howl
Total Chapters: 1 Word Count: 25,719

Tags: M/M, The Huntsman/Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Tension, Age Difference, Blood, Light Masochism, Anal Sex, Selectively Mute! Hunter, Mouth Kink, One Shot

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The Admiral returns from one of his treks out into the wilderness just an hour or so after the ship had arrived with all the new recruits, which doesn’t strike the Huntsman as anything worth fanfare, as the Fifth Fleet’s boisterous leader always ran off and returned as they pleased, and while the fresh blood all ogle the burly man with stars in their eyes and give their rapt attention as he lugs inside of the dining hall, he finds that his own attention falls to the shocking sight just next to his leader.

A young man, looking like they had been plucked straight from the wilderness, stands a good distance behind the Admiral, and out of all the new recruits, (if they were even a recruit at all), they stand out like a sore thumb because of their albinism.

The young man has a mane of snow white, curly hair that ends just towards the middle of their back. There are leaves and twigs stuck in the tresses, and some parts are slightly yellow, as if bleached from the sun. The paleness of their skin is on full display, as the young man is only dressed in well worn leather trousers and half of a self-made ghillie suit. What captures his attention most isn’t the fact that this person is quite short for a man, only about 5’5 if he was guessing, nor is it the observation that this man’s body doesn’t have a single ounce of fat on it, the entirety of their short, compact frame is lean musculature that is dappled with a surprising amount of battle scars.

Out of everything, it is their eyes that steal his attention.

They were blood red, and when the warm light of the fire reflects upon them, he feels hypnotized for the briefest of moments.

The young man trails behind the Admiral towards an empty table with quiet confidence, meeting the gaze of anyone that looked over at them, but not with a welcoming smile or curt wave, but with a scowl. He can barely make out the finer details of their face with how much their face was pinched with wordless irritation.

He only notices now that there is someone else with the Admiral and the stranger—a palico, one with orange and white fur, with stripes and spotting dabbling here and there, and a round, stubby tail. Unlike the young man, the palico wears both trousers and a shirt, both of which look amateurishly crafted.

Hunters were usually paired with a palico upon joining, but the young man already has that taken care of, it seemed. More than that, he notices that the palico and the young man walk closely to one another, clearly familiar, and when the two of them take a seat across from where the Admiral sits, he sees the palico reach out and pat the young man’s back once or twice as if reassuring them.

He had finished eating a while ago, now only nursing the rest of his ale, but with the sudden appearance of this strange, wild young man, he finds that he is in no rush to leave the bustling dining hall. He remains where he is, at the back of the room, seated by himself, and sharpens his hearing a little as plates of food and tankards of drinks are brought over to the Admiral’s table.

The young man and the palico begin to eat enthusiastically.

He’s never seen someone look so incensed while eating. The young man keeps looking over their shoulder and around the vicinity like they expected someone to suddenly take the food from them.

Or like they were expecting an attack of some sort.

“So, kiddo,” The Admiral starts casually, voice loud enough to be heard crystal clear over the myriads of other conversations and clinking of cutlery, and he watches the man ignore their own plate for now, content to stare across at their guests while they leaned both of their hulking arms atop the table. “Now that I made good on my word, do you mind telling me your name?”

The young man stops eating to allow their face to slip into an even deeper scowl, the wrinkling of their nose so deep it looked like it had been etched into stone.

“That a no??” The Admiral blinks, leaning back a bit as if repelled by their foul mood.

“He’s Gwyn—my little brother.” The palico speaks up to explain, meowing around the syllables in a dialect far different than the palicos that stayed here. It sounded more like the trilling he heard from Gajalakas.

At that reveal, the young man, Gwyn, turns towards their brother and snarls loudly, banging a fist upon the table and shaking the plates, and while it startles many of the new recruits around them, their brother does not seem to care one bit, seemingly used to the sudden and virulent spikes in temperament.

“I’m Torias, or Tori for short.” The palico adds.

“So, you’re the big brother, eh? I guess it’s you I should be flapping my gums at then?” The Admiral returns, amused by this fact.

Tori and the Admiral glance over at Gwyn, who snarls loudly again before ignoring the two of them and continuing their meal.

“Seems so.” Tori agrees around a mouthful of food, but they do so with a paw raised to block their muzzle politely. “You want to ask more than just who we are, right?”

The Admiral grins.

“You’re sharp! The meal is to pay back your quarry I scared off earlier, but after seeing how you two handled yourselves out in the wild, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to make a little offer: I want you two to join us here and take on the hunter’s lifestyle. I think you’d both be a great addition, and it’s perfect timing with all the new recruits we just got! Working with others and having a base of operations beats roughing out it in the wilds, right?” The Admiral explains.

Gwyn stops eating. The drumstick in their hand clatters to their plate noisily and the young man stands up so roughly from their seat it almost topples over. He watches them hastily walk out of the dining hall without a second glance behind them.

“Hey, wait!!” The Admiral shouts, standing up abruptly and the man doesn’t notice how their own chair does in fact fall over and bang against the floor noisily.

Tori and the Admiral pour out of the dining hall, chasing after Gwyn, the latter of which doesn’t get far, because the Admiral captures them with an arm around their trim waist. That is a mistake, anyone could see that, yet the Admiral looks shocked when Gwyn not only starts kicking out and fighting against his hold, snarling and hissing like a beast caught in a vine trap, but rakes one of their hands down across a beefy forearm, easily drawing blood.

“Ouch!!” The Admiral yelps, dropping the young man, who jumps away to stand in front of Tori, as if protecting their older brother from being grabbed next. “You’ve got a bad temper—and sharp nails!”

Gwyn snaps their teeth, ducking down a bit like a coiled spring ready to release.

Or a serpent readying to lunge forward to sink its fangs into a vulnerable neck. Some of their white hair seems to even puff out.

Before things get any messier, Tori slips from behind their brother and sets a paw on their arm.

This shocks Gwyn enough that the young man stops making the aggressive noises emitting from the back of their throat.

“Lets hear him out.” Tori insists calmly. “I was thinking it was about time we ‘move’ anyways.”

Gwyn’s face goes slack with shock.

And betrayal.

Although their face was at last free from being scrunched up in fury, at this distance, the finer details were still difficult to make out. Gwyn has an angular, roguish sort of face. They have thick brows, a narrow, thin nose, and their cheeks and some of their pale neck were sunburnt and slightly peeling. The sun must be too harsh for their skin, which made sense why they wore a ghillie suit, but the suit they had made did not cover the entirety of their back, arms or torso, which he thinks means that they prefer being sunburnt than being overheated.

“Things aren’t like how they used to be.” Tori explains to their brother, but the palico also spares the Admiral an uneasy look, their ears minutely flattening to their skull. “Something is weird about the forest. The monsters aren’t acting like they should, and they’re more aggressive. It’s been harder and harder to fend for ourselves and there have been way too many close calls. More than I like.”

Gwyn points at themselves, then Tori, and nods.

Then the young man points at themselves, then the Admiral, and they shake their head profusely.

“Just you and me isn’t going to cut it anymore, and I’m not letting you run off and get yourself killed. Lets hear him out and then make our decision afterwards.” Tori finishes, crossing their arms and meeting Gwyn’s staring without flinch.

Gwyn whips their face from their brother to glare daggers at the Admiral, as if blaming the man for their brother’s sudden ‘betrayal’.

“Come on, do it for me.” Tori sighs, rolling their green eyes. “I never ask for much, do I?”

Gwyn shuts their mouth with a harsh click of teeth, beginning to tremble with their irritation. The young man looks between their brother and the Admiral, then stomps a foot several times before blitzing past the two and returning roughly back to their seat and going right back to eating, although doing so now with so much vehemence that some of the new recruits abandon their meals and abscond.

He doesn’t need to stick around, but he does, although he tunes out the rest of the conversation between the three. He doesn’t need to hear the spiel the Admiral is about to give the two, since it would be the same that the rest of the new recruits got.

He’s heard it enough over his almost forty years of working as both the First and Fifth Fleet’s Huntsman.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Tori takes to the hunter’s life with startling ease, but that only showcases how poorly their little brother does. Gwyn struggles with having to report to people and constantly bumping elbows with others. When the young man isn’t with Tori, they are alone, either hidden away somewhere high like in the branches of the tree that grows partially over the canteen in Astera, or tucked in some dark alcove where they think no one will find them.

No matter where he spots the young man, they always had the expression of someone that looked like they wished they were anywhere but here.

The leather armor they’ve been given looks like it’s uncomfortable for them to wear. They pull and pinch at the fabric like it was a second skin they wished they could shed. Simple steel dual blades hang from either side of their hips.
He would have liked to see the hunt the Admiral had witnessed the brothers partaking in. He is curious to see just how much of that wildness of Gwyn’s translates through their blades.

The young man’s aversion to people makes the life of their newly assigned Handler extremely difficult. He often sees the poor girl running around Astera frantically, her face flushed and her brown hair in disarray as she tries to locate her hunter. The few times that he does see Gwyn with their Handler, the man radiates distrust and impatience, often bouncing from foot to foot as if putting every effort into not just running off midway of her speaking.

He and many others in the tradeyard notice a familiar sight: the Admiral chasing down Gwyn, the latter of which stubbornly continues to march on to nowhere in particular despite the hulking man trailing them and calling after them endlessly.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, kiddo!” The Admiral calls out for probably the dozenth time that afternoon. “Its tradition for a hunter to have a handler. I wasn’t saying you were doing a bad job with just you and your brother, but its nice to have someone take care of all the little things and act as support!”

To that, Gwyn just keeps walking, even stomping past him now, not sparing him or anyone else a glance as they continued towards the stairs leading up to the canteen.

Exasperated, the Admiral picks up the pace a bit, but just as they are about to reach out and lay a hand on Gwyn’s shoulder, the young man spins on heel and cuts their red eyes into furious slits, nose wrinkling into their usual scowl.

“Don’t go making such nasty faces or it’ll get stuck like that!” The Admiral chastises while pointing a finger down at Gwyn. “Come on, all that I’m asking is that you give her a chance! She’s a good girl! Hardworking and smart!”

He thinks if the Handler heard that she’d blush.

A few of the people around him seem to wish they’d been called ‘good’ instead. He keeps his amusement to himself about that observation.

Gwyn snaps their teeth at the meaty finger pointed at them.

Even from a distance he can tell that the young man’s teeth looked unnaturally sharp.

“Hey!!!” The Admiral scolds, putting their hands on their hips now and frowning. “Just listen to me, will you—”

But Gwyn has had more than enough of listening and takes advantage of the wide stance the Admiral always stands with and ducks between their spread legs in a roll, before running off the opposite direction, leaving the man floundering.

“Hey—damnit!!” The Admiral calls out while turning around but it’s too late. Gwyn has already ran off and hidden themselves. Huffing at their defeat, or rather, their continued defeats, he sees the man kick their boot against the ground before shaking their head, utterly unaware of the audience they had drawn by their loud commotion as usual.

It isn’t just their Handler that Gwyn seems to dislike. The new recruits that the young man is paired up with during hunts all report of being treated like they do not exist, with Gwyn always rushing ahead to take on whatever monster needed slaying without any care of the plans that may be involved or the tactics their team might want to employ.

Brute forcing things will only get them so far. He has a feeling that whenever the Commander assigns Gwyn a capture mission, that the young man will more than likely just end up killing the monster, either because they lacked self-restraint during a fight, or because they had thought the choice to capture, instead of slaying the monster, was entirely stupid.

It was difficult to guess which one it could be, given the young man did not speak.

They had the ability to, he heard them make all sorts of noises all the time, but for whatever reason, Gwyn chooses not to utter a word. Even in the quiet, private moments he catches the young man with Tori, they do not speak.

Instead of other hunters, the research team, or even their superiors, the ones that get most of Gwyn’s attention outside of their brother are the other palicos in Astera. He sees Gwyn sitting around the canteen all the time, not even harassing the cook for a snack like most did, simply content to sit near the warm fire and occasionally helping peel vegetables or chop more firewood.

It gets to a point where some of the new recruits are bribing one another with monster loot and gourmet vouchers to have someone else take their spot on a hunt once it’s been announced Gwyn is joining. Words gets around, and after another hunt one evening he spots both Tori and Gwyn being called over for a chat with the Commander in private.

That wasn’t a good sign.

After the ‘chat’, he spots Gwyn rushing away from the tradeyard with Tori chasing after them. Their older brother doesn’t let them wander too far, outpacing them and moving to stand in front of them.

“I’m not going to be around forever, you know.” Tori explains to Gwyn sharply, their fur puffed out and whiskers spread out as if getting a feel for the tension prickling between the two of them. “I agree with everything the Commander said. Your stubbornness is making these jobs harder for everyone, and it looks bad on us that I’m the only one you’ll listen to. You need to start thinking about other people and how your actions affect them.”

Gwyn huffs and crosses their arms.

“Act like a big man all you want; we both know you hate nothing more than being alone. Keep being nasty to everyone and that’s exactly what you’ll be.” Tori says without falter.

Gwyn takes a step back as if slapped.

They start to shake all over, furious, but he cannot help but notice how shiny their eyes had become.

As is habit now, Gwyn turns on heel and flees.

Left alone, Tori deflates, raising an orange and white paw to shield the expression on their face.

Gwyn isn’t seen in the dining hall or at the canteen around dinnertime and no one has seen them retire to bed. When morning comes and he leaves his living quarters and sets out properly into the tradeyard, he finds that the entire place is in a sort of commotion.
The Admiral and Tori are scrambling to find Gwyn, but even with the help with of everyone who cares to look, the young man is not found.

He approaches the two of them as they stand near the canteen.

“I don’t regret what I said to him. He needed to hear it. But that doesn’t mean I like seeing him upset and I—” Tori is in the middle of explaining to the Admiral, but they pause to both look at him and to take a deep breath, before continuing. “I didn’t think he would run off.”

“Maybe he’s just cooling his head. He’s a small guy—might be hiding in plain sight.” The Admiral returns, uncrossing their arms to offer him a wave as they at last take notice of his arrival.

“Maybe.” Tori agrees uneasily. “I knew he’d have a hard time adjusting but I thought with me here it would be…enough. But it isn’t. I don’t know what to do.”

