Archive of Our Own ^beta

John isn’t entirely sure how this could happen.

What he does know, is that since he’s come back he has this horrible anger boiling low in his stomach. It burns through him, hot and vicious. It’s unrelenting, a volatile thing that demands constant attention and he does not know where to put it.

He’s not even completely certain where it comes from, just that it’s been silently growing, expanding under his skin since Antarctica. That at the first friendly slap on the back from Red, the first warm hug from Liz, it had ignited.

John smiles and returns affection, turns in familiar quarters, in a home that is so very similar to when he was cast out of it and he wants to scream, wants to push and rage at something, anything.

Nuada is the one that lets him.

John hates Prince Nuada from the moment he meets him. Arrogant, dismissive, completely uncooperative, with an air of superiority to him that he never seems to shrug off. Through all his attempts at stoicism, the elf is even more unhinged than John, has an age-old kind of fury that flows through his veins.

Fury that seems aimless, now that he’s followed his sister to work for the BPRD, after his loss of the Golden Army. There’s a constant animosity to him. He snaps at anyone unfortunate enough to be near him, and is a silent, brooding presence in the building. He doesn’t seem to have a way to act on that anger though, always holding back just before doing something truly bad.

He breaks training equipment in his tantrums and gets several agents almost killed by abandoning them mid-mission, but at least he never hurts someone deliberately. He lets himself get taunted by Hellboy (because of course Hellboy is trying to get under his skin any chance he gets), riles up Liz until she’s burning and John gets caught in the middle, picks up the slack, brokers unsatisfied peace, before they tear each other to pieces.

And then, suddenly, he’s the one that gets stuck with Nuada.

They keep being partnered up for missions, thrown together by tight quarters and endless squabbling among each other. Sometimes it’s almost like Nuada purposefully seeks him out to fight, trying to find him in a weak moment to strike at a soft point.

And it’s not like Nuada could ever be grateful for any support John would offer, stuck-up prick never even thinking about showing respect to a human. John takes his insults with a gratifying contempt, snipes back with equal vitriol. There’s a sick satisfaction to it, to have one person where he doesn’t have to keep up the pretense, to let loose without worry for the damage he might cause.

Nuada is tight-coiled, always, and it grates against John’s own anger.

After one too many screaming matches between the two of them, somehow, at some point, John ends up slammed against a wall, mouth full of biting teeth and searing kisses, rough hands pushing at his clothes. The fire in his veins sings, flares up to unknown heights, cleanses him with sheer obliterating intensity. It’s quick that time, just Nuada’s hand around the both of them, grip hard and unforgiving.

John has bruises on his hip the next day, where harsh hands had pinned him against the wall and his lower lip still feels tender from the teeth that had buried there as Nuada came. He feels calmer that day than he has in a long time.

It escalates from there.

It's not necessarily that they seek each other out, but they keep being paired together on missions. John assumes that it has to be his track record of sheer survival. Or maybe his complete lack of deterrence at Nuada’s constant attempts to devalue his opinion. Working with Red kind of makes one immune to that.

Their teamwork is based on pure adrenaline, a constant tug-of-war John has to play to keep them working together. They clash and cuss each other out while trying not to die and it’s unbearable, infuriating to the point of madness, but now they can do something with it, take all that burning frustration behind closed doors.

It's also not helped that the BPRD headquarters aren't exactly spacious. Fruitless meetings and endless bickering with the rest of the team, with little to do between missions leave them with few outlets more convenient.

Less things in the training rooms break and John can actually concentrate on his work, smile easily at his friends, with his whole body aching pleasantly.

John understands abandonment as much as anyone can. He’s been abandoned by parents, by friends, by lovers. Sent to one of the remotest points on earth, because someone he had considered a friend had been jealous – of his friendship with one of his other closest friends, of all things.

John comes back changed. Pale as death, with bags under his eyes and too many red scars rising stark against his skin. The polar bears had been the nicest thing about Antarctica. 

