Archive of Our Own

At long, long last...

Libertalia. 

A tropical paradise built for freedom from the abject rules of judgmental society. An escape from pain, from mediocrity, battered and bruised sailors risking what little they had for the slivered chance at righteous, eternal glory. But rather than housing pirates of legend (or any other living inhabitants, for that matter, aside from the occasional rat), it instead held in its blood-stained hands the distant, desperate dreams of a pair of orphan brothers. 

After so many weeks of hopeless searching, the stakes so high they would splinter and dig into my heart with every step, every firefight, every petty argument, the relief of discovery— that me, Nate, and Sam were right — and finding a piece of history that hadn’t been discovered for hundreds of years, the remaining impossible wish of the one and only family they had ever known, it was a feeling too intense to endure without doing something about it.

All that tension finally had to go somewhere. 

It had to be released. 

So in the dilapidated remains of a pirate colony hideout, I let Nathan climb on top of me, with Sam not far behind. They had asked so sweetly, been so brave for so long— it only made sense to celebrate. 

We all deserved a little pleasure after so much suffering. 

Sunlight streams in through the broken floorboards overhead, dust particles floating and weaving between the lights in a drunken dance, and after so many hours of pushing into each other, I’m completely dowsed in sweat and the cruel Madagascar humidity— so fucking stretched and not remembering ever being happier. 

“Pumpkin…” But Nate’s incoherent, delirious moaning above me makes me hotter and wetter than any Southern Hemisphere heat could. We slip and slide against each other like a memorized machine, the tart, biting scent of sex and marketplace lube and the blooming jungle foliage above forcing me deeper and deeper into my own sinful insanity, until I’m drunk off the aphrodisiac fumes, and the only thing I can do to stay alive is to keep fucking him. Maybe even until I pass out… and only waking up to do it all over again. Nate’s movements have become choppy and uneven after so many countless thrusts, but the pleasure only crescendos higher, strong hands pulling my body back to his over and over and over again, until he’s left my body a shuddering, shaking live-wire of its former self. “H-hah—”

Hours. It’s been hours since we started. And there’s no way they’re stopping anytime soon.

Sam’s fingers are lustful murder against my thighs, making his insidious, possessive mark and flying my soul a thousand miles high. I can trust him now — and all my heart can stand to think about is how strong he is, rippling, corded muscle teasing under shrunken cotton, a reality I’ve always desired, but only now are permitted to touch. And so I do. I touch him. It’s final, rich revenge against every flirtatious touch, every loitering palm on my hip during a boost, the wordless chemistry in every century-long stare. It’s cruel what he put me through back then, but it’s even crueler what he puts me through now: hands so tight between my thighs that I fear he may tear the skin.

There’s no doubt: there will be bruises in the morning. And the only thing I can do is pray to the gods that I packed shorts long enough to cover them. 

But Sam is cunning, carnivorous, and evidently a mind-reader, because suddenly there’s a smug smile grazing my neck, before his grip shifts lower and my legs are being lifted even higher and spread impossibly wider— and Nate gasps appreciatively when he’s gifted with an even deeper angle inside me.

We’ve been searching for so long. There’ve been too many close calls. Too many injuries. Too many times I’ve had to come face-to-face with the very real possibility of this (then this… then no, really, this) being the very, very last moment I’d get with either of them. Too many late nights having to hide the overflowing tears.

“So warm…” The words dribble past Nate’s kiss-bitten lips and smooth over every inch of soaken flesh. And it’s almost as if he’s about to cry with how fucking grateful he sounds, his voice collapsing under the overwhelming pleasure of precious, ultimate relief.

My boys have been so sweet, so resilient. They’ve told me their dreams under luminous, milky-wayed skies in wildflower fields and cockroach-infested motel rooms and the back of Sam’s newly-used “not even so bad if you look at it from a distance'' motorboat that he had affectionately named “The Squirter''. I’ve seen them sleep. I’ve seen them cry. I’ve seen them bleed. I’ve pressed kisses to every bloody inch of skin and brushed tender fingertips under poker tables, scrunched tight between cocked Beretta M9s, and survived to tell every single last beautiful, terrible, swashbuckling tale. I might’ve even seen them pee once or twice. 

If there was anything I could say with certainty in this fucked-up, impossible, deadly world I found myself in, it was that I knew them. And that they deserved to be protected. 

But even more than that: they deserved to finally be touched with love. 

So I take them into my body and keep them there— in my wet, in my warm, in my safe. I desperately try to provide what they’ve never been lucky enough to have, anxious hands reaching out to their cruelly, unfairly scarred bodies not to take, but to give. It’s only fair after how much they’ve given me. I know them— and so I know that no one else could do it better, do it right. No one else like me. 

No one else could protect them like I can.

And to prove it, I press the most delicate of kisses to Nate’s cheek and cure his every ailment with a holy, praising whisper, “Sweet boy… So perfect for me, making me feel so good...” 

And he’s completely and utterly helpless to my praise, with no other choice but to start doing it again: mumbling and murmuring and speaking in lovesick tongues against the crook of my neck, gratitude seeping out of every pore. With his fingers at my hips, Nate takes what he is given in greedy, desperate handfuls, pressing hot, hungry, open-mouthed kisses into every bare nook and cranny of mine he can find. "M-muh… Fuck…” It’s so rare that Nathan curses like this, so it’s no wonder when my body reacts the way it does— and as soon as my pussy flutters around his wet, pulsating cock, I’m only coaxing his deepest desires to the surface even faster.

“Muh… M-Mommy….” Jesus fucking christ, he snaps my very will apart with how sweetly, how viscerally he confesses— my heart and pussy squeezing simultaneously as one and ravenously calling out for more, more. I love it when he calls me that. His hands are possessive as they streak pink across my skin, touching, wanting, pulling, grabbing, never settling on any one place because he just wants to experience it all— and mindlessly branding me in the process—marking me with every indent of every fingertip so that everyone will know we belong to each other. When he pulls back to inspect his unintentioned work, bruises and scratches and everything in between, he makes this desperate, high-pitched cry that sounds like he’s dying.

He’s so fucking cute when he gets like this. 

And then, all of a sudden, he’s pounding even deeper, even faster, sending my body trembling with the sheer force of his thrusts, skin stinging hot at every kiss of his inner thighs against mine and his balls smacking back and forth between my legs. It’s so wet, so frantic, so good that he has no choice but to moan again, impossibly, inconceivably more shameless than the first: “Mommy… ”

And Sam chuckles at my back, gritty and smokey and honey-warm all at once: “…Does he always do that?”

“Yes.” I say it because I’m proud of the answer, simmering in Nate’s undying devotion as I linger up his bruised chest, his swollen arms, his starry, passionate eyes— the most gorgeous shade of blue I’ve ever seen— in a lovestruck daze. Rewarding him with my touch is second nature by now— and there’s never fear or hesitation anymore when my fingers reach out to trace his jaw, gently, whimsically, tenderly, even as he hilts himself all the way inside me and groans. But the feelings I harbor for him are so pure, so innocent, that even when he fucks me like this, it never, ever feels dirty. I’m swooning like it’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me. And by god, it is.

Something wet spills down my thigh and for a second, I’m not one hundred percent sure if it’s my own slick dripping or— my stomach drops and, to my absolute horror, my pussy clenches obscenely— the condom broke and he’s just deciding not to stop. 

