your pussy two deep, loving licks, each hot enough to send you into a coma. “Say it,” he utters, teasing, “say you forgive me.”

“I forg’ve you,” you croak.

“Forgive who?” He presses.

“I forgive you, Sammy.”

“That’s my girl,” Sam husks the promise between kisses to your clit, “So good to me. So sweet.”

Somehow, this is just as life-altering for him as it is for you. Long, flowing crests of pleasure seep hot through your system, winding tighter, tighter, tighter, twitching in the muscles of your stomach and almost cramping in your curled toes. The taste of you is so rich that Sam’s back quakes with euphoric shudders, trembling deep under the skin where he’s too far gone to rein back in. Sweaty locks of his bangs flutter as he breathes. It’s the only sign he’s breathing at all, really, what with him eating you out like he’s fuckin’ starved.

Sam gives a few good twists of his finger deep in your pussy (which doesn’t even graze how deep he might be with his cock). When you’re a puddle on the mattress and used to him, Sam withdraws to studiously coach you, “Deep breaths, ______.”

It takes a moment for the words to register. Once they have, you wind down long enough to measure your crazed breathing into even strokes. The ceiling overhead swims with dancing candlelight shadows and floating cartoon stars. Sam lifts his head to see for himself that you’re following his instructions, and after he’s done falling in love with the sight of you, Sam fills you up with two digits instead of one.

“A-ah!”

Just like before, they’re thrust in to the hilt at once. The throbbing, aching, leeching core of your arousal positively explodes, the urge to be filled finally touched. Sam’s responding bassy groan vibrates all the way up your body. The length and thickness of his fingers is put to immediate use, stretching you out with long knuckling gestures. You’re so unimaginably wet that your pussy just pulls him right in.

There’s a pause where you wiggle down onto his hand and brace yourself for the next brain-melting touch, and true to form, Sam sails straight over your grandest expectations. He’s quick to find the silky heart of arousal in your core again. You only know it by reputation, not experience, so when Sam presses into it with two soft fingerpads the pitch of your wailing jumps up ten octaves. Suddenly the pleasure is hot hot hot inside-going-out.

Sam tilts his head to one side and finds the gall to ask you: “How does that feel?”

(He just wants to hear you say it.)

“So good,” you weep. “Please please please gimme more, Sam, please—”

“It’s gonna be okay, _____. I’ll make it all better…”

Only then does Sam’s tongue get back to work, and—and holy fucking shit, he swoops in to steal the gold, demolishing every other name in the pussy-eating game. Sam wins. Sam fucking wins.

If this is just how his fingers feel…

Sam’s grin takes on a confident gleam. By coincidence, it’s around then that you remember that he’s psychic.

Somewhere between licking you into the next dimension and, oh yeah, Sam licking you into the next dimension, he’s pinned your thighs to your chest with a firm hand under your knees. You squeeze that hand for all you’ve got, every feeble atom in your body scrubbed raw with perfect pulsing desire.

To think, you’d spent this whole time getting off with your hand. A fucking hand. A few fingers! Sam crooks his in a way you’d never even hoped for on your own, finding that fluttery, twitchy spot inside you and working it for all it has. You’d asked for more and he gives you more, thrusting two fingers in at a brutal, even pace—again and again and again, til’ you’re thrashing up and off the mattress, wailing, your whole body a fist cramping shut around him. You snap in so tight toward him that you shove your face into your knees and cross your ankles tight behind Sam’s neck, keening, the fire knotted in your body devouring whatever fuel he’ll give.

Sam’s skill with his hands made you feel like an amateur in your own department. But his slick velvet tongue on your slick velvet pussy, taking slow sucks on your clit that turn into big broad licks, licking you up, licking you into his mouth whole, made just the thought of masturbation fucking laughable. I mean, c’mon! What the fuck are you supposed to do after this? Pop into the bathroom to use the showerhead, when Sam and his insatiable appetite for pussy are sitting right in the next room? Why even bother fantasizing about him and dicking around with a vibrator when nothing would ever compare to the real thing, shoving his parched panting mouth between your legs in an addict’s haze?

Still lapping up your dripping core, Sam pries his free hand from your grip. You’re pretty sure you have the right to whine in protest. Without his leverage for support your weak thighs collapse straight open, and for all you know the gates of heaven had parted to reveal god’s most beautiful angel. Sam is the picture of filth. His pretty pink lips are sealed around your cunt, his nose is all cute and smushed into your pubic bone, and you watch in time with every dirty lap as his jaw rolls handsomely under his skin.

The look on his face is unfor-fucking-gettable. In fifty years, sixty years, seventy, you know this memory will still live inside you, since no man has ever looked at you that way before. You weren’t sure it was even possible. Hazy euphoria radiates in unending rays from Sam’s face. He wants you. He trusts you. He is written all over with warm, intent desire, satisfying himself on you.

“Stay still,” Sam asks, politely.

Politely, you slap back against the bed and moan out, “Mhhmm.”

A new kind of mischief flashes across his face. You would’ve never pinned Sam as the type of guy to thrive with an audience, but now that he knows you’re watching, he falls seamlessly into a performance. His act is a three-parter.

While keeping his pace with his fingers, Sam starts by sliding slow off your pussy and spitting on it even slower. Whatever hazel leftover in his eyes has been swallowed totally by glittering, black delight. The muscles is his arm bulge and cramp fucking into you so hard. Pleased with himself, Sam dips down, dark eyes disappearing under his bangs, and makes a show of pointing his tongue to flicker across the raw nerves of your clit.

There’s more after that in the finale of Sam’s act, but the constant, brutal winding toward your release has taken its final toll. You have no fucking clue how you’ve survived this long. The overpowering squeezes of arousal inside you become full-body, wracking pangs. The sweaty trembling scraps of your soul leftover from Sam’s work throb and throb until they’re a blinding star. At the center of it, your core, tight and hot and so loved by Sam’s mouth. The searing pleasure becomes explosive. Apparently, the noisy, pitchy moans waking up the mountainside are coming from you, as you claw to get Sam even a molecule closer—closer, closer, closer—s-so close—!

So…

Close…

And you’re there. In the shimmering, divine realm Sam has made just for you; the realm your meager hands could never bring you to, and the realm you’ll be chasing still for the rest of your life. It becomes blatantly obvious in the next blissful minute that you’ve never cum before. Not for real, at least. This was a real orgasm, flashing through your spirit and flowing hot and beautiful through the numb ends of your body. You wail through it like it’s real, that’s for sure.

Your pussy clamps down around Sam’s fingers in waves of slippery pressure, and he revels in every second of it. You’re fucked through it. Kissed through it. He keeps up his pace and smushes his face in close, and that’s when you realize, oh fuck, Sam is going to drink your glass empty. The soft scooping of his tongue ramps up and up and over, til’ the edges of your vision start to spot and your muscles are too tight to unknot and it’s all too much.

“Sa—Sam—”

Just that word has him off you. You think Sam draws back and away, but that’s just a guess, since the wires between you and the outside world have been fucked stupid. Even the language has been licked and lapped out of you.

“Sam…”

You feel… like soup. Wet all over and hot hot hot. Filling the shape of the bed. You make an honest attempt at communicating this to Sam as your soupy mind’s way of telling him how satisfied you are, but. Your pussy gives a delighted, distracting throb that melts you into the top quilt all over again. Wow.

Just. Wow. You marinate in the aftershocks for what feels like ages, speechless.

Down by your legs (so that’s where he went!), Sam peels his heaving chest off the bedspread. Right. If you couldn’t breathe, he definitely couldn’t either. He gets up on all fours and crawls towards you like a guy in an RnB music video, all sexy moving arms and hips. It really shouldn’t be as appealing as it absolutely is. Starry-eyed, you open lazy arms to him and haul him down the second he’s close enough. He falls on top of you with a happy oomf. He’s long and smooth and wonderful, making you sigh when he snuggles in.

A few sparkling millennia go by laying in bed with him, toying with his hair and giggling dazedly to yourself. Sam hides his blazing face in your neck and murmurs something.

You’re buzzed by the skin-to-skin contact and cum drunk, which puts everything he says into fuzzy empty speech bubbles. The low, shy rasp of his voice tickles your neck. You try again.

“...Uh-huh…?”

“Was, uh, that too intense? Or…?”

The question floats around in your head for a while, bumping into things and spinning in zero gravity. Finally, the lights in your ship start to come on, and you pull what Sam said out from space.

“Look at me a minute.”

Sam does, curious.

“How’d,” you struggled to find your breath, “how the hell’d you learn t’ do that.”

And suddenly, Sam’s high school shyness is on a man’s face, and that man licks your slick off his lip and suppresses an evil grin. “I have, y’know. A thing about it.”

“A thing?” You echo, laughing with him. Maybe if you said it again it wouldn’t blow your mind as much. “A thing. Try an addiction, Sam, holy shit.”

In a few days, you’re gonna have to act normal around him in a room with his brother, while Sam uses the lips he defiled you with to talk, drink, and smile. Fuck. For the rest of your life, you’re gonna have to sit beside him at the dinner table and remember how he told you had a thing for eating pussy. A thing.

Glowing with innocent humility, Sam pawed up onto his hands, rolled onto his side, and positioned himself like a pin-up girl inviting you to bed. When he was done broadcasting with his entire body how much he wanted you, Sam shrugged. “I dunno… I just love to do it.”

(Being stunned silent by Sam tally: one million and three.)

He’s not real. There’s no way he’s real. You grab around for some part of him to pinch, and though Sam’s indignant yelp sounds authentic, you’re unconvinced. They had to have cooked him up in a lab somewhere.

This earns you a deep, fond Sam laugh. He gives your closest hip a playful pinch too, and after a brief tickle-fight that you miserably lose, Sam tilts his lips toward yours and husks, “Roll over that way and c’mere.”

With nothing else to do but submit happily to Sam’s will, you follow his hand and tilt in toward the wall. “You are something else.”

You’re joking, but you can also kind of feel it. Sam slings his arm over your ribs to pull your back flush to his chest, and already you melt into each other, settling back into the hollows you made in the blankets the night before. This close you can feel the magic in him. Sam oozes with cozy bonfire heat, his body laying sure and protective against your body, the last dregs of hunt anxiety in him gone. You feel the worn-soft denim of his open jeans as Sam’s lap wiggles down to scoop under you. A map of what’s ahead.

He teases a hand down your ribcage, thumbing sweetly at your belly. Sam tilts his head forward for a kiss, and unable to resist him, you meet him in the middle for one that turns into two, then three, then a swath of obsessed pecks. He must have a thing about kissing, too.

Sam pulls back to study you. With less confidence than you’d expect, he asks, “You wanna keep going?”

Just the teeniest motion of your head has Sam swooping for the chance to kiss you again, but you stop him short and twist to get a better look at him. In a high, maidenly voice, you play at being confused. Your poker face is still awful, so you have to hide your massive grin behind the invisible handkerchief you’re clutching.

“Keep going? My, a gentleman like you… an unmarried woman like me… what else is there to do, Samuel?”

His week being teased by you at all angles has forced him to evolve. Sam forgets altogether about indulging your bit and upgrades straight to more wonderful, ticklish manhandling, wiggling an arm between your vulnerable side and the bed to practically throw you back where you belong. You squeak and sputter between laughs, pretending your skin doesn’t explode with goosebumps at his touch.

When his massive palm is spread over your breastbone, Sam hoists you back against him, rolls in to threaten squishing you with more plush muscle and manly weight, and snarls in a way that ruins your metaphorical panties all over again.

“Uh-uh. Don’t play. You know exactly what m’ gonna do to you. Do y—?”

Sam stirs up his hips as he talks. All the snooty teasing left in your tank evaporates in one fell swoop, feeling the delicious outline of his dick swelling against you. Okay. You’re woman enough to admit that does it for you, and you really, really don’t want to wait anymore. Sam is an unbearable tease who will drag this out forever. You take matters into your own hands. Or, really, you put them into his.

…You prop open your closest leg for him, bent at the knee.

“Aw,” Sam rumbles, “didn’t even have’ta ask.”

You don’t hide your mean little grin. Sam, of course, kisses you into oblivion just seeing it, sliding a coarse hand under the silky, sensitive flesh behind your knee to keep you open for him. The ashes of your last climax are still simmering with heat, but it’s Sam’s kiss and his touch that reignites you totally.

It’s a bit of a twist to lean back and kiss him, but Sam’s height is made for this: his bulge swells right under your pussy, and he has the room to lean in close to your ear and purr—

“Take it out.”

Sam is asking you to take out his dick. You know that, yet you imagine yourself a month from now, unsure of which weapon the boys are comfortable letting you borrow from the Impala’s trunk. Dean’ll tell you, oh, the machete’s fine. Then Sam, with glittering eyes and full knowledge of how he’s torturing you, will nudge his chin toward the trunk and utter that phrase. Go on. Take it out. Knowing exactly what you’re thinking, and when, and how. And how deep and how hard.

It takes some shuffling and some curling, but you manage to work Sam’s jeans and boxers down his thighs. Just the sound of his zipper makes your mouth water. He hisses soft by your ear at the chill of the room, but in your hand Sam’s dick is body-hot by comparison. And. And so… s-so…

You scoop your palm around the shaft, squeezing him, feeling him. Through your back you feel Sam curl in and shiver, rumbling in approval. Your cheeks feel like they’re cooking by the candlelight just going for it, but your curiosity wins out—or, more accurately, your fucking awe. Because. What the fuck. You’ve never exactly seen a dick in person before, but you’re not naive. Sam is big enough to split you in half, and—and it just kind of pisses you off, because not only is he big, his dick is pretty, too. He has a pretty dick. Just cause’ being smart and empathetic and all that other bullshit didn’t make him sexy enough. God.

You nuzzle your cheek into Sam’s and he drops his lazy temple against yours. The two of you lounge there, heaving like peeping toms, as you both take in how sexy his cock looks leaking against your belly. Laying between your legs. It’s goddamn photo-worthy. Then, the angle your hand is taking slow, experimental pumps of him… accidentally… grinds Sam’s shaft between your abuse-swollen folds. He’s already twisting to moan into your mouth when you start to rock along him in earnest. You take a fistful of Sam’s hair and ride him for all he’s worth, dragging your sopping wet cunt across his dick until he glistens.

For three blissful seconds Sam locks you against his chest and grinds with you, making it instantly clear why people always use the word friction with sex. The push and pull of it has you whimpering loud and high against Sam’s mouth. And, thank god for him, because when your head starts to fog with visions of being filled raw, Sam pulls away from your kiss and recollects his control.

“Condom,” he gasps for breath, “we should. Probably. Yeah.”

“...Right,” you cursed. Your high school sex-ed teachers would not be proud of your lack of forethought, but it’s impossible to have any kind of thought in this situation, period.

For example: Sam tilts away to fish around in his duffle bag beside the bed, and, unfiltered, your mind taps its fingertips together and cheerily hopes, maybe Sam will be so rough the condom breaks.

Woah there, girlfriend, your reason butts in. But it doesn’t have anything else to say, since you start picturing how Sam’s cum would look oozing out of you, and. Um.

“You almost sound disappointed,” Sam jokes, digging for his wallet.

You snuggle down into the blankets and pretend you’re not hiding your face. “A little bit,” you confess, chanting the word responsible over and over in your head for good measure. “How much am I gonna feel you?”

Sam finds the condom and rolls back into your bubble. He turns in to kiss your shoulder, and you can feel his smile when he tells you, “You’re gonna feel every bit of me. Every inch… every stroke… I promise.”

He is so determined to assuage your worries that he holds the condom where you can see it, turning it over (between those long, long fingers) to make sure it’s punctureless and new. The little foil packet has XL printed on one side, which both adds to your sexy thoughts and pulls you out of them. Sam really is that big. He knows it, too, which is probably how he reads your nervousness.

“We’ll take it slow,” Sam promises, voice honey-sweet and quick to reassure you. “S’ big, yeah, but I’m gonna do everything to make you comfortable, kay? And if you wanna stop—”

He cares so much, you realize.

“Sam?”

He looks into your eyes like he loves you, and utters, “Yeah?”

“Thank you for making this good for me,” you say.

Sam melts. He doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, and you let him know it’s okay with a softer, warmer kiss than the others you’ve shared. You take in the shape of his face, the subtle freckles on his cheeks and nose, how the candlelight shadows sweeten Sam’s gaze. It slams on top of you how there’s nobody in the whole world you’d rather be doing this with, and in one puff your anxiety is in the wind.

You wrap your fingers around Sam’s wrist and flirt, “...Can I put it on you?”

Sam nods, eyes lidded. You’ve never exactly had to open a condom before, so you’re careful to pry the foil open with your fingers. For whatever reason you hadn’t figured it’d be lubed, but it makes fitting the ring of it around Sam’s tip and sliding it down his shaft a bit easier. A soft happy groan escapes him. They keep escaping him as you pump his cock in languid twists of your hand.

Sam nuzzles his face between your shoulder blades, whisper-rasping, “Would you like to…? It’ll be less scary that way.”

You really, really would. Before you make your move, Sam adds, “But, uh, before you put it in—want you to look at me.” He wets his lips with his tongue. “Wanna see the look on your face when I fill you up.”

Well, fuck. You tilt your face against Sam’s, nose to nose with him and warmed by his breath, and feel the slow ripples of heat in your belly roll into long, growing waves. Sam slides a hand back to the silky underside of your thigh and props you open for him. When you line Sam up, you start with the tip, not pressing, just stroking, feeling him against you. A satisfied purr drizzles out of your mouth to Sam’s. So far, your chosen pace has been “just go for it,” and since it hasn’t failed you yet—

—you go for it.

Sam’s bulbous cockhead dips between your folds to find your hole. A desperate, keening yes squeals out of you. You’re spit-wet and absolutely caked in slick, so there’s no hitch when you pull Sam in, just a hot, sudden fullness that seems to go endlessly deeper and deeper. The fit is so fucking snug. Snug like he’s made for you. Snug and perfect and stinging, made easier by Sam’s soft huffing coos. Look at you go. Makin’ this look easy. You looked so pretty when I ate you out, baby, but I knew you’d look even prettier taking my dick. So eager, Sam says, and he’s right. Your wetness is just begging to swallow him whole. Just being stuffed with half of Sam’s cock has you sucking down air, so the final surge to bring him to the hilt pries a genuine, hoarse cry from your belly. Sam shoves his face in your hair and groans, the sound catching on the snarl between his teeth.

Together, you orbit around the throbbing core of pleasure between you, suspended in the moment.

Sam is a wind-up toy, springs tightening with every vicious squeeze of your pussy. His mouth has made you soft, slippery, and swollen, so the firmness of his cock is different but stellar. This close, in such an intimate position, you can feel his heartbeat in more ways than one, and it surrounds you and fills you so effortlessly that you can only assume it’s your own. He touches your body like it’s one he just stepped into, feeling you from a new perspective for the first time. Sam fixates on your tummy, too, and you find out why when he presses down under your belly button—feeling the thick swell of him under your skin, deeper than anyone else could ever go. He gives you a turn too, pressing your hand down in the same place. It sends electric blackouts of lust through your system that demand to be fucked brainless.

You start to wiggle in his grasp for more, stirring your hips down onto him and choking out his name. Sam is already responding: your open leg is scooped into the crook of his arm and drawn tight to his chest, spreading you open as wide as you’ll go. His hold cants up your hips in a way that lets his cock hit just that much deeper, and that’s all you need to dash your head against the pillows and mewl for your life. Two rough fingerpads slip back into the sopping wet home of your clit and stir against it at a pace brutal enough to cramp. Between Sam’s fingers and the thick drag of his cock against your soft walls, you’re desperate for something to hold onto. You latch onto Sam’s wrist for dear life. Then starts Sam’s pulling and pushing in brief, filling strokes, rocking, driving you fucking crazy, making you need him to fuck you like you need air. He was deep to a point that you swear you could feel him in the back of your throat.

“You want more?” Sam asks, and if it weren’t for the breathy rattle in his voice he could’ve sounded innocent.

You nod until your head is close to rolling off. “Yes, yes Sammy please.”

Sam grins. You feel it for an instant, then his cheek pulls away from your back and all you have left to read him by is the needy, carnal noises he’s making. All at once he’s drawing out further than he had before. You’re almost empty for a whole sob-worthy breath, which Sam makes up for with every ounce of his being.

For what has to be three glorious hours, Sam leans back to fuck you in powerful, even strokes, filling you to the brim every time, and filling the room with the thick, wet sound of his cock pounding into you. You repay him the only way you can, and—get—noisy.

You moan. You wail. You mewl, pretty much every time Sam’s hips snap up into your ass. You pant hard through it all, begging him in soft whines to f-fuck me, fuck me, p-please, Sam and to go deeper, baby—uhnn, more more more…! From there you’re on autopilot, letting loose even the most primal noises that Sam gets out of you. He is very, very good at his task, so you color the room with every erotic syllable under the sun. A porn studio would hire the two of you without even entering the room. Sam especially, but you might be biased since every time you sigh his name he drives in a little harder.

Indescribable pleasure follows even his tiniest movements. You absorb every pump with nothing but desperate enthusiasm, spreading your legs further, curling your back, and digging your fingers into the cushions for any sort of leverage at all. Just a few minutes pass until your limit is a trembling boulder of knots in your gut, but still Sam’s nowhere near finished yet. Slick coats your thighs and Sam's cock, you cry at every thrust, your body twitches and shudders all over, but he's still not there.

He slows. The brush of his lips against your ear and the wisp of his breath set your nerves on fire. “You’re gonna finish first, but tha’—that’s okay, baby,” Sam reassures, and works your poor swollen clit even harder, choking a string of thready moans from you. “Wanna feel your pretty pussy cum all over my dick.”

“Oh fuck,” you whine.

(Tomorrow, you’re going to wake up and wonder where the hell he got that dirty mouth from. Somebody needs to clean it out with soap.)

It’s as Sam’s laying sloppy kisses on your throat that his prediction comes true. The tissue in your body pulls taut, winding tight, tighter, curling around the epicenter of pleasure, toward him. You expect Sam’s thrusts to take a fierce turn. Instead, you’re treated to the same thorough, determined pace that got you here in the first place—the same pace that is currently jellifying your insides and reducing you to tears on this teeny bed. If the percussive slapping of skin on skin wasn’t enough to wake up the entire planet, then the vicious slam of the bedframe putting a new dent in the wall would certainly do the job. Somehow you hear it all past your pulse thundering in your ears. The arm hooked behind you to rake a hand through Sam’s hair bobs with each thrust, and your leg trapped in Sam’s hold bounces on beat. All you can do is scrape out broken gasps, until the tossing waves of heat and lust and power twisted in your belly have built too high—and all things that go up must inevitably come crashing down.

“That’s my girl,” Sam slurs, squeezing your tits in both hands. He rolls his hips into you and coos, “Just like that… take what you need, baby, it’s okay…”

Like last time, Sam fucks you through it. You’re scooped up in his arms and squeezed tight, tight enough to be drawn into Sam’s body and absorbed. The hot, gorgeous drags of friction against the sensitive walls of your cunt slow, but Sam never draws out, burying himself deep and soaking up every wild clamp of your pussy. There’s something fucking spectacular about having something to clench down on. Sam is that perfect something, vieny and thick and still fucking hard.

You cum on him in long rippling rushes of wet heat that feel downright unrealistic, otherworldly—exaggerated, maybe, by the fact that you fucking—black—out!

It must only be a few beats later that you come out of it, but the fact remains that Sam Winchester made you cum so hard you passed out, and you’re going to have to live with that for the rest of your life. You’re already starting to realize that Sam is the best lay you’re ever going to have, period, and the dull happy throb of your orgasm hasn’t even left your body yet. Sam hasn’t even left your body yet.

Wait, fuck. He’s still hard.

…This could be. This could be very good.

Fueled by hormones, sweat, and adrenaline, you pull off him and roll the rest of the way onto your belly. During all the crazed fucking, you and Sam had migrated halfway down the bed. You crawl to the top as sexily as you’re able, stuff your cheek against the closest pillow, and wiggle your cum-soaked ass in the air just for him, open for his taking. Your face could start the whole bed on fire, but you feel more alluring than embarrassed.

“C’mon, Sammy,” you taunt, and throw him a mean grin, “gimme the big finish.”

Sam sucked in a deep breath from his nose, probably preying for strength. A dirty smile touched his face. “You’re… you’re amazing, _____.”

Feeling like it, you turned your face over onto the other side of the pillow and tempted him with another mesmerizing ass wiggle. Sam was up on his knees in an instant. You should’ve known that Sam, the addict, would instantly take the chance to shove his face between your legs. The only warning you get is his massive hands clamping down on your calves to hold you still, then a hot, silky tongue swipes once through your folds for a taste. You haven’t finished squealing when Sam’s weight saddles up behind you, and the heavy shape of his cock starts to rut between your legs.

“Sorry,” Sam hums, not sorry at all, “Needed a taste of you.”

Stars above, he doesn’t hesitate to get handsy with you, too, taking two broad handfuls of your ass-cheeks. Your ass sits so nicely against his hips that you start to wonder if soulmates are real. Because Sam must be yours, fitting into you like a key and teasing you open like a master lockpicker. Once you’re where Sam wants you, he bobs your ass back until his tip has room to part your folds, and after that you’re both brought home into sparkling, slippery, blinding pleasure. He digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you right on him, filling your pussy to the hilt, like always. Key. Lock. Click click click.

“Yes,” you and Sam hiss together.

“Fuck,” Sam adds. “You should see yourself like this. You look so stuffed, baby, squeezing down on me.”

“Feel so stuffed,” you flirt back, wiggling into him.

This angle is different than the last, exaggerating, as Sam immediately starts in on his pace from before, how thick his cock is. He curls his fingers around your waist and beats in hard, pulling on your still-sparking overstimulated wires from last time. Every joint in your body locks ramrod straight, overwhelmed with brief flashes of too much too much. Your pussy clenches helplessly around him, but Sam brings you over it with a few well-placed stirs of his hips. In no time you’re mewling for him like you were before, emboldened by your first round.

You get your nails into Sam’s sculpted ass and drag him deeper, faster, urging him on the end of a moan, “Fuckin’ take it, Sammy—mhhnn, take what—what you need, Sam, yes, so good—”

This is exactly what Sam needs to hear. You’re scooped up around the middle, just like before, and Sam crushes his face into your back, spooning you close as he brings himself closer and closer to where he needs to be. Your hands can’t get enough of him, smoothing down his vieny arms and squeezing his hand against your belly. The picture the two of you must make is obscene on unimaginable levels. Sam, latched onto you like a parasite and reaming you for his release. You, smushed under him and loving it, digging your ass up into him for more. All the sweat-twisted blankets shoved to the floor. Sam’s hips canting your thighs apart. The worn-smooth slope of his palms, squeezing your tits and your tummy and your waist in achy handfuls.