He's a better agent for it. His hands don't shake anymore and he keeps more weapons on him than just his gun. Rune engraved daggers and little stiletto knives that will slide clean through any armor. A belt full of ammunition for any kind of magic he’s encountered or read about. Even Red eyes that one curiously. He paints his hands before missions too, symbols of fire and strength and deflection. The heat of a fight has found him without weapons one too many times to take any chances.

There is a scrappy ferocity he gets to call his own now. He might not be strong in comparison to whatever monsters they're fighting, but at least he's a thing with claws now. Knows that when he goes out, he'll make whatever takes him hurt.

He comes back changed and people pretend not to notice. Red claps him on the shoulder hard enough he stumbles and praises his new tools mockingly, although John sees the intrigue hidden behind the humor. He's only thankful that he hasn't been reinstated as Hellboy's official liaison.

Abe keeps his fingers to himself and John is careful not to touch Nuala either as they get introduced. He likes his mind to himself these days. There’s still a shudder going through him whenever he thinks of the glaciers softly singing to him, ancient whispers floating through his head, luring, prying.

Liz is easiest, because she’s been out of here before, knows what it’s like to feel defeated, to come back unrested and burning. Even though leaving had always been her decision, coming back had rarely truly been. She doesn’t push and doesn’t berate him when he accidentally stabs Red once when he comes up behind him too quietly.

So they don’t mention his change and he overlooks their betrayal. Times outside of missions are as good as they can get, with the sword of their past dangling over them. They drink cheap beer and share stories of adventures. John leaves out some of the more grisly details and he assumes to some extent that they are doing the same. Somehow that makes it worse.

Sometimes, John looks at Nuada when he thinks he’s unobserved. He takes in the bitter, pained gaze he sets on his sister as she is invited into the fold of this strange family. His lips pull into a sneer, clenched fists shaking at his side.

John thinks Nuada knows abandonment, too.

The sex is gnarly, scratches and bruises. John hates to admit how much it is exactly what he needs. How being thrown against a wall or having his chest pressed against the mattress until his back arches up for Nuada makes him feel contained, finally evens out the pressure. John half sobs, half snarls into the pillow while Nuada fucks him, hard and precise.

His fingers dig into a new scar on John's hip as he pulls him back onto his cock, so John claws his nails into Nuada's thigh as hard as he can. He gets Nuada's strong, big hand on his neck for that, the other one tearing his hand from his thigh to press it down. Nuada's entire body is bearing him down now, heavy grounding pressure against him. The snap of his hip is punishing, sharply punching up into John's prostate. Strangled moans escape out of John's throat, desperate and raw.

Nuada's pace is relentless, hurtling them down a sharp path of pleasure. John can’t think, only feels Nuada all around him, inside him, filling him enough that there’s no space for anything else. The raw animal in his chest roars as John struggles against the hold on him that he enjoys so much. He manages to shift the hand that Nuada has pinned against the mattress next to his head and he bites.

Nuada swears, then long fingers bury into John's hair to harshly snap his head up and his jaw goes slack from the arch of his throat. He pulls hard enough that John’s chest lifts from the covers ever so slightly, makes him bow his spine even more and Nuada drives into him with savage ferocity, adds sparks to the dark spots John has dancing in front of his eyes.

The sounds that come out of John are barely human, come from somewhere deep and feral as he scrambles to find purchase. The tension is delicious, his whole body stretched and taut, as it’s being overwhelmed with stimulation. He’s not gonna last like this.

With his body up like it is, it's not difficult to get a hand on his weeping dick. A few messy strokes later and John comes hard in his own fist. His body locks up and that must do it for Nuada as well, because he spills deep inside him with a groan as it happens.

In the aftermath, with both of their heavy breaths the only sound in the room, Nuada’s forehead touches down between John’s shoulder blades. Slowing exhales brush cool against the sweat on John’s skin there. His arms shake ever so slightly next to John’s head. He doesn’t remember when Nuada let go of his hair, let him collapse into the sheets. 