I tease to try and defend against the fear, and so, so much worse, the sheer, unbridled delight at the idea that takes my body by force: “Good boy, Nathan… Wanna make me a mommy, too?” I throw a giggle or two in there for good measure, but I’m not sure if it makes it sound like a joke… or even more like a pathetic, half-hearted cover-up.

Despite the near-stifling heat, the air goes cold and still around me. And I beg the universe for my boys to not notice.

I don’t want a baby. I’ve never wanted a baby. 

Not with the type of life I lead. Not with that level of responsibility. Could I ever even trust myself to not bring a semi-automatic to a Thursday afternoon PTA meeting, just in case, and make it back in time for the Hallmark Christmas Marathon? Would there ever come a day where it wasn’t instant instinct to throw whatever I was holding at a home intruder, even if it was my own child? But somehow, worst of all, the question that gnawed most at the back of my mind, warped and wild and gnashing its awful teeth, was: ...did I even really deserve that level of peace? Of white suede Ikea furniture and TV dinners and coming home to someone who loved me just as innocently as I loved them, who wore a ring to prove it?

Yet somehow, despite my frantic, shameful pleas, the thought seductively loops and furls its way around my brain, anyway.

Yeah... Nathan would make a good father.

I didn’t want a baby. I’ve never wanted a baby. But fuck, if he hasn’t made me think about it once or twice.

But Nate’s too sweet, too polite, to joke about something so important— and so he whines in place of an actual answer. Still, I’d have to be stupid to not notice how his grip tightens into my hips ever so slightly, the way his pulse quickens against my chest, the hungry twitch of his cock inside of me. Yet before I can shift my gaze and catch his honest reaction, he’s already tucked his head back into the crook of my neck — Purposeful? Or purely coincidental? — heart sizzling in sick, sadistic glee at the idea of making someone so strong feel so bashful, and so vulnerable.

But Sam… Sam is the opposite of bashful. If anything, he only seems to be growing bolder the more I dote on his little brother. As soon as the praises, the “good boy”s start rolling out, he’s a wretched goner. Sam’s always been better at hiding his feelings than Nate, eyebrows raised and shoulders shrugging whenever I breached the tender subject of jealousy. But I’m no idiot. I know what the dark rumbling at my back means. I can’t ignore the way his fingers bruise deeper. 

By the time Sam growls into my neck, he’s stark green with envy, and it’s only a matter of time (three thrusts, to be exact) before he’s making it known, “Baby… please, please let me have some of that pussy. It’s my turn.” 

My heart stops. He never begs. 

It only makes sense that Nate groans hesitantly when I still the movement of his hips with a gentle palm. 

“Honey, give Sam a turn.” 

But Nathan just pouts down at me silently, already throbbing with the oncoming onslaught of what must be his sixth or seventh orgasm of the day. With the haunting, longing way he looks at me, it takes a few seconds too long to convince myself that it’s simply the fair thing to do. “Nathan…” My lip curls smugly when the tone of authority has his cock twitching inside of me. “Aren’t you brothers? You know how to share. ” 

It’s a game I’ve learned to play well over the past month. 

With how daring, how competitive, how relentless they are, it would be certain death to not keep careful watch over them. To not try and keep some scrap of power over their aggressively unpredictable ways. With every word, every wish, I teeter between tender and teasing, restabilizing the rocky waters with a cheeky giggle whenever tensions rise too high or something slips in the heat of the moment. And up until now, it had been an effective solution. It had always been enough.

There was no label, no need for one, right? It was fun. It felt good. It made us all feel less alone. 

But in the past couple weeks, I’ve begun to have my doubts. Lingering, affectionate touches and the bandaging of Nate’s wounds— once something so normalized, frivolous, even— will have Sam rolling his eyes and proclaiming under his breath how I’d do “anything for the favorite.” Sam’s cheeky flirtations and the occasional spank after a particularly close Shoreline battle now force Nate into an uncharacteristically tense stupor, stiff and oddly crabby and avoiding eye contact when I pull him aside to ask what’s wrong. Everything’s become a competition, from deciphering riddles, to carrying my equipment, to leaving hickies, to sex.

And it’s scaring me. Terrifying me. I’m at the end of my rope, but they’re just at the beginning of theirs— not even twenty, thirty minutes can go by without knowing at least one of their hands on my body, greasy and dirty and wanting and raw and digging into my skin like it’s their one and only lifeline. They’re starting to need me.

But crazy, wild, possessive sex, I can handle. Mosquito bites on my fucking labia, I can handle. But what’s most frightening, what’s the absolute worst part of it all: is the way they kiss me. Because I don’t want to feel so powerful when Sam pulls me behind the nearest tree just to feel my tongue against his, I don’t want to feel so proud when Nate does that thing with his hands where he cups the back of my neck and encircles my waist so he can kiss me for as long as he likes, pulling me right back to him whenever I break away for air. And I don’t want to feel like I need them just as much as they need me. 

Because it would be impossible to be in love with two people at the same time... right?

Maybe if they didn’t kiss me like they meant it with every fucking cell in their bodies, I wouldn’t. 

And they’re only growing more hungry, more desperate— and I’m struggling to keep up. Nate’s heart-shaped bruises have begun to sting between my thighs when I sprint, and I’m running out of makeup to cover up the obscene hickies Sam leaves up and down my neck, no matter how many times I beg him not to (if only for Sully’s sake). And I couldn’t be more certain that they’re doing it on purpose—that it’s some desperate ploy to make it so I can’t even go a single step, a single breath, without thinking about them. But I can’t quite figure out yet if it’s the steadily rising stakes, the distant thought at the back of my mind that all of this is really just an outlet for their anger, for the violence… or it’s their growing feelings for me. 

I’m starting to lose control.  

…I never thought there’d come a day where I complain about two beautiful men wanting me too badly.

But luckily, as always, Nate is an avid worshiper. And just as always, he’s obedient to a tee. There’s one long, awful moment of wordless conflict before his eyes fall from mine and he relinquishes— his cock finally slipping out, sopping wet and clinging to my inner thigh in a last-ditch bid to stay attached to me. And for a second I feel sorry. I spoil them so deliciously that even a millisecond’s departure has Nate giving me his infamous puppy dog eyes, languidly and guiltily stroking his hands over my thighs, as if he might’ve done something wrong. And he’s trying his best to make up for it. “Honey…” Guilt twists my tone and forces my hands up along his chest, soothing, apologetic, I’m sorry, wait—

But it’s the shortest second of my life, because now it’s Sam’s turn, and he doesn’t go into that good night quietly.  

“Sam!” He refuses to learn his lesson, almost out of spite— driving himself right through me and only stopping when he’s balls deep, and he physically has nowhere else to go. He’s an asshole and I adore him for it. But at first my pussy mistakes him for Nate, and a twinge of pain echoes up my sides at the additional stretch, sweat and grime serving as lube where my shaking thighs collide with his. He’s so greedy, but the way I muse is all affection. How can I stay mad when he hugs me to his chest like he hasn’t seen me in years, like he fucking missed me? Like he’s making up for the one point two seconds of lost time that he wasn’t inside me? His calloused hands hunger enviously for the fat at my hips, squeezing tight and making me giggle. Oh, Sam.

And the light, loving sound has Nate’s eyes jerking up to mine, lost and lonely and yearning for something I can’t quite unravel. I spread my legs and smile in an attempt to beckon him closer, to slip into my other hole and envelope him back home— but he dismisses the offer with vague indifference, possessed, fervent stare instead falling down to where Sam splits me open, and where my body zealously sucks him back in. He watches, fixated beyond obsession, as his hands curl between my legs to spread me wider, almost subconsciously… or maybe just by muscle memory. 