Finally, Sam’s hoarse choked panting cuts off with a sharp breath. His hips putter into you for the last time, then still. Sam spills into the condom, shuddering against you from head to toe, and slowly… the two of you collapse into each other… panting and panting until your breathing syncs up. Sam’s chest goes up. You suck in a breath. His chest goes out, and you deflate right with him.

He doesn’t get up and you don’t ask him to. As the haze of sex starts to clear from the room (as much as it can, anyway), the chill of the mountainside creeps in behind it, and the hottest thing around for miles is easily the giant, naked Sam Winchester in your bed. Wrapped up in him and as warm as can be, you wonder if he’s as close to passing out (again) as you are.

But no. Suddenly, Sam’s up on his hands, and there’s only two possible reasons why.

“Didn’t get to kiss you as I finished,” he complained.

Smushed into your pillow, you tell him, “I think you have two addictions.”

Regardless, you roll onto your back so Sam can lay one on you. Since your soul is officially back in your body, you’re more aware than ever of the aches and bruises you’ve earned, not to mention a few sets of pomegranate-purple fingerprints. After a few stunning kisses from Sam, you’re still not sure that all of that actually happened. You touch his face and pinch his cheeks plenty of times, but all he does is look at you extra dreamily. Still doesn’t seem real.

Of course, being a gentleman, he decides to prove it to you.

“Speaking of my other addiction…” Sam lays a playful hand on your belly, “I know I wound you up a bit back there. Can I take care of you one more time? Please?”

“Hmm…” You pretend to think, grinning to yourself. “Man. I just can’t say no to you, Sammy…”

_

Two weeks later, you’re crammed in a teeny car instead of a teeny cabin, riding down a back road in rural Texas the Dean way—blowing by road signs at sixty miles an hour, windows down and music up. Sam’s shotgun. You’re content to sit behind him, catching his eye in the side-mirror as he pretends to hunt around newspapers for a new case. His hair flutters in the wind, outlining his face in the most enchanting way.

“I don’t know how the hell the two of you stayed up there the whole week!” Dean hollers over his Lynyrd Skynyrd tape, which he could turn down whenever he wants to. He throws you an unenvious look from the driver’s seat, “You must’a been bored out of your fuckin’ gourds!”

You’re honestly surprised that Dean didn’t automatically assume sexy shenanigans occurred at the cabin. Sam doesn’t move to answer, deeply engrossed in his reading. Where Dean can’t see, you curl your fingers into the hair at the back of Sam’s neck and caress his scalp, which earns you a look that promises that sexy shenanigans can happen anywhere. They can happen in motel rooms. Click. Even Impalas, when Dean’s gone. Click click click.

You shrug at Sam’s brother, shouting over the music with an unsubtle grin. “We entertained ourselves!”

_

Tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration

READ PART TWO.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

A Suit and a Gown, Both Armor

You’ve written a nonbinary Virgil before so I wanted to ask, could you possibly write something with a nonbinary Roman in it? – monkeythefander

Read on Ao3

Warnings: gender dysphoria

Pairings: none

Word Count: 3111

“What weighs on your soul, old friend,” comes the voice from the edge of the balustrade, “you look as though you would hoist this castle upon your shoulders and it would cause you no more strife?”

Roman lets out a long, slow breath, turning to face the steward as he approaches. The collar of the prince costume starts to itch. “Is it that obvious?”

The steward allows a small chuckle. “My friend, I do hope you don’t mean to insult me.”

“Never.”

‘Then yes, my friend, it is terribly obvious.” He mirrors Roman’s position, looking out over the vast courtyard. “Would you care to share the load?”

Roman sighs again, fingers itching to undo the collar. They close their hand into a fist and tuck it beneath their elbow. “I’m to have a fitting with the tailor in an hour or so.”

“For the ball?”

“Yes.” They let their fingers twitch again. “I’m sure whatever suit she’s concocted will be the envy of the kingdom.”

“You sound as though you resent her for that.”

They sigh again. “Not insofar as I despise being able to showcase her talent; she is a master and should be revered as such, but…”

The steward moves a little closer. “But?”

“But I’m not sure I want it to be me that showcases it.”

“I never thought I’d see the day you didn’t want the spot light. Has something happened that makes you dread it?”

Roman stays quiet for a few long seconds. Across the courtyard below, two children chase a ball along the tiled pathways. Their shrieks of excitement echo up the walls long after they disappear back into the gardens. The steward wait patiently.

“Forgive me if my question is insensitive,” they begin, “but have you ever felt as though…as though you have been placed inside a doll of yourself?”

The steward blinks. “I cannot say I have felt that specifically. I have certainly felt constrained before, or that I was being forced into being something I did not want to be, but never…no, my friend, never a doll. Could you speak more on the topic?”

“I’m conflicted. I would not give up the crown or the chance to serve my people, nor do I detest the spotlight altogether, and yet something about this ball…” They open and close their fist, looking at the calluses on their hand. “I fear I am caught in a dance with strings around my limbs.”

“Show me to this cruel puppeteer, then, and have him answer to those that would see you untethered.”

“I don’t think it’s so simple, though I am flattered by your readiness to draw steel for me.”

The steward rests a hand on their shoulder. “What would the strings have you do?”

Roman rakes a hand through their hair. “I don’t know. That’s the problem. I can feel them around me are my every move and yet they do not tell me what they want.”

“Are there times where they feel stronger?”

“At the tailor’s.” The steward makes a soft ah sound. “Or in the court’s main halls. Even on the training grounds, when the sword master is training the newest squires. Or when I am alone in my chambers and must review the correspondence from neighboring kingdoms.”

“That’s quite a list.”

“Indeed.”

“Have you any thought to what they have in common?”

“Yes.” Roman looks down at their hand again. “I do.”

The steward narrows his eyes. “And yet they persist. Is there something else I should know about these…strings?”

Roman glances over. “I have no wish to keep you.”

“Nonsense, old friend, it is a pleasure to be kept by you.”

They glance around at the open courtyard. The steward follows their gaze and hums.

“Would you prefer to have the conversation somewhere more private?”

“Yes, I believe that would be best.”

“Come, then, if you would walk with me. There is a turret on the north side of the castle that has an excellent view of the river.”

The two of them walk through the castle halls, nodding to guards and courtiers alike as they do. The halls give way to open paths with high arches of stone, the breeze carrying in the soft sweet smell of morning ocean waves. As they reach the turret, another warm gust brings with it the wispy clouds from the riverside. The sun sparkles atop the water as it flows into the mouth of the river, wildflowers welcoming the ships as they make their way into port. Roman lets out another sigh as they reach the sunlit turret.

“You were correct,” they say quietly, “this was a wonderful suggestion.”

“Well, when one is pondering the existential, one should at least have a spectacular view.” The steward comes to stand next to them. “Besides, it is to rain this afternoon, I believe, so best enjoy the sun while it’s out.”

“Mm.”

They stand there for several long moments as the shadows play in the breeze.

“The title of prince,” they say, breaking the silence, “is a very masculine thing.”

“I should think so.”

“On the training grounds, when the squires are first being taught how to hold their swords, the sword master refers to them as boys becoming men. Or for the young ladies who wish to learn—he tells them to reach for their strength, as he should, but he doesn’t—there is still a masculinity he intends to preserve.”

”Does this affect his ability to train the women as equals to men?”

“No, not at all. Often we have one of the other knights with him and she is formidable enough on her own.” They rub their nose. “But when I am called upon to provide an example…”

The steward frowns. “Does the sword master imply a princess would not be capable of the same feats?”

”No.”

A bird lands on the stone wall and Roman tosses it a piece of meat. It squawks and takes off again.

“In the court, have you noticed that people rarely use my name?”

“Out of respect for your station, no doubt.”

“But then it’s all titles. His Royal Highness, His Majesty, His Grace. The Prince, My Lord. Half the time it feels as though it takes more time to get through the formalities than it does to express the grievance.”

“And at the tailor’s, I presume they speak about how lucky they are to have such a handsome man to clothe?”

“Your insight is as sharp as it’s ever been, my friend.”

The steward chuckles. He reaches out and rests and hand on Roman’s shoulder. “What is it about the doll of ‘Prince Roman’ that unnerves you so?”

“In truth, I do not know. It is not as though I resent being a prince, but the man beneath…”

Even saying the words makes their hands twitch and their stomach threaten to release its contents. The steward moves the steadying hand to their back.

“The person beneath,” the steward says firmly, “should not fall to the wayside under the pressures of the prince. You have scolded many a knight for neglecting to remember that they are a human, first and foremost. It is no accident that this includes yourself as well.”

Roman lets their shoulders drop, leaning back to let the sun catch their face. “Do as I say, not as I do.”

”Quite. Though I afraid I have to insist that you follow your own advice.”

“But what am I to do? I cannot simply say I no longer wish to be referred to as a man.”

“Why not?”

Roman scoffs. “What—well, why—what—what would I be called, for one?”

“You yourself have said you do not object to the moniker of ‘Prince.’ Even if you did, there is always ‘Monarch.’ His Grace can be Their Grace, Their Highness, if you preferred to go without any gender indicators at all.”

”You don’t think the realm would decry the loss of their handsome prince?”

“The splendor of your appearance does not finish whether you prefer to be called handsome or beautiful.”

Roman’s eyes widen and they turn to raise an eyebrow. “Spending time with the bards again, are we?”

“Funny you accuse me of spending time with them when all I have spoken is the truth.”

“Careful now, or else I’ll think you mean to throw your lot in with the other suitors.”

“And I would fight them as fiercely as any foe.”

The two of them laugh before he pats Roman’s back again. Roman shakes their head. “How are you being so calm about this?”

“About what?”

“This.” Roman gestures. “About your prince confessing that they cannot bear to be called a man as though it were some…some grave insult.”

The steward frowns. “I do not know what it is that I have done to make you believe that you could share anything with me in confidence that I would judge you for—“

“No, no, my friend, nothing of the sort.” Roman looks back out at the water. “I suppose my own insecurities have been voicing themselves since the ball’s inception.”

Another silence falls, punctuated by the distant shouts of sailors as they come into port. Birds cry as they land atop the cliffs, the waves crashing in the background. The collar still itches and they reach up to undo it, rubbing absentmindedly at the red mark left on their throat.

“These correspondences,” the steward says, “they wouldn’t happen to be from the Duke’s realm, would they?”

”No. Remus is…I dare say Remus knows more than I do about my…self.”

“You two have always shared a particular bond. I suppose it makes sense that whatever happens to one affects the other.”

“Mm.”

"Then these correspondences must’ve been from the friends you wish to bring to the ball, hm?” The steward chuckles at their surprised expression. “I do oversee the delivery of most mail in the castle, you know.”

“I did not think that would extend to you spying on me,” Roman says, playfully narrowing their eyes.

“Come now, you know I would never steal the job of the Spymaster. She would have my head quicker than I could speak the thought aloud. No, old friend, I only mean to say that it is no regret that your friends, beloved as they may be, have this tendency to evoke certain…how shall I put this? Fears of impermanence, shall I say, when it comes to what happens here versus what happens when you join them.”

“Sharper than your steel, you mind can be.”

"Forgive me, old friend, I don’t mean to needle you.”

“No, it is my fault for being so cold.”

“I poked knowingly at a sore spot with the intent to reveal a deeper hurt. You are forgiven implicitly for any reaction you would have to such an action. I only meant to say that it is not the first time such insecurities have reared their heads on the eve of their arrival. It makes sense that they would do so again.”

”And you believe I could find some way to quiet them?”

“Your people do not support you, revere you, or love you because you are a man. They do so because you care for them as much as you care for yourself, if not more. Because you work to serve them as they serve you and not once have you taken it for granted.”

“And you believe they would continue to do so if I…revealed something like this?”

”I don’t believe it, I know it.”

Roman turns to the steward, taking his hand from their back and holding it in theirs. "Your friendship is invaluable to me, I hope you know. I could not wish for a better companion.”

“Perhaps it is you who wishes for me to throw my lot in with the other suitors,” the steward teases, but squeezes their hand all the same. “It is a pleasure an an honor to be considered your friend, Roman. And just as much so to be trusted to offer you counsel for something like this.”

”If it is not too much to ask—“

"I dare say it won’t.”

“—would you accompany me to the tailor’s?”

“I was correct, it wasn’t. I would be thrilled to. Shall we go now?”

“I suppose. Though I do wish we could stay out here for a little longer.”

“Let us walk around the parapets, that will be more than enough, don’t you think?”

“Splendid.”

The sun slowly moves across the sky are they wind their way along the castle’s walls, talking about nothing much and anything at all. What the preparations for the harvest are this year, how the patrols have been finding the terrain where the storms were particularly heavy, what shipments they expect from neighboring kingdoms and how they purport to reinforce docks come the sea storms.

And, of course, last minute preparations for the ball.

Roman can’t help but slow their pace slightly when they approach the tailor’s. The steward notices, because of course he does, and moves swiftly on ahead as though this were planned.

“Good afternoon,” he says, “Their Grace has arrived for their fitting.”

Oh, you wonderful man.

The tailor looks up from her work as they come in, smiling and motioning to the raised podium. “Well, Your Grace, let’s not waste any time. I have several ideas that I think you’re going to adore and we’ll need most of our time to decide which one we should do.”

Roman glances at the steward who gives a little shrug as if to say can’t be helped, and they go to stand where directed. One of her assistants adjusts the mirror so all three panels are properly placed as the tailor turns around.

“Now,” she says, hands on her hips, “I presume your dear friend is not here simply to be a wall ornament. I did notice the shift in your introduction, this was not careless?”

“No, it was not.”

“Then you have given me a great gift today, My Liege, for I have a proposition I was certain you were going to say no for, but now I have back-up.”

Roman watches, a little wide-eyed, as she hurries to the back of the workshop, pulling aside a curtain and retrieving a set of gleaming gold…wings? No, they curve the wrong way to be wings. They almost look to be two halves of a corset, except there is no place to lace them together. She returns, bidding them to lift their arms, and places them on either side of their rib cage. IN the mirror, it looks almost as a golden carapace frames their torso.

“We could do a more structured bodice up top,” she says, beckoning her assistant over to hold the pieces in place as she gestures, “have it cup your chest almost as though it were a chrysalis unfolding. The skirt—I would propose a skirt—could be quite long and flowing, or more structured but I have this gorgeous red fabric that would look truly lovely with your skin. We could do more hardware closer to the collar, of course, and this is the part where I’d need to…”

She trails off when she notices the tears streaming down Roman’s face.

“Oh, dear,” she murmurs, quickly retaking the pieces back, “go on and wait outside, would you dear? Or, better yet, go and talk to the merchant downstairs, yes, that’s a good girl…”

The assistant quickly takes her leave as the steward comes over to turn them away from the mirror, his hands on their shoulders. The tailor quickly sets the pieces down on a nearby table.

”Hey,” The steward calls gently, “what ails you, my friend, what troubles you so? You are surrounded by friends, no harm will come to you here.”

“Here,” the tailor says, pressing a handkerchief into their hand, “for your tears.”

Roman dabs at their cheeks, holding the material over their face. The steward lets out another soft noise and brings them into a gentle hug, rubbing their back soothingly. They bury their head in his shoulder and just breathe there for long moments. The tailor bolts the door and leans against it.

“My friend,” the steward murmurs as Roman’s sobs slow, “what happened? Are you alright?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m alright.” They pass the handkerchief under their nose. “Believe it or not, I am…I’m happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes, happy.” They smile through the lest of their sniffles and open their arm to the tailor, who comes instantly. “You spared not a moment wondering if I had lost my wits when I was introduced, and only thought of—of—“

“Careful, now, don’t you work yourself up again.” She pats his shoulder. “Of course I gave not a wink to it, what should it matter to me? You are my liege, and you would be whether you wished to be called a man, a woman, whatever it might be.”

"You will set me off again,” they accuse, mostly in jest, “what did I do to deserve to be surrounded by such wonderful people?”

“Blame yourself. The kingdom you have fostered has no place for those who would scorn anyone for such frivolous things. We reserve our disdain for much worthier causes.”

Roman sobs out a laugh—or laughs out a sob? The tailor pats his arm sympathetically and the steward offers him a reassuring squeeze.

“No more tears, now,” the tailor mock-scolds, “I have reds to match you to and I’ll not have your nose throwing me off.”

“Alright, alright, I won’t.”

“And I’ll have you know I intend to bring enough pins to keep you in the whole damn thing even if every stitch decides to rupture on the night.”

“Whether or not they find their homes in fabric or in the sides of those who would scorn you remains to be seen, I’m sure,” the steward remarks casually, only to yelp as one such pin jabs at him. “Hey! What have I done to you?”

“Speculation and accusation, how dare you?”

“Ones you have not denied.”

She jabs him once more for luck and returns to the podium, smoothing her hands over the edges of Roman’s collar. “This was giving you a bit of trouble, wasn’t it?”

“Just recently.”

“Yes, i see some of the inner band has worn away. No matter, it’s a simple enough fix. Now, shall we begin with the fabric?”

Roman smiles. “Nothing would please me more.”

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[heartstringsduet]

In good hands

Summary: "Being held down during sex isn't new, not being released after is." After Carlos admits to how much he enjoys pinning TK down, after they talk about safewords and bondage and discipline, TK tries to be what he thinks his boyfriend needs. It doesn't work out. Not at first. A/N: This is going to be a series of early and established dom/sub dynamics in their relationship. I wanted to first set a tone for a loving but rocky start into it that both don't know how to navigate quite yet.

He’s doing this for Carlos. That’s what TK needs to remind himself of when a first breath of unease cuts into his chest. When his palms get sweaty and rub against each other, because that’s all the movement he has. 

This is for Carlos.

TK jumps a little when he feels a hand cup his neck and settles into a familiar spot. It’s warm meeting his cool skin. On instinct, TK opens his eyes. His eyelashes catch in silk, his vision gets trapped in midnight blue. There’s nothing to see, nowhere to move. 

“Shh, TK,” Carlos breathes against the shell of his ear, lips brushing the grooves of skin on a barely there kiss. “You’re here with me. Just focus on where you are. On what you feel.”

Yes, that’s right. He is in their dining area, his arms tied behind the back of the chair in a soft, checkered kitchen towel he won’t ever look at without blushing after. The soft fabric of it rubs between his wrists as he squeezes his hands. He’s bound here by Carlos. All he has to do now is listen to Carlos. He's good at this. 

He usually is. But then the hand is pulled away from TK's neck and lips leave his ear cold. He’s blind and bound. It feels like he wasn’t just left untouched but untethered despite his bindings.

“Carlos?” TK’s voice comes high and wobbly.

“I’m here,” Carlos says from somewhere closeby behind him and TK feels the tight knot in him loosen. “You’re doing so well, baby. Keep on breathing like that.”

Panic gives way to defiance. “I’m not really doing anything.”

Suddenly, the towel is tugged down, forcing TK’s arms and back straighter. It scares him, to be so helpless, but his stomach also swoops up in excitement at the unexpected forcefulness from his usually tender boyfriend.

“You’re wrong.” Carlos says lowly against his ear. “You are doing well. You’re absolutely perfect by trusting me to take care of you.”

The sound of Carlos’ breath is familiar as his own by now. TK follows its rhythm back away from fear.

Read more on AO3

[annmariethrush]

Been reading a lot of fix-it fics for the finale so I wrote one 👀

Dean helped save the world but without Castiel, he’s having a hard time finding a reason to keep living.

On AO3 or below the cut

“You asked what about all of this is real… We are.”

Dean sat in his recliner and stared blankly at the dark tv screen. His eyes moved ever further out of focus as the blankness of the screen bled into his thoughts. Cas was somewhere dark. Somewhere inky black and devoid of color and light and motion. Cas was stuck within this lifeless tv and it was because of Dean. He wondered idly if he could have jumped with Cas. Wondered if he could have hugged Cas so tight that the empty had to take them both. At least Cas wouldn’t be alone that way. At least Dean wouldn’t feel so alone. Then maybe the cold recliner next to him wouldn’t feel like damnation.

Dean didn’t notice when tears began to cloud his vision, but when he was dragged out of his daze by approaching noise he wiped at his eyes quickly. Sam wouldn’t understand Dean’s sorrow. They had saved the world, what was one friend lost for good in the context of all the friends they had managed to return. Dean didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t Sam’s disappointment and guilt over Jody fading from existence that he felt, or even the pain and rage of Eileen being ripped from the world again. He couldn’t name the way he felt when Cas was there, but when he was gone it was devastation. How was he supposed to burden Sam with the cannonball sized hole in his chest when he had Eileen back? The whole world! Dean wasn’t even sure that Sam truly missed Jack the way that he did either. He either didn’t feel or didn’t focus on the sudden loss of a child from their lives, one that they had helped to raise for three years. Perhaps Heaven wasn’t so far away, but all of the people Dean had lost were there, and Jack was yet another one. But Sam was always the one who had faith, and now he knew god and was loved by him, and that seemed to be enough.

It was not enough for Dean.

There were no words, so Dean simply allowed his anguish to well up in his chest and directed it towards Jack. He finished it with a quivering “Please” and hoped that it was enough to convey his message. Gone were the days of fiery rage which propelled him from moment to moment. Now his body pooled on the cushions of his recliner like a fresh corpse and his soul sank to his furthest edges, flat and barely contained by his loose grasp. He wished he could sink through the chair. Absently, he wondered if Eileen would understand how he felt from her time as a ghost. Intangible and insignificant. Far from the raging power of a poltergeist, simply a soul lingering where it doesn’t belong; untethered from reality.

Dean could play the happy big brother for Sam. He watched with a convincing smile as Sam and Eileen settled comfortably into a routine in the bunker. He encouraged them to go on hunts together, reassuring them that he would be here when they got back, that he would “hold down the fort” for them. But when they were gone the light in his eyes went dim entirely. He did not have a smile to spare even for Miracle.

Dean pondered killing himself. Would Cas have saved him if he knew how little his own life meant when Cas wasn’t in it? He knew the answer was yes, and if he had any anger to spare, he would have called Cas selfish for that. For taking the easy route instead of having to watch Dean die. Dean wondered what there was to live for with Cas dead, Jack gone, and Sam taken care of. He imagined his own funeral. Of course Sam would be sad, and Jody and Donna. Claire and Eileen might shed a few tears before steeling themselves. He decided not to though, not because he thought he shouldn’t as much as just because he didn’t have the energy to.

He tried not to beg. He knew Jack was busy being god. The universe no longer revolved around him after all, and with that came consequences. But nonetheless, he often caught himself staring off into space and radiating his devastation to the heavens. He couldn’t put words to it. What could he possibly say that Jack didn’t already know? So all he sent was the feeling. The rotting edges of a wound still oozing even as the scar tissue starts to rise. The purple and black splotches of bruised flesh, tender and warm to the touch. The sharp edge of a bone protruding from skin and muscle. A bullet ricocheting off of a rib and leaving shredded organs in its path. A loss so deep he couldn’t figure out how it hadn’t left him dead on the floor. So deep he wasn’t convinced it didn’t leave him dead on the floor.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon when color returns to the world. Sam and Eileen are in Wyoming hunting a ghoul and Dean is haunting the bunker. He holds a fresh cup of coffee as he walks to the library to poke at his computer for a few minutes. Dean is so absent from his own body that he hardly startles when Jack appears across from him. He considers putting on the smile he pulls out for Sam, but Jack hears his grief everyday, so it seems unnecessary. Deans mug lands almost gracefully on the table as he mumbles, “Hey kid. What’s up?”

“I’m sorry it took so long. I hope you can be fulfilled now. You deserve that, and so does he.”

Dean quirks his eyebrow, but Jack is gone again. The words start to filter through the few still working sections of his brain, but he rejects their conclusions. Things are bad enough, he will not allow something as foolish as hope to destroy him further. But he can’t figure out why Jack would do something so cruel. Jack is the only one who knows how he is feeling. Perhaps that was a poor call on his part and he shouldn’t have put that burden on his kid. Guilt washes over him as he leans back into his chair. How could he have been so selfish? He shouldn’t have been putting all his grief on Jack, he doesn’t deserve that.

“Dean?”

Dean becomes vaguely aware of a voice calling his name from somewhere deep in the bunker. Sam and Eileen are still days away and he isn’t expecting any visitors. His legs straighten as he rises from his seat on autopilot, coffee abandoned next to his computer and Miracle trailing behind him like a shadow.

The voice calls out again, and somewhere deep in his brain he feels recognition start to click into place. He rounds a corner and slams into another body, catching a glimpse of tan and white as he stumbles back. Then he’s clamped in a hug and, like a radio being tuned manually, the world starts to come into focus around him. He can hear and feel the person around him sobbing and murmuring his name and his arms have wrapped around them automatically before his brain is able to put the information together.

“Cas?”

He pulls back from the hug slowly, finally allowing himself to feel enough to fear that he might have totally lost it. Could he really be imagining the feeling of his angel in his arms? But when his eyes settle on the face in front of him that fear drips away to reveal a whole spectrum of emotions that had been greyed for weeks.

“Dean,” Cas’s eyes are wet, but he is smiling as wide as ever.

He isn’t sure what to say first, and he can’t begin to imagine the look on his face, if any expression has even appeared yet.

“You stupid son of a bitch, I love you too. How dare you die for me!” Dean is yelling.

He hasn’t yelled in weeks.

Cas’s cheeks go slack and his eyebrows furrow, but Dean barely sees before he grabs Cas by the face and pulls him in for a kiss. The force with which Dean pushes them together is almost violent, but Cas is an angel and Dean can feel. His eyes are squeezed shut, but the pain of the impact washes over him like warm spring rain, dragging away the dirt and grime left by melted snow. He can hear the sound of Cas’s hands rubbing across the fabric on his back and the jingle of Miracle’s collar as he paces slowly, trying to determine if Dean is in danger. He can smell the soft crack of ozone radiating from Cas’s skin surrounded by the musty, recycled air of the bunker. And when he finally opens his eyes, the fluorescent light of the bunker reflects dazzlingly off of Cas’s warm skin, and the radiant blue of his eyes drowns out all other inputs in Dean’s brain.