John feels boneless and hazy, floating in the after-waves of pleasure. He allows his hand to reach down to Nuada’s thigh, where he’d dug his nails into and lets his fingertips trace the indentations there. Above him, Nuada shivers.

Nuada doesn't stay around after and John doesn't want him to. They both get what they're after.

It all works like that for a while. Until John gets hurt.

It happens on a mission. It's stupid really. They'd faced off against a witch, more swirling shadow and exposed tendons than anything else. Deep in her lair, John hadn't watched out for a second, enough to be snatched away from Nuada's side, metallic tasting darkness shoved down his throat, so no noise could escape him.

It can't have taken the others long to get him, but dragged through a floor littered with sharp bones and stone, a terror not entirely his own filling his chest, it felt like an eternity.

He'd struggled, gotten a deep gash on his thigh for it, face all scratched up and his fingers still ache from how hard he'd gripped the witch’s arm when she tried to cut his throat. Her skin had been so cold, it had burned; a chill crawling into his bones, icier than anything he’d ever experienced in Antarctica. The fire sigils on his hands had been useless, extinguished to nothing, a whisper of smoke where the shifting surface of her skin had touched his.

He’d gotten a grip on one of his knives during the struggle, sliced at his opponent. The blade got what might have been her face once, runes lighting up, crackling with magic as they sear through her darkness, making it solid enough to inflict pain. The witch had screeched a sound so piercing, John had dropped to the floor in agony, desperately trying to drown out the sound with his hands pressed against his ears.

It had been Nuada in the end that had killed her, a whirl of blades and fury. There had been a frenzied brutality in his movement as he fought, unlike John had ever seen before. Abe and Liz had helped him up and out, but Nuada's amber eyes burned into him the whole way back.

When Nuada shows up at his doorstep, late that night, John wants to throw the door in his face, but something stops him. They just stand there without a word, tension straining between them.

John sighs and it's not annoyed like it usually is with Nuada, no energy for anger left in him. He's so fucking tired. His whole body aches, the cut on his thigh a dull, throbbing pain, bandaged tightly. He can't shake off the freezing tightness the witch left in his chest. Cold fingers squeeze at his heart, ice flowing through his arteries, even as he had turned the heating in his room all the way up.

“I can't do this right now,” he says eventually. He means it to sound firm, but it comes out quiet, soft. Betrays too much of himself.

Nuada doesn't leave. He takes a step forward into John's space, face twisting with something John doesn't know how to categorize. His movement betrays urgency, held back energy fizzling around him. He doesn't touch him, but John sees his hand twitch.

John huffs and this time his voice is exasperated, raw, “What do you want from me?” It comes out desperate too, he realizes with shame. Whatever they've been doing, it is not what he needs right now.

He waits for Nuada to do something, anything, because he can't seem to send him away. Because he wants, but doesn't know how to ask.

Nuada's brows are drawn together, not upset. Pensive. When he finally does move, his hands are slow as they settle to frame John's face between them. The breath gets stuck in his throat as Nuada swipes his thumb carefully over a fresh scab on his cheek. The touch is terribly, terrifyingly gentle.

John knows how his face must look, wide red rimmed eyes, wildly searching Nuada’s for a hint of whatever the hell he is doing. The rabbit beat of his heart fills his ears, his breath coming out shakily.

When Nuada leans down to kiss him, John meets him halfway, hands already grabbing at his shirt to pull him close.

They stumble into his room, frantically tossing their clothes aside, but when Nuada lays him down on the bed, it’s careful again. He finds his place between John’s naked thighs, where he’s already painfully hard. Nuada’s fingers ghost over the bandages on his thigh and there is a genuine look of regret on his face.