The thought makes me shiver. 

He’s done this so many times, pleasing me has become memory.

But his eyes… that’s what really does it. It’s visceral, innate, the way my pussy drools down my thighs at the sight of his awe, his devotion, the way he couldn't pull his gaze away even if he tried. The idea that someone could make me wet just by looking at me is insane, but Nate does it without even trying. The thrill of being watched takes my body hostage, tangy and electrifying and profoundly terrifying, and crisp blue eyes follow my fingers down, down, down to where I start to touch myself. His face is beautiful, he’s beautiful, as I lead his gaze with tight, spinning circles, and I’m absolutely itching to take him down my throat— but it seems Nathan is more than happy to simply watch. I hypnotize the man of my dreams with such effortless abandon that he doesn’t even seem bothered about watching his own brother fuck me in his place. 

It’s like he just wants to see me in pleasure. As if it’s his everything. And my heart thunders painfully, yearnfully, at the thought.

But fuck, pleasure isn’t even a strong enough word to describe what Sam is doing to me. 

In all honesty, the first few times with Sam were rocky. His sin is greed, and for a while, it felt like someone told him that the mental image of plowing a cornfield was a step in the right direction. He took what he wanted without hesitation and assumed that a gaudy smirk (no matter how, admittedly, handsome) was enough to make me scream. But how can I possibly blame him for not knowing a woman’s touch for fifteen years? My heart oozes with sympathy— the things I would do if I had been there sooner. Time has changed him, though, bettered him, and now… now he’s loosened up, he’s stopped trying so hard, he’s figured it out. He’s figured me out. And I’m in fucking heaven because of it. 

Maybe this was the paradise that Avery was talking about.

“Baaaaby…” I coo in sweet contradiction to the violent cacophony of sound between my legs, to the music of my aching, worshiped body crying out where his skin meets mine and he fills me for all that he’s worth. And it’s a call that drives them wild. It’s a call they can’t ignore. 

Nate answers it first, not with his cock, but with his hands, with his tongue. I’ve never met a softer mouth than his, and the desperation in my voice has his knees buckling to the ground so he can bring it to me faster, cupping my waist in his hands as leverage to smother his face into my chest. He loves my tits. But it’s something he’s never had to say in words. His heat swallows me whole and holds me solid back to earth, warm hands pawing at my thighs, my hips, even my neck, until I finally push in to give him what he wants— and this time my offer is met with rapturous applause, and his sinfully soft lips around my nipple.

I squeal with delight when he starts to suck, and Sam and Nate’s laughter is the warmest, sweetest melody I’ve ever heard as they chuckle adoringly against me.

I’m sinking deeper and deeper and deeper into them, and there comes a point where I’m afraid I’ll never be able to climb back out again. But then, I realize… would I even really want to if I could? Is there really any part of me that wants all this to end? And the most unanswerable question of them all: how is it humanly possible that the sex only gets better and better, every single time?

“…Oh fuck.” 

I speak too soon.

“What?” 

For one, long, terrible moment, Sam doesn’t answer, which is how I know it’s bad. 

“What happened, Sam? ” “…It broke.”

...Oh.

Huh.

But surprisingly, my stomach doesn’t drop in the way I expect it to. My skin doesn't grow clammy. My heartbeat doesn’t pound in my throat. There’s no sign of panic in sight. If anything, I feel… lighter. Curious. My heart skips a beat when I realize what the feeling actually is, so rare and alien that it almost makes me cry. 

It’s relief. 

We’ve all been fighting so hard for so long. And I’m tired. So tired. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I let go. Maybe I even deserved it. Maybe we all deserved it. Just for a little bit. 

“Just take it off.” “…Really?”

Sam doesn’t even bother asking if he heard me right. And that alone is confirmation. 

“Yes. Really.” 

Nate looks like I just spontaneously combusted in front of his eyes, stunned into a silence I never thought possible from him. But Sam… Sam isn’t someone I have to tell twice. He’s so for it, in fact, that I would’ve ragdolled to the ground had Nate not been supporting my upper half. His movements are frantic, inhumanly so, as he pulls himself out and rips the torn condom off from around his base, before tossing it unceremoniously into the foliage beyond. 

“Litterer!” I huff playfully, but Sam doesn’t even have the patience to laugh. Because he’s already sliding back inside and—

And fuck, it feels… different. 

“Sam…” It feels good. Intimate. Close. Different. He enters me so softly and so smoothly and so slowly, a seeming impossibility from the likes of him, that I can never, ever go back to how it was before. Because I can feel him. Every inch, every millimeter. Every vein, every ridge. And a heat so violent it burns me raw from the inside out. His head glides back in with a viscous pop! and suddenly my entire world is melting around me, reduced to nothing but Sam— and the dancing haze of dust and ash swimming in sunlight above. 

And Nate is watching me like he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Or more horrifying. 

I’ve never done this before— and I can feel it in the air, how monstrous a change it is, what I’m really, truly communicating when I let them do what I’ve never let anyone else do before. Because I don’t have to say that I love them when the way my body moves says it all for me. Devouring, slobbering, swallowing, relishing, absolutely consuming everything they give me. Because I love it. I love them. 

And there it is again: relief. So strange, and so wonderful. I’m in such ecstasy at my own discovery, my own admittance, that I barely even notice that Sam has reached his hilt. A secret part of me had hoped it would go on forever. That he could just keep filling me forever. I would’ve been more than happy to take it.

And my sweet, perfect, darling Nathan is looking so small, so petrified, so unsure— the last three words I would ever use to describe him in any normal circumstance— fingers digging anxiously into the skin of my thighs for some, any, kind of stability. His eyes are impossibly blue, and despite how well I know him, how deeply I love him, there is so much more left to learn. Is he yearning? Is he jealous? What does he want? What has he always wanted? What can I possibly give him to make me feel like it’s enough? There’s so much left I want to share with him, so much I want to experience with him, and suddenly, white suede Ikea furniture and Hallmark Christmas marathons don’t sound so bad anymore. Because maybe Nathan could be the one I’m sharing them with. Maybe with Nathan it wouldn’t be so scary.

I reach out to him. Hold him in my hands. Keep him safe. And I reassure him in the ways only I can: “You can take it off, too, honey. I don’t mind.” His gaze is concerned, interrogating, as it searches every corner of my face. Despite everything we’ve been through together, he is still so abhorrent to taking things from me, even when I offer them as sweetly as I possibly can.

So I try again, fingers jumping over every grain of stubble, smooth and careful, touching him like I might a wounded, frightened stray— which isn’t too extravagant of a metaphor given everything they’ve been through. He looks so afraid, so guilty, but he’s the very last person on the planet who should ever feel guilty when it comes to me. How much longer will it take for him to see that? 

“It’s supposed to feel better for you, too, isn’t it?” My voice wraps around his shoulders like a warm blanket, and I cup his neck to urge him closer. For a brief moment, it seems I might’ve changed his mind, his eyebrows quirking upward at such an honest proclamation, such an unapologetic defense of his pleasure. Because his pleasure is my everything, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make it known that the feelings are mutual. Every feeling is mutual when it comes to him. 