“Hey. Everything will be fine. You’re still adjusting too, you know? Cut yourself some slack.” The Admiral says and reaches out to set a giant hand on the palico’s shoulder.

“I’m supposed to leave for an expedition in an hour. I don’t want to mess things up for the other hunters, but…”

He takes that as his cue to speak up at last.

“I’ll find him for you.” He offers.

He has no work assigned for him that day and it has been a while since he has stretched out his legs on a proper tracking job. The gruffness of his voice, or perhaps the fact that he is so freely offering to help, makes Tori pause for several seconds, their green eyes wide.

“Really? That’d be a big favor. I’d owe you.” They tell him.

He shakes his head, his helmet clanging minutely with the gesture.

“I’m just looking after one of our own. No need to pay me back.” He explains.

Despite that, Tori still seems hesitant.

“If its our Huntsman on the job, you can be damn sure he’ll find Gwyn!” The Admiral boasts, and while he is beyond used to their casual compliments, it still feels good to be reminded of their unshakeable faith in him and his skillsets.

He leaves at once after he packs up his gear and heads straight to the Ancient Forest, which was Gwyn and Tori’s former home. The walk is pleasant. The weather is mild, and the breeze is warm. Flowers are blooming and there is a cloying sweet smell in the denser parts of the forest where the sun’s light does not wholly make it through, instead dappling the forest floor with mesmerizing patterns.

He takes his time. Gathers a few herbs and mushrooms that he remembers one of the researchers being short on supply. Tucks himself inside tall grass and holds his breath when an Anjanath skirts through the clearing he’s in. It’s a small one, and it looks young given the size of the exterior cartilage on its snout.

He could easily defeat it and capture it as a bonus for the researchers, but he isn’t here for it. He watches the Anjanath leave, waits a few minutes, then continues on through the forest. The Anjanath and a Great Jagras are the tracks that he initially found, and although Gwyn did a very good job of hiding theirs, he has decades of experience over them and picks up their trail where it left off.

He finds the young man in a shaded area near a watery alcove miserably watching the fish swim in the shallows.

Gwyn hears him approach and their body stiffens where they’re seated before quickly whipping their face towards him. Despite seeing someone from the Astera, they do not snarl or emote in any kind of way that tells him he should to leave. The young man almost seems lifeless with how little they react to a sudden presence intruding upon their sulking. He’s not even sure if they know who he is, given the two of them have never talked and what he knows about them has been learned through observation or passing conversations with others.

He knows well enough not to put his hands on them or act in an overtly familiar fashion.

Seeing as how they have not drawn their dual blades or hissed at him, he takes that as a sign that he can continue to approach, although carefully. He approaches the pond and frightens the fish away with the shadow he casts upon the water. He takes a seat on top of a large rock, mirroring the young man’s positioning, but he leaves a fair bit of distance between the two of them.

He says not a word and keeps his eyes to himself, observing the water and the fish that slowly return instead of the brooding man to his right. A few minutes pass, and he moves, but only to reach inside of the bag he’s brought with him. He pulls out the lunch the cook had packed for him—it wasn’t typical of the cook to make personalized meals for those not on official hunts, but he thinks they had done so in preemptive thanks for volunteering to look for Gwyn.

It’s all food that can be eaten with his hands, so he sets the wooden container on the flattest part of the stone he’s occupying and puts it closer to Gwyn than himself, and the gesture earns him a questioning look, their thick, white brows furrowing. He says nothing and grabs a morsel and tips his helmet just high enough that his jawline and mouth are revealed as he begins to eat.

He can feel them staring intensely.

Their curiosity about his face is sated for the most part and he sees Gwyn in the corner of his eye tentatively reach out and begin to eat as well.

A few times while they eat, he hears them sniff wetly.

He makes no remark about it, allowing them to retain their pride.

Food finished, he lowers his helmet back down completely and dips his hands into the water to rinse off the residue from the food before slipping his gauntlets back on.

His eyes are on the gently rippling surface of the pond, but he knows Gwyn is staring at him.

“Who I am doesn’t matter. Probably won’t run into each other that much after this. I’m the Fifth Fleet’s ‘Huntsman’, but I originally served the First Fleet. You can just refer to me by my title. Most people do.” He answers the question that has been visibly rattling around in their skull for the past several minutes. “I’m proficient in following tracks, to say the least. There aren’t many monsters or people I cannot find.”

The bluntness of his explanation had seemed to resonate with Gwyn, at least a little, as their shoulders had relaxed marginally, but once they piece together why it is he is here, the walls come back up and they even move away from him, expecting to be grabbed or admonished.

He stays where he is.

Feeds the crumbs of their shared meal to the fish.

“I volunteered to find you, but I made no promises of bringing you back. I’m not going to force you to do anything. A man should make his own choices—live the life he sees fit for himself. If you want to stay here, then you should give everyone a proper farewell and be done with it. You shouldn’t just run off. People are worried.” He explains.

Gwyn’s face goes through all sorts of emotions.

Surprise, disbelief, then sharp skepticism.

“You’re rough around the edges but there are people that don’t mind that. Your brother, for one, but the Admiral was just as worried about not finding you.” He continues, and he looks up from the fish and turns his helmet towards them before continuing. “And I didn’t come all this way because I don’t care.”

Gwyn’s red eyes widen, and their mouth falls open; stunned at his words.

This close, he can confirm that the young man’s teeth are indeed sharp, with the canines and molars having an edge to them that caught against the sunlight that trickled through the canopy.

The stunned look quickly morphs into shame.

Gwyn looks away from him and lowers their face. The young man crosses their arms, their equally sharp nails digging into their biceps almost hard enough to break skin.

“…Monsters are a lot easier to understand than people. That’s something I’ve always thought.” He remarks, and slowly, Gwyn peeks at him again.

They nod tentatively.

“But there is worth in knowing others—in being known in return. It’s about give and take. You’ll fumble here and there and hurt someone badly and sometimes people will hurt you even worse. But, at the end of the day, what matters is that you keep trying anyways.” He says, now standing up. He gathers his things and gives his shoulders a stretch. “I’ll tell them I found you. Whether or not you return is your choice.” He finishes calmly and with a curt nod, he begins to walk off.

He makes it a few yards.

Stops when he hears the telltale sign of someone running after him.

He peeks over one shoulder and finds Gwyn, whose pale face is flushed from exertion.

“Already made up your mind?” He asks, tone neutral.

Slowly, Gwyn nods.

He is secretly relieved that this will not be the last time he sees this strange, young man.

He waves them along and Gwyn follows just a step behind him. He feels them staring at his back the entire walk out of the Ancient Forest and back to Astera, but he doesn’t call them out on it. He doesn’t even really care all that much that they’re staring in the first place. He’s observed them so much over the past few weeks that he thinks it’s only fair at this point.

The closer the two of them get back to base, the more tense Gwyn becomes. By the time the two of them returned, the sun had almost completely set and their older brother, Tori, had already returned from their expedition and was waiting around the canteen, looking just as miserable as Gwyn had when he found them sitting by their lonesome by the pond.

Tori stands up at once upon noticing their arrival.

The two brothers stand in front of one another, both with an air of guilt and discomfort.

“…Did you come back because you wanted to?” Tori asks, not sounding all that bothered by the fact that they are the ones forced to break the silence.

Gwyn is still for a long, long time.

Then, they nod.

“And you want to stay?” Their brother continues, incredulous, and Gwyn takes far less time to nod this time. “You aren’t just saying that? I don’t want to force you—”

Gwyn bends down on one knee and wraps both of their arms around their brother, hugging them tightly.

Tori takes a deep breath and starts petting Gwyn’s mane of white hair.

“I’m sorry too.” They meow wearily. Their green eyes flit over to him, and they take one hand off their brother to offer him a clawed thumbs up in thanks for his work.

He shoots one back then turns his eyes elsewhere, not wanting to intrude on this quiet moment more than he already was. Maybe he should just leave. He’s about to, when he hears thundering footsteps approaching.

“There you are, kiddo! I got word that you came back and wanted to see if it was true for myself.” The Admiral greets with all the tact and subtlety of an Uragaan rolling through, and the quiet moment he’d been attempting to keep undisturbed shatters like a plate thrown against a wall.

Gwyn clings to their brother for another moment before standing up with a huff, their face beet red and their usual scowl beginning to work its way on their face. Despite being clawed, snarled and hissed at, the Admiral still reaches out with the intent to place a hand on the young man’s shoulder, but at the very last second, they seem to remember just how unfavorably each of those gestures had been repaid.

To his, Tori’s and the Admiral’s great shock, Gwyn takes a step towards the burly man and sets their own hand atop one of their forearms, although briefly, before taking their hand back and putting distance between them.

The redness of their face only increases as the Admiral continues to stare at them with dumbfounded disbelief.

“Does that mean you’re finally warming up to me??” The Admiral asks far too loudly, now drawing the attention of everyone that passed by the canteen.

Fed up with the unwanted attention and the exaggerated response they inspired, Gwyn turns on heel and starts leaving, although not as hastily as they had done in the past when trying to run away from their leader’s boisterous disposition. The young man pauses for a second, just to look at him, and chewing their bottom lip roughly, they offer a nod at him in what he is certain is gratitude, before they leave the canteen entirely.

“What’d I do???” The Admiral asks in the wake of the Gwyn’s exit.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

It’s a slow day.

Has been a couple of slow days.

There aren’t any hunts in dire need of completion, what with the research team still working on just why it is the Ancient Forest, and other areas have become more hostile, the monsters twice as fierce and worse yet, acting out of their known behaviors. Monster after monster has been captured and brought back for studying, and in between capture missions, the new recruits are tasked with picking up whatever tracks they find.

Most treat it as a much-needed break, happy to hang around Astera and either sleep the days away or catch up on the little things that piled up between hunts. He himself lazes about, not rolling out of bed until well past noon and even when he does finally pry himself out of bed and dresses himself in his armor, he finds his footsteps sluggish as he heads to the canteen and grabs a meal.

The meal only serves to make him feel more sluggish.

That wouldn’t do. He liked to stay sharp—both in mind and body.

He decides to walk over to the small training area that’s tucked behind the workshop. A door all the way in the back of the workshop leads him to it and he’s greeted by a few newbie hunters as he skirts past them. A lot of people ask to spar with him, but he isn’t sure if he wants to just yet. Sometimes he came here just to hone his blade against the straw dummies. Sometimes he just wanted to be by himself and swing his blade in practiced motions until he fell into that comfortable ‘zone’.

He steps outside into the training ground properly, his boots kicking up the dirt. Its not all that big, a medium sized room, one with no ceiling so plenty of fresh air and sun pours in. There is no one here anymore—or so he thinks. The place should be empty now that all the new recruits had finished up and been denied a sparring session with him, but he notices someone.

Gwyn is by themselves in the far back of the training grounds, resting flat on their back, their face pointed at the sky, and in each hand is their dual blades, which they twirl around in their palms with bored ease.

They are alone, despite all the other hunters that had visited today.

Their movements are of someone restless and in need of expelling energy. Despite there being many people asking to spar with him, none had asked to spar with Gwyn.

He knows very well why that is.

He’s heard the remarks from the few hunters that had sparred with the young man before. Gwyn fights like they would in a hunt, unrestrained and savage, barely even holding back their strength as they fought, accidentally doing harm and forcing their partners to put far too much effort into something that was supposed to be lax.

It was a spar, not a battle of life or death, but Gwyn has apparently not figured that out just yet, just as they have failed to realize why it is no one spars with them after the first round of victims had been left aching and limping, some of them even bleeding.
Instead of explaining why they didn’t want to spar, other hunters simply stopped agreeing altogether.

It bothers him.

Something about seeing Gwyn sitting all by themselves always does.

He walks over to where the young man is sprawled out on their back and Gwyn notices his arrival immediately, their red eyes dropping from the sky to ogle him as he approaches, careful not to kick up dirt into their face.

He can tell by how their red eyes brighten that they want to ask him to spar, but he thinks being ignored and rejected so many times that day makes them hesitate. For now, they simply stare up at his helmet while he himself stares down at their face.

“I need a sparring partner.” Is all he says, yet it makes Gwyn’s entire face brighten, their red eyes sparkling with life now as they hastily clamber up into standing.

They nod at him eagerly in response, notably eyeing the longsword on his back.

His lips quirk into a faint smile underneath his helmet and he leads them over to the center of the training grounds. The two of them stand across from each other. He begins to stretch and notices that Gwyn doesn’t bother with that, already having their dual blades drawn and bouncing from one foot to the other.

“Loosen up before and after a fight and you’ll find yourself able to take on more work with less complaints from your body.” He explains as he continues to do just that.

Gwyn rolls their eyes, but after a minute of deliberation, he sees them set their dual blades on the ground and they begin to copy some of his movements. They roll their neck and shoulders, then bend in half to stretch their hamstrings and lower back. The young man is flexible, able to easily touch their toes without a blink.

Finished warming up, he unsheathes his longsword.

Some people bowed to each other before a duel, but he’s never cared to adopt that custom. Gwyn knows he’s ready to spar because he points his sword right at them, giving them a silent ‘go ahead’.

They fly right at him, a whirlwind of blades and pent-up energy just waiting to be unloaded onto the first target they’re given. He blocks Gwyn’s attacks with ease, the sound of their dual blades knocking repeatedly against his sword satisfying. The young man’s movements are predictable and unrefined. They are strong, fast, and stubborn, and each attack of theirs that gets blocked or parried annoys them profoundly.

Their annoyance makes them hit harder and faster, but with even less finesse.

“You’re treating this like a real fight. That isn’t what this is.” He explains after he repels another attack and Gwyn shuffles backwards, their boots sliding against the dirt. “Sparring is meant to measure our skills in the hopes of bringing out the best of our instincts and potential. You’re fighting like you actually want your blows to cause harm. Is that what you want?”

Gwyn blinks rapidly, standing up straight now.

They look bewildered.

Slowly, they shake their head.

“It’s me you’re fighting—not some monster.” He reminds.

This time Gwyn goes after him with a subdued sort of vigor. They are mindful of how much force they use behind each blow and where exactly they are trying to land their blades. The young man hasn’t been able to land a single hit on him yet, but it is startling how much they improve just by taking his advice seriously.