John wants to ask, but he bites his lip, because Nuada kisses the skin just above the bandage, up the junction of his hip, sucks on the sensitive flesh there. John’s already breathing way too hard. Wherever Nuada touches, heat blooms, melting the tension out of his muscles. When Nuada finally takes him into his mouth, he throws his head back into the pillow in ecstasy, fingers twisting in the sheets.

Nuada’s hands move soothingly along his trembling sides and then they travel down, agonizingly slow. John has no idea when Nuada got his hands on the bottle of lube in his night stand, but he’s not about to complain as Nuada starts stretching him open, fucks into him in tandem with the bobbing of his head.

It’s terrifying bliss, this total act of giving. It feels dangerous, like balancing on a precipice. John wants it so much, he can’t make himself pull away. The wet heat of Nuada’s mouth is heaven, makes him relax like second nature as he adds a second finger, then a third.

Nuada is everywhere, around his cock, inside his ass, free hand exploring John’s quaking frame, because he has started shaking in earnest now, from the cold and the fear and the horrible way Nuada’s touch makes him feel safe right now. Somehow all his warmth only exacerbates the lack of it everywhere he isn’t. All of him is screaming for more.

Nuada’s hand is petting up his pubic hair, over the soft flesh of his stomach, up his sternum. Back down over his ribs, gently pressing his hips down when they start jerking up into Nuada’s mouth.

They don’t ever talk during sex, but now John threads his hands into Nuada’s hair, tugging him up carefully. His lips are pink and swollen, eyes dark as his fingers keep driving into John. Barely audible, John whispers, ‘Please.’

Heat flashes in Nuada's eyes and faster than is humanly possible, he’s on top of John, kissing him, lips urging open his mouth, so he can slide his tongue against his. John whines with loss as Nuada pulls his fingers out of him. With one hand holding onto his face, Nuada uses the other one to guide his cock inside John.

John moans into Nuada’s mouth, a drawn out, keening sound. His hands find purchase on Nuada's shoulders, muscles shifting under his touch as he moves slowly. The stretch feels incredible, Nuada’s cock filling him until it seems that there cannot be any more space inside him and then some more.

When their hips are finally flush together, John feels whole. A sob wants to tear through his throat at the thought, but he stifles it, chokes out a strangled, pathetic cry instead. Above him, Nuada is panting, muscles shaking with restraint. John smooths his hands over them, grounds himself with the feeling of skin dragging against skin as he adjusts to the size of Nuada.

They don’t usually fuck with eye contact either, but now Nuada grips John's jaw almost uncomfortably tight to make him look up at him. There is something fervent in his expression. Possessiveness.

“You are mine,” he growls. Before John can answer,  Nuada is kissing him again and then all thoughts leave him as Nuada starts moving his hips. A shallow thrust first, seeking, then a sharper snap of the hip. The pace he sets is hard, but slow, cock filling John up to the brim each time. It is such complete bliss, and through it all, Nuada is looking at him, watching each of John’s little expressions and John can’t look away, even as he feels laid bare.

Nuada hitches John's legs over his shoulders, bends him in half, horribly exposing, opening him up to fuck deeper into him. John doesn't think he could protest if he tried, if he wanted; he does not want to. All his noises are incoherent cries now, whines he can’t bring himself to be ashamed of, because they only seem to spurn Nuada on.

It's overwhelming, almost too much, but he relishes the feeling, raw underneath Nuada, pulls him closer still, wraps his arms around his neck. Nuada pushes his face into John's throat, ragged breath hot against his skin.

“No one lays a hand on you,” Nuada says. The words should feel like a threat but they come out rushed, fragmented with desire. A promise. “No one touches you.”

“Only you,” John assures, half lost in the delirium of pleasure, barely aware of the words leaving him.

Nuada groans brokenly against John’s skin and pulls him closer by the shoulders, down onto his cock, to meet with the thrust of his hips.