Cas smiles gently and slowly lifts a hand up to Dean’s face to wipe away the tears that have collected on his cheeks. Once his hand leaves Dean’s face again, Dean’s arms loop around his neck and pull him back into a bone crushing hug.

“I can’t do it without you Cas. I just can’t. You have to be real. You can’t go away again. Please, Cas. Please stay. I can’t do this without you.” Dean’s voice is trembling as the words tumble from his mouth. He means every one of them, even the ones he’s not sure he meant to say. He didn’t want to beg Jack, but he can beg Cas. He will beg as much as he needs to, but he can’t lose Cas again.

Cas’s arms tighten around Dean’s waist, and his voice flows deep and confident. “I’m here Dean. I’m real. We’re real. I’ll never leave you again.”

[savage-rhi]

Mending Shadows // Chapter 6

Summary:

Y/N was a simple Scavenger of Lucis, until meeting a deadly blow at the hands of an infected creature. At the crossroads of death, they are found by Niflheim’s cryptic Chancellor with his own agenda. Now bonded to Ardyn Izunia, and tossed into the world of Niflheim, Y/N struggles to cope with their new life as an Imperial Icon all the while battling their feelings toward their fate and that of Ardyn’s.

Click here to read on AO3

Ringing.   That was the first noise Y/N heard. The sound was so jarring against an echo chamber of nothingness, that it urged Y/N to reach out for consciousness; to become aware of what was. Their body bobbed in and out of time, and if Y/N were fully aware of the experience, they would compare it to flight; for the body felt boundless and untethered to the world. From what little understanding Y/N’s mind had about their situation, they could have been drifting out to sea, being carried by a gentle current of waves taking them to their final place of rest. There was a calm surrender to the thought, until light began to leak through their eyes.    Slowly, Y/N woke up and was greeted to colors and shapes. Eos looked like a world under ice, for everything was distorted. The ringing continued it’s pulsing drum, cancelling out all other noise in the world. It suddenly occurred to Y/N, that they were not floating off into a void. No. They were being carried.    As reality began to piece itself back together before Y/N’s eyes, a blur of black and red became hair, clothes, and then a face.    Ardyn.    His clothes were burnt and tarnished. His head dripping with a pool of blood that carded down his face like an elegant serpent. The deep yellow’s of his eyes popped out against the darkness that ensnared the whites of his sclera. He was Adagium; the primordial entity of vengeance and power. This was a man who looked as if he had walked through Ifrit’s very fire and lived to tell the tale, and he was tired. So tired. Not even the scourge could hide the sheer exhaustion against his features.    I remember you…   The ringing in Y/N’s ears became interrupted, by a new noise. A gentle and rhythmic bump. One pulse, then two, then twenty. That’s when they were suddenly greeted by those pair of golden eyes, staring down at them.    Ardyn stopped walking.    Y/N’s body ceased moving across the unconscious sea, and they witnessed the Adagium fade into the background of whatever masks he wore. A mere man looked upon them with both awe and fear.    Y/N couldn’t smell, much less had the ability to communicate. They focused on his lips, his mouth moving but no sound ever graced their ears. His arms that cradled them close to his chest tightened, making Y/N feel secure enough to drift back into the dark without fear. They could sleep, knowing that he was the only thing standing between them and death. 

The memory went back into Y/N’s subconscious while they wiped their eyes. A few sniffles came and went. It had long become nightfall, and the chill winds along the coast crept into the land of Lucis. Clouds hovering above the ocean indicated a storm would pass through. Y/N could feel the bitter snips of cold against their flesh, making them wish they hadn’t been so emotionally compromised to the point of not having the clarity to get something warmer to wear. The throbbing ache of the scourge didn’t help the sensation either. 

For a moment, Y/N was taken out of their sadness. They stopped along the side of the road, and patted at their lower chest, and throat. The flare up they endured while running away from Galdin Quay was quite unusual. It felt as if they had thrown up and simultaneously glitched. The experience was peculiar, almost as if they were in two places at once but that couldn’t be so. The thought troubled Y/N for a time as they resumed their walk, and their misgivings toward the afternoon and night reappeared. 

There were no words to describe how numb Y/N felt in mind and heart. If a rogue Flexitusk were to suddenly come out of the shadows and make Y/N’s flesh a quick meal, they wouldn’t have cared. A morbid part of themself hoped for such an experience to pass, but they would’ve felt guilt for Ardyn not knowing what had become of them, not that he cared anyhow as Y/N recalled their conversation in the Vixen after he fed upon them. 

“Flexitusk or Ardyn, either way I’m getting consumed by some screwed up creature.” Y/N muttered to themself, letting out an amused huff. It was the only solace they had managed to offer themself for the night as they continued to their trek along the highway to the rendezvous point where Ardyn said he would be. 

Y/N looked down at their wrist watch hours later. It was approaching 1:30am. Sighing, they climbed over the guardrail along the highway and ventured off road to where they estimated the imperial airship would be along Cape Shawe. 

Y/N was somewhat amused with a thought. Traveling on foot at night along the road, and walking off into the wilds when daemons lurked throughout Lucis once upon a time scared the living crap out of them. Now after becoming infected, it wasn’t the worst thing that could come. Y/N smiled a little, taking comfort they were feeling a bit more courageous like their old self. 

The moon was quite bright this night, for it cast a glow that allowed Y/N to see far off into the distance. Every so often they needed to squint, just to be sure a tree or rock was indeed just that and not an animal. The winds whispered as grassland began to come into view. Anak’s, tall long necked beasts bellowed out soothing tunes to the herd from afar. The sound of a car rolling by with a smooth engine came and went, barely interrupting the wilds of Lucis. Y/N had traveled at night before, but tonight felt different in a sense. For the first time, there was this peace that managed to calm Y/N’s nerves. They couldn’t help but wonder if this was the result of becoming daemonic. 

That’s when a bright light suddenly rose from the horizon of the grass plain, and Y/N shielded themself immediately. A flashback of the glaive who found them came and went. Their body tensed, and they fought back the urge to take off running. 

“You there, cease your movements at once!” 

Y/N’s breath quickened. The spotlight lowered, and the sound of metal upon metal was heard in tantrum with precise steps. Y/N forced themself to look ahead, and noticed there were both men and magitek soldiers coming into view. 

“Drop any weapons you have, and hold your arms up!”

The intrusive memory of being dragged by their hair and thrown into the back of a grime filled truck had Y/N freeze, and their breathing shook. Nevertheless, they complied with the request, and raised their hands. Fear began to take root, cancelling out the their positive feelings from just moments ago. They fought against the memory of the night the glaive condemned them to MedZin, while listening to the soldiers chatter. 

“What do you make of this?” 

“A Lucian!”

“All the way out here!? How did they know about our location!?” 

“Could be a glaive!” 

“Either way, we should probably dispose of them.”

The sinking feeling of being tossed like garbage gave Y/N the strength to finally speak up.

“I seek peace!” Y/N swallowed, blinking a few times as rain began to fall, coming from a coastal cloud drifting overhead. “I’m with Chancellor Izunia, perhaps he told you about me. My name is--”

“It doesn’t matter what name you have,” One of the soldiers barked. “And there’s no way the likes of you would know the Chancellor! He’s not one for company of any kind, courtiers, the poor or common whores! For all I know, you could be a crownsguard looking to cause trouble!” 

Anger surged through Y/N, and they couldn’t help but counter them. 

“If I didn’t know him, then how would I know to come here? Do you see any other Lucian’s beside me out here in the middle of the night looking for an imperial airship?” 

“Are you being smart with me!?” The soldier exclaimed with great disdain. 

“I’m not trying to cause a problem, and I need to see Chancellor Izunia! It’s very, very important that I---”

“This may be your home turf, but we won’t hesitate to put you in your place!” 

Before Y/N could react, they were grabbed from behind at their neck. Y/N screamed as they were slammed to the ground, then pinned by two magitek soldiers pressing their feet against their back. Lying on their stomach with their arms splayed, Y/N could taste dirt against their tongue while they yelled. 

“Should we arrest the Lucian?” One of of the men aksed cautiously. “Maybe we should report this to the Chancellor…y’know, get this information verified.”

“I say this one is better off slaughtered.”

“No!” Y/N shouted. “No, please!” 

“What is the meaning of this?!” A thick older voice called out from the distance.

Y/N somehow forced themself to look up. They met the sorrowful eyes of an old man, dressed head to toe in imperial armor that far outclassed the likes of everyone around him. Their heart thudded deeply in their chest, wondering if this would be the person to decide their fate. 

“S-sir, commander, this Lucian--” 

“If you vaguely recall,” The man interrupted and raised his voice. “Chancellor Izunia was expecting a guest.”

“But how do we know it’s this one, sir?”

“Well, did you shoot first or ask questions?” 

“I, but--”

“Save it!” 

Y/N watched as the old man’s eyes laid upon them, and they couldn’t help but shirk. 

The old man gave a firm nod to the magitek troops that had Y/N pinned, and with little expression, they removed their feet from Y/N’s back. 

“Dear one, are you seeking the Chancellor?”

Y/N nodded. “Yes. I am his guest.” 

“He was not expecting you until--”

“My plans changed,” Y/N croaked out, trying not to swallow mud while they slowly began to rise. The cold, rain, and sudden attack had them trembling. Somehow through it all, they gathered the strength to say their final piece. 

“Please. I don’t have any other proof but my word. If you need to verify who I am, call him. Tell him that Y/N is here. He’ll know it’s me.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” The commander raised his hands, gesturing that Y/N didn’t need to do anything further. His eyes landed on the soldier who had been picking a fight with Y/N, and with quiet anger ordered that the soldier go fetch Y/N something warm to cover up with to make up for the transgression. Moments after Y/N was presented with an imperial cloak, the commander came to their side to escort them.

“Chancellor Izunia will be most pleased to know of your arrival. I apologize for the terrible manners my men have. It’s been a day of hell.” 

Y/N furrowed their brows, shivering underneath the cloak. “Day of hell?” 

“I’m sure the Chancellor will fill you in on the details. Let’s focus on getting you out of the rain, and to the inn where he is staying.” 

The inn...? The confusion upon Y/N’s features could be detected even among the darkness of the night, however it became increasingly obvious that the commander didn’t have the social bandwidth let alone patience to divulge what had been going on. Y/N thought right now it was best to remain silent, and keep their head low especially as both they and the commander walked past more Niflheim soldiers who were taken aback by the new blood that entered their terrority. It nerved Y/N, how they were so keen on sensing that there was an other among them. Then again, the empire was known for breeding killers, and the way they stared made Y/N realize there might’ve been truth to those rumors especially when it came to the magitek troops, whose red eyes glowed in the darkness. The illumination reminded them of the Goblin in the cave, and Y/N found the familiarity unsettling. On a subconscious level, there was both familial acknowledgement toward the magitek soldiers and their lifeless personas, and a dread that couldn’t be explained with words, only felt through a force that shared common ground. 

These things have the scourge inside of them…The epiphany had Y/N freeze. For years upon years, there had been rumors as to what kind of evil Niflheim had dabbled in to create these undying men. Everything from blood sacrifice, to retro engineering Ancient Solheim technology had been spread word of mouth across Lucis. There was a chilling thought besides the connection Y/N shared with these beings, that maybe they were the only soul in the kingdom that knew the truth. 

“Are you alright?” 

The commander’s voice pulled Y/N’s attention back to the present moment. They nodded quick to avoid looking suspicious. 

“Yeah, just tired.” 

The commander nodded. “All the more reason to get you out of this storm and into the Chancellor’s care. Let’s keep moving, shall we?” 

Y/N nodded yet again and remained silent the rest of the way. As the rain beat heavily against them, soaking the cloak until it stuck to Y/N’s skin, their mind wandered back to the memory of Ardyn carrying them out of the MedZin lab, trying to recall what he said that kept them away from the chill of death.

Sitting on the bed of his suite, Ardyn turned another page to a magazine he had been reading. He held the paper binding up close to his face. Every so often, rubbing at his eyes. The text would fade in and out, then Ardyn would force himself to zero in. Keeping his brain fixated on one word at a time helped a great deal, but at the expense of his quick thinking mind for it felt shackled at not being able to skip ahead. The issue of his sight reminded Ardyn of the vast stack of paperwork he’d have waiting for him on his desk upon return to Niflheim. He made a solemn face at the thought while combing over the gossip section of Lucian Inquiry. 

Reading over the fantastical tall tales people made up about powerful entities and the royal family itself brought him some mischievous joy. The bit about King Regis having a limp due to a sexual injury while trying to create heirs had Ardyn snort rather hard. He considered himself brilliant when it came to lying, but this was too outrageous, even a jester like him. 

“If only they knew the truth about that little problem,” Ardyn chuckled, recalling the epic battle he had with his descendent years ago at the Lucis’s Founding Ceremony, and how he had crippled the young king of yesteryear. 

The vibration of his phone going off had Ardyn turn his head. He furrowed his brows, sat the magazine down at his side and picked up. 

“Yes?” 

“Pardon disturbing you, but you have a visitor.” 

“Oh?” Ardyn raised a brow. 

“Their name is Y/N. They claim to be the guest you informed the commander about.” 

To say that Ardyn was startled was an understatement. He froze for a time, wondering if this was a ploy to something decietful. After the attack earlier, he couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. 

“Do tell me what they look like.” Ardyn murmured. There was a faint shuffling noise in the background, and he picked up on some noises. Whatever was said couldn’t be made out in full. 

The soldier cleared his throat on the other end. “They have Y/E/C, Y/H/C, and they are roughly Y/HGHT.” 

“Send them to me.” Ardyn commanded and hung up. There was no need for further detail, nor caution. 

Many questions traversed through Ardyn’s mind while he awaited for Y/N to enter the room. His golden eyes stared at the door the entire time, until the knob twisted and Y/N weakly walked in, with their escort not far behind. Ardyn’s brows raised as did his eyes widen a little, seeing Y/N soaked from head to toe. Y/N looked as if they had been chewed up and spat out by not only the elements, but something else that bore more weight. The sight caused Ardyn to swallow back a gulp he hadn’t noticed while he stood up quick. 

“Tell me,” Ardyn’s eyes narrowed past Y/N and at the escort. “Why are they in such a sorry state?” 

His voice was so angry, both Y/N and the soldier flinched. 

“I--I’m not sure. I can ask the commander--”

“You damn well better! Or I’ll---”

“Hey,” Y/N piped up before anything could potentially get out of hand. Their gaze met the fury of Ardyn’s eyes, and Y/N shook their head. “Not now.” 

Ardyn glared, closing his eyes while taking in a deep breath. He didn’t bother to say another word, and merely shooed the escort away. The soldier made a beeline out of the suite, and closed the door in haste, not wanting to overstay what little welcome he had been granted. 

With just himself and Y/N left, Ardyn opened his eyes. He inspected Y/N while they stared ahead, seemingly not paying him any mind.

“You’re way ahead of schedule,” Ardyn sarcastically huffed. “I suppose your affairs at the Quay were not as important as you made them out. What were you thinking, traveling at night all the way here by yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N quietly murmured. 

“You don’t know,” Ardyn repeated mockingly. “I took you for someone on the more intelligent end. You haven’t the slightest idea what sort of pressing dangers we have to contend with moving forward. You could’ve been killed! Why didn’t you stay back at Galdin Quay? I could’ve--- never mind. There’s no point.” he shook his head and sighed through his nose, trying in vain to calm his annoyance.  

“While you were saying goodbye to your dear old friends, the airship came under attack. MedZin operatives tracked the Vixen to the rendezvous point. I haven’t the slightest idea how they set up a surveillance patch, but they managed. If by an act of mercy, we are able to take flight, we’ll be leaving quite early. In the meantime, I need your compliance for--”

“Okay,” Y/N glumly interrupted and walked past Ardyn. They kept their gaze forward, focusing on nothing else but getting to the bathroom nearby. Y/N didn’t see the look of confusion that traveled over Ardyn’s face, or how he attempted to reach out for their shoulder to miss by an inch. As soon as Y/N entered the bathroom, they shut the door behind and shrugged off the wet cloak. The material fell with a moist flop against the tiled floor, and Y/N calmly sat down near the tub, bringing their knees to their chest while their arms encircled around themself. 

Ardyn had encountered an array of odd human behaviors, but he couldn’t recall anything akin to this. Even as he briefly combed over his catalog of absorbed memories, nothing jumped forward to help him in this situation. Normally, Ardyn was a man who loved traveling many paths so long as they arrived at his predetermined destination. Now he found himself dreading that he had one too many choices regarding how to approach this circumstance. Moments ago, he might as well been barking orders at the shell of a ghost versus the stubborn human he had fed off of earlier in the day. Rubbing the back of his neck, Ardyn decided to return to reading if only to clear his mind.

For a long while, he waited. At some point they would have to come out, surely. Every so often during the twenty minutes Ardyn awaited Y/N, he’d glance at the bathroom door. Not a sound. The room was too quiet now, even with the pitter patter of rain tapping the window glass nearby. He once more put the magazine down and got up from bed. 

Ardyn took a step forward, hesitating briefly then he walked up to the bathroom door. A part of himself believed giving space was the best option, but his morbid curiosity was too piqued to completely ignore Y/N’s demeanor. Especially with how long they had been cooped up in the restroom. 

Whatever was to happen going forward, he knew he needed to change tactics, start back at square one if only to pry from Y/N what had been unearthed at Galdin Quay. He settled with himself on the matter. 

Ardyn carded a hand through his hair before he knocked three times on the bathroom door. He didn’t bother for Y/N to answer, welcoming himself into the small dwelling. His eyes immediately caught Y/N’s gaze, seeing them flinch from the intrusion. 

“Greetings,” Ardyn offered casually. 

“Hey,” Y/N responded softly. 

Ardyn furrowed his brows. There was a melancholy sensation to Y/N’s cadence that he picked up rather quickly. He also noticed they were sitting on the floor beside the tub. Their submissive posture reminded Ardyn very much of the night he had tempted Y/N to join his side. The irony wasn’t lost on him. 

Ardyn closed the door behind him. “I didn’t expect you back so suddenly. After the fiasco today, I was going to retrieve you at Galdin Quay myself come sunrise after I’ve had a rest.”

“I guess I saved you the trouble.” Y/N smiled and tried to hide the pain in their voice. They shifted their eyes elsewhere. It was a vain attempt to shield how they were truly feeling after what transpired at the Quay. 

“The soldiers, did they mistreat you on the way here?” Ardyn asked. Behind the sincerity, there was a flame of anger in his voice. One that suggested he was already making assumptions about how Y/N arrived at their somber state. 

“No,” Y/N lied, and shook their head. Despite the cold welcome, Y/N wasn’t in the mood to deal with that injustice. “No. The soldiers were interrogative, but given what happened to the airship and you, I can’t say I blame them. At least they led me to you.” 

Ardyn hummed in suspicion and sighed. He offered a small bow with his head.  “My apologies for their behavior nonetheless. I’ll ensure it’s made clear you’re no threat to my being.” 

If Y/N didn’t know better, it sounded like Ardyn was going to give the soldiers a punishment, and not one of verbal nature. A shudder went down Y/N’s spine, followed by a pleasant warmth that spread from their chest and to their heart. There was an honesty to Ardyn’s words that felt safe if there ever was such a thing. 

“You seem rather,” Ardyn paused, trying to find the right word without pushing the envelope too much. “Despondent.” 

“I suck at hiding it, don’t I?” Y/N sniffled, letting out a chuckle to try and hide their feelings further from him. Humor was a coping mechanism they relied upon when they could feel their resolve begin to hit the lowest of lows. 

“I’m afraid you’d make a rather terrible thespian.” Ardyn mused. 

“At least I have self-deprecating comedy in spades.” Y/N countered with a quiet laugh. 

Ardyn smirked at the remark. Sighing through his nose, he carefully approached Y/N and crouched down. He observed the quick glimmer of surprise in Y/N’s eyes and proceeded to sit down beside them. He was careful to leave some room between their bodies, still unsure with himself why he was bothering to get on their level. It’s not like he gave a damn in the end what was going on with Y/N. Their life would be cut short in due time upon his hand, but he found himself further intrigued. 

“You made a substantial fuss regarding your old life,” Ardyn cut to the chase. “I’m not a man that normally gives out extra time for trivial matters, so forgive my earlier shock at seeing you here as you are.” 

Y/N nodded. Agreeing with him without protest. “You and I both wasted time.” 

Ardyn smiled a little. “Finally we agree on something.” 

When Y/N didn’t say anything after and looked elsewhere, Ardyn made a face. His brows furrowed upon feeling an unsteady weight in his chest. He was perplexed, sensing something akin to anxiety pool in his heart. He tried to push it away, not wanting to be reminded of Y/N’s memories that plagued him at the last place they both spent the night. 

“You’re completely drenched,” Ardyn motioned with his right hand at Y/N’s clothing. “I can have someone fetch you dry clothes if you’d like.” 

“That would be nice,” Y/N nodded. Instinct told them Ardyn was trying to figure out what had happened, but he either didn’t have the right words for it or he was scared. Either option was unusual for a man such as himself. 

“I’m fine,” Y/N reassured, putting on their best face. “I’m okay.” 

“I know,” Ardyn murmured. 

“Really, I’m gonna be okay.” 

There was a long pause and a heaviness that permeated the bathroom then. Y/N watched Ardyn’s eyes travel over them. His expression conveyed he wasn’t falling for their false bravado. No. He saw right through it all. The fact he didn’t push it further despite his obvious desire to pry astonished Y/N. There was a tenderness in his honey irises that made him seem almost normal--as if he wasn’t a daemonic entity or the Chancellor--but a simple man trying to find out what was ailing another human. 

Y/N shook their head, looking away from Ardyn, and started to cry. They quivered, feeling self-conscious about their actions. The last thing Y/N wanted was for Ardyn to see how miserable they were.

“What happened at the Quay?” Ardyn asked quietly. 

Y/N felt their throat wanting to close up. It was too painful to conjure what was spoken back into reality, but a dam had broke. Y/N needed to get it out. Let someone else share the burden, even if said person didn’t have a stake in it. 

“My friends,” Y/N began and sniffled. “They had been looking for me for a while. They were scared I got lost in Leide when they didn’t get any messages. I explained what happened at the caves with the goblin. They took one look at the scourge marks, and they--” 

Gods be damned… Y/N thought to themself as they gestured with their right arm as if trying to pull the words out from thin air. 

“They told me they cared but---I couldn’t even finish telling them what they meant to me before I was chased away. They tried to kill me. All of them were terrified of me like I was some sort of--a monster that came out of hell. They threatened to report me to the crownsguard if I didn’t leave. They wished me luck, but they couldn’t--couldn’t be around me. Cause I’m sick. I’m a walking plague.” 

Y/N wiped away at their eyes, shaking their head. “I’m not even mad at them. I just---I didn’t get to tell them I loved them. They wouldn’t let me even--none of it mattered. I’m scared. I’m scared and I thought they’d--I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. I’m sick, and it hurts. It hurts so bad and I can’t--no one wants me. Letting me in, was a mistake.”

It took Ardyn a bit of time to process the weight of Y/N’s words, but when he finally passed through it all, he felt himself reminiscing. He could see it so clearly, his healer years. How he had been beloved and all it took was one crucial moment of weakness to be seen as a monster. The love his people had for him was conditional. Even if the heavens foretold all Ardyn had done to calm their suffering, the people would’ve found a way to turn up their noses. Much like Y/N’s so-called beloveds. Ardyn didn’t need to hear the full details of Y/N’s circumstances to register how miserable they felt then. The abandonment dwelled in the body and in the soul. He knew it all too well. 

Ardyn understood he was more than capable of going on a tirade about the fallacies of compassion. How giving of oneself leads to dismay and disappointment. How humanity just uses others to get ahead. He had a whole speech prepared, more than ready to tell Y/N the cold realities of their world and snap them back to reason, but he surrendered to something else. 

Ardyn scooted closer to Y/N. He wrapped an arm around their shoulder, then coaxed their body into his. It surprised him how little resistance Y/N displayed, and how fragile and warm they felt against his chest. Daresay the entities in his body felt a twinge of communion. Ease that both ignited the scourge and calmed it, sensing the presence of another of itself in need of strength. 

Two thousand years it had been since Ardyn embraced another soul. He shook at the nostalgia that snuck up in his mind. How familiar yet foreign it all was. He was further perplexed, feeling Y/N’s arms wrap around his form. Part of his face was in Y/N’s hair now, a subconscious instinct had him dedicating their scent to memory. As if it would be of great importance at a later time. He felt nauseous and warm; tongue-tied with racing neurons. 

“I could have them dealt with, you know,” Ardyn murmured his barbaric offer. Feeling Y/N’s tears and the dampness of their clothing stain through the material of his own attire. 

“I know you could,” Y/N muttered in between sobs. “I don’t need you to.” 

As tempted as Ardyn was to follow through with something insidious, he knew right then and there it was futile. This whole situation was strange, and the embrace was the only thing that made sense right now. 

Ardyn remained still for a while, giving both Y/N and himself enough time to process their respective ends. Eventually, he found the strength to pull away from them. He held Y/N’s gaze though, regarding them for a moment while observing they were no longer crying. Their eyes still carried their sorrows, but the sadness, for now, was under lock and key. 

“We should turn in for the night,” Ardyn finally spoke as he got up. He started walking to the door, not wanting to linger any longer than need be. “I’ll knock again when I have new clothes ready for you.” 

“Wait,” Y/N called out right as Ardyn’s left hand grabbed the doorknob and twisted. They watched while he paused, tilting his head to the side some as if lending an ear. 

“Yes?” 

“You’re hurt from earlier,” Y/N remarked. Though they couldn’t see underneath the layers of clothes Ardyn was wearing, they could smell the burns that were no doubt spread across his flesh, especially during the embrace. The pungent scent was akin to leather being tanned over a flame, leaving grotesque room to the imagination as to what ordeal Ardyn had been through. 

“So I am.” Ardyn’s voice was stoic as if he couldn’t have a care in the world regarding his ailment. “What of it?” 

“A deal is a deal,” Y/N said. “I took care of what I needed to do. I can rest in peace knowing that. You need the scourge in my body to heal yourself, otherwise, it's going to be a while. You could kill two birds with one stone tonight.” 

Though Y/N didn’t outright say it, Ardyn understood what they were driving at. If he took all of the scourge Y/N had into himself, it would be more than enough to patch up his body and quite possibly bring him back to full power. His scourge took to Y/N like a barrel of wine; containing the right environment for rich power to manifest. Y/N was open and willing. Ardyn could tell from their tone they had accepted the fate that had been ordained. There wouldn’t be a fight. 