He’s still shocked they took his advice at all. Even when the Admiral or Commander offers tidbits of advice to help them, Gwyn always gave the impression that it was going through one ear and out the other.

He knocks them off their feet with a decisive swing of his blade, using the dull edge to push them off and it takes them by surprise enough the young man gets flung onto their back on the dirt, the wind knocking out of them.

Before they can rise to their feet, he rushes over and stands over them, his longsword pointed down at their throat, but not making contact.

“Do you yield?” He asks.

Gwyn’s nose wrinkles and they try to sit up again, but when he moves his blade closer, they make the smart decision of remaining still, unless they want the tip of his sword to graze their throat.

“Know when you’ve been bested and accept it with grace. There is no escaping the position I’ve got you in.” He explains, and Gwyn squirms a bit, their hands tightening and relaxing around the handles of their dual blades repeatedly as the scowl deepens on their face. “Do you yield?” He repeats more firmly.

Gwyn stares up at him, their pupils blown out and their tongue peeking out to moisten their lips. The entirety of their pale body is flushed red from exertion and the sun shining down on them.
After a moment, they nod once, twice.

He moves his blade from their throat at once, relaxing. He sheathes it and offers a hand down to help them up, which they accept.

“It was a good spar. You fight well.” He compliments while pulling them up. It’s difficult to ignore how much redder their face becomes. “And with some guidance, I know that you will become even fiercer, a true force to be reckoned with. I would gladly spar with you again and offer the advice I’ve accumulated over my career.”

Gwyn looks at him with no shortness of shock.

Then, their expression morphs into one of elation, their mouth spread into a wide, sharp-toothed grin and their red eyes creased in the corners happily as they begin to jump in place with excitement at the future prospect of sparring with him.

It was pleasant to see them doing something other than scowling for once.

He’d keep sparring with them for that reason alone, but he finds that he had enjoyed every second of fighting against them.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Gwyn eats their meals with Tori, but when their brother is busy, and they have no one to eat with, he always sees the Admiral wave them over, and while the first few times had been met with trepidation and annoyance, over time, he finds that the young man barely bats an eyelash or huffs when they take a seat across their leader.

It comforts him to know that they are not alone during meals.

After all, sharing meals was just as important to building bonds with people as sharing the workload was.

It becomes commonplace to always see the young man either eating dinner with their brother, or the Admiral, but when their Handler enters the dining hall and the Admiral flags her down, eagerly waving her over to eat with him too, Gwyn becomes closed off and irritated. The change in demeanor is so obvious that even the Admiral notices it.

Still, it’s a testament to how much patience Gwyn has gained that they do not stand up and leave when their Handler sits beside them, tucking into her own meal with gusto. She tries to start conversations a few times with her hunter, but it gets her nothing but tense staring. It disheartens her enough that she slows down her eating, but the Admiral speaks with the young woman enthusiastically enough that Gwyn’s behavior doesn’t put her completely out of her initial good mood.

Gwyn finishes eating first, only offering a curt nod to the Admiral and their Handler before standing up and making a beeline for the exit. They notice him seated at a table towards the back and he offers a wave, one that they return without hesitation before continuing their way.

It’s no surprise their Handler leaves soon after, looking dejected even after all the Admiral’s assurances that she was doing a fine job. Once the man is alone, he gets up from his table, bringing his tankard of ale with him, and takes a seat across from the man.

The Admiral sighs, resting their chin against a fist.

“Poor girl. I keep telling her to just give things time, but even I’m starting to think that it isn’t going to cut it anymore. It’s bad enough the other new recruits are still nervous about working alongside them. Gwyn is just too darn stubborn. He doesn’t want to listen to their Handler. Hell, he’s only just started listening to ME.” The man languishes, using their other hand to stab the remnants of their meal with a fork.

“He’s beyond the skillset of the newbies.” He explains right off the bat. “Let him join the seasoned hunters. Once he’s out of his depth and met with something unfamiliar, something that he cannot brute force his way through, he will be left with no other choice than to listen to his Handler. He will either adapt and flourish or stagnate. Only time will tell what happens.”

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea!” The Admiral agrees, reaching out to clap a hand against his forearm, but they do so just as he’s lifting his tankard for another sip, causing some of the ale to slosh over the rim and wet his gauntlets. The man winces, offering an apology, but he simply swipes his hand a few times to rid himself of the mess before continuing to drink. “I think I even have a job in mind for kiddo and his brother. I ought to go speak with the Commander about it.” And with a wave, the man leaves.

A few days later he sees Tori, Gwyn and their Handler readying up to leave Astera for the job the Admiral had personally assigned the three of them. As usual, when the young man notices him, they perk up a bit, waving at him.

He offers a nod and continues on his path to nowhere in particular.

He ends up helping the research team with some errands, but he ultimately remains in Astera. A part of him wishes he could have joined the job Gwyn had been assigned, but the point was to get them to work better with their Handler, not him.

He contents himself with the fact that he can always ask them to spar once they’ve rested up.

He doesn’t expect to see the trio back until dinnertime, but a commotion breaks out in the tradeyard only a few hours after the group had left. He chases the noise and sees a shocking sight: Gwyn is carrying Tori in their arms, the palico’s orange and white fur stained with blood, and their brother is limp as they are carried.

The young man himself is hobbling, their face and leather armor splattered in both monster blood and their brothers. A crowd quickly forms, with members of the medical team flocking over to get an assessment of Tori’s injuries. It takes some convincing for Gwyn to release the palico, and after Tori has been carried off, the young man just stands there, face frozen in a mask of horror. They do not even react to the healers that are trying to tug them off the same way to treat their injuries.

Time seems to freeze completely for them.

The Admiral cuts through the crowd with ease and lays both of their hands on Gwyn’s shoulders, firmly shaking them a bit, and it is that firm, steady touch that startles them back into reality. Gwyn first looks at the large hands gripping their shoulders, then the young man looks down at their blood covered hands and the sparse white and orange fur that was clinging. Their hands begin to tremble, and he sees them close both hands into tight fists, their entire body shaking now.

Their face dips down, expression hidden from all.

“Come on, kiddo. You need to get yourself patched up. You’re in rough shape.” The Admiral tries, bending down a fair bit to try and peek at the young man’s face, but the exact moment they do, Gwyn tears away from him and the crowd, their face warped with a seething fury that is now radiating from the deepest part of their soul.

With a snarl, Gwyn continues past everyone, going right back to where the wing-drakes are stationed with the clear intent of heading back out and killing whatever monster had harmed their older brother.

The Admiral chases after them immediately, and he’s right behind them, the bottom of his boots becoming stained with the blood that’s dripping from an injury that’s hidden under Gwyn’s armor.

It quickly turns into a loud, ugly affair.

The Admiral captures Gwyn with both of his muscular arms secured around their waist and despite the pain that causes them, it only makes the young man more incensed. He’s never seen them like this: howling and snapping their teeth, their red eyes glowing with bloodlust. Even when they drag their nails across the man’s forearms and biceps, the Admiral just deals with it, not letting their grip slacken the slightest.

Nothing the Admiral, the medical team, or their Handler says gets Gwyn to calm down.

He stops to stand just in front of the Admiral, uncaring of how he’s accidentally kicked with all of Gwyn’s thrashing, and he dodges a hand swiping at his helmet before leaning in closely, close enough that his words can be heard over the panic and their own furious wailing.

“Your brother needs you here. In the condition you’re in now, leaving to finish off the fight will only get you killed, and then where will that leave Tori? You owe it to them to stay and recover. Rest now, and together, you can seek your revenge another day.” He explains to them steadfastly.

He takes a step back from the two to gauge the young man’s reaction.

Gwyn goes completely still, freezing again. Their red eyes are wild and frantic and they’re gulping down shaky breaths of air.

Then they go utterly limp in the Admiral’s arms.

All the fight leaves them and now the young man is left with the more difficult emotion they’d been stifling: worry.

Gwyn’s breath hitches and their red eyes become glassy. Their bottom lip wobbles.

He takes a deep breath and exhales, moving to stand in front of them in a way that blocks the crowd that had formed from watching this young man fall apart. He may be shielding them from view, but there was no hiding how loudly and pitifully Gwyn bawls their eyes out. He watches them hide their face with both of their pale hands. The Admiral is the only thing keeping them from just crumpling to the floor in a miserable heap.

He raises his helmet towards the Admiral, meeting their gaze, and once he nods, the man starts walking alongside the medical team, carrying Gwyn with them.

Throughout all of this, Gwyn’s Handler had simply stood there, rooted to the spot, her eyes wide and her tan face many shades paler than it should be.

He reaches out and pats her shoulder a few times.

Gestures for her to follow him to the dining hall.

He seats himself at the table in the back he usually occupies, and she takes the seat across from him. He slides over one of the two tankards of ale he grabbed, and the young woman begins to tentatively sip it.

“…I’m starting to think I’m not cut out for this kind of thing.” She admits so quietly that he barely hears it. “Nothing I do seems to help. Nothing I say gets through to him. I don’t know why, but he seems really determined to just…ignore me. I should be used to it by now, but during the hunt earlier—I really wished he had listened to me. I don’t think it would have stopped Tori from getting injured, but I think it would have made the injury less serious.”

“You’re taking his failings as your own. You just said it, didn’t you? You gave him advice and he didn’t listen. Now that mistake has led to his brother taking a grave injury. He only has himself and his stubbornness to blame—and the monster, of course.” He returns calmly.

“I just wish I knew WHY it was that he’s so hellbent on ignoring me. What is it about me that he finds so offensive? He’s started warming up to the Admiral, and he seems cozy enough with you. I mean, you even got him to calm down! I thought we were going to have to tie him up with rope to keep him from leaving.” She says, almost knocking over her drink with how animatedly she gestures her hands around.

“He’d chew through the ropes in no time. His teeth look sharp.” He remarks dryly.

“Sharper than they look.” The Handler agrees, and he stiffens, wondering just what she had done to annoy Gwyn enough into biting her. Catching the way he pauses, she shakes her head vehemently. “He’s never bitten me or anything like that! When he gets annoyed with me, he just leaves. In a way, that kind of hurts worse. It’s like he doesn’t care enough to even react. I know his teeth are sharp because I’ve seen him tear through meat that was only slightly cooked past rare, and he had no problem eating it.” She explains.

Relaxing again, he tips his helmet up slightly to take another sip of his ale.

“I’ve seen him irritated before, but that was something else.” She continues, referencing the frenzied state the young man had been in. “It was like—”

“Like a monster becoming enraged.” He answers for her.

“Yeah.” She nods, now holding her tankard with both hands, staring at the foamy surface wearily. “…What do you think I should do?”

“There isn’t anything you need to do. You’ve already done everything to the best of your abilities. I have the sneaking suspicion that after today, you’ll find that Gwyn starts taking your words to heart. He’ll probably come to the realization on his own that things would have turned out better if he had given you the proper respect you’re owed as his Handler.” He tells her.

“But there has to be something I can do! I hate just sitting around.” She protests.

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms as he thinks briefly.

“You’re right.” He nods. “There is something you can do.”

“What is it?”

“Finish that ale and go take a well-deserved rest. I’ll ask the cook to make you something special. Consider it thanks for taking Gwyn’s bad attitude on the chin all this time.” He explains while downing the last of his own ale and standing up. He rounds the table to set a gauntlet on her shoulder. “You’re doing a fine job as a Handler. Anyone will tell you that.”

“…It means a lot hearing that from you.” She answers, sniffling a little. “Thank you. Really. I feel better.”

He pats her shoulder one more time before leaving.

He peeks his head into the medical bay later and finds that Gwyn has left their assigned bed to crawl into Tori’s, the young man curled around their older brother as if shielding them from any further attacks.

The two brothers sleep peacefully.

He lingers for another moment in the doorway before exiting.

Gwyn recovers almost completely in two days, but Tori is still nursing a fractured paw. The young man practically lived in the medical bay now, only leaving to bring food for themselves and their brother.

He doesn’t know what conversation transpired between the two, but it’s obvious to anyone that something in Gwyn’s demeanor has changed drastically. They walk around Astera less guarded than they used to, able to meet the eyes of others without scowling, even if they do not always return the waves and nods they are offered.

He sees them wander into the dining hall that night to grab a plate of food for their brother, and their Handler is also there, about to sit down and tuck into her own meal. When the two notice each other, they both freeze. The Handler looks anxious, while Gwyn looked an odd mixture of frustrated and guilty.

It seems the young man had in fact realized the hunt went terribly because of them, more specifically, because they had continued to ignore her advice. He is glad that he did not have to spell out that particular lesson for them.

He is even proud to see that Gwyn waves a hand at the Handler, gesturing for the woman to bring her meal and eat with them and Tori in the medical bay. She almost drops her plate in her surprise, and while the young man rolls their eyes, they do not react further, simply leading the way out of the dining hall.

His drinks tasted especially good that night after seeing such an occurrence.

It will take a while, but the two of them will figure things out, he knows that for a fact.

Days later, when Tori is dismissed from the medical bay, he sees Gwyn hiding behind some crates in the tradeyard, their red eyes on the Admiral and the Commander, who are speaking with one another about something near the bow of the ship. The Admiral is sporting some bandaging around both of their forearms.

A look of conflict is on the young man’s pale face.

It’s obvious what the problem is: they want to apologize for carving the man up during their emotional state and are now unsure if they still had the right to approach him.

“Sink or swim.” He remarks to Gwyn as he brushes past them on his way to the armory.

It is all he says, but it is enough.

He pauses on his way to the lift, not quite ready to tug the pulley and head up to the next floor. He watches as Gwyn approaches the two and sharpens his hearing.

“Oh, hello, Gwyn. You look a lot better. It’s a relief to see you and your brother up and at it once more.” The Commander greets.

“Hey, kiddo.” The Admiral speaks up next, uncrossing their arms to wave at the young man.

Gwyn shuffles from one foot to the other, their face lowering marginally, but he can still see the way that they peek up at the injuries on the Admiral’s arms.

“Did ya need something—oh.” The Admiral pauses, eyes wide and going stiff as Gwyn suddenly walks forward and wraps their arms around their middle in a tight embrace. “Oh!!” The man exclaims loudly, mouth falling open in shock and he even whips his face towards the Commander, as if needing to check with another that this was really happening.