Everything about Nuada is hot right now, his skin burning up under John's fingers, the heat of his mouth, of his cock so deep inside John it shoves out the cold. He sobs with the relief of it, feels tears gather up in his eyes. When Nuada lifts his body from his at the sound, he scrambles to pull him back down against him, can't lose even a second of his warm weight against him.

His breathing has become so frantic, with the steady thrum of pleasure rocking through his body and the devastating emotion of it, that when he feels Nuada’s tongue lap at the tears running down his temple, he comes with a startled cry, completely untouched. He'd been so wrapped up in the feeling of it all, he hadn't even noticed his orgasm creeping up on him.

It's mind-shattering, washes over him like a great wave and leaves him heaving for air. Once he starts coming down, he still feels Nuada fucking him, his movements stuttering and uncontrolled. He's close too, John can feel it.

He takes Nuada's face in his hands, lifts his head to kiss him again sloppily, a wet, open-mouthed sliding of tongues. Then, while holding his gaze, he whispers, lips brushing against each other, “Want you to fill me up. Let me feel you.”

John gasps with the powerful thrust Nuada reacts with. He's a vision like this, hair wild and sweat soaked, eyes glossed over with lust, glinting in the low light like a predator. But there is something new in his face, an openness, a desperate need shining there.

He's so beautiful, John finds himself thinking. Then, like a spear through the fog of his mind, John knows, knows what he needs, what he wants. To have something on his body given in pleasure, not pain.

“Mark me yours.” He feels wild as he says it, hands tangled in Nuada’s hair, pulling him down.

Nuada comes with a guttural moan, biting into the curve of John's neck and John can feel him pumping steadily into him, the last bit of delicious heat he's giving him. His teeth dig into John’s bared throat, not enough to break skin but sure to bruise, perfect in its animalistic fervor. It’s exhilarating, exposing all the soft parts of him for Nuada to take.

After, when they're lying side by side in their cooling sweat, John puts a hand on Nuada's chest as he makes to stand up. Stay, he wants to say, but the word won't come. He shouldn't ask this. This is not how they do things.

Nuada looks at him for a long time, before he settles back against the pillows. And then, he puts a hand over the one John still has on his chest. Instead of using it to pull him away, like John thought he would, he presses it closer, solidifying the touch.

John falls asleep to the feeling of Nuada's steady heartbeat.

Things are different, after.

They still have sex, maybe even more than before. It's less angry now, no fight or outburst necessary, but just as passionate. What permeates every encounter now, more than anything else, is this ravenous hunger. It makes them claw desperately at each other, a burning, searching fever. It is never enough, chasing to be closer, to bury into the other until they can’t tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

It's the intimacy, John figures, the heady line they toe. 

They've never been much for words during sex, but even that changes. Nuada mutters praises under his breath, calls John delirious things, like beautiful and perfect for me, uses words in a language John doesn’t understand, but he curls his mouth around them in a way that lets John taste devotion.

Nuada sits back on his heels, John spread out naked in front of him, smooths a large hand over the new scar on his thigh and looks at him with such wanton desire, says look at you, awe in his voice.

It shouldn't affect John the way it does, has him shivering, makes every touch spark like electricity.

Nuada fucks him slow and deep, mouths at his throat as John wails at the burning drawn out pleasure that sears through him. He moans his name that time, says, please, Nuada, please doesn't even know what he's begging for exactly, only knows he doesn't want it to stop.

John bares his throat for him and Nuada sinks his teeth into his skin, braces his neck with a soft and steady hand. A shudder goes through his whole body at the gentle scrape against his pulse, the sharp pressure of his canines. Nuada licks over the marks he leaves, as if to seal them. John likes to know they are there, even when he has to cover them up after. Presses his fingers against them to ground himself when he feels frazzled at the edges again.

Nuada's large hands hold John up easy while John holds onto his shoulders for dear life as Nuada fucks him up against the wall. He reaches so deep like this, cock spearing John in such a deliciously debauched way. Kissing like this is messy, but John can’t help himself from searching for the heat of Nuada’s lips, pressing hurried, wet kisses against them.

