sam's head tilts at his touch and his fingers slacken because sam isn't pushing him away. why would he push you away? he grasps this thought and feeds it to his fever; his fingers hook, drawing their hips together. knox wraps an ankle around his and slides his hips up. 

he breathes into his ear, teethes there, finds that supple skin just under his jaw and suckles, bites, leaves a mark. he's rough because he needs to be, not because he wants to, but sam is asking for him and he's chasing that feeling, that moment of bliss. 

are you sure? 

eyes flash and something darker skulks behind them, but they're closed as quickly he'd opened them.

he crushes his lips against sam's. there are fingers in his hair, drawing him in, and he opens their mouths, tastes him on his tongue. he bites his lip, tugs, hands wandering lower, away from sam's hips now that they've found their rhythm. 

samuel carter

☉

sam's senses are overloaded. the way he's being handled isn't against his will. he urges each touch and motion with his own. by moving his lips along knox' skin if it's close enough. with his hands along bare, unbruised skin. he avoids the parts of knox he knows are injured, because even in the haze of lust and desire he doesn't want to harm knox.

even as he himself is pushed around, in a way. even as he himself feels the force of the kiss against his lips, crashing, colliding and the tongue i his mouth.

he's flushed, his mouth is open when his lip is bitten and his breath hitches in his throat. his hands wander down, around curves and along thighs. he pulls with his fingertips, still swollen with dried blood along the calluses. he wants more, he needs more.

with harsh breaths, he shifts, beginning to take off his own shirt. a hint to knox that he should work on his pants is the way sam eagerly returns the harsh kiss from before with one of his own. and a moan against knox' lips, a push of his hips against the ones that felt like they were melting into his own.

oh, let him melt into knox forever.

knox prescott

the voice in his head has nothing to say. not here, not when he's wrapping sam in himself like a cloak. but sam is being gentle and he doesn't like that. touches on his sides and his thighs and it's not enough. he wants sam to throw him, to jerk him around, meet him at the fever pitch. 

cloth runs past his lips and is gone a moment later. sam meets him halfway now and knox's lips curl, fingers fumbling with the knot tied around sam's sweats. it comes loose with a tug and he yanks his pants off. 

and he takes him in, lips parted, eyes shining with a self-hatred so deep it cuts him to his core. he grips sam's shoulder and goes to turn him, to press his chest against the wall. hands drop to his wrists, and he raises them, and he pins them over his head.

he bites the back of sam's neck. he moans in the back of his own throat. 

samuel carter

☉

the actions are not what he thought they would be. they're not bad. sam is enjoying them. the touches and the caresses. knox restrains him and he finds a moment of panic. restraints weren't his favorite thing, given the way they were used in the past on him, captive and a prisoner.

but then knox bites his neck and moans, and sam finds himself doing the same. he arches his back into knox, wanting to feel more of him. wanting to have knox' chest against his back, or maybe feel that bite again.

he feels awkward. what is he supposed to do with his mouth, or with his body... all he can do is surrender.

so he does, he relaxes into knox' hold and allows knox to do what he wants. it'll feel good, he tells himself. a bit paranoid about his first time and not having prepared for it, not having stretched.

or at least, he read online he was supposed to stretch. he even bought one of those plugs to do it and everything. so much for that investment.

which, really, that's sam for you. he's being pushed against a wall and bitten and his initial thought is, 'damn i bought that butt plug for no reason.'

knox prescott

SPOILER: Click to show

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sam flinches and knox wants to snap hold still because if sam would just relax for a second and knox can get enough spit...

but sam pushes knox away from him and there's a wild look in his eyes. and this moment hangs there, and everything else falls away, because he is not scared. he is not terrified of the boy before him. and it brings him peace. 

then another second ticks by and he's back in front of him, trying to piece together what he's saying. 

oh. oh, fuck. he scrambles to the door, tripping on sam's pants on his way. something twists in his stomach and he grimaces. he slaps at the handle and wrenches the door open, breathing hard, and then shuffles back to sam. 

he holds his hands out in case sam needs to grab onto him. "hey. hey, the door's open. it's okay. it's alright. i'm here."

samuel carter

☉

knox is there, but he still can't breathe. he can't feel anything. he can't see. it's black, he's panicked. but he recognizes it and he moves a hand to his mouth. he makes a small 'o' with his hand, breathing in and out of it.

that, paired with knox' voice, brings him back. his own breath in his hand, holding the breath to move through his lips and not his nose, focusing on his breathing.

it's audible, the panic is in his breaths. his panicked eyes finally find knox and he focuses on those eyes. ice cold, blue. my knox.

he lowers his hand, shaking his head.

"i'm sorry."

why is he sorry? it's default. he's sorry he had the panic attack. sorry he was an inconvenience. sorry he's different. sorry he's a monster.

"i just, i couldn't breathe." his voice cracks, his eyes water. "the-the door was closed. i couldn't," he clears his throat and moves his hand over his face. "i couldn't see an exit. i panicked... i panicked."

his brows furrow and he frowns, fingers squeezing his temples. he laughs, sighing.

"what is wrong with me, knox?"

knox prescott

imagine that. the boy who's scared his partner will leave is terrified of a room with no exits. he finds himself laughing alongside him, albeit shakily, because his own anxieties are exploiting his weakness and are burrowing back inside of him. 

he sits down beside sam and he forces himself to look at all the marks he'd made. wanton and possessive. frustration and fear driving him forward. 