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes, soooo much better, sweetheart. You have no idea.” But Sam is the one who answers my rhetorical question in his stead, the one who actually takes all that I offer him. And he starts speeding up, slowly at first, savoring it. Every inch is devastating bliss, ruining me for anything else. I feel so nakedly seen by him, so completely felt, that my nervous system gives way, and every breadth of my body flushes over in an obscene, remorseless red.

“Ya know… I wouldn’t mind calling you Mommy, either.“ He fucks me so well that I don’t even have the mental capacity to fully register the insanity that parts his lips and leaves me completely and utterly annihilated in ten excruciating syllables: “I’d be a good dad… wouldn’t I, baby?”

Oh my god.

Is he fucking serious?  

He can’t be serious.

He’s starting to build momentum, but I’m stiff frozen solid. It was just a joke, right? A tease, that’s it. Something easy and predictable to rile them up. And Sam should know that. He’s smart enough to know that. And that’s why he’s kidding. 

But then the image of a fire-engine red pickup truck pulling up into the driveway, slanting slightly off-mark into the elementary school parking lot drifts unwarrantedly into my mind. I always imagined Sam with a red pick-up truck. Maybe the bitter scent of cigarette smoke would linger on the car seats. Or maybe his dashboard would be littered with those dollar store black ice-scented ( I always wondered, does ice even really have a scent? ) car air fresheners shaped like even-cut little pine trees, dangling and smacking against the rearview mirror just as he shoots me a wink from the driver’s seat. Maybe he’d even quit smoking for me.

The fantasy is short-lived, though, because I can better imagine Sam with an AK-47 in his arms than a baby.

But he’s really building momentum. And I can tell he likes it. Likes it in a way he’s never letting go of, either, hands digging into my tits and waist hard enough to hurt— “Ya wanna make me a baby, baby?”, he mumbles, low and out-of-breath, as if I couldn’t possibly hear him from three inches away— and I wail because he's kidding, he has to be kidding. His cock is so big that there’s scarce enough space left in my body to even breathe, frenetic and obsessive and so wet that he slips out for a second— chuckling deliciously when my body teeters dangerously close to falling off his lap— but maneuvers himself back inside just as quickly, swinging his arm around my waist and pulling me back to him as if I weigh nothing. So strong— I’d snort at my own comment if I weren’t lightheaded from swooning. He’s hungry and deterxious: a brutal combination. 

“You think he’d take more after you, or me, sweetheart?” He groans out just as he plunges back in.

He’s kidding, he’s kidding, he’s kidding.

“Or she.” Nate’s voice cracks, so desperate to not be left out.

“...Or she.” Sam snickers, humoring him, before giving a particularly deep thrust, teeth bared and pressed possessively against my neck. And it’s the best joke I’ve ever heard in my life because luckily for me—

He’s. 

Just. 

Kidding.

...But Nate certainly doesn’t seem to take it that way. 

As Sam speeds up, finally thrusting hard enough to rival the sounds of squawking parrots in the air, Nate’s face starts to shift, darken into a territory so foreign and frightening that for a moment, I can barely recognize him. Carnal desire rings full and clear with every slap of Sam’s balls against my clit, and I can’t slow down, I can’t slow down, can’t stop my face from breaking open and splitting into a slack-jawed moan, even as Nate’s pupils dilate to an eerie blackness. He squeezes my thighs like a kneading cat, pulsing, territorial, and withholding… something. But whatever he’s trying to hold back, he’s not trying hard enough. Whatever it is, he’s not strong enough for it. 

Time crawls to a stand-still, the bated breath between death and murder before a cowboy draws his pistol and ends the duel, and Nathan’s form shifts forward, hovers threateningly above me, closer and closer, til his lips are at my ear and this time, he’s the one curing my every ailment with a holy, praising whisper: 

“I’m sorry.”

Wait.

…what?

I’ve never felt scared around Nathan before, let alone of Nathan, because of Nathan. I know him so well, understand him better than anyone: how to love him, how to touch him, what makes him laugh, what makes him feel safe, what makes him fuck me harder. But, maybe, just this once, I overestimated myself. Because, just this once, I have no idea what he’s doing. Or what he’s about to do to me.

Suddenly, he pulls back, huddling into himself. And his hands move underneath him, quick and impulsive to the point of panic. But from my position, I can’t quite make out what he’s doing. What the fuck is he doing? His palm is an earthquake against my thigh as he reaches out to steady himself, uncertainty drowning his features and morphing them into something misshapen and sheepish. Is… is that guilt I see in the cyan swirls of his eyes? What could he possibly have to feel guilty for? 

But before I can even ponder the answer, he resituates himself on top of me. Pulls back again. Moves closer against his better judgment. And I can see it in his eyes, how truly, deeply sorry he is, but just as I part my lips to ask him why—

He kills me.

…and I die.

I’m fucking dead.

At least… I must be dead, because it’d be the only explanation for what Nate is doing.

Because— if I were really alive— he wouldn’t possibly be trying to slide back in, making the impossible fit right next to Sam, and stretching me so wide that I scream.

“Oh, Jesus, what the fuck is he doing now?!” But the only thing Sam’s frenzied words fall upon is deaf ears. 

I can’t hear him, have no reason to hear him, because against my will, I’m having the best orgasm of my entire fucking life. 

Nathan. Nathan, Nathan, Nathan. My heart and body scream his name like it’s the only word I know— why would I ever need, want, to know anything else? And he pushes deeper. Nate and I gasp together, forehead pressing harder and harder against my own, until it reaches the point of bruising— and still he pushes deeper. Nathan, Nathan, Nathan.

It’s never-ending. It’s psychotic. It’s disgusting. It’s wet. It’s impossible. There’s no way he’s going to fit. 

But he pushes deeper anyway. Like it’s the only thing he’s ever truly wanted.

And I start to hear something high-pitched. Something frightened and agonizing, like a rabbit trapped in the toothy maw of a horrific jungle beast right before it’s eaten alive, before its bones are crushed to dust and its skin torn to bloody rags, crescendoing faster than my brain can even comprehend what it’s hearing. It scares me. My heart rate spikes so high that I have to swallow it back down, and panic sets in like a searing white knife, up every fiber, every inch of skin. Tonight, I die.

This is the end. This is the night Nathan Drake kills me with his dick.

And I realize that it’s me. The sound I hear is me. 

But then, all of a sudden—

Ecstasy.

He fits. And I feel his breath hot against my lips when he laughs, giddy and delirious and so sweet that I have to kiss him. I’ll die if I don’t kiss him. 

IlovehimIlovehimIlovehimIlovehim. He’s perfect. He’s mine. He fits.

“YesYesYesYesYesYesYesYes—“ I don’t know how it’s physically possible that I’m praising him, and kissing him, and he’s laughing, and he’s kissing me back, all at once, all in a single moment. But impossibility doesn’t apply to me, and after this, it never will again. “Sogoodbabyyou’redoingsogood, Iknewyoucoulddoityou’resogoodformesofuckinggoodsoperfectformebabyIloveyouIloveyouIloveyou—”

His lips are softer than silk, and like his hands, are never satisfied to settle in just one place. They’re everywhere, and only happy when they’re on me: my cheeks, my jaw, my neck, my temple. But it’s still not enough— so back home to my lips they go— reading each other’s minds better than we read our own, and opening wider just as his tongue slips through to meet mine in soulful entwinement. He literally feeds off my moans, swallowing my pleasure whole, as if it’s all he needs to survive. 

What he does to me, it’s worship. Plain and simple.