Keeping their hands off each other has proven torturous these days, that day in particular, caged in endless back to back meetings, on opposite sides of the table. They didn’t even make it back to either of their rooms, locked up in a storage room.

Nuada holds him up like this even after they've both come, spend dripping between John trembling thighs. His breath is warm against John's collarbone, slowing down gradually. When he finally lets John down on trembling legs, he turns him around. John yelps at the sudden motion, at the cool feeling of cement pressing against his heated skin. Then John hears knees hit the floor and before he knows what is happening in his post-orgasm haze, Nuada has his tongue inside of him.

John jerks at the unexpected sensation, but then he has to stifle a moan against his fist as he realizes Nuada is licking himself out of John’s hole, tongue lapping at the sensitive flesh. He keeps going until John’s all clean, pushes him over yet another orgasm.

John can barely stand after that and Nuada gathers him up easily in his arms, lets them sink to the floor until John has recovered, holds him close as they share languid kisses of their shared taste.

They sleep over more often than not these days, have lazy, unhurried morning sex. Like a damn couple. But they're not, they're not, John reminds himself. Tries to remember that this is just a way to pass the time.

It's still just sex. At least John keeps telling himself that.

Even if Nuada starts putting his hands on him outside of that, as of late. Light brushes of skin, a supporting touch at the small of his back, a hand on his knee, knuckles ghosting over his arm in passing. Innocent, casual touches, only taken for the sake of the act.

It means nothing. He doesn't even like it, ignores the thrill of excitement every time, the yearning in his chest to just lean in.

This, too, works for a while.

It goes wrong when Nuada starts getting too protective at work. When he pushes John out of harm's way to his own detriment.

It had all been fine, if not ideal. Sure, the manticore had been stronger than any of them could have expected, much gnarlier than any quirky painting in ancient manuscripts made it seem. And yeah, as they chased each other through the labyrinth of the burial site, John had come dangerously close to getting hit a few times.

But that was nothing out of the ordinary, shouldn’t have been. So when Red triggered the trip switch that had old stone doors groaning as they slowly descended to trap them in a room with the monster, it took John by complete surprise when Nuada whirled around and pushed him out of the entrance behind them. John had stumbled with the force, fallen on his back. He got up just in time to see the door hit the floor with a grating thud.

He stood there in disbelief and then anger whipped up in him like it hadn’t in a long time. He banged his fists against the door, screaming, furious, not caring how much he scraped his hands.

By the time he figured out the mechanisms that opened the door again, it was all over. John stared at Nuada, standing in the middle of the carnage, amber blood staining his arm. He didn’t look the least bit sorry, staring back defiantly. Then the whole building started to groan and they had to make a run for it before they got buried here.

John is fired up the whole way back home.

The audacity of him. To think him so incapable. To rather push him from his side than let John do his part of the job. They're not partners, but they've been working together for months now, finally found an equilibrium that works for both of them. Or so John had thought.

Rage simmers in his stomach and he tries hard to not take it as the rejection that it is. How arrogant, how stupid of him to believe he could be seen as an equal. To think that there had been a sense of belonging building between. How completely pathetic of him.

He can't bear it. It won't be the same again, because he's different now and he doesn't just take this bullshit anymore. The memory of those hands that had held him close just the night before pushing him away rises like bile in his throat. He cannot accept the pain that comes with it, turns it into indignation instead. 

John pushes into Nuada's room that night, kisses him angry like he hasn't in weeks. Before Nuada can say much, John pushes him onto the bed, is on top of him in the blink of an eye, keeping his hips caged with his thighs.

“You had no right,” he pants, biting at Nuada's lower lip as he gets his hands into his pants where he's already half hard. John strokes him to full erection, sloppily starts stretching himself open.