All he had to do was act. 

“No,” Ardyn murmured. He couldn’t look them in the eye but did turn his head more. “Not that I am opposed to your sacrifice, but I’m not in the mood. We can reconvene our little arrangement at a later time when we’re both not dealing with heavy clouds above us.” 

“But our deal--”

“Which I intend to keep,” Ardyn interrupted. “Will happen promptly after I’ve taken care of several matters concerning our security.”

Y/N furrowed their brows, finding it peculiar at how quick Ardyn was to strike down the idea. “Do you at least want to feed?” 

“No,” Ardyn shook his head. “And do quit asking.” 

Ardyn left the bathroom abruptly. The door behind him slammed, causing Y/N to jump. They remained on the floor, legs tucked in close to their body while coming to terms with the new facts and one that stood out above all else: Ardyn was giving them another day at life. It wasn’t going to end there, in the bathroom. Life wasn’t over.

Y/N wasn’t sure if they should’ve felt relieved or miserable at the prospect. There was no doubt their body wanted to give in and perish, but the mind was still at odds with itself. Maybe…Y/N thought. Maybe there was a silver lining to this, they just hadn’t seen it yet. 

[lazalmas]

For we have made an end of all things

- Title from Siegfried Sassoon’s poem “To my Brother”

Tags: Angst , Angst no Comfort , Gen , Explosions , Blood Loss , Concussions , Confession , Character Death

Character Tags: John “Soap” MacTavish , Simon “Ghost” Riley , John “Soap” MacTavish & Simon “Ghost” Riley

Plot Summary: A mission goes wrong, and Soap finds himself paying the price.

Word Count: 2360

Author notes: I haven’t written angst before, nor have I posted fic to tumblr. i’ll post this to ao3 once it’s running again. in the meantime, hope you enjoy feeling sad.

(“To my brother”, by Siegfried Sassoon, was originally titled “Brothers”. His younger brother had been buried at sea, after being mortally wounded. He was twenty-eight.)

-

Ghost was shaking him.

“Solid, sergeant?” He asked, and Soap twitched. John MacTavish had seen a lot of things in his career, but nothing could prepare a man for this.

“Solid.” The voice that came out was furled in his mouth, soft at the edges. Quieter.

The team they'd been sent to extract had perished.

“Look at me in the eyes, Soap. Are you equipped for this?” There was a sense of untethered frenzy to Ghost’s voice. It urged him to obey, mouth beginning to form a repeated affirm when Ghost interrupted him, grappling his head to stare at him deep. “Johnny.”

One of Ghost’s pupils bled into the dark brown of his iris. A past head trauma, barely noticeable in the dark. Both eyes searched him, impossibly black, flicking over his face and twitching arms. He must have found an answer somewhere in Soap’s frame, because he waited.

“Yes, L.T.” He said, because what else was there to say? He’d follow Ghost anywhere.

Ghost was off him immediately, stance square and low and moving. Speaking lowly to Price over comms, informing him of what they could see as he kept scanning the area. Soap’s body caught up, now, and he was at his six, gun slung over him back in practised hands.

They cleared the rest of the room, no longer needing to take refuge behind the large cart near the threshold.

“I’ll check those back rooms, Makarov may have left a surprise for us.” Ghost finally turned back, tense but limber. Soap nodded. “Do not go near those bodies until I get back.” Melting into the darkness, he left as his callsign would suggest. No surprise they still had to be on edge. The number of tripwire bombs they’d had to disarm just to get down here was concerning. Then there was the complex bit of wires Soap had been tasked to defuse just to get through the main door. The enemy may have left in a hurry, but they had known others were hot on their tail. Intel was sparse, they’d only connected this base to Makarov by luck (and misfortune, for the team who were closest to respond. Immediately out of their depth, the 141 had been issued, but these things took time. Precious time. Even the smallest number of hours, minutes, seconds. Even now, with Price and Gaz caught up with securing the sister-compound that had been discovered.)

There was a sound.

Soap wasn’t afraid of the dark. His senses meshed well enough together from time in active service that it meant little if he couldn’t see what foe lurked within darkened spaces. No, but sounds.

Sounds meant something was waiting for him. Not someone, rarely did that evenly paced, familiar sort of susurration belie anything breathing. A remote bomb, however?

The ticking was speeding up.

“Brace yourself, L.T..” He whispered into his mic. Crossing the room, searching for where the sound grew louder, he grimaced. “Or don’t. If I don’t find out where this sound is coming from, it won’t be our problem anymore, anyway.” Speaking helped his movement, emboldened him with its familiarity. The ease in which he shone his hand torch was welcome. Just another day at the office.

“Must’ve missed one of those wires,” Ghost replied easily. The place must truly be empty. “Getting worse in your old age?”

“I’m only twenty-eight.” He complained goodnaturedly. “Though I wish someone would tell my hairline that. Dread to think how much grey is in your hair, sir.”

“No mirror wants to show me.” Soap huffed a laugh, at that. “Area’s clear, returning point.”

“Any more task members?”

“…One.” Ghost’s voice told him the answer to his next question. He still had to ask.

“Alive?”

“Negative.”

It was part of the job.

Ghost detached himself from the shadows, footfall wet. Soap saw the blood on his hands, kept looking for that pesky sound. Must’ve been a right mess, finding that last soldier. Being kept alone when your allies had all been captured is never a good sign. Soap knew not to ask. He only regretted lost time.

“Ah! There you are, gallus bastard-“ Soap said, finally catching a glint of wire with his torch. Following it along, it led under one of the deceased’s foot through a table.

“Good time to search those bodies, then, sir?” Just another day at the office. Ghost nodded at him, barely, and Soap was glad he’d foregone eating on the plane.

“Must’ve been triggered by fading rigour mortis. Either they knew we’d come, or there’s evidence here we need. On me.” Ghost was a hulking beast of a man. Soap was always still a little impressed that he moved so swiftly, without a trace. Some part of him he hadn’t quite smothered yet, gushed.

“Aye.” He said neutrally, and they got to work checking each body for traps before descending on the one that was attached to the wire. The soldier’s limb had been extended unnaturally, tied so tight the skin at her ankle had gone purple. When it had sagged, well. It had all been put into action. “Jesus.” She was the only one unmasked. Soap closed her eyes to the world, the state of her broken body, her teammates.

Ghost was doing a strange sort of thing with his breathing. “L.T.? You, erm…” Soap trailed off. There were more wires and c4 packaged near the wall behind a facade, clunky and pre-made. Put there and plugged together, not built from scratch, which made it intimidating to the untrained but easy work for Soap. Some mental calculation was needed but it was very light work.

“I’ll let you focus.” His voice was gruff. More distant than before, edging away.

“Now that we’ve found it, it’ll be fine. You okay?” It was hard to talk over his shoulder while balancing the soldier’s leg, and it was twisted work trying not to jostle her body until he knew he could cut the twine keeping her there.

“Affirmative.” Was the blank reply.

“Sir-“

“Less talking, sergeant. Defuse that shit and let’s regroup. No signs of what we need here, just a sick assortment of human traps.” Orders were orders.

He hesitates, just once. He’d started to cut through the wires, slowly, noting any change to the power source or oxidiser. Soap was so sure he had identified all five parts of the pentagram, knew it like the back of his hand, and had paused very, very carefully.

That’s all he did, and yet…

There’s a large boom. Not that he’d know. There’s a blink between him noticing the flashing red light go static, and being woken up cast out from the table and half pressed into the floor. When he opens his eyes fully, the room is mangled. Half cast in concrete. If it were dimly lit before, it’s fucking witching hour, now. The ceiling is scattered around him and ash floats in the air.

Soap’s hand is busted. That’s the next thing he sees. He’d been going to check his gun, and came short. There’s a chunk missing from his arm, and the finger joints are uncooperative but connected, thank fuck.

Never an easy time of it.

“Ghost,” he coughs. There’s something in his neck. He doesn’t need to look down to know there’s glass shards stuck in it. He can feel it moving when he shouts, “Come in, Ghost.” Nothing. Soap swaps to the shared line without preamble. “Trap explosion, I’m alive. Just waiting on Ghost.” Every word stings him.

The line is silent. Not even a crackle. Must be broken, shit, shit, fuck-

“Soap.” Distant, weak but unmistakably cheery as a morgue. Ghost’s voice.

Oh no.

“That you under this concrete, L.T.?” Soap could kiss him. That’d have to wait, clearly, but he was so glad to not be completely isolated under this mess.

“No.” He replied flatly. “Yes, it’s me. What happened?”

“I- I dinnae ken what happened, must’ve been more complex than I realised, or-“ Ghost started talking, and Soap shut up.

“It’s not like you to make mistakes. I don’t think you’ve made any today, Johnny. This was intentional, the enemy is too smart for this to just be blamed on sloppy work.” His calm voice was soothing in the best way, letting Soap step back into himself. “They knew we’d try defusing it. It must’ve been a failsafe.” Beat. “It’s okay, Soap. You couldn’t have known.”

“Your comms still work?” Soap tried to keep his tone even.

“…Price?” Deathly silence followed.

“That’d be a no, then.”

“This isn’t going to be easy. Anything weighing you down?”

“I can move, the c4 I could see this side of the wall was cut away. How’s it looking for you?” Please be on the other side of this giant mass of stone and not actually under it, please, fuck.

“Not good. There’s concrete on my leg. Hurts like a bitch, it’s crushed. If it’s still there.”

The panic was threatening to start cloying his senses, and Soap could hear the pain in Ghost’s voice. Helplessly, he cleared his throat.

“You’re on the erm, large side, so-“

“Get to the point, sergeant.” People don’t appreciate subtleties anymore.

“I can see a gap. It didn’t crush you completely.” He finished.

“So-“

“I bet we can lift it.”

“How bad did it hit you, Soap? Can you stand? You were right in front of it.” Ghost sounded contemplative, and Soap tried to shrug. The glass made him regret it immediately, but he could do it! Nerve damage eludes him yet again!

“Few shrapnel wounds and burns, but the blast was clearly targeting the internal infrastructure. I wouldn’t be here otherwise, obviously.” Thank the stars for that. “I can't stand with nothing to stand on, though. The floor’s decimated. I can crawl if it comes to it, but I’m right next to you.” He’s not sure how well this will work, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try.

“Okay. Let’s hope there’s enough air down here until Price and Gaz realise we haven’t checked in. In the meantime, let’s get this off me.” Soap hadn’t thought of that. They were underground anyway, fuck, getting excavated wasn’t on his expected plans for today.

He’s glad they’d agreed on short, frequent updates between them. It wouldn’t take long, but the time between that and getting manpower over to them was anyone’s guess. Their poor predecessors in pieces around the site didn’t fill him with high hopes. But Price was a stubborn little shit when he wanted to be, and Laswell wasn’t much better. It was terrible to say, but they were simply better connected, and valued higher for it.

Clambering around one of those predecessors to get firmly planted knees at the concrete made him sick, but it was all he could do. Focus on the living, John. Ghost needed him.

“On three?” He called to his CO.

“Two.” Came the response.

It must’ve been agony for his leg. It was agony on Soap’s arms to lift, but slowly, inch by inch, they got it up and Soap heard the hissing breath as well as dull dragging of Ghost’s tactical gear before he exhausted himself and the beam came crashing back down. “I’m out.” Ghost told him. “Knee’s fucked, but I’ll live.”

“Signs of concussion?”

“Negative. Apart from perhaps the worst headache I’ve ever had. Didn’t black out when the shit hit the fan, but barely.”

“Great. My vision’s double, had a bit of kip when it happened but nothing else as of yet.”

“Keep an eye on that, Soap. Stay awake.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice didn’t sound very good. Hazy.

“Don’t fall asleep on me until we get seen to, that’s an order.”

Shaking his head made everything spin. He vowed not to do that again. “Anything to say, best do it now and keep going.”

“There’s glass in my neck.” He muttered.

“What?”

“Might not make it to exfil, Ghost.” Soap said, loud as he could. Moving that much weight really took it out of him. There was so much blood.

There’s a certain point, he’s realised, where the human body notices just how wrong it is to see the internal, external. It ignites a dumb sort of fascination in him. His blood was so red, dark and coppery, and most importantly, not stopping. There’d been the most pitiful attempt at scabbing over, earlier, but exertion had burst the wound back open.

“Johnny.” There was that warning tone. Usually Ghost used it when he was too busy for Soap’s nonsense, or his dialect had made him unintelligible. Soap had spoken clearly this time, but he repeated himself anyway.

“Tore a few things. Losing blood fast.”

“Tourniquet not helping?”

“Rather not hang myself, L.T.”

“Shit.” Shit indeed. Soap wanted to laugh.

“Didnae think this’d be how I went. Thought it’d be explosion related, sure, but someone else’s? And so poor a make-up, too. This was manufactured, Ghost, only altered to fit the job on site. If only I’d had time to see.” He sounded insulted. He was. This should’ve been a simple job. But life was like that.

“Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that.” Ghost was angry. It didn’t seem to matter.

“That’s unlike you, eh Ghost? Thought you’d been immovable as always. Listen. I ken I’m sounding defeated, but that’s just how it is, y’know? I’m glad I got you out.” He’s sagging against the stone, now. Spitting blood between words, he hopes he isn’t too hoarse to be heard.

“Johnny-“

“You were like a brother to me.” He cut him off. “I know we don’t talk about it,” A large glob of red catches in his throat, and he’s not strong enough to get it out. His ribs are screaming at him, lungs despairing at the liquid forced to share its airspace. “I’m sorry.” This, he knows, isn’t loud enough to carry through. Ghost is saying something, barking it loud, but he’d never been the best listener. It might be swearing. It might be pleading.

At least there’ll be more oxygen to keep Ghost until he’s found. That’s a nice thought.

[tits-fisto]

27: Sensory Deprivation for Cin + any other member of the Middle Aged Polycule (or all, your choice >:}c )

mwah mwah !!

I went with the original three (Cin, Tholme and T'ra) instead of the middle aged polycule extended edition (Cin, Tholme, T'ra, Nico and Fay). I hope you enjoy it!

Relax

Tholme and T'ra think the Battle Master needs to relax. He's not so sure that their chosen method will work.

Read below the cut at AO3

"Just relax," Tholme says, his rough fingertips skirting down Cin's sides. 

"I don't see how this is supposed to help me relax," Cin grumbles, shifting a little.

"You trust us, don't you?" T'ra asks from somewhere behind him.

"Of course," Cin replies, a little offended that she feels the need to ask. "Though I hardly – " 

"So trust us," she says. Her hand trails across his jaw and he starts. 

Blindfolded, he has no way to tell when their touches are coming. It's hardly conducive to relaxation, instead he's tense as can be – trying to anticipate their every movement.

Of course he can't, both of them delight in being contrary. Tholme especially. Cin gets the barest notion that something is about to happen when a rough hand slides beneath his jaw and tips his head back. Warm breath ghosts over his cheek and then soft lips seal over his. 

Tholme's kiss is wonderfully familiar. His soft lips and weathered face – because he uses lip balm religiously but refuses to moisturise – and the sensation of a jawline not shaved in a few days. His tongue swipes along the seam of Cin's lips and Cin acquiesces to his silent request. He opens his mouth to Tholme's pleasant intrusion, moaning as Tholme's tongue curls against his own. 

He jumps a little as a smaller, softer hand rests on his thigh. T'ra. The bed dips as she climbs between his legs and starts smoothing her hands up and down his legs. Her sharp nails scratch lightly at his skin and tangle in the sparse hair that covers his thighs and he gasps into Tholme's mouth.

The deep chuckle it elicits from Tholme is oddly erotic. It's a deep vibration that brings Cin's skin up in goosebumps – sound and sensation alike. 

As Tholme pulls away Cin tries to chase him. He doesn't succeed – he can't see where Tholme is to catch his lips again – but Tholme laughs again and it's almost as good. He tugs Cin's jaw and brushes an entirely more chaste kiss against his lips, before releasing him. 

He feels oddly adrift. Tholme is behind him but not touching him anymore and he feels… untethered. Alone.

Before he can ponder the unpleasantness of the merest fraction of a moment – T'ra shifts in front of him. His head tilts forwards again automatically to look for her, but of course he can't see anything. Her hands leave his thighs and cup his jaw, and suddenly her tongue is delving into his mouth. 

To any outsider, if they were to think about what Tholme and T'ra were like in the bedroom, Cin is quite certain they would get it wrong. Out in the corridors of the Temple, T'ra is a gentle and gracious presence – gliding through the halls with a soft smile on her face. In the bedroom she is demanding, impatient and never satisfied. Tholme is almost the opposite. In the halls he wears an almost permanent scowl, and communicates almost solely in grunts and glares. In the bedroom he is soft and caring, gentle in his firmness. 

He smiles – faint but undoubtedly there.

While younglings flock to T'ra for her gifts of flowers, they avoid Tholme at all costs. It's their loss, he is actually excellent with children. Those that do get to know him invariably adore him – Quinlan and Aayla come to mind.

It is their loss also – whoever they may be – that they do not get to see these other sides of Tholme and T'ra. These wonderfully multifaceted gems of people, whose pools run deep and full of love. That is something that only Cin and the two of them know. 

That they chose to share it with him when they already had each other has always astounded him, but he'll take everything they have to give him. He very rarely gets to be greedy, and they do so enjoy giving him everything he's ever wanted – it seems a shame not to grab onto the opportunity with his hands and the Force alike. 

And so he leans into T'ra's kiss, moans wantonly into her mouth. Her fingernails press lightly into his jaw as she pulls him forwards. Her kiss is hungry and it makes him feel so wanted, so desired. 

Cin jumps again as Tholme's hands settle back on his waist. Callused fingertips sweep up his rib cage and forwards, leaving trails of tingling pleasure in there wake. There’s a spike of pain that fades quickly to hot pleasure when Tholme pinches his nipples. Cin moans into T'ra's mouth as Tholme rolls the hardened buds between his fingers.

Tholme presses kisses into his shoulders and T'ra pulls back with Cin's lip caught between her teeth. She holds on to it as Tholme keeps pinching and rolling Cin's nipples. Both sensations are almost overwhelmingly intense, and as T'ra releases his lip Cin whimpers – not a sound he's sure he's ever made before.

Tholme chuckles against his skin again, and the vibrations travel right down his back to the base of his spine where they settle – fanning the flames that are quickly building in his belly. His lips are still tingling with the memory of her kisses, the faint taste of blood coating his tongue as he wets them – as if he could still find some part of her there.

Instead, T'ra's hands come up to stroke the scars beneath his chest. Though the scars themselves have next to no sensation, the skin that surrounds them is much more sensitive and every light brush of her fingertips brings more goosebumps. It's as if the nerve endings redistributed themselves around the scar tissue to compensate. Cin moans again as her hands move on – skirting down the planes on his abdomen to caress his thighs once more. 

With the blindfold on, Cin is that much more aware of all physical sensations. The heat that emanates from Tholme's body behind him, bathing Cin's skin though they aren't even touching. The cooler trails that T'ra's fingers leave in their wake. The light gusting of air of her breath across his skin, and the firm wet kisses Tholme is still pressing indulgently across his shoulders. 

They aren't speaking either. The only sounds in the room that could possibly temper the sensations of them touching him are the sounds Cin himself is making. He's breathing heavily – almost gasping for breath – and when Tholme pinches his nipples particularly hard he moans.

He can just about hear their breathing but it is drowned out by the noises Cin is making – not just the panting breaths but the pounding of blood in his ears. He is just kneeling on the bed with his hands by his sides and yet he's breathing like he's just gone three rounds in the training rooms with Master Windu.

T'ra's hand trails down between his legs and scratches lightly at the hair there. As her fingers thread through it, tugging lightly whenever she encounters a tangle, Cin shivers and opens his legs.

It provokes a soft laugh from her, fondly amused, and a far smugger hum from Tholme.

Suddenly, both of them withdraw. Tholme’s final kiss is more of a bite and then he’s gone – using all his shadow training to move silently so Cin has no idea where he is. T’ra is gone too, and he strains to hear them. The sensation of being adrift is just beginning to make itself known in the pit of his stomach when there’s a rustle of fabric and then firm hands grab his shoulders. He barely registers that it's Tholme before he’s being shoved onto his back.

A much slimmer set of hands – T’ra’s – settles on his inner thighs and pushes his legs apart. He’s not even settled in this new equilibrium when a cool tongue swipes up the seam of him. From his cunt right up to his clit with no warning, and he yells. His hands fly to search for T’ra’s head but Tholme grabs his wrists and pins them above his head. 

T’ra grabs his hips and hauls him down to her body so that she can bury her face between his legs. Tholme takes both of Cin’s wrists in one hand as he continues to squirm – caught between the way T’ra is devouring him like a woman starving, like she has no need of air, and the deliciously tight grip Tholme has on his wrists.

His heart is hammering almost painfully against the inside of his ribcage. Cin gasps as Tholme cups his chin again, his thumb smoothing over coarse stubble with care before his lips seal over Cin’s. Like always, his kiss is gentle and adoring, soft in its sincerity. It still leaves Cin gasping and desperate as Tholme pulls away, straining up for more.

He needs the softness to temper T’ra’s ferocity, his calm to gentle back her hunger. Without it there is nothing but the way her tongue is swirling around his clit, sucking it like a cock. It's overwhelming. 

Tholme keeps him pressed to the mattress with the hand on his jaw. 

“Just relax, Cin,” he says. “We’ll take care of you.”

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed Kiwi! Thanks for reading!

[bouwrites]

Those Warm and Halcyon Days: Chapter 84

Petrichor

Ao3.

First, Previous, Next.

Story under read-more.

Daithi drops into the bench across from Veery, sliding one of the two mugs he holds towards his hands. “I heard you favored mead,” Daithi says. “Bit sweet for me, but I’ve an Albinean on the crew, so I got used to it fast.” He grins like she’s sharing a secret.

Veery chuckles. “Trust me, I know what that’s like.”

Daithi snorts. “I did share a drink with Caub back in Brigid. I’ve no doubt you know exactly what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Veery smiles, fondly holding the amulet around his neck. “You said you have an Albinean on the crew?”

Daithi nods. “Aye, Trygve. He’s, ah… well, he’s Albinean. They’re all a little bit crazy, but you’ll never find someone more reliable.”

They’re all a little bit crazy, huh? Veery really only knows three, including Caub, but he can’t honestly deny that.

“So, you’ve finished the war,” Daithi says, drawing Veery back from his thoughts of home. “Have you given more thought to what you’ll do from here?”

“Only a little,” Veery admits. “I need to go home. I need… I want to look Caub’s parents in the eye. I can’t run from that.”

Daithi’s gaze softens. “I understand.”

He doesn’t offer more than that, but Veery feels like he does. He shakes his head. “But after that? I don’t know. I’ll enjoy the wilds a bit, then… who knows?”

“You are welcome to join my crew,” Daithi says. “The offer stands.”

Veery ducks his head, smiling despite himself. Being stuck on a ship for weeks at a time doesn’t like his idea of fun, but… there is something appealing there. To be untethered. To just go wherever the wind takes them. Daithi is a traveler. He’s seen more than Veery can imagine. It might be nice, even if just for a time. “Are you just this focused on recruiting, or is it just me you want?”

Daithi sighs. His eyes hit the table. “I lost a lot of good men to this war,” he answers.

“…Oh.”

Daithi raises his eyes, shrugs, and continues. “Nothing can be done about it now. They knew what they were fighting for. Every one of them gave their all, and I am honored to have been their captain. That said, I’m not pursuing you just to fill in my crew again. Do you have any idea how useful a healer is aboard a ship? When you’re days out from land in any direction, even something as simple as a small cut, if unlucky, can spell doom. Your experience would be invaluable.”

That makes sense. Infection is a terrible thing which can make even the smallest of injuries deadly. When you’re far from land, and thus far from medical treatment, any injury must be dealt with by the crew themselves. “If healers are so valuable, why don’t you already have one?”

“I did,” Daithi says.

Oh. Was it the war…? “What happened to them?”

Daithi smiles. “They settled down.” He takes a long drink and a deep breath. “You must understand, Veery, we are wanderers. For most of us, our ship is the only home we have. Healers are rare because the kind of people who become healers, the faithful, are rarely stricken by our kind of wanderlust. Their very faith ties them. And that’s not a bad thing, but they’re unlikely to be willing to set sail with no destination but the horizon, if you understand what I mean.”

“I think so,” Veery says. The healers he knows are like that. Mercedes would never leave the church for long. She’d take joy in travelling, in healing people beyond the normal reach of the church, but she’d miss being there herself. Marianne is much the same way; she depends on the church. Only Linhardt might be more willing, but he is not so faithful, anyway, and has his research tying him down regardless. Not to mention obligation to the people they already serve. Healers aren’t typically the kind of people who are unfettered.

“Our old healer, we called her Bonnie… one day, we docked at a small village on coastal Faerghus. It was in a bad state, recently raided by the Albineans. Well, Bonnie, she took one look and said ‘we are not leaving until these people have been helped.’” Daithi smiles, shaking his head fondly. “That is the kind of person she is. She cannot see suffering go unaided. Well, we stayed for a while, helping them in any way we could. When they were back on their feet and we were ready to sail once more, Bonnie had already fallen in love. She came to me and she said, ‘I have found where I belong.’ And that was that.”

So, she’s okay. Hopefully.

“It happens from time to time,” Daithi says. “We’ll find somewhere, and someone in the crew will say ‘this is where I belong’ and… who am I to deny them home? Few can wander forever. It is in our nature to seek home. Stability.”

“I understand,” Veery says. “So, she left before the war started?”

“That’s right.” Daithi sighs. He’s quiet for a moment, then, “I only want to do what is best for my crew. I wonder if, had we a healer when this war began… If I had been more proactive about recruiting someone who could fill Bonnie’s role…”

“Daithi,” Veery whispers, “it’s war.”

Daithi smiles again. “I know. But that is why I will not relent until you deny me. You have every skill I’m looking for and mastered them far beyond what I’d hoped for. And, not that it’s pivotal, or anything, but you’re quite beautiful, you know. Selfishly, I wouldn’t mind having you around more.”

Veery rolls his eyes. “I don’t even know how to sail.”

“We’ll teach you,” Daithi says immediately. “You’d be surprised how many on my crew had no sailing experience. I know you do not suffer seasickness, and that’s all that’s required on that front.”

Veery can’t help but laugh. “It might be nice, just seeing the world.”