A big grin spreads across the Admiral’s face, and he hunches down a little to scoop up Gwyn, the young man’s legs dangling in the air as they’re spun around in an enthusiastic hug. Gwyn sputters and yelps, their face turning scarlet with embarrassment, but there is no missing the fact that they do not try to claw or harm the Admiral in any way for their overzealous return of affection, nor is there any missing how after a moment, the young man goes slack and returns the gesture as best as they can while being held like a doll.

Once set down, the Admiral ruffles Gwyn’s mane of white hair, which only makes the young man blush more, before they spare the two one last look before running off.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been smiling this whole time as he watched.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Time passes: it always had the habit of slipping right past him like a thief.

It had felt like just yesterday that the Admiral had returned to Astera with a strange, wild young man and their strikingly level-headed elder brother, (or ‘palibro’ as the Admiral had goofily coined the term), and yet here Gwyn was now, freshly stepping out of the armory after another successful string of hunts, now proudly dawning their newest set of armor.

The black, striated plating of the Ebony Odagaron armor set gives Gwyn an even more intimidating figure, especially with the silver, skull-shaped mask that hid the top half of their face, the slits of the mask accentuating the eerie glow of the red eyes of the owner who wore it. The young man had forgone the black wig that came with the set, leaving their mane of white hair free, and the coloring of their hair and the bits of pale skin that peek through the gaps is a pleasant contrast against the dark armor.

They notice him outside the armory leaning his arms against the railing and watching the sun set over the ocean. He, in turn, notices how they stand up straighter, setting their hands on their hips with an air of ‘well, how do I look?’.

“It suits you.” He compliments, turning around now to look at them fully instead of stealing glances like he had been for the past several minutes. He looks at their hips and only now realizes they’d commissioned a new set of dual blades as well. “Want to break in all that shiny new gear? I’ve been itching for a spar.”

So have they, if the way Gwyn slides up their mask to rest on their forehead to give him a proper view of the sharp toothed grin means anything.

The two of them go a few rounds in the training yard. The improvement that Gwyn makes with each spar is startling, but they have yet to best him. He thinks the very second they realize how much more energy they had compared to him, and use the strategy of wearing him down, instead of meeting him blow for blow, will be the moment they at last best him.

He is eager for that day. Winning, losing—he doesn’t care all that much, so long as the fight is satisfying, and with someone as lively and stubborn as Gwyn, he is never left wanting.

“Good eye.” He tells them when they notice a second where he reacts too slowly and they take advantage to try and knock him off their feet. They’d almost succeeded too, but he has decades of instinct ingrained in his body and he had righted himself immediately and returned the blow with enough force that its them that ends up being knocked down.

Gwyn sits up immediately, and while he usually gets them to yield by pointing his blade at them, he forgoes it this time, his brain and his good senses blocked by…something momentarily, and he finds himself lowering to the ground, hunched on all fours above them, his right hand pressed flat to their dark breastplate, adding enough weight that they do not try getting up again.

Or maybe they just let him push them down.

He isn’t sure.

Their mask is still perched on their forehead, keeping their hair from falling over their eyes. Gwyn huffs a bit, annoyed at the loss, but not by much. They stare up at him without hesitancy, content with ogling his helmet and taking in the finer details. The young man is breathing hard from the fight so of course his attention goes right to their unnaturally sharp teeth.

“You could kill someone with just your hands and teeth.” He observes with deep fascination. “The dual blades and your skill wielding them is just the final nail in the coffin for whatever poor thing encounters you.”

For someone that disliked crowds and too much attention on them, the young man always responded charmingly to compliments, always grinning and jumping in place, or reaching out to set their hand on an arm or bicep in quiet thanks.

Gwyn smiles at him with all their teeth, their pale face blooming with color at the compliment.

He has always wondered just how sharp those teeth are.

He finds himself taking off one of his gauntlets. Then finds his bare, rough hand reaching towards their face. Gwyn doesn’t flinch away or squirm. They give their teeth a playful snap when his fingers draw closer, but they’re still smiling, their body utterly relaxed underneath him, so he knows they only mean to tease, not scare him off.

He sets his hand on their jaw and gently but firmly pries open their mouth with his thumb, the pad of which he has braced on the underside of their bottom canine. He takes a real good look at all those glimmering, sharp edged teeth. Even hums when he traces the point of one and almost cuts himself.

Sharper than they look, he remembers their Handler mentioning.

Gwyn’s face is steadily growing redder and redder, and their breathing has yet to calm from their spar. Their pupils are blown out a large amount.

He finds that he wants to cut himself on those sharp, pearly edges. Wants to give them a taste of his blood, then wonders if they had any desire for something that wasn’t carved off a beast.

Then he feels acute jealousy that he is only a man.

A lonely one at that.

Realizing he is acting far more familiar than he should be, he takes his hand back. Or he tries to, but Gwyn reaches out and catches it by his wrist. They examine his rough, scarred up hand, how some of the scars were completely white atop his tan skin.

It’s only fair—they had allowed him to fulfill his curiosity and now they are fulfilling theirs.

Gwyn traces the callouses on his palm, then his lifeline. To his muted shock, they bring his hand back to their face, nearer to their mouth, which they open the slightest, their breath tickling the webbing connecting his thumb and index finger. Their red eyes flit up and stare directly into his eyes.

He does not know what that look means.

Whatever the question, the young man finds answer in the fact that he does not snatch his hand away or tell him off. Without breaking eye contact, they slowly open their mouth more before latching onto the meat of his palm nearest to his thumb.

They don’t bite hard. It’s deceptively gentle, actually.

Their sharp teeth are only digging in enough that he feels the slightest pinpricks of pain, but their teeth have yet to break skin. The slightest more pressure and they would.
He would not mind.

He is startled by just how much he doesn’t mind.

He only realizes now that he’s breathing hard too, each breath more out of sync than the last. He feels the barest brush of their tongue against his skin and a breath gets caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He can barely think through the swirling emotions this gesture is inspiring.

He can think well enough to know he needs to get off them before someone waltzes in.

Gwyn seems disappointed when he slowly takes his hand back, taking even more time to stand up and put distance between the two of them. He offers a hand down and helps them up, but after he offers a curt nod, he leaves, not once looking behind him.

He drinks himself into a stupor that night.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

He returns from a capture hunt one of the researchers had specifically asked him to handle.

Everything went well, the monster he brought back is already snoring away and being ogled by a dozen researchers, but he’s exhausted from trip back and wants nothing more than to sit down in a chair and get some food down his gullet. He drags his weary hide to the dining hall, making a beeline towards his usual seat and finds that someone is occupying it.

It’s Gwyn, who gives him the impression that they had been waiting for him to return, given the way they perk up upon immediately seeing him, smiling visibly, because they only lowered their mask completely when they were leaving for a hunt. They hop out of his seat and leave, returning a minute later with two plates, then leaving again just as quickly to carry over two tankards of ale before taking a seat at the table.

They do not sit across from him.

They drag a chair over and sit beside him.

He eyes them for a moment, dumbfounded, but he gets over it relatively quickly and like usual uses his left hand to tip up his helmet enough so he can eat and drink. Gwyn tucks into their own meal, their face and overall demeanor at ease, but he feels one of their legs bouncing underneath the table.

Were they nervous? Did something happen the few hours he’d been gone?

If it was something urgent, he is positive that either the Admiral or the Commander would have pulled him aside as soon as he returned. For now, he forgets the shaky leg that sometimes knocks against him and continues to eat his meal.

Finished, he pushes his plate aside. Gwyn finishes around the same time, but something about the meal ending only makes them more restless. He’s about to ask, wanting to just rip the bandage off already, but the opportunity slips by him.
Gwyn stands up abruptly and pulls down their mask all the way before digging in their satchel for a few seconds. Then they hastily place something on the table and run off.

He stares at their retreating back, stupefied.

When he drops his gaze to the table, he sees what exactly it is the young man left for him: a necklace, one made out of treated leather, and dangling off the cord is a monster fang, one about as thick as three of his fingers and curved like a crescent moon. Small wooden beads sandwich the fang, clinking in a soothing way as he holds the necklace up to closely examine it.

He cannot remember the last time he received a gift, let alone one that was handmade and delivered as abruptly as this one had been.

He takes off one of his gauntlets and rubs his thumb over the rough edges, accidentally cutting himself and drawing blood. As he brings his thumb to his mouth to lap at the small wound, he cannot help but wish it was someone else’s teeth he had bled on.

He’s never been one for jewelry, but he quite likes this necklace. He doesn’t sling it around his neck. Instead, he loops the leather cord around the hilt of his longsword, the gift now a charm that will always be in sight and always accompany him on his hunts.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

He didn’t have a chance to properly thank Gwyn for the gift that night, but he gets free time a few days later, wandering into the Ancient Forest with a goal in mind.

Tori had mentioned to him in passing that their younger brother had always been both fond and respectful of small creatures, bugs, lizards, and the like, but despite having sharp senses, Gwyn was terrible at catching them, either too impatient to wait for the opportune moment, or failing to conceal their approaching form even with the help of a ghillie suit.

He is a man that has always been known for his patience and quiet, so he thinks he should be able to fulfill that long lasting wish of theirs. Gwyn stayed in the communal men’s living quarters, so whatever he caught today would have to be kept with the researchers either in a terrarium or another suitable vessel.

He is not sure what the young man would prefer.

He knows for a fact he cannot bring back any fish with him, since he did not have a bucket or something else to hold water. It’d have to be something that could be nestled in the small mesh cage he’d brought.

He spends an hour or two just quietly walking through the forest, wondering just what part of it Gwyn and Tori used to call home. He really should get the story of how it is someone looking no older than twenty-four had ended up living in the wilderness. Had Gwyn been abandoned as a child? Had their parents traveled through the Ancient Forest with their child with them and been killed by a monster?

Just when did Tori enter the picture and how long had they been at Gwyn’s side that the two were now inseparable, brothers made through a bond, not by blood?

He has more questions than answers.

He sees something move just in the corner of his vision: a gekko, one typical of this forest, with the tell-tale blue and yellow striped scales. This one, though, is particularly fat. It must be quite good at hunting, but its stoutness makes it far too easy for him to reach out and suddenly grasp it between a few of his armored fingers.

It wiggles and bites at him, but with his gauntlet on, it accomplishes nothing. He keeps his touch light, not wanting to harm it, and gently wrestles it inside the cage. He sticks a few bugs inside the cage as well to give it something to eat before placing a cloth over the cage to keep it calm as he now exits the forest and heads back home.

Back in Astera, he searches for Gwyn immediately. They had a few favorite spots: the canteen, where they helped the palico chef or lazed by the fire, the bow of the tradeyard, sitting on top of a barrel beside the Admiral, listening in nonchalantly to the man’s boisterous conversations with all those that check in with him, and lastly, the training area, where the two of them sparred often.

He starts walking over to the bow but stops when he sees someone sliding down the railing of the curved stairs leading up to the canteen. It’s Gwyn, of course, and as they reach the last part of the railing they do a little jump, getting an impressive amount of air before landing with a roll and standing upright immediately after, all of a sudden standing right in front of him.

He only realizes now that it has been ages since he’s had to put effort into finding them.

The young man always seems to willingly come to him. He thinks of when they first arrived and how often they had hidden themselves away and feels his stomach flip at the observation.

Feels it flip even more when their red eyes drop to the hilt of his longsword, and they see how proudly he displays their gift. Gwyn’s roguishly handsome face breaks into a grin and their red eyes sparkle with delight.

He almost forgets why he had sought them out.

“Brought something.” He speaks up roughly, mouth a little dry. “For you.” He adds a little stupidly after, offering them the mesh cage.

Gwyn quirks their head to the side in question but accepts the cage anyways. They slip off the cloth he was using to cover it and gasps sharply, eyes widening. They bring the cage close to their face to admire the gekko, beginning to dance from one foot to the other.

The young man sticks their pinky into the cage slowly and the fat gekko nips at them, which makes Gwyn throw their head back and laugh. It’s a rambunctious, wild sort of laugh, more like a series of cackles, but without any mean spiritedness to it.

“The researchers should have something that will work as a suitable home for it.” He explains, not quite knowing what else to do or say in the face of their unbridled happiness. He can barely get the words out for goodness’ sake.

It felt like hands were around his throat and heart, steadily beginning to squeeze.

One second Gwyn is marveling at their new pet, the next he finds himself blinded by curly white hair as the young man wraps their arms around him and embraces him tightly. They rub their face against the side of his helmet like how an animal would leave its scent to mark their territory. He understands the sentiment, knows that Gwyn is extremely protective of those that have earned their respect and affection.

They run off towards the research area, eager to find a suitable home for their pet, unaware of just how much their touch had affected him.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

After a huge breakthrough in the investigation as to why both monsters and elder dragons were deviating from their traditional behaviors, as if swayed by some sort of siren’s song, a celebration is held, the entirety of Astera lit up with pretty paper lanterns. The dining hall is where the festivities condense, the place packed to the brim with people, food, and merriment.

At the beginning, Gwyn, Tori and their Handler had been happy to sit with him and the Admiral, but Gwyn and Tori had gotten up after eating their fill, disappearing into the crowds. Their Handler remains beside him, eating her seventh plate of food, while he is still picking at his second. He is more focused on drinking, working on his fourth, (fifth?), tankard of ale, his mind starting to fuzz around the edges with tipsiness, but he was not at all drunk as of yet, not like the newbies who hung onto one another for support as they sang and talked amiably.

As he wipes ale from the corner of his mouth with the back of his gauntlet, the Admiral nudges him with an elbow, wanting his attention. He looks at them, sees them pointing in a direction, and follows their line of sight. He chokes around his next drink of ale, some of it almost shooting out of his nose.

Instead of dancing in the center of the dining hall with the rest, he sees Tori and Gwyn tucked against a corner, with the palico tapping their feet atop a bongo rhythmically, hopping in circles to play a song that seemingly gives everyone in the vicinity even more energy to dance, but none dance as wildly and as freely as Gwyn, who is laughing in an infectious manner, their bright mood unbothered by the fact they keep almost tripping over their own feet.