"i think we might be terrible for each other," he says quietly. and then he mentally kicks himself because that's the last thing sam ought to hear after having an anxiety attack. 

"i mean i'm sorry. i should have known better than to close the door." he touches one of his bite marks and grimaces. "i wasn't thinking."

samuel carter

☉

the hand on his face, fingers on his temples, thumb on his opposite cheek, clenches. he doesn't want to hear how terrible they are for each other. so instead he focuses on why they're so good for each other.

but his lip quivers and he takes in a deep breath, stealing his emotions to leave him alone, for just a moment. but they don't. the panic caused them to persist, the anxiety encourages them along, and he feels so vulnerable.

has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he still has knox' spit on his ass...

"everything else," sam shrugged. "it wasn't what i expected but, i didn't dislike it." he takes knox' hand, the one touching the bite marks, and holds it. "a little warning would have been nice but, i liked your teeth on me a lot."

knox prescott

it wasn't what i expected. yeah, because knox is a fucking asshole. because he's told him to 'prepare for the best sex of his life,' built up this whole fantasy in sam's head, and his own, where he'd spend hours on him beforehand, pleasing him in every way imaginable before actually 'consummating' their relationship. 

and then he goes and he does the thing that'll hurt himself most. because there goes sam being different, different, different. 

"i thought you might," he says, but he can't even enjoy the compliment. he folds his knees into his chest, wraps his arms around them, and frowns. his ribs protest and he winces. 

"i'm sorry." his throat wells with emotion and he tries to swallow past it, but all that does is make his eyes water again. he wipes at them angrily. 

samuel carter

☉

an apology. it feels like the first, and maybe it is. knox apologizes and it feels like it's for more than just that evening. more than just being a little rough, more than just forgetting to leave a door open for sam. and the weight of that apology, the way knox curls in on himself...

"may i hold you?"

it feels silly to ask, but he does. he asks and then he moves to do so. to wrap his arms around knox gently. he'd shifted toward him, even moved to wrap his feet around him. the shower's still going, neither of them had worked to turn it off, and knox' body is still cold to the touch.

but they need this. this moment. the shower can wait, the world can wait.

he just wants to hold his knox.

knox prescott

he wants to nod but he can't and he's relieved that he doesn't really have to. something changed in sam that night with eden, and for better or for worse, he's grateful for it. sam folds his arms around him, his legs, and that choking sensation on his throat wells up, bubbling, and he just lets it spill over. 

he sobs into sam's arms, turning his head, good cheek against sam's chest. 

why is everything so fucked up? this is what he'd saved himself for. this is why he cleansed himself, why he wore his smile, why he said let me have life, and let it be mine. it was all for a broken road and this terrifying enigma of a boy beside him. he feels cheated. he feels wronged. 

and all he can do is cry. cry until he doesn't have anything left. his nose runs and he coughs at the phlegm in his throat. 

"we're such a mess," he mumbles. 

samuel carter

☉

"i would rather be a mess with you, than tidy and alone."

knox' tears and snot don't bother him. perhaps they should, but they do not. he just allows the boy in his arms to cry and to sob. because he has every right. that night, knox had been wanting to go to a job to get some air and to be alone and because sam was clingy, because sam didn't want to leave knox alone, he'd made a mistake.

instead of air, knox had been suffocated by the image of a monster.

"and... i'm sorry, as well. i shouldn't have... i shouldn't have had tartarus eat marcus. i should have stayed in my lane... even if i want to walk your path with you, even though i want to carry you on my shoulders down my path... i have to accept it might not be the best path for you."

he'd said it before, he should travel alone.

"i just want you so badly... but it seems like all you want is freedom from me."

even though he swears he doesn't. he's told sam he doesn't want to leave. he's told sam that he wants to keep that promise. that promise that's still on the table.

"i wouldn't blame you for taking your promise back, knox...i don't want you to, but i'm hideous beneath the facade of politeness. i am not the stars, the moon, or the sun. i am the darkness and the spaces between...i hate myself for it, but this is who i am."

knox prescott

i would rather be a mess with you. 

it matters more to knox than he can ever express. when he found the monster inside himself, he did everything in his power to rip it apart, to strangle it, smother it, even if it meant he took himself with it in the process. 

i shouldn't have had tartarus eat marcus. 

it chills him to the bone, thinking about the noise. he's grateful for lena, though, because despite the gruesomeness, his mind lays a blanket, and he sees those snapping flower stems, the pretty petals. and he thinks, i can look past this and we can do better. 

"stop telling me to take it back," he says roughly. he wipes his nose with his arm and makes a face. 

"marcus made his bed and maybe the world is better off without him. i know my father's men to do...terrible things." he shivers.

he frowns and he thinks of sam's kindness, of his gentle touch and his respect for this mountain, the ritualism behind his reverence for death.

"but you're wrong about yourself," he says stubbornly. "and if you're not, then it's not the end. seven years, remember? that's all it takes." he can do that. he can take some of his stars, some of his life, and breathe them into sam. 

he untangles himself to shakily get to his feet. he'd hold a hand out for sam, but it's covered in snot and spit and yeah, we should really shower. 

"and just so it's said, i'm not taking it back. i think we need to go to fucking therapy or at least talk about our relationship." the latter of which he has certainly made a point not to do. 'we're partners!' and what does that mean, knox? 'mmm, what? oh, i can't heaaar you!' 

"but after this shower and after some painkillers and only when we're laying in bed."

samuel carter

☉