“There is no feeling like it. And I promise you will be accommodated. I admit there is not much room for privacy aboard a ship, but the crew already knows of your shifting, you will be free to do so whenever and wherever you please. And while we don’t have a proper room, we do have curtains and a space set aside for an infirmary. It is… occasionally overtaken by cargo, but it’s there, and it’s yours, if you want it.”

“You’re really selling this, huh?”

“What can I say?” Daithi grins. “I want you desperately.” After they snicker together, he adds, “Although, perhaps the offer will be more tempting if I recruit Kieran as well. He is cute, isn’t he?”

So, humans think he’s cute, too? Veery had wondered if it was just him. “Kieran has his own ship and crew,” Veery says.

Daithi nods. “True. And, alas, he’s far too devoted to Brigid to sail so far beyond it.”

Kieran is. Veery isn’t. That’s true. Too true. Maybe he should just set sail and go. “Say I agree,” Veery says, watching how Daithi lights up. “What’s the plan?”

Daithi takes a moment, tilting his head to consider. “You are, of course, more than welcome to come straight away, but I suspect you have business at Garreg Mach to take care of first.” Veery nods in agreement. “I also have business to take care of. I’d like to visit Bonnie, just to check on her, see how she’s fared in the war. And I have… a couple house calls to make. Like you with Caub’s family, I have people who I need to face as well.”

Understandable. Veery… respects that a lot, that Daithi is willing to go back to his crew’s loved ones and face them directly. Especially for someone who defines himself with wanderlust, with being untethered, it means something.

“I can meet you… in Derdriu, perhaps? One month from now? Or would you need more time?”

“One month,” Veery echoes. Claude won’t need him for that long. He probably won’t need him at all. It’s enough time to make sure everyone is as okay as they can be, and he really shouldn’t put off going back to Albinea. “I can do a month, if you can take me to Albinea. Probably Hoarvug, too.”

“Gladly. Will you be staying long in Albinea?”

“Ah… what month would that be?”

Daithi hums thoughtfully. “In Fódlan’s time? It is currently the Verdant Rain Moon. A month from now would be the Horsebow Moon.” Daithi winces suddenly. “Ah. Once the Wyvern Moon approaches, there may not be much choice. Definitely not by the Red Wolf Moon.”

“Then I won’t stay long,” Veery says. He’s glad he has the foresight, at least. It’ll be an excuse to avoid the winter, and if he does hate it, he’ll go back home and that’ll be that. “Just long enough to do what I need to.”

Daithi perks up, grinning, “Does that mean…?”

“I’ll give it a try,” Veery answers.

---

Finally back at Garreg Mach, Veery lays in a muddle with Sadi and Hoarvug. They’re not shifted, partly because Sadi is still injured, but they enjoy their time in their quiet, lonely classroom. Hardly anyone ever enters these rooms anymore, so they’re great places to hide out for a while.

They listen to the footsteps come and go, just soaking in, until steps come right up to the door and don’t leave.

Creaking announces the opening of the door, and Claude steps in. He smiles at them. “I was hoping I could talk to you three,” he says. “Do you have the time?”

“Far more than you,” Sadi answers, stretching languidly. “Come, let us discuss.” She disconnects herself from their pile to perch on a desk, inviting Claude to join her. Veery and Hoarvug share a look and reluctantly get up as well, moving to the desks to have this conversation properly.

Claude sits, the only one actually sitting on the bench as intended, and clears his throat. “So,” he says, “the war is officially over. I wanted to thank you again for coming here and fighting with us. You especially, Sadi, Hoarvug, you had no reason to care, but you still came and fought. Thank you.”

“We did not fight for you,” Hoarvug says plainly, “nor for your country. We have our own reasons to be here.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Claude says. “I understand at least some of those reasons. Even so, I appreciate you being here. I appreciate you being there for Veery when I… didn’t know how to.”

“It is no task to look after Veery,” Sadi says. “It is our greatest honor.”

“I could not agree more,” Hoarvug purrs.

Claude smiles fondly, shaking his head. “Of course,” he says. “And how are you recovering, Sadi? No troubles, I trust?”

Sadi hums and rubs at her shoulder. “Improving with each day, though I am unfortunately not in the clear yet.”

“You’re well in the clear,” Veery says, exasperated. “You’ll be able to shift again in a matter of days, so long as you don’t stress it, but you’re in no danger of dying.”

“If I cannot shift soon, I will not be the one dying.”

Veery snorts. “Good threat. How do you mean to kill the humans, then? With their crude weaponry?”

Sadi curls her lip in disgust then, and realizing that she’s really not that dangerous otherwise without being able to shift, huffs. “When everything is done, I’m joining you in hand-to-hand, Hoarvug.”

Hoarvug grins. “The others will quickly learn fear if you are joining!”

“Anyway,” Claude says, not trying at all to hide his amusement, “now that that’s out of the way, what I really wanted to talk to you about is what you’re going to do next. I’ve been going around getting a feel for everyone’s intentions, but you guys… you’re a bit of a mystery to me. I suppose you’ll be heading back to Albinea? I can help arrange transport if you haven’t already done so with Anna.”

Sadi smirks. “Wrong. I intend to stay.”

Claude blinks. “You… do? I know we talked about how to include space for the agell in the new Fódlan, but… Albinea is still your home. I thought you’d want to go back and start trying to handle things there.”

“You think I trust a human to create space for agell without one of us present? Hardly.” Sadi snorts. “I will return eventually, but I will not miss this land’s development. These founding years will be the most important.”

“That’s very true. I’m glad; I’ll be relying on you.”

“I should hope so.”

Claude chuckles, then turns to Veery and Hoarvug. “You two are going back, though?”

“Aye,” Hoarvug says, “we will be returning home.”

“Have you already talked to Anna?”

Veery shakes his head. “Daithi, actually. But yes, we already have a ship.”

“Daithi?” Claude blinks. “When are you leaving?”

“About a month.”

Claude furrows for a brief moment, like he’s hurt by the revelation. “I see. That’s… so soon.”

Veery smiles gently. “We have to beat the winter,” he says. “I need to face Caub’s parents, and Hoarvug just needs to get home, and once winter comes, we won’t have that option.”

Understanding crosses Claude, and he nods acceptingly. “I see. Are you just going to be visiting, then? Will you come back to wait out the winter?”

“I…” Veery rubs his arms, “I’m going to join up with Daithi.”

“Really? With Daithi?”

Veery nods. “I want to travel. I want to see the world. On his crew, I can do that.”

Claude hesitates for a long moment over his words. “I…” he admits eventually, “I didn’t realize. I knew you were interested in seeing more of the world, but… I thought for sure you’d prefer solitude. I didn’t realize you were so close to Daithi – I’ve only talked to him once in person, I think.”

“Not that close,” Veery says. “We’ve only talked a few times, though he and Caub got along while we were still in Brigid. It’s more convenience. Healers are valuable, apparently, and it’ll be easier to travel with a crew that wants me than to try to figure out how money works. I’m not going on another money-making adventure with Anna.”

“Ha! Well.” There’s the smile back. Veery doesn’t realize how his leaving might seem to Claude, especially considering it was always the plan. But not just going home to sit in his mountains, but joining a crew to sail around the world… that is different. That’s people. That’s Veery choosing people, people that aren’t his family here in Fódlan. “I’m going to miss you.”

The truth is, Veery isn’t really choosing people, especially not people over his family here. He just… he isn’t sure how much more time he’ll have to explore the world. Before the Degradation, there was never any pressure to do all the things he hopes he can. He has his whole life – hundreds of years. Now… if he’s going to see the world, he can’t pass up this chance.

And besides that, he needs to be somewhere he can be contacted. He’s going to keep looking for solutions, and he needs to be accessible should Lysithea or Linhardt or the people in Beyul find something that might help. He can’t afford to disappear yet if he means to survive.

“Hey,” Veery says. He reaches out to grab Claude’s shoulder. “Even when we say goodbye, that’s not going to be it for us. We’re brothers, remember?”

Now Claude really smiles. “That’s right,” he says. “I know you’ll be there if I need you. I’m still going to miss you, you know. What am I going to do without your cute face around?”

Veery shrugs. “I’m sure you’ll be busy enough with Fódlan that you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Claude groans. “I wish I could deny it… Though, I’m sure to notice when your devoted followers start coming to me to ask where the precious patchwork god disappeared to.”

“Don’t you dare tell them.”

Claude laughs, and soon enough Veery laughs too, and the moment ends up light. Good.

Claude, still chuckling, turns to the last cat. “What about you, Hoarvug? I expect you’ll just follow Veery to the ends of the earth?”

“Gladly,” Hoarvug purrs in answer. “But my Veery is a cat made for solitude, and we would not want him to tire of me, would we?” He’s teasing, Veery knows, with his sly grin Veery’s way. The truth, though, is that Veery isn’t happy about Hoarvug’s decision. He feels hollow just thinking about it. He respects it a great deal, and he won’t say a word against it, but… he’s going to miss Hoarvug. He’s going to miss his partner.

“Wait, really?” Claude gawps. “You’re really not going to go travelling with Veery?”

Hoarvug shrugs. “Perhaps I will, but not immediately. There are yet things I must do at home.”

Claude blinks. “You? Really?”

Hoarvug chuckles. “You humans are not the only ones who harbor hatred in your hearts. I despise all of you. Most agell do. If you truly mean to create a world where we live in peace, you cannot approach from only one side.”

“That’s… surprisingly insightful. And you’re volunteering to try to change the agell’s minds?”

“Who better? It is not to love the humans which we must preach. No one will let go of their hatred so easily. It is cooperation despite that hatred, and the glorious things that can be done through it, which I will relay. Besides, I suspect many will want to hear how this war has tempered me.”

“I understand that,” Claude says, “I just didn’t expect that you’d care about making peace between your people and the humans.”

Hoarvug curls his lip, affronted that he’s even questioned about that. “My Veery fights for that peace. How can you possibly think I would not as well? His struggles are mine, as mine are his.”

It is, by definition, how their whole relationship works. If an agell was surprised by it, Veery would be shocked, but a human, even Claude… not so much. But that’s why Veery understands Hoarvug’s drive to do this. That, and when he shares hearts with Hoarvug, there’s a bone-deep ache there, under all the sunlight jubilance.

He hasn’t asked, but he doesn’t really need to. Hoarvug misses home. He misses the gatherings, spending time with others of his kind. He’s tolerating humans, and even has fun with them sometimes, but he’ll never be the kind of cat that can make a home among them. While there’s a war keeping him here, there’s no problem, but as the thrill of struggle dies down… homesickness fills its place.

So, he won’t go with Veery. At least not right away. And Veery accepts that. It’s something Hoarvug needs to do.

It’s still sad, parting ways. Veery is going to leave Fódlan, leave Albinea, and leave all of his companions behind. Sharing a look with Claude, Claude is just open enough with his expression that Veery thinks he’s feeling the same way.

They’re together because of the war. Not just Veery, Hoarvug, and Sadi, but all of the Deer. Now the war is over, they’re going back to their respective territories, back to their lives.

Veery leans against Claude. “We’re not the only ones who are connected, you know,” Veery says, taking Claude’s attention. “Every one of us is. The rest of the students, even the others. We’re going different ways because we don’t have one shared goal to walk towards anymore, but that doesn’t mean our paths are diverging completely. Not so long as we choose each other.”

Claude chuckles weakly, ducking his head. “How did you…?” He shakes his head. “You really do know me too well. I…” A sigh. “I don’t know. I know that, I do, I just… last time, I hung all my hopes on a promise. And five years later, there you all were. Even Teach, even when we hadn’t heard from her that whole time. Now everyone is walking away again, but… there’s no promise this time. I kind of want to force everyone together and ask to meet up in another five years, just to reassure myself that I’ll see you all again.”

Oh, Claude. He admits once, a long time ago, that he thinks being alone is one of the worst things in the world. Veery feels for himself, for a moment, Claude’s terror at being left behind. Fear of being left alone, of not having anyone to rely on, to talk to, to care about. Veery cannot imagine how that feels.

It’s true that he’s afraid of much the same thing, but the key difference is that Veery is not afraid of being alone. His fear has already come to pass – he’s had to kill the people he’s grown to care about. They turned on him, they ended up on opposite sides, and he had to kill them to survive. Just being alone, though? That doesn’t scare Veery in the slightest. That’s where he’s most comfortable.

They are both afraid of being left alone, but Veery’s fear is in the how, not the loneliness. Claude’s… is different.

“But you’re right,” Claude says. “We’ve all been through too much together. Even if we go our separate ways now, we’ll remain connected. I have to believe that.”

“Count on it,” Veery says. “I do.”

---

It’s nice to just laze about the academy like Veery used to do during those days. Not that he ever really stops even with the war on, but it feels different when there’s not something like that hanging over everything.

It’s peaceful. Serene. Just him, the grass, and the sunlight. The only scar on that pastoral scene is the naggling feeling he has like an itch in his tail. The war is finished, but something, it feels like to him, isn’t. But he doesn’t know what that is. It must be paranoia, or Caub haunting him until the time comes for him to go back to Albinea and face his parents, but it bothers him still.

Not enough to ruin lazing in the sun, but it does bother him nonetheless.

Marianne collapses next to him, leaning back against him with a mighty sigh. Veery chirps softly, asking what’s wrong through his amusement.

Marianne turns to press into his fur. “Lady Rhea isn’t recovering like she should.”

Rhea? Oh, right, she’s here. Well, no, of course she’s not recovering. She should be sleeping. Although… Veery has a bad feeling about that. Maybe that’s where that itching comes from.

“Lady Rhea is a dragon,” Marianne says. “Her wounds are severe, but there’s every chance she’ll survive them. Dragons are sturdier than humans, even when they’re not shifted. The problem is… I don’t think her wounds are only physical.” Not only physical? Considering she was in the hands of the Koterija, that’s not just possible, but likely.  “Something’s wrong with her, and if we don’t figure out what before it gets worse… I don’t know what might happen.”

Veery rumbles low, turning his head towards the Golden Deer banners outside the nearby classroom to ask his question.

Marianne slowly shakes her head. “No, I haven’t told Claude. I’ve talked to Flayn and Professor Manuela about it, but… Claude has so much planning to do restructuring Fódlan, and we’re not even entirely sure anything is wrong at all. I just… maybe I’m just being paranoid. Now that peace is here, I don’t know what to do with it, so I’m just waiting for the next tragedy. It seems like… so much of my life has been spent that way…”

It's possible. It’s always possible that their suspicions are just paranoia. But Veery gets a similar impression from Rhea, when he looks at her, and if Flayn and Manuela agree… something must be wrong.

Maybe she’ll just die. Veery will be okay with that. It’s her own fault for refusing to just hibernate and heal as her body is supposed to.

But there’s nothing Veery can do about it either way. With no problem except “we get bad vibes” there’s no solution. With no solution… their hands are tied.

(And, frankly, Veery isn’t bothered either way. He’s only tangentially related to Rhea’s care at all, and only because he’s specifically asked to help.)

So Veery just nuzzles into Marianne and purrs.

She giggles, weakly pushing at his snout, but quickly relents and relaxes into him. “…Thank you,” she says. “I should try to relax more. The war is over, after all. And I’m certainly not going to get any rest at Claude’s grand victory feast.”

Ha. That’s very true. Veery intends to avoid the thing if possible. In the meanwhile, he nudges Blutgang, ever-present at Marianne’s side.

She hesitates. “You want me to…” Her eyes dart around, looking for anyone who can see them. They are sitting out in the courtyard where anyone can happen across them at any time, but that’s hardly an excuse. After a while, she smiles again. “I suppose there’s no reason not to. I’ve never just… sat around like that before. I guess it is still new, but… why not? I’ll try it.”

She shifts, then, into her majestic draconian form, and now she’s larger than Veery, so he can curl up against her, rumbling insistently with his purring.

Her scales feel odd, but… she’s warm. It’s not long after she lays down her head that Veery falls asleep.

---

Claude’s victory feast is in full swing. The noise is insufferable. Veery does attend, mostly because Claude drags him there, but after just a hurried bite he makes his escape.

Too many people. Too many of his cultists eager to share a meal with him. It just gets worse and worse.

Claude allows him to abscond without a word, which Veery is thankful for, so he sets off to get away from the noise and the people. Mostly, he wanders, until he finds himself on the bridge leading to the chapel. The wind caresses him, and the view from off the bridge reminds him that he’s still in the mountains and reminds him of home, so he stops there, leans on the wall, and breathes.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, just existing. He’s only broken out of his reverie by the near-silent approach of the one knight he generally has absolutely no problems with.

“I heard you’re leaving,” Shamir says, joining him on the wall. “You’re going to join up with Daithi’s crew?”

“That’s the plan,” Veery says. “I’m going to meet him in Derdriu in a few weeks, then we’ll stop in Albinea, then… wherever.”

“Good,” Shamir says. “Traveling is good for you. I think you’ll like it.”

Veery chuckles. “I’ve liked it so far, despite everything.”

Shamir smiles, shaking her head. They’re silent for a while, staring at the mountains, then, “I’m more a mercenary than a knight these days. I work to get paid. I never was too attached to Fódlan. Even back before we all met here and started this resistance I was considering leaving.”

Oh? Shamir never seemed very attached to this place, nor is she faithful, so it’s not a huge surprise. Still, Veery thought she liked Catherine enough to stick around so long as there is still pay. “Where will you go?” he asks. “Back to Dagda?”

“I think so,” she says. “The war has made me… sentimental. It’ll be nice to see home again.”

“Have a plan yet?”

“Not yet,” Shamir answers. “Do you think Daithi would be willing to take me on for a while? No rush to get to Dagda, of course. I’ll be happy just working until we end up there. Then… maybe I’ll leave, maybe I won’t.”

Huh. Join with Daithi, just like Veery? Veery will appreciate the more familiar presence, but that’s not his decision. “You’re welcome to come and ask,” he says.

Shamir nods. “If not, then I’ll stay in Derdriu until I can get a different ship to Dagda. That’s fine. When are you planning to leave for Derdriu?”

“Friday after next,” Veery answers. “Thought I’d give myself at least a week to get there… Last time Hoarvug and I travelled Fódlan alone, well… none of us are very good with maps.”

Shamir shakes her head, though she’s still smiling. “I know the way,” she says. “We can get there from the monastery in a few days max, but it’s smart to give yourself some time in case something happens. Friday works. We won’t get lost.”

Veery chuckles. “That’s actually kind of a relief. I can get anywhere I want to go in Albinea, but Fódlan…” he sighs.

“The sun travels a different path in the sky,” Shamir says. “Even the stars aren’t in the right places. That happens as you move north or south. If you’re going to be travelling with Daithi, you’ll learn to compensate for it.”

“Yeah,” Veery agrees. “I guess I’ll have to. That should be interesting. I wonder why that is.”

“Lady Rhea could tell you,” Shamir answers. “She’s always been interested in astronomy. Probably Daithi, too. Most sailors I know know something about the stars, and one who travels as far as him almost has to.”

“And you?”

“I know the world we live on is tilted. As we move around the sun, the direction of that tilt doesn’t change, so we get variable seasons as certain parts of the world are in more direct light.” Veery tries to imagine what she’s talking about, tilting a ball in his mind and moving it around the sun. He… thinks he sees how that works. That also explains the long night in Albinea, doesn’t it? Though how close to the pole must he be to get something that extreme? “That’s why the sun changes positions as the year passes. Stars too. But don’t ask me how anyone came to that conclusion. That’s just what the educated people have said about that.”

“Huh. I’d have to spend a lot longer thinking about it but… I think that makes sense.”

Shamir smiles. “I’ll be ready to leave on the Friday after next,” she says, pushing away from the wall. “Sunrise?”

Veery doesn’t have that specific of a time set. It’s equally as likely that he’d leave in the middle of the night as right at midday. But that works. Shamir gives him a look like she knows this full well, even as he agrees, “Sunrise.”

---

As Veery sits on his high perch overlooking the monastery, he’s struck by a sudden pang in his chest. A soft ache, almost wistful, which permeates his bones and holds him tight like a frightened hug.

He still has some time yet before he leaves, but… when will he next see this? When will he see the monastery again? When will he see the people he loves again? Hoarvug is perhaps the keenest blow, even if they will be parting last, but the others are not far behind.

He doesn’t yet regret his decision. He thinks leaving is right for him. He thinks he’ll do okay on Daithi’s crew. But… one problem with being completely untethered is that there is nothing to hold on to. Veery hates promises and debts because they mean someone has to return to be a bother anew to repay or fulfil them, but it never occurs to him through all this that there might be people who he wants to know will eventually find him again.

How strange. When do people usually say goodbye? Veery doesn’t think he can fit them all before sunrise if he waits until the day of his departure. Humans tend to sleep until sunrise, so doing so then will likely hold him up. Or maybe that’s why Shamir decided that time? To give them time here for that and still make good progress towards Derdriu?

Veery honestly has no idea. He’s never had to think about it before. Last time, when Veery left Fódlan, he was captured and sent on his way by Edelgard, so he never had the chance to say goodbye. But when he went on that expedition to Brigid, Claude saw him off at the gates of Garreg Mach. It wasn’t a huge production, though, and Veery can think of a few people he’d like to say goodbye to who may not be at something like that.

“I thought I might find you here,” Petra says, amused.

Veery glances over at her. “Mm?”

Petra makes herself comfortable next to him, carefully shifting the sword at her hip so it doesn’t get in the way. “People have taken notice of your gift to me,” she says, gently stroking the pommel of her sword. “I have been called many things since we took Enbarr. Some have even credited me with winning this war, as if I could do such a thing alone.”

“Perhaps not alone,” Veery says, “but you did win it, didn’t you?”

Petra smiles. “I suppose that is true. Still, Brigid… has Fódlan’s respect, now. The loyalists who still don’t like you have extended that view to Brigid, of course, but likewise all those in Fódlan who believe you are a god have taken your gift to me as a sign that Brigid is in your favor.”

“Everything about it except the climate,” Veery teases.

Petra barks out a sharp laugh then dissolves into giggles. “Veery! I am trying to be serious.”

“I’m being serious,” Veery says. “I do like Brigid, and mostly I like you, but the climate there is probably one of the worst things I’ve ever had to deal with in my life. War notwithstanding, of course.”

Petra scoffs playfully. “Says the Albinean. You tease about Brigid’s climate, but at least we don’t have to hide for half the year to avoid ours.”

“Right,” Veery agrees. “You have to hide the whole year to avoid it.”

Petra rolls her eyes. “It is much better to be hot than cold.”

“Oh, I completely disagree,” Veery says. “In the cold, you just need thicker fur or to move a bit. In the heat, what are you going to do? Drown yourself in the ocean?”

“It is not nearly that bad. The cold though… you must wear so much just to be tolerable that you can’t even move.”

“That’s why fur is better than clothes.”

That sends Petra into another giggle fit. “I have never understood Fódlan’s obsession with clothes,” she says. “Albinea I might understand. Even Faerghus. And the laborers, of course. But Adrestia? It is still warm there, and it is not as if most in the cities need protection from brush, wind, or sun. Why do they insist on wearing so much?”

Veery snorts. “Lorenz tried to explain ‘modesty’ to me once… it doesn’t make any more sense now than it did then.”

Petra laughs. “He’s also talked to me about it! ‘It is improper for a princess to expose so much of her body.’ Perhaps in Fódlan that is true, but in Brigid royalty does not dress in finery like nobles do here. Clothes are for protection.”

Clothes are for protection. “Wait,” Veery says. “So, by wearing next to nothing, you’re actually trying to say almost the same thing that nobles do by dressing up like clowns?”

Petra smirks. “Almost, yes. It is a symbol of status.” Veery blinks dumbly, realizing suddenly that, practically since he went to Brigid, he’s been wearing little but boots, shorts, and a decorative sash around his waist. That’s expressing status? As if he really needs that. “Sailors and other laborers must wear very practical clothes to protect themselves as they work. To be able to go through the day with so little protection is to say that physical labor, or even spending much time exposed to the elements, is not required.”

That, frankly, makes a whole lot more sense to Veery than buying the most expensive thing and flaunting it. But then, he also still barely grasps the concept of currency, much less its value, so that’s not surprising even to him.

“I obviously wear armor,” Petra says, “and that has to be practical. But normal daily wear is different.”

“You wear light armor as daily wear.” Veery points out. “And not very practical armor at that,” he adds, eyeing all the exposed skin in front of him.

Petra laughs loudly. “The trade between protection against assassination – it does cover some vital points ­– my reputation as a warrior princess, and flaunting status. It’s daily wear, so it has to be much more comfortable than normal armor, but because it’s daily wear, it’s actually mostly decorative. Honestly, most days I feel like I’m in a costume. Better to take the whole thing off and go naturally.”

Veery snorts. “Imagine. Fódlan would have a conniption. You remember when people realized I don’t wear clothes when I’m shifted, right?”

“Ha! I do! I laughed so hard! How did they not realize that? I suspected at first that you would be more like the Fódlanders in matters of modesty because you need lots of clothes to stay warm in Albinea, but when I saw you shift for the first time, I realized you would be much more like me. It was quite entertaining to watch as everyone figured it out. Oh, poor Caspar made a scene for weeks.”

“He still blushed whenever I talked to him for months after that,” Veery says. He sighs fondly, even as his chest starts to ache. “Edelgard, too, now that I think back on it, but she was a lot more… composed about it.”

Petra giggles, but the sound is just off enough to be clearly affected by the topic. Still, she presses on. “Ferdinand was adorable when he first saw me naked. We had just finished a mission quite far from any town and went to clean up some of the grime in the nearby river. Of course, I thought nothing of jumping in – we swim nude all the time in Brigid, it does not matter with whom, there is nothing intimate about it. But Ferdinand…” She shakes her head. “He immediately began insisting that all the men must wait at camp, well out of view of the river. Even when I told him it was not necessary. And the whole while his face is bright red and he’s refusing to look anywhere remotely close to me.”

“Which is weird,” Veery says, “because they have open baths here, at least within the same gender, so you wouldn’t think it’d be such an issue.”

“Right? It is not as if men and women can only be attracted to the other. I mean- Dorothea, right?”

“Do you mean she likes girls or you like her?”

Petra giggles. “She is a very attractive woman, is she not? And I’m pretty sure she likes women, as well. So… both? Regardless, in hindsight, I’m thankful Ferdinand did that. Not because I would have minded them seeing me, but because I’m pretty sure that’s the only reason we managed to coax Bernadetta into bathing at all.”