He fits. And my heartbeat stutters and lungs gasp at feeling him raw and real and unprotected for the very first time. But he doesn’t stop there. He’s desperate to see how deep I’ll take him, just how far I’ll go for him, and by the time he’s reached his end, my body is unconsciously thrashing, helplessly fighting against certain destruction. So he traps my fingers in his, and tries his best to hold me still. It’s going to happen. He’s going to make it happen. 

“He really likes you, huh?”

Sam sniggers at my back, an understatement so severe that it’s almost sick. 

But that’s not even the half of it. Because it’s only then that he starts actually fucking me.

And before I can even think, before I can ask the gods how this is actually happening, It’s happening. The both of them at once: a desire so filthy and forbidden that it doesn’t even seem real. They’re too hot and too big and kiss my skin too sweetly. ...It’s too perfect . There’s no way the universe would ever let this happen. But it is and it does and I am and they are and holy shit, there’s no way I could possibly be more in love with them than I am right now. 

Even Sam, forever confident and unbreakable, his pride wilts under my spell. “Baby—“ His voice cracks and aches and spills over my ravaged body, high-pitched and completely alien coming from him, and finally I spot it: Weakness. “Fuck, sweetheart…“ Sweet, blissful weakness from the strongest man I’ve ever known— and my pussy desperately draws them in at such a beautiful sound. Maybe I’m the one and only person who’s ever made him sound like that. Maybe he’s finally raising the white flag.

“You know, I always knew you’d be able to take the both of us.” And he makes it sound so romantic. Nate whimpers— whether from the pleasure or Sam’s confession is a puzzle I don’t even bother trying to solve— mouthing cloyingly at my neck and tucked so tight against my body, it's as if he’s trying to meld himself right into me. And they both slide in deeper, fatefully in sync, like it’s the easiest thing in the world— because he’s right. 

But, of course he’s right. After all this time, why would they not understand me just as profoundly as I understood them?

“...Does it feel good for you, too?” Nate’s voice is earnest, tentative, graveled, collapsing under lack of use, and I can tell he means it more than anything.

There should be a way to describe the pleasure I feel. There really should. But when I try to kickstart my fried, over-orgasmed brain back to life, the realization quickly dawns on me: every word has already been spent. Every breath, every sound, every syllable, every word, I’ve used it all. There’s nothing left to confess. They already know it all.

So instead, I answer him with a kiss: the one thing small enough to sink into the dips and valleys where mortal words don’t reach. Pure, simple, sweet. Yes. My head nods feverishly without me, as if my fervent, silent gratitude isn’t enough, and immediately I find myself kissing teeth. But I don’t mind. Because if Nate can’t stop himself from smiling, can’t find the means to control himself at all, simply because of me— then it means I’m the luckiest girl in the entire world. 

It’s such sweet, brief, final innocence— a frozen epitome of our eternally requited love for one another in a single second— before the earth crumbles apart at my feet in explosive, almost-destructive pleasure.

“Jesus Christ, I wonder who’s gonna come first?” I set the tone with reckless abandon, giggling and writhing and playing the starring role I was seemingly born to play. I’m insane, completely delirious— I don’t even stop to think before I say it— and so adrenaline-high that I’m fearless enough, fucking stupid enough, to egg them on, even in the midst of fatal vulnerability. Masochism wrecks my body as I use their fiery, competitive natures against them, against myself. It’s so much, so big, that it’s as if there’s never a moment that they’re not pushing deeper. In and out, in and out. It’s what my body has grown to understand. But this time, there’s no out. The out part never comes. Because their rhythms are strategic, competing so aggressively with one another that it just ends up back on the other side as synergy; Sam and Nate fuck me as one, one slipping back just as the other slams forward, and I squeal in wanton delight— because it’s true: they need me just as much as I need them.

But there’s no way any of us are gonna last long.

There was never a chance any of us were gonna last long.

Everything moves in a ferocious whirlwind, movement shallow, but pace anxious— and all is naught but flesh, sweat, and the daunting throb of my own blood in the shell of my ear. But they’re close, far too close to hold off the inevitable. So I try my hardest to freeze the moment, save it for later, save it for all eternity, and soak in every last agonizingly perfect depth of feeling before it ends forever.

Nate is first. Nate is always first. He just likes me too much.

For the tiniest, briefest moment, he tries to stave it off, but he’s rickety, uneven, and panting like a dog in heat against the parted line of my mouth. He can’t do it anymore. I’m breaking him, luring him to the edge of death— and it’s obvious he loves every last second of it. His eyes brace shut against the oncoming storm, and I know it’s because if he met the look in my eyes, the reverent twinkle of pure, ceaseless adoration, he’d be gone. But I want him in pleasure. I want to see it. I want to feel it. He deserves it. So I thread my fingers through his hair and follow the feathered trail down the back of his neck, coaxing him closer, and he shivers against my unyieldingly tender touch. “Look at me, Nathan. I want to watch you.” He whines and gasps defensively— please, no, I can’t— shaking his head and using every last shred of willpower to hold on, to maintain consistent rhythm and pointlessly try to trick me into thinking he’s not as close as he actually is. 

“Sweetness, please look at me.” He’s so beautiful trying for me. He’s always been a tryer. Even when it’s impossible, even when it hurts, even when he’s on the brink of certain death, even when you’d have to be fucking stupid to try, he tries. So he tries. And he looks back up at me with glistening, soulful eyes— and the type of utterly defenseless gaze that can only come from someone who’s my soulmate. He’s mine. He’s perfect. “You’re perfect.” My jaw aches to hold it in, every praise, every word that I’d have to double-check the definition on to possibly explain the depth of love I have for him, how desperately I want him to understand what he does to me, how I want him to finally, finally, finally let himself go.

He did it. He found Libertalia. 

He found me.

He doesn’t need to fight anymore.

“Made for me. You’re made for me, Nathan.” I say it because it’s true— and at long last, the wealth of pain, the seemingly never ending heartbreak, the yearning call for the orphan boys who only ever just wanted to be loved, is lifted from my chest and scattered to the crisp, raw Indian Ocean winds. Admittance. Confession. Release. 

“I love you, Butter.” His voice shatters into a million jagged pieces, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to say to me. 

But somehow, inextricably, it also feels like the very first.

My love moves through water, and it’s only now that I notice the abrasive humidity, drowning me and squeezing my vocal chords to nothingness— because I can’t say ‘I love you’ back. I can’t speak, I can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t think. Sharp pain laces up my knuckles when I realize just how tightly I’ve latched onto Nathan’s back, my body thinking for me when my brain short-circuits from overwhelming desire. Maybe I’m the one trying to meld myself right into him, thoughts returned and mind racing in a single instant, the guilt of wanting him so selfishly, of wanting to be the only way he can sleep well at night, of wanting to be the reason he gets up in the morning, of wanting him all to myself, of wanting— and the dam bursts open. And I frantically gasp out the one and only thing I can think to say before the ghosts return and my throat closes up again. “Come inside me.” It’s the only thing that’s less painful than saying ‘I love you’ back. Because if I tried to say it aloud, I’d die. I’d come. And I want to be the one to watch him do it first. I owe it to him. 

But mostly, I owe it to myself permission to want what I really want. And I want Nathan.  

I want all of him.