He only saw them drink two tankards of ale and they were absolutely drunk on their feet.

He shares a look with the Admiral before laughing, feeling so, so fond.

Their shared laugh is interrupted by the music suddenly cutting short as Gwyn tumbles over the bongo, then their brother, falling into a giggling, drunken heap on the floor.

He things that is a sign the young man has had enough to drink.

Downing the rest of his ale, he lays a hand on the Admiral’s bicep, stopping the man from getting up, and slips out of his seat and navigates the crowd in the dining hall with ease. He approaches Gwyn and Tori just as the latter is crawling from beneath their younger brother, meowing out a few laughs, even though the palico’s bongo had gotten roughed up.

Wordlessly, he lowers to one knee and hefts Gwyn onto his back, before offering Tori a curt nod and exiting the dining hall. The young man is still laughing, the charming sound rattling around in his helmet, and they cling to him unashamedly. He even hears them sniff at him a few times. He doesn’t even blink at the gesture, so used to their wildness by now. It does throw him off guard that he hears them hum afterwards, as if deeply content.

He wondered what he smelled like past the haze of alcohol.

Metal and leather? Musk from sweating? Was their sense of smell sharp enough to notice something even deeper than those things, something specific to only him?

He reaches the communal men’s living quarters and looks at each hammock. He spots the one with some of Gwyn’s things tucked underneath it and makes a beeline for it. The room is dimly lit, with only a few oil lamps being tended to, so the wooden room is washed in soft, yellow lighting. There isn’t another living soul in the room besides the two of them, everyone else is in the dining hall or pouring out of it.

He tips himself backwards, patting Gwyn’s arms so that they get the message they need to let go. Gwyn plops onto their hammock, but they are a fast thing, always have been, and just as he’s turned around and is facing them, he finds their arms around him again, this time tugging him forward. He hadn’t expected that. His knees buckle and he falls partly atop them, catching himself with both of his hands braced on either side of the young man’s chest, some of his armored fingers slipping through the gaps of the woven hammock.

Gwyn keeps their arms slung around his shoulders.

Keeps their gaze on him.

He should leave. He NEEDS to leave, but…

Those eyes.

Damn it all, those red eyes of theirs have always hypnotized him, always left him breathless and starving and—

Gwyn’s right hand slips from around his shoulder, now slowly sliding down his pauldron, his rerebrace, vambrace, then capturing his gauntlet. With a sort of expertise that leaves him floundering, they slip off his gauntlet with only one hand, letting it fall atop their belly, and they guide his hand to their face.

He receives no warning for the way they suddenly open their mouth and latch onto the meat of his palm, their sharp teeth clamping down firmly and drawing a steady trail of blood. He sucks in a sharp breath in surprise and secret elation. He watches as their pupils blow out as the iron of his blood teases their tongue. Their red eyes remain locked on him as they hollow their cheeks to take every last drop they’ve forced out.

He feels like he’s on fire—every part of him.

He breaks out into a sweat, breathing shallow and uneven as his cock stiffens. Gwyn unclamps their jaw with a wet smack before dragging their tongue across the minute punctures they’d left, the blood flow now turning into a slow dribble. Their eyelids become heavy and a noise suspiciously close to a moan slips out of their throat.

Those pale, soft lips are now rouged with his blood.

‘Take more’, he wants to tell them.

‘Take all that I can give’, he thinks next.

The disappointment he feels when they release his hand is monumental. Earth-shattering in a terrible way, leaving him reeling and confused and—oh. Gwyn’s other arm falls from his shoulder so they can reach out and set their hands on either side of his helmet, tugging gently so that he brings it closer, now a breath away from their face.

Are they going to take off his helmet?

No, they do something less logical and far stranger than that.

Gwyn leans forward and knocks their forehead against his helmet, just once, but they stay there afterwards.

He does not know how to interpret this gesture and cannot ask the true meaning of it because Gwyn suddenly goes limp, falling backwards against their hammock fully now as the alcohol at last sends them off to sleep, their hands dropping from his helmet and landing awkwardly across their torso.

He leaves quickly.

Doesn’t spare the young man another glance and doesn’t return to the celebration either. Instead, he rushes off to his private living quarters and with an urgency he has not felt in years, strokes himself to completion with the same hand they had bitten, the twinges of pain from the injury only stoking the fires of his lust more.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

He does not speak of that night.

He is not sure if Gwyn remembers, and he will not be the one to bring it up.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Try as he might to forget about that night, it is the only thing he can think of during the next spar he has with Gwyn.

He’s knocked clean off his feet and hits the ground hard, all the breath in his lungs punched out.

“I yield.” He forces out through unsteady breaths as he sits up on his elbows. “You have improved a frightening amount. It will be no time at all before you are granted the title of ‘master hunter’ and it will be a very well earned thing, too.”

He is not petty enough to blame the entirety of his first loss against the young man because of his distracting thoughts, although they had certainly played a factor in their besting of him.

Gwyn sheathes their dual blades, smiling triumphantly, and when they approach, he expects them to offer a hand to help him up—not crawl over him as if to shield him from the blinding sun. Their hands are bracketing his helmet, palms against the dirt.

When they reach out with one of their hands, he expects them again to try taking off his helmet, but they don’t. Gwyn firmly taps the left side of his helmet, right above the slits where his eyes lay. Then they quirk their face to the side in a curious manner.

“Wondering about the burn on my helmet?” He asks with forced calm.

A nod.

“Surprised you haven’t heard the story from others. I got that mark from a run in with my old nemesis—a Teostra. It is an Elder Dragon, one you have not encountered as of yet, and it is as fierce as it is formidable.” He explains, beginning to settle the very slightest now that he has something to distract him from the fact that he wants so badly to rip off his gauntlet and reward them with another taste of his blood.

Gwyn stares at him for another moment, silently absorbing his words, before they nod and begin to rise to their feet, seemingly content now that their question had been answered.

He releases a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

Almost curses audibly when Gwyn changes their mind and settles right back over him with an air of urgency, as if they had forgotten something dire. The young man leans their face down and for the second time now, they bump their face against his helmet, and only after doing that, does he see them stand up completely.

…They remembered that drunken night, then.

He does not know what to say or do.

Thankfully, after Gwyn helps him to his feet, they surprisingly only offer him a nod before running off, leaving him alone in the training area, although not really, because his thoughts are constantly of them and their touch lingers like a ghost.
He expects that to be it now that their curiosity has been fed.

He does not expect to hear the news that Gwyn volunteers to slay the first Teostra that has been sighted in the New World. He is confident in their strength and capabilities; with enough patience and quick thinking he has no doubt that they could take down this beast.

He is proven right hours later that night when Tori, Gwyn and their Handler return to Astera, the young man covered in bruises, a bit bloody here and there, and some of their white hair singed. He hears the news of the trio’s return and expects Gwyn to rush off to the armory to see if any of their new loot is enough for new weapons or armor.

By now he should know well enough that it is himself that they seek out above all else.

He feels a mixture of pride and unease when Gwyn hobbles into the dining hall, skipping a trip to the medical bay in their eagerness to find him. Gwyn smiles like they always do upon seeing him, and they rush over to his table, not to take a seat and join him in a meal or drink, but again to dig something out of their satchel and present it to him.

Tucked between their singular pale hand is a large, shimmering gem, the color like blood and flickering within, a familiar ember.

This was a Teostra gem—an exceedingly rare item carved from the deepest innards of the Elder Dragon, nestled closely to its heart like it was a manifestation of the monster’s willpower and spirit.

Gwyn holds it out to him, offering.

“It is no small feat taking down a Teostra, nor is it any less remarkable to come across such an item.” He remarks as he picks up the gem and holds it up to the light. When he tries to return it, Gwyn shakes their head repeatedly.

He does not understand.

“Why?” He asks, feeling his heart begin to beat faster.

Gwyn gestures at his helmet.

“…You wanted to kill the beast because it did this?” He tentatively asks.

They nod eagerly.

“And you want me to have this?” He continues, voice a little quieter, a little unsure.

Another nod.

He is baffled, but he knows well enough that it is rude to not accept a gift, even one as exorbitant as this one.

“My thanks.” He says around an audible swallow, giving the gem another lookover before tucking it into his own bag. “And excellent work out there. Be proud of yourself, for you have accomplished what few other hunters have.”

Gwyn becomes timid at his words, face flushing and their weight shifting from foot to foot. They take an unintentional step towards him, their mouth opening as if wanting to speak—and if that isn’t the biggest of shocks? That they wished to speak after all this time, and it was HIM of all people they felt deserved to hear such a thing.

He has always wondered why they chose not to speak, and while he is curious about what their voice sounds like and how they might articulate their words, a large part of him has always just been content with how things were.

Maybe in the same way Gwyn seemed content with never seeing the rest of his face aside from his jaw and his mouth.

Whatever the case, the young man shuts their mouth and shakes their head like they had changed their mind.

He does not mind either way.

He only wishes he knew what spurred them into even considering the act.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The mystery behind the sudden odd behaviors of the monsters in each locale, along with the appearance of Elder Dragons in the New World is all wrapped up and solved after the team of hunters, including Gwyn and Tori, return after slaying the final piece of the puzzle: Xeno'jiiva.

The celebration following their success might be the biggest one yet. Just as he had predicted, Gwyn is granted the title of ‘master hunter’, and he makes sure that he is present as both the Admiral and the Commander officiate the advancement.
His pride at their success, and the relief that they had returned safely from such a daunting mission makes it easy to ignore his deepening feelings for the young man. He makes sure to inform them just how highly he thinks of them, and like usual, while Gwyn brightens at all the compliments people grant them, it always seems to be his words in particular that strikes a chord with them.

Gwyn has no want of drinking or dancing during the celebration.

They find him seated on the ground, his back leaning a wooden barrel as he drinks near the fireplace in the dining hall. Gwyn settles right next to him, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and they calmly watch the fire, the light illuminating their red eyes in a captivating manner.

He raises his tankard to his mouth but forgets to drink from it.

Continues to forget when Gwyn lets their eyes flutter shut as they lean their entire weight against him. Their weight increases bit by bit as exhaustion takes hold of their body. He slips an arm around their waist to secure them as they fall asleep, or at least that’s the excuse he tells himself.

A sort of rumbling starts somewhere in the young man’s chest.

He does not think it is a noise that a human should be able to make, yet he is hearing it anyways.

What a strange man, he thinks not for the first time, fascinated and flattered by their purring and the depths of the trust they have towards him.

He holds them a little more tightly, but that is all he allows himself to do as Gwyn falls truly asleep.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

A hunter’s life never stays peaceful for long.

It is only weeks after the fight with Xeno'jiiva that the Commander and the Admiral get reports of an unreported and unsighted Elder Dragon making the rounds in the newly discovered region of the Hoarfrost Reach.

About two thirds of Astera’s hunters, researchers and merchants have agreed to move to Seliana, the new, snowy base of operations that will spearhead investigating this new locale. He despises the cold. He is old and has enough battle scars that flared up enough without the cold making each of his joints lock up.

Yet the second he hears that Gwyn, Tori and their Handler have volunteered to go, he tells the Commander and Admiral that he will join as well.

“Thought you hated the snow.” The Admiral remarks, giving him a funny look, but then the burly man shrugs, pleased to have a veteran joining this operation. “Well, I’m happy to have you aboard as always! Do you think I ought to pack some warmer clothes? I don’t wanna get sick and miss out on all the fun!”

“I recall a saying about certain people being unable to catch a cold…” The Commander says with a hint of a smile, and he catches onto their meaning immediately, smirking a little too.

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?” The Admiral blinks, uncrossing their arms to stare down at the other man.

“Nothing at all.” The Commander returns, shaking their head and looking a bit fond.

It takes him no time at all to pack up everything he needs.

He finishes before everyone else and decides to just idle on the ship, considering whether or not he should meditate while it was still quiet, or if he would just content himself with watching the sun lower on the horizon over the ocean. It was a beautiful sunset, one highly deserving of an audience, yet the blip of white in the corner of his vision steals his attention immediately.

Two blips of white, he corrects as he turns his face towards the research area of Astera below. Gwyn is on their knees in front of the massive glass terrarium they’d commission for their pet gekko, their hands pressed to the glass and their face partly smushing against it too. There is a pitiful look to the young man’s face that can only be interpreted as the upset of not being able to bring their pet with them.

The Admiral crouches besides Gwyn, balancing on the balls of their feet with surprising nimbleness despite the man’s hulking size, and he sees his lips move, before the man curls a hand on Gwyn’s shoulder. He can only assume that it is assurances that their pet will be taken care of by the researchers that remain in Astera.

He’s already thinking of catching something else for them.

Maybe something that could flourish both in the icy cold of Seliana and the temperate climate of Astera. It would be difficult finding a creature that adaptable, but he has always liked a challenge.

More than that, he has always liked seeing Gwyn happy and brimming with energy.

Sensing they were being stared at, (or perhaps even thought about), Gwyn suddenly stands up and turns the exact direction he is facing, the young man staring at the ship inquisitively, until they spot him leaning against the railing, arms crossed.

Gwyn’s face softens and they smile in a timid way, raising a hand to wave at him.

He waves back, glad as always that his face is concealed behind his helmet, because he does not think he would be able to school his expression into anything other than blatant and deep affection.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Seliana is even colder than he anticipated.

He expected snow and biting winds, but not constantly wading thigh-deep in snow. Wearing metal armor sucks away what little warmth he emits, and he’s had to layer several shirts and undergarments to make up for that, leaving him feeling like he was going to burst out of the gaps of his armor from how much tighter and restrictive everything feels.

Being uncomfortable was better than freezing to death.

It amuses him to see that the Admiral does in fact seem immune to the cold, the man walking around the newly established base in their regular clothes, having complained about being ‘too warm’ with the winter gear he had packed.

The same cannot be said for Gwyn, who, because of their albinism, has always suffered from both extreme heat, and now the extreme cold. The young man did not have enough fat on their body to keep them warm, and while Tori had made sure they packed extra clothes, none of it seems enough to truly keep them comfortable.

He can only take so much of seeing them shivering before he does something about it.

He grabs a few of his extra shirts and the insulated cloak he has had since the beginning days of his career and walks over to the cozy canteen which Gwyn spent most of their time because of the many roaring fires and simmering pots of food.