“That sounds about right,” Veery says. “Once, when it was starting to get cold, I found Bernie in the classroom. I think she thought I’d eat her? Well, she fainted there, curled up under the desk. I didn’t know what to do! No one else was there. So, I pulled her out and put her by the fire, then took a nap.”

“I remember that!” Petra says. “I went into the classroom one day and saw you two sleeping near the fire. I thought you’d finally talked and were starting to get along.”

Veery snorts. “No such luck, I’m afraid. I think the first time she talked to me without running away or fainting was the night of the ball.”

“You came in together, right? What did you talk about?”

Veery smirks. “How scary humans are, mostly. I think admitting that I was afraid too helped calm her down a bit, even if that wasn’t really what I was going for.”

Petra nods sagely. “That’s probably it. Speaking of admitting similarities, did I ever tell you about when I admitted to Ferdinand that I felt competitive with Edelgard, too?” She groans fondly. “He was so insistent about comparing everything we did to her that it actually made me less competitive. I eventually got so fed up that for a while I stopped caring whether Edelgard was a better princess than I was. I never wanted to think about comparing us ever again.”

“I don’t know how he did it,” Veery admits. “Comparing yourself to others all the time must be exhausting. It’s hard enough just being around people. Basing yourself on others is… a bad idea.”

Petra chuckles. “In many ways, yes. But it did make him a good man. He always strove to be better. I admired that about him greatly.”

“I see that,” Veery says honestly. A drive to improve is a good thing to have, even if it comes about from something as stupid as competition. “Caspar, too. He always wanted to be stronger. And he’d make me get stronger with him. And louder.”

Petra snorts. “I often wondered if he trained his voice as much as his muscles, or if he was just like that.”

“A little of both,” Veery says. “I caught him practicing his battle roars a few times. He said it’s how he gets himself fired up.”

“Battle roars!” Petra exclaims. “It is very much like your battle roars, isn’t it?”

“A little,” Veery concedes. “They’re mostly for intimidation and to startle, or to draw attention, all of which Caspar certainly did.”

“That is brilliant.”

And from there, they keep going. Story after story of their old friends – mostly the ones who aren’t around anymore, but sometimes veering off into stories about others, as well. Veery hears all about the Eagles, and about Acis and Vanora, Kieran, and even a few stories about Petra’s grandfather. And Veery shares stories about the Deer, about Hoarvug, Sadi, Anna, Vick, Eva, and Caub. They jump from story to story with just the smallest of threads tying them together and a thick blanket hanging over them, but they smile and laugh and that’s what matters.

They stay there, high up over the monastery, talking animatedly through the dull ache in the air and their chests, until the setting sun calls them back to the ground.

The strange thing is, after a bath and a nap and some time alone, Veery feels, despite the ache and the weight that blankets the whole conversation, lighter.

[clusterbuck]

measuring heartbeats (you held me together)

1.7k, rated G, complete read it on ao3

three times eddie definitely does not panic, and one time he does

Here’s the thing about Eddie: he doesn’t panic. He puts his head down and he steels his spine and he does what needs to be done, and he does not panic.

This is the way the army trained him. This is what his parents ingrained in him. This is the foundation upon which he builds his life and his career. Eddie is steadfast and steady and he is cool in a crisis, and he does not panic.

--

Five weeks after the shooting, when he wakes up gasping for breath feeling the hot asphalt pressed against his cheek with visions of Buck’s blood-splattered face floating in and out of focus, he does not panic. He’s had too many nightmares in his life not to know how to ground himself again; it doesn’t require much conscious thought anymore.

So he sits there in the darkness and takes deep breaths, and reminds himself of things he knows to be true. He starts small and works his way up: his name is Eddie Diaz. He is at home, safe in his bedroom, and his son is safe down the hall. He was shot, but he’s recovering. The sniper is dead and can’t hurt him anymore. Buck was never shot; Buck is okay. He is okay. Everyone is okay.

He doesn’t panic. What does he have to panic about? The sniper is dead, and he’s alive and healing and home with his son. Everything is fine.

Two months after the shooting, when he’s walking down a busy street framed by skyscrapers and his brain tries to overlay everything he sees with memories of that day and his chest begins to tighten, Eddie does not panic. He blinks away the images of the ambulances and the battalion car, lifts his gaze from the street when the pool of blood refuses to recede.

Beside him, Christopher turns to peer up at him, wearing that expression Eddie is getting achingly familiar with. The one that means he’s concerned, that he thinks something’s up. He hasn’t asked, not yet, but Eddie’s pretty sure he’s building up to it.

But for the time being, Eddie looks at his son and he reminds himself that they’re out in the middle of LA, just the two of them, and Christopher is counting on him to get them home again. So he puts a hand on Christopher’s shoulder and reminds himself of the facts. There are no ambulances in the street, and there is no blood on the pavement. He has not been shot; he is healing, and he is out for ice cream with his son. The sniper is dead and can’t hurt him anymore. Buck has reassured him time and time again that sniper attacks are exceedingly rare, and the chances of two unconnected attacks in the same city this close to each other are so small you haven’t even heard of these fractions, Eddie.

He doesn’t panic. He has responsibilities, a son to look out for—and the sniper is dead. What does he have to panic about?

--

Three months after the shooting Eddie is back at work, and when he encounters a patient with a bullet wound in the same shoulder as his, he does not panic. His vision blurs around the edges and the memory of blood is bitter on his tongue, but he picks up the med kit and goes to where Buck is waving him over to the other patient.

These are the things he knows are true: he is at work. He was shot, but he has healed, and now he has a job to do. People are counting on him; people need him. Buck is counting on him. Buck needs him.

Buck looks up when Eddie kneels beside him and Eddie looks right back, and with every breath, the world comes back into focus a little more. By the time he turns his attention to the patient he is laser-focused once more, all of his attention on his job. What does he have to panic about, anyway? He isn’t the one bleeding out on the ground, not anymore. His sniper is dead.

--

Four months after the shooting, a well-meaning store clerk refers to Ana as Christopher’s mother, and Eddie freezes. He thinks his heart might have stopped but that can’t be right, because the only sound he can hear is the thundering of his own pulse.

I don’t panic, Eddie thinks, and tries to remind himself of the facts, but he can’t find anything to anchor himself with. There is nothing to grab onto, because the facts are these: it’s a reasonable enough assumption. He and Ana have been together for almost a year, and if they continue on their current trajectory—continue taking next steps, like meeting each other’s families—she will become a permanent fixture in their lives.

The fact is this: Ana says I’m just a friend, and the realisation hits Eddie like a punch in the gut. He never wants to hear her replace it with stepmother.

His gasping, strangled breaths are familiar, but the facts don’t steady his lungs like they usually do. There is no comfort in them. Eddie is lost, untethered, and instead of reeling himself back in he collapses onto the floor.

Ana kneels above him, but she barely registers. The only thing he can see is the future stretching out in front of him, and it’s only now that he realises he is staring down the barrel.

--

The doctor says panic attack and Eddie scoffs, because he doesn’t panic. He can’t panic. She thinks he’s hung up on masculinity, but it’s not about being a man so much as it is about being this particular man.

Eddie doesn’t panic. This is a fundamental piece of who he is. He doesn’t know who to be—how to be—if it’s dislodged.

Ana asks him about it exactly once, and he knows they both hear the rough edge in his voice as he dismisses it. She doesn’t bring it up again.

Buck, however, is a different story. From the moment they walk past Dr. Salazar and Buck realises something is going on, he doesn’t leave the subject alone. And as much as Eddie really doesn’t want to talk about it, he wants to talk about it in front of other people even less.

Which is how he finds himself dragging Buck into a hospital supply closet and turning to glare at him.

“Will you just leave it alone?” he snaps. “I’m fine.”

“If you’re so fine, why did you drag me into a closet to talk about it?” Buck challenges.

Eddie presses his fingers to his temples. “Because I don’t need you bringing everyone else into this.”

“Into what?” Buck demands. “You still haven’t told me why you were seeing a cardiologist.”

“Isn’t it enough if I just tell you everything is fine?”

“No!” Buck says, and the force of it takes Eddie by surprise. “Eddie, you told me I’m responsible for your kid if you die. So that kind of makes it my business if you’re dying.”

“Jesus, Buck, I’m not dying,” Eddie says, but it’s not as harsh as he was moments ago. Buck’s concern—overbearing as it is—makes sense.

“Okay, then what?” Then Buck narrows his eyes. “You thought you were having a heart attack, but you didn’t—Eddie, did you have a panic attack?”

“I don’t panic,” Eddie repeats, more stubborn still than he had been with the doctor.

“Eddie,” Buck breathes, and Eddie feels Buck’s hand find his arm in the semi-darkness. “Would it be so bad if you did?”

“Yes,” he says, a decade’s worth of expectations packed into the weight of one word. “I don’t panic. I can’t panic.”

“Says who?”

“Says—I don’t know, everyone,” Eddie says, and wonders how this foundational piece of him isn’t more obvious to Buck. “Can’t be a good army medic if you’re panicking. Can’t be a good firefighter if you’re panicking.” Can’t be a good dad if you’re panicking, he doesn’t say out loud, but he thinks Buck might hear it anyway.

“Says who?” Buck asks again, softer this time. “I mean, I’m not going to pretend to know anything about the army, but—I get panic attacks, sometimes. You saying I can’t be a firefighter?” There’s just a hint of challenge in his voice.

“I—no,” Eddie says. “You have panic attacks?”

“Not that often,” Buck says. “Not anymore.” Then, as if sensing that Eddie’s going to ask: “I talked to Dr. Copeland. A lot.”

Eddie sighs.

“The only way out is through,” Buck says. “Have you been seeing Frank?”

“Not as often as I should,” Eddie admits.

He waits for the reprimand, but it never comes. “Okay,” is all Buck says. “So we’ll start there and see how it goes. And if Frank isn’t working out, it can be someone else. It just needs to be someone, okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie mumbles, and part of him thinks it shouldn’t be this easy. But most of him knows it only feels easy here, in the liminal space that is a hospital supply closet in the middle of a blackout, with Buck’s reassurance in his ears and Buck’s hand on his arm. Most of him knows that it’s going to be anything but easy, once he keeps his word and goes back to Frank.

But here, in the shadows of the closet with Buck right beside him, it feels like maybe he’s going to get through this. Maybe he’s still going to know who he is when he comes out the other side. Maybe admitting he needs help doesn’t have to mean sacrificing part of himself.

Maybe knowing that he’s not alone in this is what makes all the difference.

“Okay,” he murmurs again, an admission and a benediction.

“Good,” Buck says. “I need you to be okay, you know. I love Chris, but I don’t want to raise him without you.”

There’s a weight to the way he says without you, like he wants to make sure Eddie knows that’s the part he doesn’t want. Eddie swallows.

“You’re just worried you’d never live up to me,” he manages, and Buck cracks a smile so bright Eddie can see it through the darkness.

“Please,” Buck says, “I could take you any day.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 20 - ao3 -

“Your brother has been acting strange,” Lan Yueheng said, his voice drifting in through the open door. 

He was crouched down in the dirt, happily gathering a small harvest from the plants he’d grown outside Lan Qiren’s window. Most of the materials he used for his alchemy experiments he obtained from the specialized fields in the Cloud Recesses, but there were some variants that the sect members in charge of those fields disfavored on account of certain pharmacological side effects associated with them. Lan Yueheng had prevailed on his friendship with Lan Qiren to beg, at some considerable length, that he be allowed to grow those variants in the area near Lan Qiren’s rooms – he’d argued that no one would ever think to check there on account of Lan Qiren’s rule-abiding reputation.

Lan Qiren had pointed out that there were no actual rules against growing those plants - they were only disfavored, not disallowed - thereby rendering the entire issue with people checking for it moot, but Lan Yueheng had insisted and eventually he’d yielded.

Let Lan Yueheng grow his nightmare plants wherever he liked. What did he care? He wasn’t using that patch of land for anything in particular, and it was nice to have a reason to see Lan Yueheng on a regular basis.

“Strange how?” Lan Qiren asked, finishing off the final stroke of a painting. He didn’t like it, but then again, he never liked any of the paintings he did for himself – they were too stiff and unfeeling, in his view, lacking spirit and movement no matter what he tried. His favorite painting was still the antique Wen Ruohan had left on his wall all that time ago, a lively little landscape with burnt edges suggesting that it had been hastily recovered from a fire at some point; he’d never replaced any of the things his sworn brother had gotten for him.

“I’m not sure how to describe it. Just strange,” Lan Yueheng said. “I don’t know how many people have noticed yet, him being pretty standoffish and above-it-all at the best of times, but it’s not the usual sort of thing for him.”

Lan Yueheng was like Lan Qiren; they were good at noticing patterns, however bad they were at figuring out the meanings behind it. If Lan Yueheng said it wasn’t normal, it probably wasn’t.

Lan Qiren rubbed at his forehead, suppressing the desire to go figure out the problem right away. “I don’t think I can help,” he said instead. “He doesn’t like to see me, remember?”

“He’s important to the sect,” Lan Yueheng said peaceably, and Lan Qiren loved him all over again for not saying he’s still your brother. “You might not like him, but you like the sect. So you have to help figure it out.”

Lan Qiren did not like it when Lan Yueheng was right about things. It gave him a strange itchy feeling of dissatisfaction.  

“Someone else could figure it out,” he argued. “He’s sect leader now, remember? His well-being is everyone’s responsibility.”

“But you’re the one who’s good at figuring out weird stuff.”

“Do not tell lies,” Lan Qiren grumbled, but he still put away his things and went to see his brother – who wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Any of the places he was supposed to be.

That was strange.

Lan Qiren’s brother was talented and powerful, skilled and meticulous; he was too proud of his status and accomplishments to shirk work. Whatever had drawn him away must have been very compelling indeed – or so Lan Qiren thought.

He wasn’t expecting, when he finally tracked down his brother through a tracker spell utilized on an old comb, to find him walking through the forest alongside a young woman, sword at his side as if he were night-hunting.

“I am night-hunting,” he said when Lan Qiren asked him. “I’m escorting Mistress He.”

Lan Qiren turned to look at the girl.

She smiled at him in a perfunctory sort of fashion. She was beautiful in a way that reminded Lan Qiren a little of Cangse Sanren, though her looks were very different – more refined and elegant, more delicate and less down-to-earth, thoroughly lacking the vaguely unsettling undertones so characteristic of Baoshan Sanren’s disciple, but no less lovely in her own way. 

“Qingheng-jun was just showing me the lay of the land,” she said coolly. “If you need him to return, of course, I won’t keep him.”

“There’s nothing else I need to do,” he said at once, which was such a blatant lie that Lan Qiren’s jaw dropped.

The girl glanced over at him and looked amused, saluting briefly: “He Kexin, a rogue cultivator,” she introduced herself. She shouldn’t have needed to; per etiquette, Lan Qiren’s brother should have introduced them, but he was clearly too far into his own world to care for such niceties. “And you are…?”

“Gusu Lan sect’s Lan Qiren,” Lan Qiren said on automatic, returning the salute. “I’m – his brother.”

“Oh?” she said. “In that case, you must have plenty to talk about. Anyway, there doesn’t seem to be much night-hunting here, so I’ll be leaving.”

Lan Qiren’s brother saluted deeply. “I hope to see you again soon, Mistress He.” His voice was gentler than Lan Qiren had ever heard it.

She waved a careless hand in half-hearted agreement as she went, but Lan Qiren’s brother stared after her departing figure until she was out of sight. Only when she was fully gone did he turn away, and when he did, he turned only in order to glare at Lan Qiren.

“Why did you interrupt us?” he asked, and his voice had gone back to its usual cold remove. “We were finally spending some time together alone, without those friends of hers crowding in and bothering us.”

Lan Qiren glanced in the direction that He Kexin had gone. “I don’t think it’ll make much of a difference,” he said hesitantly. “If you’re alone or with her friends, I mean. I don’t think – I don’t think that she likes you all that much.”

Lan Qiren had no natural social skills, not like his brother, who was charming enough to draw most people in despite or perhaps because of his cool and distant demeanor, but in sheer self-defense he had worked very hard to categorize and identify a variety of unspoken signals utilized by people in order to try to figure out logically what he couldn’t do intuitively. While he was still terrible at identifying indications of positive interest of any sort, as Cangse Sanren was always teasing him, he had gotten much better at detecting negative signs that indicated disinterest, indifference, or boredom.

“She likes me well enough,” his brother said, his tone oddly defensive. “She’s reserved, that’s all – you really can’t tell who she secretly likes or doesn’t. She’s a brilliant cultivator, sharp as a blade and clever as anything; it’s no wonder that she’s kind to others in equal measure as well…”

“But -”

“She makes me feel free,” his brother said, cutting him off. “She’s just - she’s smart and she’s talented and she’s fearless, unrestrained and untamed. There’s nothing weighing her down or holding her back. She bears no expectations and no pressure, and nothing has ever forced her, molded her development in this way or that; she lives her life just drifting on the breeze, complete untethered, and when I’m with her I feel the same, and I’ve never felt that way…”

He trailed off, eyes oddly dreamy, and then suddenly he seemed to come back to himself and remember to whom he was speaking. “Anyway, what do you know about women, Qiren? You’re as frigid as an icicle hanging in the window or a mountain lake in midwinter.”

Lan Qiren acknowledged the point, but he didn’t see its relevance. “If she doesn’t like you, she doesn’t like you,” he pointed out. “There’s nothing you can do about it –”

“Are you saying there’s nothing you actually wanted from me?” his brother interrupted, voice sharp now, almost angry. “Your presence is neither wanted nor needed here. Leave at once.”

“No, it’s just – you weren’t at the hanshi, and there’s work to be done.”

“So what? I’ll do it later.”

“You’re sect leader now. You have duties,” Lan Qiren said. “You can’t just go out night-hunting whenever you wish –”

“You said it yourself, I’m sect leader - me, and me alone!” his brother snapped. “From what I recall, that makes me the one who gives the orders, not you. Now get lost!”

Lan Qiren blinked, shocked at the fierceness of the rebuke, and watched as his brother strode away – in the direction He Kexin had gone, rather than back towards the Cloud Recesses.

This, he thought to himself, is a problem.

It was, too. His brother abandoned his duties more and more often, avid in his pursuit of He Kexin, who he had invited to stay for a while at the Cloud Recesses with the friends she was travelling with. She did, as he’d said, seem to like him well enough, but it seemed clear that her regard was far more cursory than his own - and not just to Lan Qiren, either.

Lan Qiren was roped in by the elders to help do some of the work his brother was neglecting, at first a little and then more. It got in the way of his own preparations, and started getting on his nerves, too.

“You don’t understand,” one of his teachers told him when he tried to resist the notion of spending a large chunk of his time on sect paperwork instead of practicing music. “Love, for our sect, is a powerful thing. When it comes unexpectedly, it is wild and irresistible, like a river bursting through a dam and overflowing its banks. It’s no surprise that your brother is so focused on winning his bride – and all for the best, too. He has to have heirs to inherit one day.”

Lan Qiren didn’t disagree with that, naturally. He certainly didn’t want to be stuck being his brother’s heir any longer than he had to. It was only…

“Just because he’s in love with her doesn’t mean she’s going to be his bride,” he said, and wondered a little spitefully why it was just assumed that he didn’t understand what it meant to love someone. Just because he didn’t feel it the same way as they did didn’t make his heart any less a Lan. “I don’t know why you’re all being so stubborn about this. A woman knows her own mind - just because he offers himself doesn’t mean she has to accept.”

“Stop saying such inauspicious things,” his teacher scolded. “You should be wishing your brother luck, instead.”

“He doesn’t need luck,” another teacher, the one for swordsmanship, put in. “He needs more of a backbone. Doesn’t she have a father he can talk to?”

That started up another debate on the relevance of the opinion of the young in setting their own marriages, an old classic, and Lan Qiren sighed and took his leave. He winced when he realized that his brother was not far away, standing with He Kexin in one of the nearby gardens – at his brother’s cultivation level, there was little chance he hadn’t heard the subject of their conversation, and indeed his glare indicated that he had. He Kexin wasn’t looking his way, but Lan Qiren suspected she might’ve heard some as well.

His suspicions were borne out the next day, much to his misfortune.

“Mistress He!” he exclaimed, groping around wildly for his clothing. He’d been humming his way through a new stanza while taking a bath, having taken a day off to wash his hair, only to turn around and see her standing there in the middle of his quarters. “What are you – I’m not dressed – these are my rooms!”

“I know,” she said, not moving.

Lan Qiren decided his dignity was more important than his health and reached out to yank his clothing into the bath with him, ignoring how they got heavy and soaked with water; he pulled on his inner robes and, once attired, he clambered out, rather annoyed. Just because He Kexin was a rogue cultivator didn’t excuse her from knowing manners, and just because she was his brother’s favorite, granted the freedom to wander wherever she would within the Cloud Recesses, didn’t give her the right to violate his privacy. “Mistress He –”

“You’re cute,” she said, and he stared at her, aghast. “Not quite as handsome as your brother, nowhere near as charming, and the way you drone on is rather annoying, but at least you have some respect for a woman’s wishes, and that face of yours isn’t bad. You’re not courting anyone at present, is that right?”

“I’m not,” he said, taken aback. “But what –”

“Good,” she said, and the next thing he knew she was in his arms, trying to kiss him. It was only through his quick reaction that he was able to turn his face away and avoid it.

“Mistress – Mistress He!”

“Keep your voice down,” she said, sounding amused even as she groped him in an intimate place. “It’s part of the plan, eventually, but it’d still be a pity for us to get caught before we get to the fun part.”

“I don’t – I’m not – I don’t want – let go of me!”

“Are you a virgin?” she laughed. “For shame, a man of your age. Just relax, you’ll like it soon enough –”

Lan Qiren’s brother had described He Kexin as a brilliant cultivator, and he’d been right; for all that she was a rogue cultivator, lacking the resources of a Great Sect, she was talented and promising, a powerful sword cultivator in her own right, and her grip on Lan Qiren’s body was relentless.

Lan Qiren tried first to get away from her without harming her, but she wouldn’t let go of him, pulling open his robes and even burying her teeth into his throat – that was the straw too far for him; he whistled a series of notes, short and sharp, the burst of qi shocking her grip loose, and then he threw her as far away from him as he could, knocking her into the opposite wall.

“Kexin!”

Lan Qiren turned: it was his brother rushing in through his door, falling down to his knees in front of her to examine her to make sure she wasn’t injured, and then turning to look at Lan Qiren, his eyes aflame with rage.

Lan Qiren glanced down at himself: robes askew and sopping wet, scratches on his chest and a bite on his neck.

“No,” he said, abruptly realizing how he must look, how they must look. Part of the plan, He Kexin had said; she must have known that her brother wouldn’t leave her alone for very long, and she’d clearly intended on using Lan Qiren as a means to get his brother to give up on his pursuit. Very few men would continue to chase a woman that spurned them for their own younger brother, especially one they didn’t much like. “It’s not – I didn’t –” Denial wasn’t going to help. “Do not succumb to rage!”

“Do not engage in debauchery,” his brother snapped back, rising to his feet. “Do not break faith!”

Lan Qiren took a step back, and then another. “Do not make assumptions about others.”

His brother wasn’t listening, though, and Lan Qiren found himself slammed against his own wall, held up and strangled by his own collar, his favorite painting falling to the ground from the force of it.

“How dare you,” his brother hissed, his eyes red. “How dare you touch her –”

“I didn’t! She was the one who –”

The next slam of Lan Qiren’s body against the wall jarred his teeth so hard that he bit his tongue to bleeding, and knocked his brain all around his skull. His brother was still talking, he thought, but he couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears. It belatedly occurred to him that using the same excuse as every rapist in history – she was asking for it, she was the one who initiated, it was all her – was probably not a good idea, even if in his case it was actually true.

He opened his mouth to try to defend himself, but his brother’s fist hit his stomach before he could speak, all the air knocking out of him.

“And then you – you hurt her –”

“Qingheng-jun, leave him be! It wasn’t him at all, you’re misunderstanding. I only wanted – ”

His brother threw him away, all his attention drawn away by his love, and Lan Qiren stumbled inelegantly on his way down, his feet slipping on the wet floor and tripping him up, and his head slammed hard against the corner of his bathtub as he fell down. As he sank to the floor, his vision going black, he thought blearily that the concussion he was undoubtedly going to have might even be worth it if only it meant that his brother would finally give up on his mad and hopeless pursuit of He Kexin already.

He did not.

[corvuscrowned]

THE UNFIXED (M; 16k) by @efkgirldetective​

summary:

a former classmate, a magical home repair faction, a menagerie of half-working things. the world remolds itself into something resembling before, & harry fixes. because harry is familiar with fixing.

“The problem with memory is that it warps: Boyhood rivals were cold, cruel. Were bleeding out on wet bathroom floors. Standing, cowardly, with the rest, backlit by crumbling castle. Were pale and sickly and manipulated, easy to dislike.

But now—now, they’re tall, and clean-shaven. Calling out Harry’s name in a Muggle park, wearing Muggle clothing. Wearing jeans.

Malfoy approaches like bridges burn away to reveal dry, solid land. Like they could shake hands on that ground.”

The minute after I read the first segment of The Unfixed, I closed the tab. I knew immediately that it wasn’t a fic I would be able to read casually on a lunch break - it was something I’d have to sit down with and really take in, and I’m so glad that I did.

When I did circle back, I still found myself reading this fic very slowly like a too-short but no less comforting novel. Anyone who knows me knows that I read most things slowly, but there is something about Emma’s writing that demands a very careful, patient read to uncover the incredible nuance and depth packed away in every single sentence. This story is told not only through the overarching narrative — of fixing and being fixed, of two lost men finding ways to repair themselves while they repair broken homes and one another. No, it’s also told in the painstakingly attentive details: Draco’s lovely, charcoal jumper; Pansy Parkinson’s blunt eyelashes; Rose Weasley’s ripe-apple cheeks; the little rivers and perpetual tides of Harry’s untethered magic.

Everything about this fic was executed with such mastery — from the writing at a line level, to the nuanced, flowing narrative, to the exceptional characterization. Harry and Draco didn’t feel like characters for a moment of this fic. They felt like people. This is a fic I am going to save to show to anyone who thinks fanfiction can’t be art — because if this isn’t art, I don’t know what the hell is.

I actually don’t think I can do justice to the incredible talent displayed in Emma’s writing. All I can do is highly suggest you take the time to experience it for yourself.