And as if on command, his hips jolt forward— “Hah—!” hoarsely smothered cries, beautiful music to my ears— and he breaks apart, melts away, inside of me. ...Good boy. The fabric of his skin flutters against my palms when he gasps, so unguarded, so helpless, almost feminine in tone, and I can hear it as clearly, feel it as intimately as my very own heartbeat. It’s animal instinct to bury himself as deep as possible when he finishes, hips flush with mine and stoking fire up every vein, but he’s just enough in his right mind to try and pull back, even at the absolute height of ecstasy. As always: a gentleman to the end. 

No. No, no, no. That won’t do at all. I’m simultaneously thrilled and horrified when I find hungry hands pinching down his lower back and forcing him all the way back in, slick sweat a frivolous obstacle to his fated capture. Selfish. Mine. “Baby!” Nate squeals, shock fruitless in hiding heathen delight as his voice pitches and his head thumps hard against mine, and he has no other choice but to start emptying himself inside of me. 

When he comes, it’s art. Waves beating against the shoreline in throbbing, endless, persistent cadence. He glitters above me, and despite my neck aching from the impossible angle, I can’t possibly pull my eyes away. Would you take your gaze from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel even if it hurt? Well, bad example, because I would if the other option was Nathan. His forehead glazes with well-earned sweat and rolls down the thick-lined bridge of his nose, nuzzling contradicting and gentle right against my own. I’ve always loved his nose.

And I know now that the condom did break earlier, because I can feel it— him giving me his everything, before it overflows, pumps out thick and sticky and sweet, and spills down in generous rivulets between my thighs. It’s too much, filling me whole and pooling out to cool my sizzling skin in the suffocating summer heat. Baaaaaby boy. I grow addicted to the thrum, to the humming pulse, to the sounds he makes, and we’re so connected to each other that it’s as if his cock is trying to fall in perfect sync with the throb of my heart.

It’s so good. My heart twitters in delirious glee when I realize just how much he’s coming. ...And how he’s still going. Nate moans deep down from the center of the earth, and it’s almost as if he’s gasping out an apology— I can’t stop and it won’t stop but I’m trying and I’m sorry— but I am nothing if not flattered, beholden, longing for even more. My fingers scitter further down, and I fall hard and fast into my own selfish gluttony, squeezing both cheeks and marking him with cute, little crescent-mooned shapes, highlighting my favorite dimples in the plush skin of his tush. I hope they’ll stay ‘til tomorrow. A giddy, too-wide smile causes my face to sting. Whatever happens, I’ll find a way to replace them. I always do. 

When he finally begins the long, floating descent from his high, it feels like it’s been hours. No— days. The intensity of his orgasm has made him break out into a cold sweat, and I reach out to catch each glinting bead before it cascades and falls down the hood of his jaw— caressing and soothing him back to solid ground, back to paradise with me. 

He’s still a little sunburned from Monday’s— or was it Tuesday? With them, I lose all concept of time— Tuesday’s heat wave, and the raw pink streak across his nose and cheeks makes him look prettier and more handsome than ever. My hand drifts higher to graze an index finger down the burnt skin at the bridge of his nose, coaxing, tender, soft. And in an abrupt instance, gravity has returned him. His jaw drops open in one, final, definitive gasp, relief, before his entire weight slumps back onto me— careless in the heat of passion— and the dust settles just as his lips curl up into a small, angelically satisfied smile. Honey. Sweetie. Pretty boy. Nate chuckles and pants and dotes, tucked deep into the slick slant of my neck, but more than anything: spent beyond all recognition, just the way he deserves. 

Finally.

“...You did it, baby.” But what exactly I mean by that, there are too many ways to interpret. 

Nate’s chest heaves hard against mine, still recuperating— maybe he’ll never fully recuperate after all that— but he tries his best to thank me with what little he has left. As always, I’ve whipped every word out of his soul, the only remainder the timid, quaking kisses he peppers up and down my neck: an impromptu baptism of the highest degree.

And now I realize, maybe I should feel guilty that I made him come inside. 

“Woof… that sure was something, huh?” But a full-body shiver is an instinctual reaction— and just what is needed to pull me back from the cruel recesses of my own thoughts— when he sighs against my shoulder, in that deep, soothing inflection that always waned every last one of my worries away. At the end of the day, no matter how he kissed me, no matter how much he came inside of me, he was my best friend. And the way his words stretch and linger, as if secretly hoping I’ll giggle at his cheekiness, is only a sweet reminder of that. So I bat the ball back into his court, and despite the way my pussy unconsciously flutters around him, I attest to being his best friend in turn: “Yeah, it was.”

The fact that the both of us laugh at the exact same time is purely coincidental.

“You two make me sick.”

…Uh oh.

The spell is abruptly broken, and Sam is back in a whirlwind of bravado and the sick stench of cigarette.

Oh, God. I almost forgot about Sam. 

He’s gonna make me regret that.

“Are ya done now—?” Sam grumbles between my shoulder blades, clearly tired of playing second fiddle, of being little more than supportive scaffolding for Nathan’s jealousy. His hands must ache from holding me up for so long, and it’s almost cruel how absent-mindedly he hoists my knees up to settle at his elbows, in a last-ditch effort to relieve the stinging pressure. Not cruel in that the stretch hurts, not even cruel in that he’s careless. Cruel in that it’s fucking hot, and he doesn’t even have to think about it. It’s just who he is.

But Nate is silent, probably dozing off into an extended nap, wrapped tight and weighing heavy in my arms— so it’s up to me to give Sam the go ahead. 

“Y-yeah. I think so.” —as if we’re parents checking to see if the baby is really asleep. I do what I can to swallow down the growing, debilitating fear of facing Sam’s fervor and fury head-on, fingers stroking nervously up and down the crown of Nate’s head more of an anxious fidget than anything else. Greed may be Sam’s cardinal sin, but Envy is a close second— and the fact that I let Nate do the impossible without consequence, that I gave precedence to the young and the beautiful while Sam did all the heavy lifting… There's no doubt that he’s going to get retribution for that. 

But I said it myself, didn’t I? I can take it.  

“...Are you?” 

“Not by a fucking long shot.” He heaves in raspy breath, as if I’ve made him wait a thousand years for this— and I know, faster than light, that I’m doomed. Terror sizzles up my sides and revs my overwrought pussy all the way back to life. I’m pretty sure that if I looked down, there would be peppered periwinkle wisps of smoke wafting from the conjoined mass of where both Sam and Nate’s cocks part my walls and call it home. How the fuck haven’t I passed out yet? It’s probably for the best that I don’t think about it too hard. 

But lucky for me, Sam doesn’t allow any time for thinking. 

He’s tired of waiting— and he’s a fucking liar. Because he goes hard and fast and desperate immediately. The way he fucks me is absolutely godless. Now that Nate is out of the picture, every inch of my skin is his to collect, to keep, to touch, to pierce— Oh god, there’s no way his nails are actually cutting in, right? But they are, and I know now that I probably should’ve packed those nail clippers, even if they hadn’t seemed like a necessity at the time. But the harsh, possessive pain stings wonderfully, physical proof of his bestial desire for me, the only mark of love that will never fade. Sam wants me so deeply that he scars me, inside and out. 