Gwyn is seated right in front of the main fire in the canteen, arms curled around the knees they have folded and pressed against their chest. He has always walked quietly, but he thinks the only reason the young man does not notice him approach is because of how loudly their teeth are chattering. Wordlessly, he wraps his old cloak around their shoulders. Gwyn jumps, but only a little, before craning their face up and seeing him at last.

“These should help.” He says while handing over the bundle of shirts.

Gwyn throws on one of the shirts immediately before readjusting the cloak around themselves. He shouldn’t be surprised that they grab a handful of the shirt and raise it to their face to sniff, nor should he be surprised by the content hum they let out, but he still finds himself blushing a bit with how pleased they are to be wearing his clothes.

“You and Tori volunteered to go on the first expedition, yes? You should make sure to have the blacksmith fix you up a proper set of winter gear before then.” He explains neutrally, but as always, his palms feel clammy despite the cold and his heart is beating faster than it should. “…Are you warm enough in the communal living quarters?”

He peeked his head inside the living quarters earlier and while it was vastly warmer than outside, a few spots were drafty, namely the corners of the room and the walls closest to the windows. He knows Tori and Gwyn probably slept in the same hammock to keep each other warm, but when he imagines the young man shivering in their sleep, their pale skin flushed pink from the harsh cold, he almost offers for them to bunk in his room instead.

Almost.

Gwyn lifts a hand, their palm flat in the air, then they wave it left and right, as if saying ‘so-so’.

They are wearing gloves, but he can tell by the way their cheeks and lips are cracked that their hands are probably in the same condition as well.

He digs something else out of his satchel: a tin of moisturizing balm he has crafted himself and often used on his hands and feet before putting on his armor.

Gwyn accepts it with the eagerness they had accepted the clothes, but once they’ve got the lid pried off, they give the substance inside a questioning look before craning their face back up. He tugs up his helmet slightly and gestures with one finger towards his mouth, suddenly unable to find words.

They quirk their face to the side, still confused, and he sighs, taking a seat next to them by the fire and taking the tin back. He tugs off one glove and rubs the pad of his thumb against the balm to warm it up until a good amount is worked up. He turns towards Gwyn and just as he raises his hand to apply the balm for them, he sees that the young man is subduing a mischievous smile, their eyes creased with amusement.

They knew exactly what the balm was for and had only been playing clueless in hope that he did it for them.

He freezes, stuck between the decision of indulging them as always and wanting to keep what few boundaries the two of them have remaining.

He hates this wavering of his.

Sink or swim, he tells himself, and he has always been a man that sticks to old habits. It was the main reason he didn’t bother with any of those newfangled gadgets the new recruits put to use, not even bothering with using scoutflies and instead preferring to use his instincts and senses to hunt.

He swallows down the rest of his indecisiveness and makes peace with the fact that he has never once been able to deny Gwyn a damn thing. He cups their jaw with his right hand, trying not to think of their teeth, and brushes his slicked thumb across their top lip, then the bottom. It isn’t enough to just slather the balm on, he massages the substance into their cracked, almost bleeding lips gently.

Gwyn’s face turns absolutely scarlet and their quivering, cold form relaxes all at once, now leaning their face eagerly into his touch. The light of the fire highlights just how much their pupils dilate—just how shiny and soft their mouth looked.

He sees them move a bit closer, then even closer still, eyelids becoming heavy, and he becomes rooted to the spot, unable to move, or blink, even breathe.

“Hey, kiddo, you in here? I wanted to talk to you about something!” The Admiral suddenly and loudly greets as the man barrels into the canteen.

He tears his hand from Gwyn’s face as if burned, almost dropping the tin of balm, but he catches it before it hits the floor and hastily puts the tin back on and deposits it into Gwyn’s hand before standing up and slipping his gauntlet back on.

He ignores the disappointed look on the young man’s face.

Ignores his own disappointment and barely remembers to offer the Admiral a nod in hello before he walks swiftly out of the canteen. Not swiftly enough that he doesn’t hear Gwyn huff and puff, standing up now to stomp their feet, suddenly in a foul mood that only he can understand the source of.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

He doesn’t see Gwyn off as they leave for the first expedition into the Hoarfrost Reach.

He feels guilty about it immediately, but he needs time to think.

He sharpens the blade of his longsword and maintains his gear for hours, falling in and out of a meditative state as he trudges clumsily through his swirling emotions. One of the perks of being a veteran hunter is that no matter where he is sent, he is always given private living quarters, and that is where he has spent all of his time that day, ruminating over nothing and everything.

Night falls, he can tell because his room becomes even colder than it already had been and he puts his gear aside to toss a few more logs into the fireplace.

Down the hall, he hears swift, heavy footsteps, then hears urgent pounding against his door.

Before he can even get up and answer it, the door opens and he finds the Admiral, the man’s face pinched with worry.

“There was an accident during the expedition. Only Gwyn’s Handler returned. She said a monster showed up out of nowhere and the brothers lured it away but got separated when an avalanche was triggered.” The Admiral explains around gulps of air. “A team has already left to go find them, but—”

But none were better at finding people than him, he catches on.

It feels like this is payback for not seeing Gwyn off, in a way.

“I’ll find them both.” He swears, moving around his room quickly to get all his things together, and after he’s thrown on some additional clothes, he brushes aside the Admiral and follows the man outside.

Gwyn’s Handler is in the central area nearest to provisions tent and the young woman’s face is hidden behind her gloved hands as she sobs loudly. When she hears him approach, she looks up, face red and wet with tears, expression utterly miserable—and guilty.

“It’s all my fault. I should have been paying attention more. I should have stayed with them!” The Handler weeps, unable to meet his gaze, even with the barrier of a helmet.

He sets a hand on her shoulder, squeezing once, but that is all he can do.

There was no time for anything else.

“W-Wait, please—” She speaks up as he begins to leave. She unfastens the scoutfly cage from her hip and offers it to him. “I know you prefer doing things the old fashioned way, but with the avalanche…”

She’s right.

The avalanche would have swept away all of the tracks and he would be wasting what few precious hours he may have left in finding the two.

“Do you need something of his to lead the scoutflies?” The Admiral asks, looking half ready to run off to Gwyn and Tori’s hammock at his behest, but he shakes his head.

He unloops the necklace from his longsword and holds it up to the scoutflies. The insects start huddling towards the singular exit of the base, so he is assured that they can in fact sniff out this particular scent.

He leaves quickly.

Arrives in the Hoarfrost Reach half an hour later and sharpens his senses. The sun was completely set now, which would make spotting white hair and pale skin in the snow extremely difficult, but Tori’s orange fur should be like a shining beacon. He hopes that the two are together, but that is only one of many things that he hoped for at that moment.

He feels each second he wastes trudging through the snow laden forest like a knife twisting in his gut.

The scoutflies suddenly surge west, picking up a fresh scent and he follows the insects for as long as they go, reaching a clearing where many elder trees have been split in half and ruined from the force of the avalanche that had swooped through the region. The scoutflies do not stay hovering over the mountains of displaced snow, and he is partly relieved that Gwyn and Tori have not been swallowed up in the wreckage.

He continues west, having more and more difficulty with the terrain the deeper into the forest he gets. He doesn’t give half a wit about the fact that his hands are steadily becoming numb, that his back and knees are screaming at him for the relentless pace he is taking. If he could run, he would, but with how much snow had built up it’s impossible. The scoutflies moves towards a lump of snow that looks no different than the countless others he has passed, but seeing as how the insects stagnate their movement, he approaches the mound quickly and starts digging.

Finds nothing but keeps digging anyways, growing more desperate by the second.

Then his gauntlets knock into something— something warmer than the snow, but not by much.

He sees his old cloak and feels relief cascade over him.

He doesn’t bother with digging out the rest of the snow, he simply plunges his arm deep in the pile and wraps his arm around the shape he feels before tugging. The snow dislodges, revealing Gwyn, unconscious, curled around protectively around their brother Tori to preserve what little heat they had left to offer.

He lays them both flat on their backs to gauge the situation.

Gwyn’s temple is bloodied, a gash cutting across their forehead and one of their eyebrows, but thankfully not reaching either of their eyes. Their Ebony Odagaron armor is ruined in a few places, some of the pieces even missing, and he sees blood dripping out of the gaps and staining the snow. A few of Gwyn’s fingers are bent in an unnatural way, and their left wrist is swollen. There are bruises on their face and neck, minor cuts here and there, and they are shaking hard, wracked with cold.

He presses two fingers to their neck and feels their pulse.

Their heart beats weakly, but it beats still.

They were on the cusp of death. The blood loss from their injuries or prolonged exposure to the cold would have finished the job if he or anyone else that had tagged along had been even an hour late.

Their skin was so pale it looked bloodless. It was disturbing how limp the young man was in his hold. Tori is in far better shape, knocked out from the impact of the avalanche, but he finds no broken bones or blood staining their fur that had not come from being pressed close to their brother.

He brushes the snow off both of them then quickly and expertly bandages Gwyn’s forehead, fingers, hand, and puts pressure on the gash on their abdomen to still the bleeding before wrapping that as much as he can with the rest of their armor in the way. He tucks the cloak around both of them tightly, settling Tori atop their brother so he can carry them both with ease in his arms.

Halfway out of the forest, he sees something in the corner of his eyes barreling right at him and he feels his stomach drop at the aspect of having to fend off some monster while also making sure Gwyn and Tori took no further injuries, but the thing running towards him turns out to only be the Admiral, who is running through the snow with ease, their ridiculously muscular legs cutting an easy path towards him.

The Admiral skids to a halt in front of him, eyes widening at the swaddled, unmoving bodies in his arms.

“Are they—”

“Alive. But barely.” He answers, and while it would be faster to have the Admiral carry both of them, the roughness of the man’s movements would aggravate their injuries and reopen the wound he had so painstakingly applied pressure to just moments before. “Lead the way.” He tells them, and he follows closely behind the path they make in the snow.

The journey back to Seliana may be the tensest he has ever experienced in the entirety of his life.

He keeps his eyes on Gwyn the entire time, waiting for the moment that their chest stops rising and they succumb to their injuries.

He brushes past everyone as they at last return to Seliana and carries Gwyn and Tori straight to the medical bay, helping to shuck off the rest of their armor so the healers can get a full assessment of the injuries hidden underneath. As he drops the last of their armor to the floor and the young man is only in their underclothes, he feels his blood run cold.

There was not a single part of Gwyn’s body that was not bruised or cut up in some way and their right leg is swollen the same way as their wrist, not looking fully broken, but close to it. Frostbite is visible on a good many sections of their pale skin.

“We’ll take it from here.” One of the healers says to him but it sort of just flies past him.

He just continues to stand there, horrified and unable to take his eyes from Gwyn.

It takes the Admiral leading him away to finally leave. He hadn’t even noticed the man enter the medical bay—had they been here the entire time, following right after him?

He doesn’t know what to do with himself now. His gauntlets are stained with Gwyn’s blood. All he can think about is how limp they were.

“Hey, he’ll make it through. He’s a tough guy.” The Admiral assures him, squeezing a hand around his shoulder, which he barely even feels with how out of it he is. “Just trust me, okay? You did all the hard work of finding him. Leave the rest to the healers. They know what they’re doing and they’re damn good at it, too.”

Eventually nods, beginning to walk off, but where to, he isn’t sure.

“And hey—” The Admiral calls out, and only continues once he’s turned around. “…Thank you. I mean it.”

He can’t find it in him to speak. He should say something, maybe offer assurances of his own, because at this point Gwyn had become a sort of adoptive son to the Admiral, but maybe that fact is what prevents him from speaking. He cannot help but feel guilty, like this accident had occurred because of his own indecisiveness and the fact that he did not see Gwyn off on their missions like he always did.

It’s irrational, he knows it doesn’t make a lick of sense, yet he feels these things anyways.

He simply leaves.

He’s told hours later that the healers have Gwyn in a stable condition now, but he doesn’t have the heart or the courage to go and see them in their current state. He doesn’t sleep at all that night, tossing and turning and hating himself and vowing to find whatever monster that had caused that avalanche and harmed this precious thing of his and hunt it down to extinction, if he must, if that is what it takes for Gwyn to be smiling and bouncing on their feet as usual.

Morning comes, and while he is exhausted and weary, he gets up and puts on his armor, packs up his things, and heads out without a word to anyone, the sun barely having risen over the horizon as he leaves Seliana and ventures back out into the Hoarfrost Reach. He’s going hunting, but not for the monster that had harmed Gwyn, (at least not yet), no, his priorities are with the young man’s recovery, and he is on the prowl for smaller monsters.

He slays a decently sized male Anteka, one that has reached adulthood, but just barely, so its diminutive size in comparison to its elders makes it easier for him to bring back with him. He slugs the animal over both his shoulders after bleeding it out and removing the guts, and while he could have asked someone to join him to make things easier, he is a stubborn man set in his ways and the way his muscles cry out with pain with overexertion feels like penitence.

He returns to Seliana and drops off the Anteka to the Grammeowster Chef after he deals with the difficult task of skinning the animal. He asks her to use this meat specifically to make a meal for Gwyn, only allowing the freshest of ingredients to be used to aid in their recovery.

Afterwards, he goes right back to his living quarters to hide the fact that he feels like he is falling apart at the seams. He gets the news later that Tori has awoken, and while he knows he should go find the palico and see how they are doing, he cannot wrench himself from his room or his misery.

The next day, he again leaves before morning has truly dawned and only returns when he finds something suitable enough for Gwyn to eat. A few people try to flag him down to speak with him, but he ignores them and goes straight back to his room, wanting to clean the blood, fur and snow off his armor.

Again, he thinks of Tori, and how he should check in with them, and like magic, he hears someone knocking on his door, startling him from his rumination. He gets up and opens the door and finds no one other than the palico himself, both brothers sharing the uncanny ability to suddenly appear right when they had drifted into someone’s thoughts.

“…Hi.” Tori greets, paws clasped together in an anxious fashion. “I was looking around for you earlier. Are you busy?”

He stiffens, becoming worried at once.

“Nothing happened! Gwyn is fine—well, not fine, but…” Tori explains, tripping a bit over their words, and they now raise a paw to rub the back of their furred neck. “He woke up earlier. I thought you would want to know.”