READ ON AO3

[lit-in-thy-heart]

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps in this petty pace

(also on ao3)

One moment Merlin was absorbing the landscape and the next they were hurriedly wiping away tears that trickled down their face like lazy forks of lightning. There was a reason that they’d started wearing headphones when going out for walks – the reason being that they could escape the vast majority of their thoughts – but, in their haste to leave the house, Merlin had left the headphones at home.

What made it all the worse was their complete inability to trace the trail of their tears. Things had been simmering away for several days, but that didn’t call for them to start crying in a graveyard before lunchtime. Perhaps it would do them good to get whatever it was out of their system. Exhaling quietly, Merlin turned their head and skimmed the headstones ahead of them with blurred vision. It was on days like this, days when the whole word was trapped in the greying clouds, with little sign of life, that Merlin could almost fool themself that they had slowed down time. It was on day like this that it felt alright to move a little more lethargically than usual.

But it was also on days like this that eternity stretched out before them, jaws extending to catch them with its tongue. And it was on days like this that Merlin could no longer ignore the cuts from being grazed by immortality’s barbed teeth.

It was ironic, then, that they had chosen to begin an existential crisis in a graveyard of all places. If Merlin stood up and moved away from the rotting wooden bench, if they passed a quivering hand over each stone, then they might be able to snatch flashes of the lives crumbling away in the earth. They might be able to find an answer to their question of whether the bones had had a purpose. Or they might have been greeted with simply a stirring of dust beneath the grass.

For years, Merlin had been jumping from one thing to the next, crying out for a break from the intense pace of life but, now that they had it, they’d give anything to once again be on the verge of cracking under the pressure. Of course, they’d had it again during the two world wars that they and Leon had been involved in, but that had been different. Merlin had no desire to be involved in conflict again. They just wanted a goal, a drive, anything that would drag them from the burrow they’d made in the vast expanse of time.

Their days held peace, but no purpose.

Merlin knew it would pass, knew that one day in the coming weeks they’d wake up with a flare of panic at something they’d overlooked and would fly back into speedrunning life, but they hated how untethered they seemed to be from existence itself. After all, what was it all for? They read books, went out for coffee, took walks through the woods, but what mark did that leave? No mark but an indentation in a seat in the corner of a quiet café, or grease marks on the corners of pages in classical novels, or footprints that were washed away by the rain. Not that having a purpose necessarily meant a mark was left. Merlin had been a part of one of the most legendary kingdoms, but their name was buried somewhere amongst the concealed rubble of Camelot.

Leon would tell them that living wasn’t about leaving a mark, but Leon was currently getting coffee.

Falling further back against the bench, Merlin closed their eyes against the tears dripping into their lap. It was ridiculous to feel as they did; nothing was expected of them, there was no need to have a purpose, they still had all the time in the world to achieve something great if that was what they desired… Yet, still, they couldn’t quite shake the idea of needing to use their hands to steer the boat they were adrift in back to shore.

Perhaps a change in routine would help—

‘Coffee?’ Leon’s voice was too bright, too weightless, for the dreary world. As Merlin looked up, his smile faltered. ‘Merlin? What’s wrong?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Leon sat beside them on the bench, gently balancing the cups on one beam of the seat. ‘It always matters to me.’

Merlin shook their head. ‘No. It’s stupid. And it’ll pass, I just need to suck it up.’

Leon’s hand brushed against their thigh, voice scarcely a murmur. ‘Tell me.’

Tilting back their head to look up at the sky, Merlin slowly exhaled. ‘I’m just feeling stagnant. Like I’m doing nothing with my life, it’s just existing, and I don’t know. I hate it. It feels like there’s no real point to anything.’

The hand that had been on Merlin’s thigh moved to wipe away their tears and, as it fell on their shoulder, Merlin could feel the steely band of Leon’s wedding ring pushing gently into their collarbone. ‘It’s alright to just exist for a little while. You need time to take a breath.’

‘It doesn’t feel like taking a breath,’ Merlin whispered. ‘It feels like suffocating. Like all these things I could be doing are slowly advancing and penning me in and I’m, for some reason, doing my best to push them all away.’ They bowed their head, burying it in their hands. ‘I’m sorry. This was supposed to be a nice morning.’

‘Hey,’ Leon sharply said. ‘No apologising for what you feel. That was one of the marriage vows.’

Merlin laughed weakly. ‘It was not one of the marriage vows.’

‘Yes it was; I muttered it under my breath at the altar and you agreed to it.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘When I said “to have and to hold from this day forward with no apologising for feelings”, you nodded firmly and then we moved on. So, you’re breaking one of our marriage vows, which I will be taking personally.’

A ghost of a smile etched on their lips, Merlin twisted and wrapped their arms around Leon, who held them fiercely in return. ‘I just hate feeling like this. And I can’t do anything but wait for it to pass…’

‘Your life doesn’t need a purpose to have value. It doesn’t need to be this grand adventure with high stakes and battles. Some days it’s okay for the goal to be to have a shower. And when you’ve done that, you don’t have to push yourself to do anything else. It’s okay to stagnate for a bit.’ Leon’s breath was warm against Merlin’s hair. ‘You can’t devote all your energy to something all the time. You’re allowed to drift for a while.’

‘It feels wrong though,’ whispered Merlin.

‘I know. I know. But let yourself feel it, yeah? If anything, it proves that you’re not simply existing. Does that make sense?’

Merlin clutched him tighter. ‘I think so. I probably just need a change; I’ve been sitting in the same four places for the past week.’

‘We can go out for the day, if you like?’

‘Not today. Tomorrow, though?’

‘Course.’ Leon’s hands were moving up and down Merlin’s back. ‘We can take flowers to Gwen and Percival, if you wanted?’

‘I’d like that. Wasn’t there a secondhand bookshop that you wanted to investigate near them?’

‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about that.’ Leon hesitated, words becoming more muffled, but Merlin could interpret them through the movement of his lips against their head. ‘Let yourself stagnate, Merlin. Conserve all your passion and all your energy for the next thing that comes along. Because there will be a next thing. But don’t spend all your time waiting for it to hit. Enjoy not having the screaming panic of fulfilling a purpose.’

Merlin buried their face in Leon’s shoulder. ‘Thank you. I love you, you know that, right?’

‘Love you too, Merlin. There’s no friend I would rather be married to.’

A pause, then: ‘You don’t have any other friends, Leon.’

‘Not yet. There’s that party conference I was thinking that we could crash—’

‘Are you saying that you’re going to leave me for a Tory?’

‘No, not that party conference. The one in the town hall.’

‘That’s not a party conference,’ Merlin mumbled. ‘That’s a charity event. And we don’t need to crash it; we’ve got invitations.’

Merlin could feel the grin on Leon’s face. ‘Even better.’

Shaking their head gently, Merlin closed their eyes, still determinedly clinging to Leon. They had to take joy in the small things, that was what Gwen had always said, and tether themselves to the world around them. And Merlin was tied to the yew trees lining the graveyard, now bearing fruit, their breaths extending with the roots embedded in the earth. Merlin was tied to the birdsong emitting timidly from the hedge, their heartbeat entwined with the melody. Merlin was tied to hazy clouds promising rain overhead, their touch caught in the endless smoke. And they were tied to the man tightly embracing them and that was all that mattered.

[mtreebeardiles]

Intimate moments for Shawn/Coats - cuddling on the couch

Two for one special on fluff tonight! Enjoy these OTHER cute nerds! AO3 Two years into dating Major Leigh Coats saw Shawn still working to figure himself out.

Uncertainty, anxiety, a rush of emotions that seemed to coil in his gut, under his skin, but Shawn was nothing if not determined. In a way he came to relish even the more nerve-wracking of his feelings as further proof that he was himself, alive in the truest sense of the word, a person capable of feeling the full scope of emotion so many had deigned his kind -- synthetics -- incapable of experiencing.

Granted, he didn't have anxiety the way Evvy did, didn't really have nightmares, didn't really feel the same level of pressure those around him did post-Reaper War. His was the uncertainty that came with one who was still untested, unknown, the uneasiness of first steps and the thrill of successes, of things learned, of lessons remembered in those moments where he didn't quite hit the mark.

But that didn't mean he couldn't find some way to empathize, and what was learning oneself if not also learning connection to others, to appreciate the scope of differences and commonalities?

For Evvy and Kaidan, it was easy -- making sure the kitchen was stocked, food so central to their connection and groceries about the only thing Shawn felt safe tackling. So he tracked the list, paid attention, kept their comfort foods on hand, and left them to it in the evenings, forming their little bubble where the only people in the entire galaxy was them and them alone. Joker had been more of a challenge, the wry pilot difficult for Shawn to get a gauge on until he realized the man just wanted someone to listen. Talking -- about ships, about EDI, about fears and worries and joys and his own nerves at how much had changed since that fateful day, and Shawn was nothing if not a good listener. He wasn't so good at the humor bit, but Joker seemed to think he was funny enough for the both of them.

The biggest challenge for Shawn was Leigh.

Distance became a reality once the Citadel was untethered from Earth, making its way back to the Serpent Nebula for the time being. Shawn had remained on the station, finding himself in a role he hadn't imagined for himself but couldn't abandon, seeking connection with the only other person who was even remotely like him in a non-organic sense. Leigh had stayed on Earth, in London, overseeing the London Restoration Initiative. Visits were arranged in bursts, and even when Shawn did make his way to London it wasn't always a guarantee that he'd be spending the bulk of that time with the Major.

Leigh was, as Joker had tried to explain it once, a "workaholic." Avoidance of difficult things by way of keeping oneself busy, and Shawn supposed he could understand it on some level, but that sure as shit didn't mean he had to like it. And not necessarily because it meant less time for them -- but because of the obvious toll it had on this man he found himself increasingly caring about.

But how could Shawn find a way through, when Leigh was so good at pretending nothing was wrong?

"Impossible man," the Commodore exclaimed, exasperated, the character gesticulating to further underscore his frustration on the holovid Shawn was only half-watching. He'd missed the context, but he agreed with the sentiment.

He shut the vid off with a sigh, thoughts heavy, and made his way to bed alone.

----

The next few nights took on a similar pattern until Shawn just… didn't go to the bedroom. Instead he dragged a blanket to the couch, draped it over his shoulders to ward off any chill, and stubbornly sat watching one bad sci-fi vid after another until Leigh finally came home.

"Shawn? What're you still doing up?"

There was concern etched in Leigh's face, evident in the pinch of his brows, the slight downward curve of his lips, growing more pronounced the longer Shawn just stared at him, eyes narrowed.

"Sit down."

"What?"

Shawn patted the cushion beside him.

Leigh blinked, but acquiesced, dropping his coat onto the back of a chair before settling beside him on the couch.

"Shawn--"

"Shh. They're about to find the space sharks."

"What…"

Shawn shook his head, looping an arm around Leigh's middle and tugging, gentle, until the other man all but sank against him.

"…I didn't know they made a sequel," he murmured after a few minutes spent watching the vid. He'd relaxed against Shawn, head resting on his shoulder, but Shawn could tell Leigh was still too deep in his own thoughts.

Getting there.

Shawn was on to something, he knew, and was determined to crack it.

So he stayed up the next night, and the next, snagging Leigh each time for some quality time on the couch. Each time he adjusted his approach, though some things stayed the same: mindless vid, physical contact, no expectations.

Leigh, of course, wasn't bound to stay ignorant for long.

"You wanna tell me what this is all about?" he asked on the fifth night, having disappeared into the bedroom to change into his pajamas before dutifully returning to the couch with Shawn.

"You work too much," Shawn replied, gaze flicking up to meet his. "…you don't take enough time to relax."

Leigh blinked, surprised, but he didn't try to deny it. Maybe he knew by now that Shawn would just call him on his bullshit, what with the shadows under his eyes blatant evidence of his stress.

"You… want to help me relax?"

"Cuddling seems key," Shawn replied, eyes narrowing in thought. He glanced up to catch the small smile that curved Leigh's lips at that, and felt himself smile a little in turn.

"Definitely on the right track there," Leigh agreed, his smile widening a touch. He canted his head to the side. "What else?"

"Something stupid to watch; the older and dumber, the better, so we don't feel compelled to pay much attention. Just some white noise."

Leigh hummed, nodding. "Makes sense. And what's the plan tonight, then?"

Shawn considered, then moved the pillows around on the couch before situating himself on his back.

"Maximize contact," he replied, making room between his legs, his own smile curving into an outright grin at the way Leigh lit up.

"How'd you come up with that?" Leigh asked, moving into the offered spot. He settled in, adjusting until they were both comfortable, Leigh's upper body nestled against Shawn's torso, the rest of him between his legs. He managed to snag the blanket, pulling it over them both.

"You like to listen to my heartbeat," Shawn murmured. He pressed a kiss to Leigh's hair. "And I like you in kissing distance."

Leigh shifted, glancing up at him, smile wide and warm. His body relaxed, snuggled flush to Shawn's own. It relaxed even further as Shawn demonstrated the other benefits of this position, his hands moving along the Major's back, fingers seeking tension and easing it away.

"I like you in kissing distance, too," Leigh whispered, leaning up to catch his lips with his. Smile to smile, the stress of the day melting away, comfortable in the arms of someone who cared.

Good, Shawn thought, smiling in victory as Leigh nuzzled against him with a content sigh.

[nagito-kissmaeda]

A Lapse In Judgement - Part 5

CHAPTER ONE: A Dangrous Present CHAPTER TWO: A Past Forgotten CHAPTER THREE: A Foreshadowing CHAPTER FOUR: One Possible Conclusion CHAPTER FIVE: Untethered

Komaeda Nagito x Ultimate Empath!Reader

Summary: Just a normal day at Hope's Peak Contains: she/her pronouns, gitches, blood and gore, rejection Read on AO3

“So. Are you doing it today?” Koizumi asks, giving you a knowing smirk from her desk. It is a good ten minutes into lunchtime and the afternoon sun is cascading in through the open window. It’s a beautiful day, and you would usually be outside if you didnt have more important matters to attend to.

You are halfway through sealing a very fancy envelope with a collection of decorative stickers, but you still manage to shoot Koizumi a glare. Pointedly staring at her left cheekbone instead of into her eyes.

She laughs, “hey, no need to get all feisty with me. I’ve just seen you toiling away at that letter for over a week now, I’m glad you’ve finally finished it.”

You hum, peeling a sunflower shaped sticker from a sticker sheet and affixing it over the back flap of the envelope, “I had a lot of things to say, and I’m not a very good writer.”

“You sure as hell aren’t!” Another voice scoffs from behind you, and you turn to see Saionji sitting on her desk, swinging her feet back and forth. She clears her throat, “An except: my cheeks burn, my stomach twists! ” Her interpretation of your work is offensively overacted, she clutches her chest and bats her eyes, “ When your eyes lock with mine my heart flutters, when your lips form the syllables of my name I-“

Koizumi throws a pencil at her, you are eternally grateful.

“You memorised it?” You hiss, clutching the envelope protectively

“Yeah, duh.” Saionji rolls her eyes, “I read it over your shoulder like three days ago, it was so funny I had to write it down.” She smirks, “I already showed it to a buncha people.”

“Ugh, what the hell , Saionji?” You exclaim, pressing more stickers to the front of the envelope as angrily as someone can manage, “it’s very personal!”

Koizumi sighs, “yeah Hiyoko. That was pretty insensitive of you.”

You hear the beginnings of some classic Saionji fake tears, but force yourself to ignore it. Popping the cap off of a sharpie and inking a name on the front of your envelope. You try to write as neatly as possible, but it’s hard when your hands are shaking.

“So. Who’s it for?” Saionji asks, over her crying fit already. She leans in to take a peak and you hide the name with your forearm, glaring at her again, “What are you so embarrassed about? Is it someone gross?!”

You don’t answer, your glare grows deeper, but Saionji ignores it.

“Oh yuck! Is it Souda? Is it Hanamura?????”

Koizumi clicks her tongue, but a playful smile tugs at her lips, “yeah if it’s Hanamura we might have to disown you.”

“It’s not Hanamura.” You mutter, resting your chin on the palm of your hand, “just stop trying to guess. It’s only making me more nervous.”

Sitting up from her desk, Koizumi comes over and rubs your arm encouragingly, “hey, I’m sure whoever it is will say yes. You’re great, and your talent is really cool.”

You avert your eyes, “my talent isn’t cool, everyone thinks I’m weird.”

“Yeah, iunno, Koizumi-chan.” Saionji says, “I get shivers up my spine whenever she looks at me with her creepy eyes.”

You gesture weakly in Saionji’s direction, “see? People don’t like having their emotions read, it’s invasive and gross.”

“Hey.” Koizumi starts, giving you a soft smile, “look at me.”

Your gaze is intently focussed on her right eyebrow when you say, “I am looking at you.”

She laughs, “ No , look at me.” She points to her eyes, “right here.”

You swallow. Since starting high school you made a valiant effort to avoid using your talent, people always thought you were weird and creepy, it was hard to make friends, “Come on.” She says, placing her hand over yours, “You can trust me.” you take a shaky breath, and meet her eyes.

Protectiveness, warmth, friendship

You feel yourself soften a little, and Koizumi smiles, “okay. You get it now? We’re your friends. Hiyoko and I are going down to the cafeteria, you stay up here and do whatever you need to.” She stands upright and heads to the door, Saionji falling into step beside her, “let us know how it goes.”

Saionji sticks her tongue out, but does follow it up with a quick, “good luck!” before following Koizumi out of the classroom.

Now that you are alone, your heart starts to race. The envelope feels heavy and almost frightening in your hands. This crush of yours has lasted almost a year now, and this is going to be your first attempt to actually do something about it, you’ve never done anything like this before in your life.

You take a deep breath, and pull yourself up from your desk. Knees wobbling as you head over to the desk of Nagito Komaeda, and slip the envelope inside. Saionji would have teased you relentlessly if she knew it was him the love letter was for, but people think you are weird, and people think he is weird. Being the two weird kids in class meant that you spent a lot of time together, group projects that no one wanted to chance his luck with, or that no one wanted to spend multiple classes avoiding your line of sight during. He liked your talent, he trusted you to be respectful and careful of his feelings. Also his hair looked soft.

The letter asked him to meet the sender around the back of the gym after last period. It did not mention you by name. Until then, you were just going to spend the rest of your day completely normally. So you gave Komaeda’s desk one final look and headed back out of the classroom to go meet Koizumi in the cafeteria.

“Oh! Hey!”

You look down the hallway and see Hajime Hinata jogging up to you. You don’t know him particularly well, he sits at the front of the class at the desk by the window. The front row has five desks, the others only have four, Hinata’s desk is out of line with the rest of them. Like it was an afterthought.

“Hello.” You reply, keeping your gaze focussed on his nose instead of his eyes, “How are you?”

He gives you an awkward smile and rubs the back of his neck with a hand. You notice that his uniform looks weird on him, but you can’t place why. It fits, but it looks like it is moving and shifting on his body in ways that are unnatural, you don’t point it out, “I left my lunch in my desk. I’m coming back to get it.”

“Ah.” You say, “do you want me to wait for you?”

Before he has time to answer, you see a familiar figure coming down the hall and you instinctively grab Hinata by the wrist and tug him down to hide behind a row of lockers. You are too distracted, and don’t notice that Hinata’s uniform is black now instead of brown.

“What are you doing?!” Hinata hisses. You cup a hand over his mouth and hold completely still as Komaeda walks past the two of you and into the classroom. You notice that his vest is stained with what looks like gravy, luck related incident, you assume.

Once Komaeda isn’t visible anymore, you let go of Hinata and scramble over to the doorway. Peering around the corner as subtly as you can. He’s taken off his blazer and hung it over the back of his chair, and is in the middle of working his vest up over his head.

Hinata comes up behind you, peering around the corner as well, “What is Komaeda doing?”

“I think he has a spare vest in his desk.” You whisper, “you need to be quiet.”

Your heart is racing in your chest, and your fingers tighten around the doorframe. Komaeda lifts the top of his desk, and his brow furrows when he sees the letter. Gently picking it up and turning it around in his hand. At one point he looks around the room and you have to duck behind the door to make sure he doesn’t notice you. You can barely breathe.

“Wait. What did he just grab?” Hinata asks you, as the two of you lean back out. You don’t reply.

“Oh my god…” Hinata hisses playfully, “someone left a love letter in Komaeda’s desk?”

You’re still focussed on Komaeda’s long fingers as they slowly tear open the envelope, you see your sunflower sticker fluttering down to the ground. Biting your lip, hands shaking, trying to gauge any response.

“Oh my god!” Hinata hisses much less playfully, “ you left a love letter in Komaeda’s desk?!”

“Shh!!” You say, motioning for Hinata to zip it, “I’m watching.”

Komaeda’s eyes are wide as he starts reading, you can see his hands are trembling. Something you’ve written halfway down the page shocks him, he has to go back and read it again to confirm he understood it properly.

“Hmm...that was probably the bit I wrote about how nice his hands are.” You whine nervously, “oh god , I’ve made myself seem like a creep haven’t I?” You whisper, turning back to look at Hinata.

“Komaeda is not the sort to get creeped out.” Hinata mumbles, “I didn’t even know you liked him.”

Your other hand wraps around the doorframe as you lean out a little more, trying to get a better view of Komaeda’s face, “that’s the point of a secret.”

“I don’t understand why you didn’t just tell him. You know your talent would answer the question for you if you used it right?”

You huff, “I don’t want to use it. I want to be normal .”

“Ļ̴͕̳̮̏̊̌͝͠ͅi̷͕͋̇̿̈́͐̉̈̒̆͂̆͘̚͜͝k̵̨̹͍̩͂̎͑̔̏͂́̽͛͋̓͝e̶̦̣͎͕̦͈͉͖͆́̈́̈́̋̓̊̕ ̵̛̛̛̟̩̺͉͛̄̉̈́͗̃m̷̢̢͖͇̣̞̱̮̱͕̥͂̌ĕ̷̺̝?̶̡̞̬̲͕̜̩̪̫̥̙̦̮͇̉̈̈́͘̚͝”

You freeze, so does Komaeda. The whole school comes to a standstill, “what do you mean, like you?”

When you turn to look at Hinata again, he is gone. You blink your eyes, maybe he just ran off? Either way, your attention was brought back into the classroom by a gentle gasp.

Komaeda has a hand clapped over his mouth, chest heaving as he finishes reading the letter.

Your heart is racing, your knees are starting to hurt from crouching around the corner. You wonder if he knows that it was you

It was you

It wa̷̢̨̖̪̥̹̤̼̭͚͈͑͆͑͆͐̈̆̂̒̍̿́͝͝s you

It was you

It waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaā̵̡̪̦̰͚̭̩̼͎̪͈͋͛͗̃̕͜͝͝ͅạ̵̭͎̥̱͎̹̭̺̰͎̈́͐̒̕a̴̹̜̟̺̞̓͆͒͗͝ä̵̟̼̟̥͎͔̯̯̜́̌̈́̿a̵̅��̹͖͍̙͇̘͍͕͙͊̌̈́̒̃ạ̴̢̗͉̘̰͉̺̹͍͛͐̆̊͐͘͘͝ͅä̶̡̮͔̹̩̪́̊͒̉̉̕̕͠ă̶̻̓̍̌̚ḁ̵̢̢̢̧̞̱̥̠͕͚̉̋a̴̠͇̻͉̘̐̿͆̄̀̈̀̅̋̅a̷̢̰̙̦̮̘̲̓͝ͅͅa̷̝͖̜̋̈͛̈́̐͌̾̓̃͘s̷̰̻̼̲͓̮̺͌̑̓̃͒̋̏͆̐͌̌̐ ̵̧̙̹̬̞̦̝̓͗͊͌͠ỹ̷̯̯̃́̃̎͋̈́̏̎o̸̩͉͍̗̯̠̙̬̱̩͔̾̅̊̂̾̿̍̌̓̌͘͝u̶̻̳̪̪̻͕̜͜

“Are you alright?” Sensei Yukizome asks.

You blink. Your eyes feel heavy, your brain feels like static. You’re back in class, sitting at your desk. The rest of 77-B has gone quiet, they’re all watching you intently, “I’m...fine.”

Yukizome cocks her head to the side, brows pulled tight with confusion, “Your head hit the desk pretty hard. Are you sure Tsumiki-san doesnt need to have a look at you?”

Not matter how many times you blink, the world never seems to fully come back into focus. You feel sick to your stomach, “What are we doing again?”

“You’re meant to be writing outlines for your practical exams. Descriptions of your strengths and weaknesses, that sort of thing.” She is starting to look very concerned.

You swallow and look down at your page. It’s completely blank, you haven't written anything this whole time, “I havent started…”

When you look over towards the window, your eyes lock on Hinata. He is wearing a white shirt with a green tie. His uniform is completely gone

(Why ạ̴̢̗͉̘̰͉̺̹͍͛͐̆̊͐͘͘͝ͅre there five desks in the front ro̸̩͉͍̗̯̠̙̬̱̩͔̾̅̊̂̾̿̍̌̓̌͘͝w? Why does our clạ̴̢̗͉̘̰͉̺̹͍͛͐̆̊͐͘͘͝ͅss have an odd number of students when no other do̸̩͉͍̗̯̠̙̬̱̩͔̾̅̊̂̾̿̍̌̓̌͘͝es?)

Your head is pounding, and you can feel a distant tether to someone you cannot see or hear. Aching like a phantom limb. You stand up.

“Something is definitely wrong” Yukizome says, backpeddling from your desk when you suddenly shoot up, “Do you want someone to take you to the sick bay?”

You shake your head, “I’m just going to stand by the window for a second. I’m just feeling a little dizzy.”

She nods slowly, “Alright, but if you don't start feeling better, let me know and i'll call your parents, okay?”

“Sure…”

As you walk over to the window, something makes you glance at Hinata’s paper. Something unspooling the memories in the back of your mind whispers, s̵o̵m̴e̶t̵h̵i̴n̸g̸ ̸i̷s̶ ̵n̴o̸t̸ ̵r̷i̵g̴h̸t̵.̵  

Hinata’s paper, which should be a detailed explanation of his talent. Is incomprehensible. A series of jumbled letters and numbers blurring and shifting on the page, like trying to read a book in a dream. Dread seeps inside you, and it becomes a full tidal wave when you look up at the window, and see Hinata is now standing outside. You whirl around and see only the empty space where an extra fifth desk once was, the Hinata inside the classroom is gone.