“He thinks he’s the only one who wants you, huh?” Sam hisses out behind sharp teeth, gritted so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if they eventually gnawed down to stubs. “Don’t test me, sweetheart. ‘Cause I’m more than willing to prove that he’s not.” But he’s already proving it. He doesn’t need depth— or angle, for that matter— to make me wail and pant to the point of deflation; he’s big enough, he’s wide enough, he’s passionate enough to make the shallow arc work in his favor, turn his disadvantage into a blessing and gain my every favor with a ferocious, seemingly bottomless thrust. But Sam doesn’t know that— I can’t tell him because I’ve suddenly forgotten what order the subject, verb, and indirect object are traditionally supposed to go in, brain fucked silly, stupid, from dick— so he does what he does best: he takes what he wants. And he wants more of me.

“Nathan. Move it, would ‘ja?” He wants deeper. But Nate’s not giving in, absolutely refusing to slip out, to relinquish his religious hold on me, to claim the rightful spot of what’s his— the only sign that he’s even listening, a warbling grunt of displeasure and a tighter grasp at my hips. No. No fucking way.

And Sam is pissed. It’s his turn. 

So he reluctantly makes do, slamming in even harder— maybe he can just force Nate’s cock out of me— and I feel his chest rising up against my back, levitating me so high that I have to quickly jettison my arm out to wrap around the back of his neck, lest I fall off completely. He doesn’t like to flaunt it, but he’s smart as the devil, manipulative, too. Everything is always a part of his careful planning, and he snickers darkly when I have no other option but to latch onto him for support, the closeness leverage to ram himself in deeper. But even still, Nate stays put.

“It’s my turn— it’s my turn— it’s my turn—it’s my turn—” The pleasure is catastrophic, drilling and curling in tight swirls in the pit of my stomach, and the blood pumps so hard in my ear that I can barely hear Sam’s obsessive mantra, even as it signals every pin-point precisioned hit of his hips against mine. I’m not gonna last much longer, because when I finally do hear it, it turns my willpower to dust. He’s waited so long for this— fucking fifteen years— and the waiting has only made him more eager, more energized, more willing to take what he wants. Somehow, impossibly, I can feel his waiting festering in the darkest depths of my own soul, angry and red and raw— the most painful, unfair thing I’ve ever felt, scratching holes and spreading wildfires where my heart beats with his. And dear god, I’m going to make up for all of it. Sam leans himself higher, hot breath beating open-mouthed and boiled against my skin and forcing my entire body into a tremor. He’s so close, and my positioning so treacherous, I can barely remember that there was once a time when I didn’t trust him. But here, possibly in the only way it really matters, I do. I trust him with my entire goddamn soul.

And he must hear me, he must be a mind-reader, because now he’s winding his palm around my neck and steering me into a brutally wet kiss. My teeth always clash with his— again, zealous— but all it does is make the eventual glide into heavenly bliss that much sweeter. Saaaaam. It’s so easy to forget how soft he can be when he realizes he has the time for it, when he realizes that he doesn’t need to rush anymore. That he never has to rush ever, ever again. And finally, he seems to be realizing that, because he suddenly switches gears into a slow, careful grind.

No way. Is that… patience? From Samuel Drake? I laugh at such an impossibility, what I— and I alone— am able to bring out of him, and he laughs right alongside me, enamored and exalted and sounding freer than he’s ever been before. 

“Jesus, you’d look so fucking cute with a baby bump.”

And back down from heaven, my stomach plummets. Oh god, not this again. He… he’s crazed, he’s intoxicated, he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about. “Wouldn’t she look so fucking cute with a baby bump, Nathan?” Sam’s drunk, he’s babbling, there’s no way he really means it. But my brain’s initial panic withers under what my body truly wants. Free of ego, devoid of all rationality, I—

Wait, wait, wait, wait.

Oh god, what the fuck is that?

...It’s Nathan.

Stirring himself back to life.

But he’s out. He’s drained himself dry. It’s going to hurt. Why… why? 

I’m far too gone to realize the obvious answer.

And he picks back up the pieces, starts slowly grinding into me, too, as I quickly realize that this is what it’s gonna take to make me come. Fucking is the easy part. Getting nailed by some beefy hunks is easy. But making love to my best friends, making each other feel good because the world is too cruel and too small-minded to make enough room for anything beautiful, that’s what’s important. That’s what’s hard.

But my boys are willing to do what’s hard. Because it’s all for me. 

I look up, and sweat glazes down Nate’s handsome face in rivulets, gaze determined and borderline dangerous as they both fuck me within an inch of my life. But while Sam’s pleasure crescendos to a peak— he only gets this loud right before he’s about to finish, groaning and hissing and growling like a feral animal— Nate falls flat back into me and begins whimpering in quiet agony against the gritted line of my jaw. It’s evident that the overstimulation is too much— even jealousy has its physical limits— but he doesn’t give himself permission to let it lie. And the crazy part is: I don’t even try to stop him. 

Everything is so wet, so desperate, I don’t know how any of us are going to make it out alive. 

But unlike most of my experiences with them, it’s not a race to the finish line. Because, for what feels like the first time ever, we have time. Like they want to make it good for me, for however much longer it lasts. Sam is so wonderfully, startlingly gentle, gingerly laying my legs to rest so he can use his strong arms for more important things, namely hugging my body close to his, embracing me, cherishing me, with nimble kisses at the shell of my ear as the powder-sugared coating on top. His tongue laves over my skin like he practices tying cherry stems for fun— and hell, maybe he does— every talent he masters only applicable, only useful, if he can use it to make me happy. 

“I adore you. You know that, right? Jesus, I don’t tell you that enough… fuck, why don’t I tell you that enough—” And his grip tightens exponentially, as if I might float up and away from him forever. 

But maybe a part of him knows that we’re nearing the end. We found Libertalia, accomplished our mission. We did what you came here to do. This should be the end of it, right? How many more precious days did I still have with them, precious nanoseconds preceding my final climax, before Sully takes me up in his rusted Grumman G-21 Goose and away from everything I’ve ever wanted?

And Nate must be thinking the same exact thing, because suddenly, I feel tears against my cheek. 

Oh, Nathan. 

My already breaking heart calls for him, as he tries so hard to make me come. To make this last one as good as humanly possible. Something precious and perfect and persisting to remember him by. As if I could ever forget him. As if I already have to say goodbye.

Maybe it’s the heartache, something deeper and personal, but maybe it’s just the overstimulation he cruelly forces himself to endure. Ripe, unnecessary pain with every dig— a pain I have yet to fully understand the reasoning of, even as my brain and body start to black out in spots. Maybe it’s sweet, selfless, maybe he’s just trying to get me there faster. …But then why not just use his hands? Hell, his mouth even. None of it makes any sense, none of it stands by any reason.

…But maybe that’s not really the point, is it? 

My heart cries out for the man I love: Nathan, sweetie— why the fuck are you doing this to yourself?

It must be painful, my mind warns in desperate empathy. He has to stop, why won’t he stop, what does he possibly stand to gain by torturing himself like this?! 

But then the realization hits me like lightning. 

It’s so obvious, it’s so fucking obvious— how tired he’s been, how protective, how possessive, how little fun he seems to be having on our so-called adventure. How I’ve heard him mumble under his breath, when he thinks nobody else can hear him, how he wants to go home. And the hopeful lilt in my heart at the realization that he’d finally have someone to go home to. 

“Nathan... sweetie, are you trying to get me pregnant…?”

And the answer is so simple that it only takes one word, rolling off his tongue in a needing, seamless whisper. So obvious. So simple. 

“...Mommy.”

He means it. They both mean it.

And Sam chuckles devilishly into the crook of my neck, as if this was their plan all along. 