Nuada makes to replace his fingers, but John slaps his hand away. For maybe the first time since they've known each other, Nuada looks lost, hesitant. Good. John wants him to feel helpless for once, to be forced into the dragging currents with nothing to hold onto.

John hisses when he lowers himself on Nuada's lubed up cock, barely loose enough for this, but he needs this now, the burning sensation gratifying against his anger.

“You had no right,” he says again. Before Nuada can put his hands on him, John gathers them by the side of his head, crushes his wrists against the mattress. Nuada squirms under him but doesn't actually use any force against him.

John starts to ride Nuada in earnest now, rough and fast. It barely feels good, just scratching that itch. It feels like punishment too, for Nuada, for the liberties he's taking. For the assumption that he has any control over John, just someone else who thinks they can do whatever they want with him. Who gets to hold him and then toss him away.

The thought hurts, but John grinds his teeth against it.

“I don't need your protection.” John lets his right hand slide down Nuada's arm, grips it tight where the fresh bandages lie until there's sapling blood staining his finger. “I don't want it.”

Nuada winces with gritted teeth under him, but John can feel his cock twitch inside of him. He feels a grim satisfaction at it, throws himself back into the movement. Nuada looks up at John, confused, almost hurt. “You are my responsibility.”

John laughs bitterly. He lets go of Nuada's arms, finds purchase against his chest instead, digs his nails into the skin there. He rakes them down, all the way to his abdomen, where they catch against the old scars there. He feels where Nuada’s body instinctively tries to curl up against the pain. “I'm really not.”

With his hands finally free, Nuada grips his hips and flips them, without disconnecting their bodies. John gets the breath knocked out of him as he hits the mattress. Nuada looms over him, takes up his entire field of vision.

“You are mine.”

John struggles under his hold, pushing at his chest. “I don’t belong to you!” He feels like a trapped animal, adrenaline pumping through his veins, blood singing trapped, screaming alone, begging begging begging hold me.

He only recognizes that he's been squeezing his eyes shut when Nuada's hands cup his face, touch gentle like that first tender night. John opens his eyes and his view is blurred with stubborn tears, but Nuada's eyes are bright enough to make out.

Nuada’s voice is soft as he speaks now, enunciating every word so John will hear him. “You are mine, as I am yours.”

John makes a choked sound at the words. He closes his eyes again and this time the tears slip free. His chest feels cracked open, bleeding all over him.

“You don't even like me.” He turns his face in the hollow of Nuada’s warm palm as he says it, hiding.

Nuada coaxes him back, strokes his hair, places kisses on the bridge of his nose, his brow, his cheek. 

“Don't you know how I love you? How I ache for you?”

John whimpers, chases Nuada's lips again, kisses him desperately. “I meant what I said that night. I won't allow anyone to touch you, to hurt you.” Nuada makes sure John is looking at him as he says this, eyes burning into his with the sincerity in them.

Nuada starts moving now, slow shallow thrusts and it feels so good now, easy and hot. John breathes out shakily, connecting their foreheads as he wraps his arms around Nuada. They're still looking at each other. Nuada's gaze is the only thing still tethering him and John holds on.

They're so close everywhere, skin sliding against skin, John's cock trapped between them in sweet friction. Nuada doesn't change the pace but he's angling deeper now, like he's trying to reach all the way inside. 

“I didn't know,” John whispers, voice barely above a breath. “I didn't have the courage to look,” he admits, crying out as Nuada brushes over his prostate in one long, dragging motion. “Want you so much, it scares me.” This, he whispers into the hollow of Nuada's collarbone, still a coward, still so terrified of his rejection, even after claiming him as he did.

But Nuada just gathers him up closer, a hand on the back of his head pulling him into his embrace. John is clinging to him now, thighs pressed against his ribs, hands gently clawing at his shoulder blades.