Ḧ̷̢͓̰̤́̍ḭ̵͎̋̈́̒n̸̩͎͋͐̃̊̑a̸̧͉̻̩͙͗̔̓̚ț̵͎̫͑̈́ḁ̴̛̫̞̫̒ ̴̡͇͙̄̒͛̋w̷̡̮͈̍a̴̧̘͙͌s̷͍̫̫͑̊ ̴̭͎͙̆͑̀͑ņ̷̩̈̌e̸̢̡̧͕͍͆̋̋͊̈v̷̳̼̎̌͐͘ȩ̸̙̱̮͆̂r̸͙̭͔͊̂̈́͘ ̴̧̗̣̠͚̉̏̈́͝͝ẗ̵͍̪́h̵̢̤̏̉ȩ̸̩͔r̴̮͐ē̵̘̰̼̕

Heaving a shaky breath you turn back to the window. You freeze. Eyes locked on the figure lurking down by the tree in the garden, he stands completely still, staring up at you with red eyes that you can feel nothing behind. A maw of darkness chews on you from all sides as your stomach tightens. You’re going to throw up.

The person. (Hinata?) his eyes don’t turn from yours.

nothing nothing nothing nothing

N̸̡̬͕͓̪̝̙̙͙̊͑̎̎̔̎̒͋́͑͜ͅǫ̶̛̗̺̖͊͊͝t̶̼̩̣͔͎̭̜̦͓̂͌͌̓̎͐͆́͜͝ͅḫ̵̢̞̙̯̳͍̼̜̥̰̝̉̈́̀͊͆͐̌͘i̸̡̤͌̓̔̐̂̈́̔̆̇̇̎͌̇ň̴̝̬͔̞̓̔́͛̋́̐̓̾̾͘̕͠ġ̴̢̲̩̼̠͓̗̭̯͍̱̔̈́ ̷̡̳͕͓̗̳͍̣̯̘͚͓̼̠̉̎ń̴͙͚̯̪̤̼̳̹̮̓͛̅̍́̔͒̐̑̏͜͝ó̶̢̪̋͐͋̋͑͐̃̐̀̃͝ͅt̶̢͉̺͕͉̥̽̈́͝h̴̨̨̟̣͇͙̖̉̀i̴̠̲͊͗̌͊̚͘͝ͅn̷̹͒͌͂̕ͅg̷̨͓͔͓͔̹̜̻̙̺͆̽̂͐ ̶̧̛̦̯͍͆͂̈̇̂̇̿͑̐̋n̸̨̧̧͇̼̖̗̗̦͑͆̈́̐̅̓͒̽͂̃̕͝o̴̧̳͎͕̟͒͗̈́̅͑̓́͛͝ẗ̷̨̧̛͍̬͕̫̬̻̰͓̳͗h̷͈̹̻̰̪͍͖͎̿̈́̀͌͌̊̕͜i̵̧̛̫̊̒̈͑̆̈́͘n̷̯̱̓͊̀ģ̶̧̫͇̦̰͕͈̖͓̃͘ ̵̢̨̡̪̪̯͈̾͆̿̃ͅn̵̢̞͚̠̩̦͙͈̰̻̱̩͗͜͜ơ̷̡̲̯̇̽̐t̵͚͓́̓̈́̊̏͌͑̐̋͐̅̈́͘h̶̢̗͈̖͉̪͚͔̏̽̈́i̴̡͍̜͇̗̬̩̺͎͈̐͐n̶̛͕̪̂̽̌̒̃̾̿͌̽g̴̗̲̰͈̜̳̮͙͓̼͍̒̅̂̐͗͋͛͗͜

and just before you bend forward and hurl all over your shoes. His eyes blink once . Bored.

There are stories being told behind your closed eyelids. Stories of death and pain. Your eyes are fluttering and spinning but they wont open, you can't open them. Your talent makes you sick, it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts-

“Ah, good. You’re awake”

Komaeda is sitting in a plastic chair to your right. You are covered from your feet to your collarbones in an itchy blanket. The room smells like hand sanitizer.

“Oh.” You whisper, “I’m in the sick bay?”

“Yes. You lost consciousness by the window.” He laughs nervously, “I carried you over. I figured that studying for the practical exam isn't really something I need to worry about. It’s all going to come down to my luck anyway.”

You nod slowly. Still trying to slot the pieces together in your head. What made you pass out again? Dehydration?

The world is swirling, Komaeda reaches a hand out as if to steady you. His face is little more than a blur and you try to grab his hand as a way to ground yourself as the bed below you feels intangible, “Hey…” He whispers, “are you…”

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to focus only on the sound of your breathing. When you open your eyes again, Komaeda is still there, but everything else is gone.

“Are you okay?” He asks, his hair is longer and more unruly, the bags under his eyes are deep and purple. The sky behind his head is a shock of red and smoke, “Your hands are shaking.”

When your eyes snap down to where your hands are gripping his. Bile crawls up your throat, your breath is coming quick and sharp. This doesn't make sense, why is this happening? Your head spins and twists and your heart is beating a rapid tattoo in your chest. The hand that should be gripping Komaeda’s, is instead gripping the limp wrist of a woman's hand, a sickening mixture of purple and black blotting its once pale flesh, red fingernails resting on your wrist. Your other hand is gripping a needle and thread, shaking as you are halfway through tugging a length of fishing line through the bleeding stump of Komaeda’s left forearm.

You shriek and scramble backwards, head colliding with what is once again the wall of the school infirmary. Komaeda pulls his hand back, it is his hand again.

“Ah, sorry. I shouldn't have tried to touch you.” He laughs goodnaturedly, “Even someone who confesses their love to me is too disgusted by my filth. I should have known better.” he smiles, “This is why i must decline your affections, you see, for me to dirty you with my touch. It would be a waste.”

You want to comfort him, to pull him into your arms and tell him that his touch does the opposite of disgusting you, but you can't bring yourself to do it. The sound of your heart beating in your ears is thunderous, you can still smell the rotting flesh of the dead woman's hand, still feel the sting of smoke in your eyes.

S̵̟̥̒̕͝o̵̧̯̔͛m̸̢̛͙̈́̋͛͜e̵̛̲͍̰̿̆͜ţ̶̰͐̈͆ͅh̴̟͐̕ḯ̶͓̤̏͝n̶͔͈̼̙͆̑͂̉g̵̩̖̔͊̊ ̸̢͚̆̐ͅi̶̻̋̔̕͝s̶̢̍̚ ̷̧͚̀͌ẁ̵̛̭̬̘̕͝r̶͎̖͈̋̓o̴̯̹̒̈͗̚n̴͙̲̂̽͘g̸͖͍̽̈́ ̷̫̘̠̾̊w̸͎̻̾i̷̳̮̫͊̏̇t̵̛͇̚h̴̤͙͆͗̍ ̷̨͚̹͇̃y̸̲̦̓̉́o̸͚͋̓͊͝ủ̶̹͖̈́.̵͖̔̔͋͘

Then. A realisation.

“Wait. Confess their love to you?”

“The note you left.” His head cocks to the side, “Did you forget? You had written so many kind things about me, I can't even believe half of them.” He sighs and his eyes attempt to meet yours. You stare at his shoulder instead, “I would not want you to waste your affections on me. You can do infinitely better.”

“Are you...rejecting me?”

Komaeda gives you a sad smile. The walls of the sick bay flicker and turn to static behind his head, “Please don’t misunderstand. You are wonderful, that you even confessed to me at all is...outstanding, you have so much to give and you shouldn't waste your love on someone who

is ğ̸̰̫͍̰̥̌̊̌̃͊̾͘͝͠͠o̴̰̊i̷̩͙͖͓͒͐̽̑́̈́̑͝ͅn̷̢̡̼̼̩̘̪͍̼̻̖̙̓̆̂̄̒͊g̸̛̤̼̲͐̏̌͐͊̽͗̀̄̐̓ ̶͎͑͒̋̐͗͂͘͝t̶̨̢͔̝̥̼̤̥̜͎̗͋̑̽̏̍̈͂̎̏͊̚ͅǫ̷̧̻̗̭̜̟̜͎̪̠̭͙͊̈́͛̊̔͘ ̷̳̇̿̀̑̂̂̉̄̓͘͜͝͠d̶̟͎̯͆̏̓̾̿̎̾́͗̓͒͘͠i̴͚̥͕̫͉͇̳̤̍̂͜ͅễ̴̡̛͇̭̤͎̙̙͓̟̞̖̘̓̎͆̀̋̐̕ ̴̥̜̦̬̩̟̪̼̮͔͆͋̋͋̉͜͠ḑ̸̙̙͍͑̅͋̽ỉ̶̛͈͓͚̻͋̅̒e̸̢̧̤̦͚̖̩͗͆͌̾́͂̃̉̊̐̾́͝͝ͅ ̸̧̜̬̲͚̽ͅd̸̛̛̲͊́̔̆̈́̍́̊͊͗̚̕ḯ̶̢̡̗͕̳̭͇̗̫̤͎̮͖̝̃̔̈́̈́̕͘͘͜e̴̪̥̲̖͓̬̹̗̙̽͗̍͑̋̏̆̄̑̆̿̕̚͘͝ ̵͓͓̦̽͒̐́̀̎̇͠d̴̡͋̍̅̽̍̌̄̏͑̈́̃͗̚͘i̴͖̠͈̾̀͂̄̕͘͘͝ę̶̞͐̑̍͒̎̽͗̿̑̇̅͘͝ ̴̪̝̬̂͌̎͗̚d̴̡̛̘͖̊̈́̾͊̌̆͂͛̐̓̏͝i̵̡̩͈̮͇͉͎̯̍̓͌ͅe̸̖͎̥̦̞̺̗͚̍ͅ ̵͍̬̳̞̰͖͍͕̫̥̝̑̋̂͝d̷͇̭͎̯̻͈̜̝̜̗̗͂̋͌͊̀͘ĩ̷̮̰̂̌́͂͗̐̅̕͘̚͝ȩ̸̢̰͓͎̪̤̦̼̣̭̲̫͔͐̍̀͗̈́̾̈̚̕̕ ̷͉͔͈͔͙̖̟̣͙̭͊̅̐̓̈́͛̇̓̾͑̈́́d̶͓̲͍͉̱͕̼̰̥͖͍̥̱͓̂́͑͛͗̈̈̎̍͊̇̿͋̔͠i̵̡͎̠͑̏̈́̿̇̚͝ę̴͇̬͈̫͈͚͓̰̥̝̣̫̑͆͋͑͛̈́͐̓̕̚͜ͅ ̵͉͈̿̈́͛͌̈́͆̓̒d̷͇́̇̂͛i̸̳͎̳̲̙̎͐̐̾͊̔́̈́̉͂̈̕ȇ̸̟̰͂̈́̂̚͜ ̴̝̣͓͕̤͚͕͈͍̻̐̈́̀͆͒͗̋̽͋͠d̸̡̼͈̘̮̪͉̭̯͎͍̪͚̋͛͛̃̀̔̌ͅi̷͚̖̥̫̲͉̩̒͂̓̈́̓̚ẻ̵̡̨̹̞̮̗̦̄͑͐̑̔͆̚ ̷̜̰̖̦̓̽̏͂̓̈́̊͘͠d̸̛̜̞̫͎͕͙͈͋͌̋͌̓i̴̟̱̲͉̟͔̇̑̅̔̃̽̑̑͑͐è̴͍̱̫̱̮͌̆͗̿͆̽̃̋ͅ”

His mouth is still moving like he is speaking real words. But all you can hear is that one word repeated over and over and over. Your heart is racing, you have no idea what is happening. Komaeda is just talking like nothing is wrong, the world is turning to glass out of the corner of your eyes. Breaking and reforming again behind your eyelids.

Komaeda disappears, like he was just erased from existence and you suddenly realise that you are crying. One of the tears catches on your finger, and shimmers in ways that are unnatural. What is happening to you?

There’s a creaking noise on the other side of the room and you scramble backwards on the sick bed as the boy who looks like Hinata comes in through the door. He makes no move to approach you, he stands stiffly by the doorway and watches .

You wipe the tears from your face with the back of your hand, “who are you?! What have you done with Hinata?”

“I have done nothing to Hinata. His fracturing was yours and yours alone.” He says. His voice is familiar. It digs its claws deep inside of you.

“His... fracturing? ” A sob hiccups in your throat, “What are you talking about?”

The boy doesn’t answer.

“Can you please leave me alone? ” You sniffle, wiping away more tears, “I’m having a hard enough day as it is.”

“If it brings you comfort, you will ask Komaeda many more times.” The strange boy says, staring off into the middle distance, “he will say yes on the sixth.”

“Wha- He will…?” You whisper, “How do you know?”

His eyes turn to you and you get a crawling feeling under your skin, like he is looking straight through you, “This world is fabricated, but much of it is based in reality.”

“I...what?” You blink up at him, confused, “fabricated? What are you talking about?”

“A defense mechanism. All in your mind.”

You laugh nervously, “this isn’t a very funny joke…”

“I do not joke.” He continues staring, you refuse to meet his eyes, “use your talent. If you are too afraid to believe me.”

You swallow, “I...I can’t .”

“No. You won’t ” he sighs, disappointed, “a waste of potential, predictable. Boring.”

“Fine. If this world isn’t real, how are you here?” You say, “I doubt I would create someone just to ruin my own illusion.”

“I am not from here. I have been sent to help.” His eyes are empty, his expression unchanging, “Your world is crumbling, and you need to leave it.”

“Nothing is crumbling . What is wrong with you?”

“Your denial is wasting our time. Your mind is trying to make assurances where it should not, trying to put together the pieces of three different puzzles all at once and they just don’t fit.” He takes a few steps forward, eyes still boring into you, “This ideal world you have created is not sustainable, cherry picking the good parts of three separate lives does not result in stability. If you don’t leave here, the walls will collapse around you, and you will die in the rubble.” He reaches a hand out to you, “come with me. We’ll untangle the mess of your memories, then tell me how you feel about staying.”

You are hesitant when you take his hand. The moment feels significant, like a leap into the void. You are surprised at how warm his hand is, for some reason you had expected it to be cold. He doesn't lead you anywhere like you were anticipating, instead he presses his other hand on top of yours and closes his eyes.

The smell hits you like a wall. People always say that scent has a strong connection to memory and a fondness you have never known breathes life into your lungs. It smells like autumn, bitter winds and pumpkin spice. Sandalwood, a hint of cinnamon apple and…

“Komaeda?”

His eyes turn to you, his face tight with nervousness.

“Are you okay?”

He giggles nervously, the sound echoing in the empty classroom, “Oh, me? I’m fine! My concern is what will happen to you if someone walks in and sees us like this.”

When Komaeda says like this , he means sitting together on the windowsill. Not exactly scandalous, but his own perpetual self-loathing has morphed it into something downright sinful.

There’s a brisk wind dancing through the autumn leaves outside the window. Red and orange trapezing through the sky. Komaeda has a thick green scarf wrapped around his neck and his nose is turning pink in the cold. He looks adorable.

Your mouth pulls into a firm line and you clutch your hands together in your lap, “You know i'm not trying to hide you from anyone, right?”

“And that is very kind of you. I’m sure no one would judge you poorly for hiding our relationship.” He smiles warmly, “I am human garbage, after all.”

“Komaeda, I want to tell people.” You say, rotating in place to face him more directly, “You think i confessed my feelings for you six times as a joke?”

“I did consider that at first, but the more i think about it…” He averts his eyes, cheeks turning a little pink, “It does seem like your feelings are...genuine. No matter how misguided.”

You huff and leap up from the windowsill, facing Komaeda with your hands on your hips, “You want proof that i'm not ashamed of you? Fine. I’ll do it!”

“Huh?” Komaeda breathes, “You’ll do what ?”

It is with great purpose that you cross the room over to the blackboard. Grabbing a stick of chalk and writing in big looping letters, Nagito Komaeda and I are DATING , underneath you sign it with your name. You are not about to let this be misconstrued. Komaeda is more important to you than the opinions of your classmates, you are willing to let Saionji tease you for months to come if it means he understands just how much you care. You gesture at the blackboard, “Do you get it now?”

He’s just staring at you, one hand cupped over his mouth, eyes glimmering with the beginnings of tears, and something much warmer underneath, “But...but class is going to start again in 10 minutes and everyone will-”

You cut him off, walking back over to the windowsill and cupping his face in both of your hands. Brushing an errant tear away with your thumb, you smile, “I know . That’s kind of the point.”

He gives you a watery smile, reaching his hand up to interlock his fingers with yours where they rest on your cheek. He is shaking, but it's a good kind of nervous, you can feel it behind his eyes, “I don’t deserve you…”

You laugh and press your lips to his tear stained cheek, “Yes you do.”

Then, almost as quickly as it began. The memory fades, behind Komaeda’s head you watch the sun set and rise over and over, faster and faster. Yellow, orange, blue and then purple keeps crossing Komaeda’s face like someone is tipping over a bucket of paint. He’s still smiling up at you, a hopeful expression frozen in time and you realise with horror that you can no longer feel his skin under your hands.

“No…” you whisper, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair only to find it intangible. A sob cuts loose from your throat.

“A good memory.” A voice says from behind you. That boy who looks like Hinata is standing in the doorway. His hair seems longer and darker, the tips are kissing his jawline. You’d almost forgotten he existed, “I decided it best to start simple. Your mind would not have handled something more intense.”

The sun is still rotating outside the window, light cascading through the classroom and then fading into darkness every few seconds. Like a subway train passing by a station.

“Is this the future?” You ask, voice wavering.

“No. It is the past.” He doesn't give you the time to ask anymore questions, though he can tell that you want to, “The next memory will be difficult. I will not ask if you are ready, because you will not be.”

[may-day-voice]

In Sickness & In Health

Hitoshi Shinsou Timeline | 172732014

please do not repost, but you have permission to reblog :)

• Watch/ Listen on YouTube: https://youtu.be/66oADQs3Srk

• Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35005000/chapters/89130877

• Read on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1166824103-hitoshi-shinsou-pro-hero-au-172732014-in-sickness

Hitoshi Shinsou simply wanted to leave the desk after filing away the last of his reports following the influx of funds generated by the Charity Ball a few weeks back. Surprisingly many had helped support the Exegol Agency despite the larger well-known agencies taking in more for their name and prestige. Still, it made for a stronger foundation to get on top of the Overhaul situation, one that he was told to take a proper Christmas break to start afresh in the New Year, with hope that nothing else would come from it.

RING

He eyed his phone, noticing the name that appeared on his screen which in turn piqued his curiosity. Packing things down on his desk, he collected his phone, answering with a sigh from the long day he had.

“What are you doing calling me?” He asked immediately, half-exhausted, yet also playful in his own way.

“Someone wanted to say hi,” spoke Eri on the other line, the sound of the phone shuffling in her hand before it felt like it was gripped by another’s.

“Hi!” Chirped a young voice, the boy’s happiness untethered from the air between Shinsou’s phone and ear. “Are you coming over today?”

Shinsou couldn’t help but smirk at the sound of Sana’s voice on the phone while he sorted out the last of his paperwork on his desk, standing from his chair to leave. “Yeah, your Dad said you’d be happy to see me,” he replied, earning a cheerful affirmation from the boy. It was odd to feel revered, but Sana Aizawa had become a part of his life as well as many others amongst the Hero community. Somewhat a complete antithesis from his parents, which in turn if he had to blame someone for this boy’s upbringing it was probably the young girl with the phone.

“Aizawa wanted to know if you were okay with eggnog, seeing as he’ll be making two kinds,” asked Eri, now returning to the phone and conversation at hand.

“That’s not a problem,” answered Shinsou, already slipping into his large coat to brave the chill outside. “We won’t be staying the night though, so no need to make plenty.”

“Thanks, that’s a good help.”

“Can I have eggnog?” Asked the boy in the background, loud enough for Shinsou to hear.

“Only whichever your mom gives you.”

Shinsou cracked another smile, waving farewell to a few coworkers and Sidekicks in the agency before he exited into the cold, finding the evening to snow a little, adding to the chill. He saw his breath linger in the air, condensed by the warmth before his phone rang with a tiny bell. A message, minor compared to the phone call he was on, but soon found that it came to an end.

“We’ll see you soon,” Chirped Eri, before hearing a loud farewell from Sana over the phone.

“Same to you,” ended Shinsou, before he immediately hung up. On screen was the earlier message, reading that it came from you before he swiped it open to find the rest of it rather… odd.

Can you do me a favour and buy watermelon?

Shinsou stood in the cold with feet planted in the thick powdered pavement of snow, confused by the request. It was winter and watermelon in itself was difficult to come by given that it was a seasonal fruit meant for summer.

I can try, but I doubt I’ll find any.

A moment or two passed before he slipped his phone into his pocket, continuing on his way back to the apartment. Given the circumstances surrounding the Commission now being out of commission, to say the least, he was well aware that you had spent your days at home. You had been put out of the job unfortunately, but that alone didn’t stop his agency from hiring your expertise now that these events aligned amongst the rest of the Hero agencies as well. Still, the request was strange. Shinsou thought you would be more focused on preparing to make the trip for Christmas dinner with Aizawa, despite the man being a former homeroom teacher to both of you.

DING

He collected his phone once more from the sound of another notification, no doubt from you, except the query this time started to worry him.

Pickles, then?

You hate pickles.

Ginger tea?

The back and forth grew shorter, but it only urged Shinsou to dial your number, bringing the phone to his ear while he still made his walk back to the apartment. For a while, he only heard the dial tone before you picked up with nothing but dead air on the other line.

“What’s going on?” Asked Shinsou, sceptical and yet worried about these strange messages.

“… I don’t feel well,” you replied with a slight echo in your voice. “Do we have any crackers?”

The sound of your voice made it seem like you were in the bathroom with that echo bouncing around. Shinsou came to a few conclusions, wondering about the state you must be in before he had to go straight to the crux of the conversation.

“How unwell?” He asked dryly with a low hum from you in reply.

“I’m just… nauseous. It’ll pass…” you slowly replied in an attempt to keep your voice level despite the strain that was evident. “Do we have crackers?”

Shinsou stopped in his tracks, standing in the middle of the pavement while people walked by. You didn’t sound well, in fact, you sounded horrible. The notion that you were possibly sitting by a toilet bowl by yourself for who knew how long concerned him, soon making haste through the snow when he deliberated on his next decision. “I can call Aizawa and cancel tonight,” he offered, already set on making that decision on his own.

“No, don’t… I’ll be fine with something in my tummy,” you insisted in an attempt to dissuade the plans already made.

… don’t tell him…

The words echoed in Shinsou’s mind, faint, but vivid in the sound of your voice. Odd. You were nowhere near him, not in sight of him or vice versa for you to even connect with your mind. He wondered while he still kept pace. Surely it was his own mind hearing things.

… don’t tell him you’re…

Shinsou’s feet suddenly halted in the middle of the pavement, having made his way to the corner of an intersection, still with phone in hand. However, he felt that he held his breath, shocked by the words he heard that echoed in his mind. It was your voice. He could hear it loud and clear. And the words that you uttered in his mind, whether you knew or not, made his heart leap out of his chest and his blood almost boiled with trepidation.

“I’m coming home,” he immediately spat, almost yelling in the phone before he made haste when the lights cleared him to cross.

“What?” you moaned.

“Stay where you are. Don’t move.”

Shinsou hardly breathed a goodbye before he hung up his phone, stuffing it into his pocket and continuing to dash faster down the street. He slipped a few times or so on the packed snow, knowing that he clearly didn’t wear the correct shoes for a run down the street, but he needed to hurry. He felt the need to hurry.

Who knew how long you had been in the bathroom, he thought.

Out of breath and sweating through his thick clothes thanks to the winter chill, Shinsou made it to his apartment block, rushing into the foyer and pressing for the elevator to take him up. He eyed the floor numbers, finding that the elevator took longer than he liked to reach the ground floor and opted to run up the flight of stairs instead. He hated the prospect of it, but he didn’t think. He just ran, almost hopping a few steps at a time in hopes he would reach his floor faster. With a crash, a bang, and a few missteps on his way, Shinsou almost galloped to his apartment door and quickly pulled out his keys to enter, now out of breath from the run and the climb up the stairs. A mewl from Toka caught his ear, but his eyes were set on the bathroom, noticing the door was left open. He clamoured towards it while pulling his thick coat off his shoulders, peering inside to finally find you.

“Kitten?” he called through exhausted breaths that stung his lungs from the cold air outside. He expected as much to see you draped over the toilet bowl with legs sprawled on the floor, yet he was cautious about the state of your health, wondering if you were truly okay. Those thoughts of his were soon exacerbated when you slowly reached your hand out towards the sink nearby, collecting something from its counter before holding it up above you in the air, as if in defeat or surrender. It was undeniable now that he saw proof of what you had whispered into his mind during that phone call.

There in your hand was a pregnancy test, held languidly due to your ailment and showing positive results.

“I love you, you know that, right?” you uttered, turning your head from the toilet bowl and staring back at Shinsou with tired eyes, yet still trying to hold a weak smile.

He wondered how long you had situated yourself in the bathroom, seeing how exhausted you looked possibly from the nausea you had already admitted to. He slowly entered before he took the pregnancy test from your hands, eyeing the two bright lines that burned against the white. He raked his mind on all the questions - when, where, and how, soon concluding on all these questions with a heavy and disgruntled sigh. Without another word, he sat beside you, back to the vanity of the sink and mirror while still staring at the results in his hands. Shinsou couldn’t fathom the situation while your head still hovered over the toilet bowl, hand against your head to keep yourself upright.

He was going to be a father.

“We always jump ahead, huh?” he asked in hopes to fill the silence despite your ailing circumstances.

“Always…” you whispered, tired and unable to keep your eyes open.

Shinsou gazed at your exhaustion, still wondering how long you had been sitting by the toilet today. If he recalled, you were fine this morning, perhaps a little anxious about something, but he had put it down to you being understimulated with very little work after the Charity Ball. The thought only made him grumble a little until another dry heave escaped your throat. Who knew you had a weak constitution?

While your head still hovered over the bowl, with nothing to show for your nausea, Shinsou slowly picked up his phone from his pocket, eyeing the device and contemplating his next course of action. Of course, he had to cancel Christmas dinner with Aizawa for a start. It wasn’t the first set of invitations he had to decline, recalling Midoriya’s get-together last and missing out on the celebrations after learning he had proposed to his now fiance. However, he sat on the decision to make another call first, scrolling through the names before he went forward with pressing the speed-dial.

A moment of the dial tone rang through his ear, before a familiar voice greeted him on the other line.

“Kaminari, think you can come over?” he asked solemnly while his eyes laid back onto you, holding yourself up from the toilet seat. “I need… help.”