He relaxes, but not by much.

“That is a relief.” Is all he says.

Tori eyes him in a scrutinizing fashion.

“Yeah.” They agree, tone not quite sincere, sounding even a bit distracted. “You’ve been going out on hunts to bring him something to eat, right?”

He nods but doesn’t elaborate further.

That only seems to make the palico study him harder, their whiskers starting to flare out as if annoyed.

“I don’t understand you.” Tori remarks, now crossing their arms. “You saved our lives, you’re going out and hunting for him, and that’s not including all the other stuff you’ve done for him, yet, you haven’t said a word about visiting him. He wants to see you, you know? He’s been asking for you constantly, not just to thank you, but because he just wants to see you. You’re a smart man, I don’t need to spell it out with my paws for you why that is.”

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to respond—he simply finds that he can’t.

Tori sighs, shaking their head.

“I did what I was asked. I told you that he was up, like Gwyn requested. The rest is up to you—just don’t blame me if he takes this as you ignoring him. I’ve always respected you, so I’ll give you some advice: my brother is not someone that takes kindly to being ignored. Do what you will with that information.” And with a huff, Tori turns on heel and leaves.

He shuts the door quietly and walks over to the fireplace.

Takes a seat in front of it and gazes into the fire.

He stays there for hours.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

At dinner the next night, as he sits amongst others in the canteen, he hears the start of some sort of commotion.

“You’re hurting yourself! Please, you need rest!” He hears one of the healers call out, and he gets a terrible feeling in his gut.

The double-doors of the canteen are suddenly pushed open roughly and Gwyn staggers inside, ignoring the crowd of healers, their Handler, the Admiral and even Tori in their determination to find him.

The young man is dressed in only woolen trousers and socks, and they are hobbling over to him, expression furious, their red eyes blazing with the emotion, their anger with him the only thing keeping them up on their feet despite their many grave injuries. Just looking at the way they put weight on their fractured leg makes him wince.

Gwyn drags themselves right over to where he is standing and snarls, baring all their teeth at him as they grip at the cloak he’s got draped over his armor, balling up the fabric in their fists to force him closer to them.
They look directly into the slits of his helmet, meeting his gaze, and he finds himself wordless and rooted to the spot.

Gwyn opens their mouth, looking as if for the second time now they wished to speak, but their red eyes roll into the back of their head, and they suddenly go limp as they fall unconscious. He catches them in his arms, their body limp against him, which only unnerves him more. He stares at the young man pressed against him.

He feels shame and guilt eat away at his heart like acid.

Just like he did out in the Hoarfrost Reach, he adjusts Gwyn until they are carried horizontally in his arms, their pale face lulling to the side, facing his breastplate. The crowd of people parts for him and while he notices the annoyed, knowing look on Tori’s face, he does not give any sort of gesture to show that he recognizes just why this incident had occurred.

He just walks out of the canteen and carries Gwyn back to the medical bay. Once the young man is laid in bed, a proper bed, not the hammocks of the communal living quarters, he drags a chair over and takes a seat, watching their unconscious form with his elbows pressed to the tops of his thighs, his armored hands laced together so he can give his chin support as he somberly watches Gwyn sleep.

He stays the rest of the night in the infirmary since that is what it seems to take to keep Gwyn from getting up and hurting themselves again.

Sleep has been avoiding him lately, and he ends up staying up most of the night just staring at the young man and thinking, uncaring of how painfully tense his body has become. Gwyn’s mane of curly white hair is still stained pink from blood in some spots and it is tangled to a startling degree. The gash on their forehead and eyebrow would leave an impressive scar in the weeks after their recovery.

He thinks again of how lifeless they had looked once exhumed from the snow and finds himself tearing off one of his gauntlets so he can again press two fingers to their neck and check that they were in fact still alive and breathing.

He has lost a love once before.

It is not uncommon, but the pain of it still lingers. He has moved on, but the weight on his shoulders has never lessened. He knows that he is not strong enough to bear such a tragedy again and the incident in the Hoarfrost Reach had only solidified that fact. Losing Gwyn will kill him in a way that he has never been prepared for.

He cannot bear to lose them, but he has stubbornly refused to make the leap to even claim them as his own.

He is scared.

Down to his very core, he is scared stiff because he knows that Gwyn is not the kind to stop until they are physically unable to and there will be many, many more close calls in the future. The next time he might not find them.

Might find them gored and truly limp.

Might not even find a body—

And wouldn’t that be the worst of fates? Having them go missing and never learning what happened.

It makes him break out into a nervous sweat.

Feeling hands on them, or more specifically, feeling HIS hand on them, Gwyn stirs in their sleep, moving their face to rest it against his palm.

They love him—have been in love with him for a while, maybe as long as he’s been in love with them.

Ignoring things wouldn’t work anymore.

Maybe they never did, and he had simply been biding his time.

Well time was running out. He can feel the last granules of sand trickling down the hourglass.

Gwyn nuzzles against his hand in their sleep, that odd purring of theirs starting deep in their chest and his heart beats so hard against his ribs that he thinks it is trying to force its way out to finally surrender itself to this strange, wild young man.
He cannot go on like this.

Gwyn’s death will kill him, but so will their absence if he continues to push them away. If he is to be miserable in the end either way, than he decides it is better to have them for even the briefest of moments.

He stays in that chair all night and at last feels a semblance of peace with himself as a decision is finally made.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

In the morning, he leaves and hunts as usual, but when he returns, he doesn’t hide himself in his room. He waits in the canteen as the Grammeowster Chef finishes cooking and brings two bowls of stew to the infirmary and seats himself in the same chair he’d been occupying the previous night. Gwyn is still asleep, but as the smell of food wafts over to them, he sees their body stiffen and their eyes flick open suddenly, their pupils sharpening like a predator catching the scent of fresh blood.

With a groan, they try to sit up, but they are doing it in an entirely rough, clumsy manner, and it is going to aggravate their injuries, so he sets both the bowls down on the table nearby and assists them, adjusting the many fleece pillows behind them until they were seated upright enough to not choke on the food he had brought them.

Gwyn accepts the spoon he hands over, but when he sees how badly their right hand shakes, he simply takes it back and picks up their bowl and starts feeding them himself. They stare at him the entire time, but he does not mind. Their appetite is healthy, and they finish their bowl of stew and gladly accept being fed his serving.

He does not mind that either.

Finished eating, Gwyn’s red eyes remain on him as they lick their lips.

They look hopeful, as if expecting something else.

He is flummoxed as to what that could be, but only for a moment. Setting the bowl and spoon aside, he partially climbs into their bed, putting all his weight on a singular bent knee as he reaches forward and cups his hand over the back of their neck and tugs them forward, nudging his helmet against their forehead.

Gwyn gasps quietly, mouth falling open.

Then they bring up their uninjured hand and set it on the side of his helmet, leaning against him more now, their eyes falling shut. They shiver, clinging to him tighter.

“Cold?” He asks quietly.

They nod, and while he knows that isn’t why they were now shaking all over like a leaf, he plays along with the lie anyways. He separates from them, but only momentarily, and he does not miss the way that Gwyn reaches out with panic, frightened he was leaving, but once they see he is only taking off his armor, they relax.

He takes all of his armor off except his helmet, dressed now in the wool long sleeve and thick, insulated trousers. He crawls into their bed and lays on his side, holding his right arm open in invitation and Gwyn eagerly scoots over, pressing themselves flush to his chest and slinging an arm around his middle.

He slips his hand into their messy hair, beginning to comb it out with his fingers and Gwyn starts purring again, the loudest he’s ever heard it, and he does not fight the smile that works its way onto his face; it was as inevitable as the sun rising and setting each day.

As inevitable as the man clinging to him and the feelings they inspired within him.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

It takes a few weeks, but Gwyn recovers without any complications, dismissed from the infirmary, but still kept off any dire hunts for the time being until they reoriented themselves. It pisses them off, he can tell, but to his and everyone’s relief, the young man does not try sneaking off to join the other hunters. They content themselves with being bored out of their skull in Seliana, helping the Grammeowster Chef with menial tasks, playing card games with Tori in between listening to their elder brother play on their bongo, or hanging off the Admiral like an animal pelt, content to see whatever it is the man gets up to with the agreement being they did not overexert themselves, leading to Gwyn to just clinging to the man’s back.

He thinks Gwyn likes the sensation of being tall.

Or maybe they were just leeching warmth off the Admiral, who ran hot naturally and seemed invulnerable to the cold of Seliana.

Either way, the Admiral looks pleased enough.

Sometimes the man even forgets that Gwyn is hanging off their back and he tries to take a seat, squishing them, before the subsequent yelp makes him shoot right back up and offer a sheepish apology.

He misses going hunting for Gwyn. Misses sharing their bed in the infirmary.

Ever since they recovered, they have returned to sharing a hammock with Tori in the communal living quarters.

After being given a taste of what it was like to sleep beside them for so long, he finds his own room and bed extremely lacking. It felt almost hostile in how lonely it seemed now. The twinge of loneliness he feels manifests as a sort of ache right between his ribs.

He’s just glad Gwyn is warm at night.

At least that’s what he tells himself as he lays down for bed that night, his room feeling cold despite the roaring fire he’d just stoked. Even in the privacy of his bedroom, he keeps his helmet on. It’s probably odd, he knows, but it felt natural to him at this point and he has long since figured out just which sleeping positions were best suited from keeping his helmet from digging against his skin.

The burn from his old nemesis, Teostra, was a hint as to what laid beneath his helmet.

The same spot where the scar laid on his helmet, a similar burn was on his face, marring the entirety of the left side of his face, yet somehow the initial injury had spared his eye. He didn’t have a left eyebrow anymore, but he had cared far more about being able to see out of both of his eyes.

A select few have seen his face. The Admiral, the Commander, and a few of the healers from the First Fleet, the ones who had treated the burn after his duel with the Teostra went south. None in the Fifth Fleet had been shown his visage and he had always been content to keep things that way.

Now, however, he finds himself wondering more and more if he should reveal his face to another.

What would Gwyn think if showed what he really looks like?

Would they be fascinated or horrified with the burn scars? Would they be incensed enough to go and seek out another Teostra? The Teostra Gem he’d been given many, many weeks back sits pretty on the shelf of the fireplace, glimmering hypnotically like a pair of red eyes that he was equally familiar with as he was fond.

He’s been thinking so deeply about things that he only just now realizes that there is a shadow beneath his doorway, the silhouette shaped exactly like two feet braced. Someone was waiting just outside of his door and had been waiting for a while, although just how long, he is not sure.

He has a hunch on who it is on the other side of that door.

He could speak up and call them inside, but he waits, curious about what will happen if he remains as he is.

The door handle slowly turns clockwise, and the grip does not release as the door is then cracked open slowly, a singular red eye peeking into the room as if to gauge if he was asleep. Finding him awake changes nothing, apparently, and Gwyn slips inside of his room like a wraith, leaning back against the door to shut it with barely a sound.

They are dressed in one of his shirts, the cloak missing, and a pair of thick pants and their usual boots. With how little they can tolerate the cold, he thinks they must have snuck over here rather quickly.

A sort of tension builds up between where he lays in bed on his back and Gwyn stands at the door and makes the air in his room feel charged, like there would be a sudden great shock if either of them moved. Yet, move he does, raising a hand to curl a finger in a come hither manner, and Gwyn blitzes over, kicking off their boots and joining him in his bed, starting at the foot of it and crawling up languidly like a predator about to dip their maw into a fresh kill.

They hover over him on all fours, and like tradition now, they bump their face against his helmet affectionately, keeping it there for a few seconds, before leaning back slightly to be able to look at him properly.

Their hands grip the sheets where they are braced, threatening to tear some of it because of their sharp claws. Their mouth parts and they breathe laboriously. He sees them run their tongue over a fang. Hears them swallow hard, beginning to shake with want, but they do not reach out to touch him, surprisingly hesitant.

That won’t do.

He reaches out and cups a hand over the nape of their neck and brings their face back to his helmet and Gwyn sighs, relieved, and although they are still shaking all over, they begin to act. The young man sits atop of him, their hips almost right over his, but not quite, and they rub their face against his helmet, rubbing their scent all over it, which he is used to, and even likes a fair bit, but what they do next floors him.

Gwyn opens their mouth wide and with a quivering, shaky breath, they drag their tongue up the side of his helmet.

That is…strange.

What is stranger still is how much of an effect it had on him. He feels his stomach coiling with heat and finds his hands reaching down to settle on either side of their hips, keeping them right where they are like an anchor. His touch encourages them, and Gwyn lets out the faintest of moans as they lick at his helmet, now beginning to pepper the entirety of it with clumsy, eager kisses.

It is astounding how hot under the collar he gets from as little as this. He’s already getting hard, and he is sure that Gwyn feels it with how they’re perched atop him and gets confirmation of that suspicion in the way that they let out the softest of moans while nuzzling a part of his helmet that hasn’t been slicked with their saliva or the balm glazing their lips.

He has gone far too long without the feeling of those teeth against his flesh.

He sits up on his elbows, careful not to buck Gwyn off, and unbuttons his shirt before rolling his shoulders and slipping out of it entirely, revealing to them his lean, muscular chest and arms. Gwyn drops their hands and their focus from his helmet at once, excitedly groping his pectorals, the meat of his shoulders, then dragging all five fingers of one hand down his abs and raking their sharp nails across his skin.

The muscles of his stomach twitch, and he leans his head back a bit, sucking in a breath.

“Harder.” He speaks up at last, his voice naturally rough, but sounding now like he had gone days without water, and Gwyn pauses to look up at him as if making sure they had heard him correctly. “Go on. I want you to.” He tells them, and even reaches down to grip their wrist, puppeteering their hand now to drag their nails across his skin with force now.

It draws blood immediately, five steady rivulets spilling from the needle thin cuts, and the stinging pain stops a breath dead in his throat, his cock straining out of his trousers and pressing against Gwyn’s backside. Either seeing his blood, or smelling it, or seeing the way in which he reacts to them spilling his blood, frenzies Gwyn and with a mixture of a moan and a growl, they scoot down enough on him that their face is level with his stomach and without breaking eye contact, they begin to lap up the blood.