“Don't push me away,” John begs, voice hoarse and broken. “I can't take it. Anything, anything but don't leave me behind. I can be good, I can help you, you don't have to, you don't –” He is babbling now, chanting, the desperate need for closeness throwing him into a frenzy as Nuada keeps pushing him deeper into the melting heat of pleasure.

He's lost, finally caves to how much he needs this, needs Nuada. How much he wants his attention and tenderness, what he would do to keep it. A sob that will not be denied wrecks through his body. He feels doomed all over again, stomach a swirl of tight heat and despair.

Nuada kisses the hair at his temple, says, “I want you with me, just want to keep you safe, can’t lose you, too.”

Being under Nuada is like nothing else, the perfect pressure keeping him together, just like his rage, just like his anger, Nuada takes all John gives him and holds on tight.

As they tumble over the edge together, it is an unraveling, a release of pleasure and joy and tight kept restraint finally let go.

Afterwards, John pushes his face into the junction of Nuada’s neck and shoulder. He's heaving now, still clawing to Nuada. He can't let go, not now, not after he has revealed himself as this starving, needing thing that he is.

He makes a pathetic sound when Nuada slips out of him, but he's not leaving, just rearranging their bodies, so they might fit together more comfortably. He lets John hide in the curve of his chest, trails gentle hands over his spine.

“I want you by my side,” he reiterates. “I want you, always.” He kisses the crown of John's head as he says it. “You have to know. You have to, that I have not had… a lover in a long time.” John's body flushes treacherously at the word lover, at the thought of being Nuada's first after his long lonely exile. He's starting to feel calmer, Nuada's words cutting through the near panic haze.

“I'm not used to this. Having a lover in battle. Worrying like I do about you.”

John wants to say something soothing, assure Nuada nothing will happen to him. Instead, he says, “I'm human. Even if you protect me from everything, I'll become old and die before you know it.”

Nuada huffs out a laugh, tips John’s head up by the chin and kisses him. “Spiteful creature.” He smiles as he says it and John has never seen him so… relaxed. Content. He likes it maybe more than he should, already feels greedy for more of it when it hasn't even ended yet.

“I also wouldn't be too sure about that whole human part anymore.”

John looks up at Nuada. “Huh?”

John shakes out a cigarette from a beat up carton when Liz finds him outside.  In lieu of a greeting, he offers her one as well. She takes it with a grateful nod. When he starts cursing his dying lighter, she snaps a flame alight in front of him. Gratefully, he leans over it, cupping a hand around the fire to protect it from the wind out of habit.

“What exactly,” Liz starts after lighting her own cigarette, “do you think you are doing with the little Prince?” The tease in her voice cannot drown out the tense darkness in it. She views him from the corner of her narrowed eyes, watching closer than she lets on.

John breathes out, concentrates on the burn in his lungs, taps his cigarette. They haven’t been all that subtle lately. He’s not surprised Liz caught on.

“Honestly? I have no idea.” He laughs weakly. It’s truer than he’d like it to be.

Liz’s expression softens. She doesn’t ask any more questions and they spend a few comfortable moments in silence, sharing smoke.

Looking down at the glowing tip of tobacco, John continues, “He makes me feel… like myself again? If that makes sense?” He doesn’t know how to express exactly what Nuada has been making him feel. It’s all too tangled up, layers of want, pain, sweet ecstasy swirling in his head. “Like. I’m not who I was. Can’t go back. But with him, it feels like I could learn myself again.”

Liz looks at him for a long moment. It seems like she might start arguing, but then she just sighs deeply. She stares out into the field behind the main building. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that.”

It’s a nice day, early autumn. The trees are starting to blush, a comfortable crisp brushing over John’s cheeks. The cigarette is warm between his fingers and over the smell of it, there is wet earth and dying leaves, sweet earthiness in the air.

The sudden realization strikes him, that he could feel like he belongs here again. Is halfway there already.

“Did it have to be Nuada though,” Liz finally complains next to him.

John laughs. It carries in the wind and gets swept up into the trees.