And suddenly everything, everything, sounds like the word yes. Every call of every bird of paradise, every flutter of a distant palm tree, the sounds of beating ocean waves, the clap of their skin against mine all cries out in the rapturous, whispering sounds of “yes, yes, yes, yes.” 

They don’t want all this to end, either. They want to keep me.

And fuck, yes— I want to keep them, too.

I don’t even remember why or when or how it happens, all I know is that we all come at the exact same time. Together til the very end. How pathetically, wonderfully romantic. 

And when I finally awake from blistering cold and scorching deserts and the farthest reaches of every astral plane and every starward galaxy, the only thing I can feel are my hands in Nate’s hair as he sighs an eternity against my skin… all in the form of a one-syllable name. And soon, I feel Sam’s fingers, too, grazing sweet, swiftly circling my belly with definitively unbridled hope, a chorus of voices whispering from the sea-breezed, chapped space where his lips part and he gives me his promise:

“Next time, next time it’s gonna be mine.”

There’s room for both of them. There was always room for both of them.

There was always room for me.

And somehow, I know that— one day— we’ll find a house with a big enough driveway.

///

The next morning, my body aches from misshapen floorboards, nonexistent cushioning, and the more obvious, less-PG reasons. The time frame spent allowed all three of us to just barely dodge a flagrant sunburn, but still our cheeks remain rosy and sheened, flush yet chilled from ocean waves besetting a post-coital mirth. A childhood crush reciprocated tenfold.  

The relief is hot, spent, and palpitating, like a drug after getting your latest fix— and once clothes have been replaced and jackets exchanged, it’s as if nothing had ever happened at all. The journey always must continue on at some point.

But then, just as we’re about to start off again, from behind the facade of normalcy, Nathan speaks.

“Hey… Butter, I just wanted to tell you that whatever happens, I... I just, no matter what’s... I just … I just wanted to let you know that—“ But it’s too difficult for him, he can’t find the right words. It’s too much, I see it in his eyes, pain, wanting, desire, impossible bravery that he has to magically manifest out of nowhere, somehow all by himself. Something that had once been so easy for him crumbling under a vulnerability he has seemingly never known before. So he stops trying to make the words come right. It’s pointless. Words are never enough with us, and he knows that. He’s finally learned something. 

So he tips over and dips down to place the sweetest, most innocent of kisses to my lips— I feel his love in busted bruises, the taste of honeysuckle, and a hundred thousand secrets told and tucked between nylon tents in the pouring rain, hiding our love in a compassionate thunder— before pulling back with an uncertain shrug, shyness forcing his gaze towards anything but me. He’s so freaking cute. And I know exactly what he means.

“Yeah... I know, Nathan.” I’m in love— and for the very first time, it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Me too.”

He finally looks back at me, features quirking and twisting and falling back down again in an awkward, flailing attempt to form the right words or try to ask if he understood right, but I’m lucky enough to catch the precise moment where fear and uncertainty turn to relief, to joy, to love.

Whatever happens, it’s going to be alright.

“Yeah… yeah. Okay.” 

Maybe the feeling is too overwhelming, blue eyes darting back up to catch sight of a flock of red fodies, or a Eurasian curlew, or a fucking palm tree frond a hundred miles away— but he garners up just enough courage to offer his hand to me, vulnerability making his fingers shake slightly in the light coastal breeze. Admittance. Confession. Release. He’s leaving it all on the table.

And I take it. 

He tries to turn his face, hiding himself from the world, but I can see the way his lips quirk up into a shy, optimistic smile as he interlaces his fingers with mine. I see everything. I see Nathan.

“Okay, team—” My heart leaps when I feel a denim-sleeved arm toss itself around my shoulders, hearty and confident and pulling me in with a light playfulness that always made me feel like a little kid again. Free. Brave. Like anything could happen. The adventure isn’t over just yet. “Time to go pick the spot where they’ll put my statue. Ya know, for being the man who single-handedly discovered the ancient pirate utopia Libertalia and all.” 

Nate squeezes my hand knowingly, and I turn to face him just as he rolls his eyes. But even he can’t help smiling at Sam’s flamboyant hubris.

It’s going to be okay. 

Everything’s going to be okay. 

“Okay, doll, which sounds better: ‘Samuel Drake: Casanova and Adventurer Extraordinaire’ or ‘Samuel Drake: The Greatest Treasure Hunter of All Time’ ?”

“How about ‘Samuel Drake: Hung Stud Who Needs a Fucking Shower’?” I suggest through grinning teeth.

“Mmmmm, you’re so smart.” And Sam immediately starts peppering the side of my face with bristled kisses. I can’t help giggling when he nuzzles into the crook of my neck, tickling and cruel and so shameless that it morphs my chortles into a full-bellied laugh. The way they wring joy from my tiny, beaten, anxious form is all-encompassing, indescribable, and something I’d never trade for all the pirate gold in the world.

“You know, I’m pretty sure only one half of that sentence is true. And it’s definitely not the first part– OW! ” Nathan’s cut off with a curt smack to the back of the head and his well-timed quip immediately strikes out. “Hey!” 

And when Sam starts laughing, I start laughing, and when I start laughing, Nate starts laughing, and then we all start laughing— and everything is okay.

I hug Nate’s hand to mine and breathe the moment in. The ease, the joy, a passion, an excitement, a playfulness, a courage, a freedom— a part of myself that I had locked away long ago in the trunk of a pitch black station wagon next to the husk of an old childhood friend, taken from me far too young, my heart stolen on a cruel joyride and thought never to be seen again. But I thought wrong. Because I saw it. I see it. I see it in Sam’s mischievously twinkling eye when I burn my first cigarette with a long-haired coworker in the back parking lot of a hauntingly bright city night. I see it in Nate’s gentle hands and yearning blues when he whispers that I have a funny idea of romantic, body yielding trusting and kind under mine. That somehow my bold, brash, and masculine could deserve his soft, safe, and beautiful. And I knew it was really me he was saying it all to. 

“Be brave,” Even when he’s away, I hear Nate’s soothing baritone and smell his vanilla sandalwood and feel his faded leather, tender, warming, simple love hovering high at my back— on the bus, in the boat, in the supply closet, in my bed, hiding behind trees between the bridge of my gun and certain absolute death, wherever my tears fall and only I am there to catch them. “She already is,” Sam murmurs certainly.

I breathe them both in. And I love them. And I am grateful.

A part of me is uncertain and sad, but I can’t help smiling. Maybe our time is scarce, our love fragile and precious like sand speeding down an hourglass vial, or like a different metaphor if I was older, wiser to craft a better one, when I’m older and wiser to craft a better one… and somehow I know, one day, I will be. 

But maybe it isn’t, and maybe it’s not.

Because for now, for when it really matters, I hold them both in my hands— Sam reaches for my free palm just as Nate moves in to press a tender kiss to my cheek— and I feel nothing but gratitude. 

Grateful for how much fun I’ve had. Grateful for the brown pleather jackets in my closet. Grateful that I’m learning how to shoot a gun. Grateful for how they’ve shown me love every chance they could. Grateful they’ve given me dreams I didn’t even know I had. Grateful they’ve taught me that I’m not so different from them as I thought. Grateful for what they’ve left me with. Grateful for who they’ve left me as.

And as we set off for New Devon, and I feel their hands in mine, I suddenly realize, that finally:

I’m the one taking the lead.

And maybe, just maybe, there’ll come a day where I have no reason to fear becoming a mom.