At the first taste, they gasp loudly, pupils so blown out that the red of their irises were reduced to thin rings. They are sweet, kissing the injury after the blood has stopped spilling and moving upwards to clank their forehead against his helmet once more. They tuck their face against his neck and take a deep, deep inhale, before shivering as they exhale. Their hair is starting to puff out as if statically charged. He finds that, and all the desperate, odd sounds they make utterly charming.

Their lips brush against his pulse and their warm breath tickles his auburn stubble.

He arches his back with anticipation and is pleased to find he is not made to wait—Gwyn opens their mouth wide and sinks their sharp teeth right into his neck, clamping down hard enough to bruise and draw blood. They whimper, sent into some sort of haze at the taste and smell of iron and he again wonders if this desire was for blood in general, or for his in particular.

“Let only my blood be the one that stains your teeth.” He grits out possessively, reaching out to press their face even closer to his neck and keeping them there. “Take as much as you want, whenever you want. I will never deny you this. All that I am is yours for the taking.” And he means each of those words sincerely, now using his other hand to brace the underside of his helmet and tug it off completely.

Gwyn breaks away from his neck, sitting up now as they gulp in breaths of air, their lips rouged with his blood. They stare at his face, blinking owlishly, and they must see something that they like because they gasp with delight, leaning back over him now to cup his face with both of their hands.

Short, auburn hair. Tan, almost bronze skin littered with scars of all sorts, but namely the burn that covers the majority of the left side of his aging face. He lacks a left eyebrow and even lacks the eyelashes as well. He has strong features—a wide, strong jaw, chiseled cheek bones, and a hooked nose. His eyes are hazel, closer to brown then green, and they are deep-set. He has been told by the few that have seen his face before that he has sharp eyes, much like a bird of prey; that his gaze could be intense and hard to stand.

Gwyn returns his gaze unflinchingly.

For the first time without his helmet, he feels their forehead bump against his own.

It soothes him deeply; this shared thing between them.

He curls his index finger and thumb just underneath their chin and guides their lips to his own. Kissing does not come naturally to them, but he does not mind that their definition of a kiss is more akin to licking and biting, instead of bringing their lips repeatedly together. It felt like they were trying to eat him alive, and he finds he really, really enjoys that, but not half as much as he enjoys slipping a hand into their hair and gently tugging at the tresses, which elicits a beautiful sound from their throat.

He sets both his hands on their hips before rolling them onto their back, now leaning over them between their parted thighs and Gwyn’s white hair sprawls out across his sheets, looking like he’d left a window open, and snow had started piling up.

He takes one of their arms and holds it up, kissing their inner wrist and forearm, making his way down it until he can kiss their shoulder, then the curve of their warm neck. He strips them of their shirt with ease, tossing it somewhere and promptly forgetting about its existence in the wake of all the pale, smooth skin he is being allowed to ogle. Gwyn’s chest and arms have a healthy amount of scars for a hunter of their skillset, and he admires just how well defined their abs are and how pale their pink nipples are. They were also stiff from the cold, which makes him want to put his hands on them immediately.

He massages one with a thumb, rubbing in a clockwise motion and Gwyn squirms underneath him, the blush transcending their face and spreading to their neck, their shoulders—everywhere. Even their ears were scarlet as he continues to fondle their chest and stare down at them hungrily. He doesn’t keep his hands on their chest for long, lowering them past their narrow waist and even narrower hips, tucking his fingers into the waistband of their pants and tugging with quiet askance. Gwyn nods fiercely, the bed jostling with the gesture, and he huffs a bit, smiling crookedly, and that makes them pause—makes them look a bit like they had just fallen in love a bit more.

He strips them completely naked and the way their captivating, pale body trembles is partly because of the chill but mostly due to the intense look he gives them as he takes in the sights. They were such a small man that all he can do as he stares down at their flushed, shaking form is think of all the ways he can bend them in order to fit as much of himself as he can inside.

Between their thighs is a bush of curly, white hair nestled over their aching, flushed cock, the tip of which leaked so much precum that it was beginning to leave a small pool on their belly. He lowers a bit and wastes no time taking the entirety of their cock into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking hard each time, making sure to drag his tongue underneath to tease the thick, serpentine vein.

Gwyn hisses loudly, their thighs clamping around his head, and the bed bounces a bit with how hard they throw their head back against it. He hums, pleased at the reaction, and the vibrations make them squirm, their thighs tightening around his head and beginning to shake already. One of their hands reaches down and slips into his short, rusty hair, the sharp nails grazing his scalp in a pleasant way. He considers growing his hair out a bit more just to give them something to pull on.

He takes them all the way into the back of his throat and swallows around their length and he hears the tell-tale sound of his sheets being ripped to shreds just before he feels their cock twitch hard and Gwyn spills down his throat with a strangled sound, their mouth shutting so hard afterwards he hears the clacking of their teeth.

He backs off them, standing on his knees to admire how debauched they look while licking his lips to chase the remnants of the heady taste of their seed.

Gwyn sucks in a sharp breath than lunges forward, throwing all their weight forward to knock him flat against the bed and before he can even sit up he finds them tearing off his pants with startling urgency, tearing it in some places in their hastiness to get to him. Their nails cut his thighs a bit and he loved every second of it.

His thick cock stands at attention, untouched and aching with want.

Gwyn settles to sit on top of him in a sort of squat, both of their hands braced flat on his stomach, their hips hovering over his length and their eyes blazing with unfettered desire.

“Not yet.” He chastises. “Here, get these wet.” He continues and brings a hand to their face, two fingers reaching toward their mouth and Gwyn parts their lips obediently, opening wide for him and he hums, pleased, as they suck around his fingers, some of their teeth grazing him, but only that. He notices them getting hard again just from him this.

“You always let me get a look at that mouth of yours because you enjoyed it, didn’t you? Do you touch yourself to the thought of my hands exploring all those teeth? To the thought of me playing with your tongue like I am now?” He asks and Gwyn whines noisily around his fingers in answer, their eyes shutting closed tightly and their cock twitching.

They nod, even though he really hadn’t been expecting an answer.

Their unabashed honesty leaves him reeling.

Makes him fall even more in love with them than he already was.

He slips his fingers out of their mouth with some protesting on Gwyn’s part, but they stop complaining once he reaches his hand between their thighs and massages their hole. They jump a bit, startled at the sensation, but as he continues circling their entrance, adding and removing pressure here and there, he finds them becoming impatient, wanting to drop their hips down and take the entire length of his fingers, but he does not allow that, using his other hand to grip their hip firmly and keep them where they are.

“I’m going to be taking my time with you.” He tells them. “Consider it a lesson in patience, if need be, but you will find that it will be worth it, I promise you.”

Gwyn huffs, but they no longer try to move and control the pace.

Slowly, he sinks in a finger, massaging lightly, and Gwyn’s breath hitches a bit, but they make no other sounds at the intrusion, the smoothness of which causes them no pain. He is fond of pain, but not when it is caused from recklessness and a cruel disregard for another’s comfort. He works them open, taking his time despite the many noises Gwyn makes in order to express how badly they want him to get on with things already.

A second finger is taken easily, and this time instead of a noise of impatience, Gwyn stiffens and lets out a low, guttural sound, their cock fully hard again. He scissors his fingers as he thrusts them repeatedly in and out, and Gwyn rocks their hips to meet each thrust, the tip of their length beginning to leak on him.

He adds a third finger, not because he’s excessively large, but because he likes how desperate they look now with drool starting to dribble from the corner of their mouth as they’re taken over by a fog of lust.

They only let him get away with it for another minute or so before lifting their hips and batting his hand away. They grip his cock with one hand and align their entrance.

“Take it slow—” He starts to tell them, but unsurprisingly, Gwyn just sinks down and takes the entirety of his cock and despite how much he’s stretched them open, he finds them to be tight, almost unbearably tight, and the warm, loving vise squeezes hard around his cock, cutting off the rest of what he was going to tell them, along with a good part of his brain’s ability to even form a singular thought.

He curses, eyes clenching shut and his hands flying down to grip their hips, but it doesn’t at all stop the way Gwyn begins to pull themselves almost completely off him, leaving just the tip inside, before slamming their hips back down and taking the entirety of his cock inside them. Damn it all, they looked far too attractive slamming their hips down in chaotic, uneven thrusts, looking both drunk off his cock and half mad with the pleasure that it brings them.

He feels frenzied from the pleasure himself, everything far too tight, hot and wet. Gwyn assaults each of his senses: sight, touch, hearing. He forgets about everything that isn’t this: this perfect fit of his cock inside them and the shameless way they wordlessly beg for more while already being stuffed to the brim.

They’re getting close again—so is he, and as mind-blowingly satisfying as this is, he knows how to make this even better and give them both what they need.

Without warning, he hefts them off his cock by their thighs and flips them onto their stomach, reaching under them with one arm to tug their hips up and he crawls right behind them, hips flushed with their backside, and he spreads their cheeks apart and thrusts right back inside, pistoning his hips so fast and hard his bed bangs against the wall with each one.

Gwyn arches even more for him, their back a perfect bow, their appetite for him voracious.

Like this, he gets both the pleasure of fucking them as deep as he can, watching his cock sink into their flushed, eager hole, while he also gets to see them claw frantically at his sheets and reduce the fabrics to ribbons all while moaning and trilling like a monster in heat. He feels them tighten around him and Gwyn gasps, but he sets a hand on the middle of their back, giving them something to ground them.

“Wait just a few more seconds and I’ll come with you.” He tells them and Gwyn side eyes him from where they’ve got their face half buried in the mattress, looking as if he was instead asking for permission to torture them, and maybe he was, but Gwyn nods anyway, and he only realizes now that it isn’t just him that can’t deny them a thing—the young man has always been hellbent on pleasing him.

He doesn’t torture them for long. With a few more hard snaps of his hips, firmly massaging their prostate with each thrust, he feels his vision become fuzzy around the edges and heat licking at his heels, steadily spreading all of his body.

Gwyn whines, looking at him as if to ask ‘Now? Can I finish now?’, and he nods, somehow able to fuck them even harder and faster now, and when he finishes, he is blindsided by the pleasure, gasping for breath and calling out their name repeatedly, filling his mouth with the syllables like he wants to eat it and swallow it whole.

Gwyn does more than just moan and whine—they sing, there’s no other word for the wavering, beautiful sound that stretches on for almost a full minute as their hole spasms around his cock and they spill across his sheets.

He falls forward, slumping afterwards, but manages to not put his full weight on them last minute with some quick adjusting. His flushed, sweat slicked chest presses to their equally damp back. He stays inside even after his cock finishes filling them with his seed.

Gwyn does not mind him squishing them against his bed, nor do they mind the way he brushes their hair aside so he can gently bite the nape of their neck, at last claiming them as his own with an imitation of an animal’s mating bites.

Far from it.

Beneath him, Gwyn starts to purr and they relax against his soiled, ripped up sheets looking like they wanted nothing more than to sleep now.

It is of course at that exact moment that the bed decides it has had enough and falls apart in a heap, the middle of the bed caving inward like a pitfall trap and sending both of them to the floor with a loud clattering sound.

He pushes up at once, slipping out of Gwyn carefully but quickly so he can see if they were hurt in any way. With them on their belly still, it was hard to tell, and he becomes worried when their shoulders starting shaking hard. He flips them around, frowning, but he finds they aren’t hurt at all—they were laughing.

Laughing quite a lot, actually, thoroughly amused by his bed collapsing from the abuse the two of them had just put it through.

He snorts, their laugh infectious, and picks them up and brings them over to the couch he has against the wall, which he figures will have to be their bed until he commissions a new one.

Perhaps he should commission something sturdier.

He starts thinking about it in detail, but when Gwyn crawls atop him and presses their forehead to his, he forgets about it and a lot of other things too.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

After helping them with their hair, he and Gwyn leave his living quarters one morning and make a beeline for the canteen to eat breakfast with the others.

The young man is a bit nervous, but he’s assured them enough times that they had still made the decision to do this. It was a bit belated, if you asked him, but he is excited nonetheless to see what sort of reaction the Admiral will have.

Their Handler and Tori greet the two of them first, the Admiral too focused on the bowl of gratin he was shoveling down his gullet, but noticing the others perk up, the man raises their face and notices the two of them slipping inside of the canteen.

With the Admiral’s attention on them, Gwyn stands up straighter, the pride in their expression and body language unmistakable. Its obvious why—Tori and the Handler notice the change in their appearance at once. A braid sat underneath each ear, styled the exact same way as the burly man that was now ogling the two of them.

“What’s up, kiddo?” The Admiral asks after swallowing a big mouthful of food.

Gwyn points at themselves.

More specifically, they point at their head.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The Admiral blinks, setting their spoon down.

Gwyn huffs and walks over to stand right next to the man.

They again point at their head.

“…You got a headache?” The man attempts at guessing and there is an audible ‘slap’ in the room as the Handler and a few others whap a hand to their foreheads in disbelief at their leader’s obliviousness. Noticing that reaction, but not the glaring detail right in front of them, the Admiral raises their hands in the air. “What’d I’d miss??”

Gwyn growls and stomps one of their feet, now leaning real close to the Admiral and grabbing one of their braids to show it off, dangling it right in front of the man’s face.

Realization slowly dawns on him.

“Hey!! That’s just like my hair!” The Admiral remarks loudly and there is a sigh of relief in the canteen. “You did that on purpose?”

Gwyn blushes as they nod.

“Now we match!” The man grins, clapping a massive hand against Gwyn’s back, almost knocking them clean off their feet. “Think people will start mistaking us for family? I always wanted a son, ha ha, ha!”

Gwyn nods excitedly, grinning now.

“You—You were serious? You don’t mind me treating you like that? Calling you ‘son’?” The Admiral blinks, completely thrown off guard.

A steadfast shaking of the head.

Still grinning, Gwyn reaches out and gently tugs one of the Admiral’s braids. They hop into the seat next to the man and he takes the one on the other side. For a minute, all the Admiral does is just sit there, frozen, perhaps the quietest he has ever seen the man.

He thinks their eyes might have even fogged up a bit.

Then, without a word, the Admiral reaches out and ruffles Gwyn’s hair, now grinning brightly himself.