(A/N - i tried to write wingsex but ended up with nothing but angst. i may end up writing the wingsex later, b/c caleb/yasha deserves more content, but, for now, i hope this fill works.)
After twenty two minutes and thirty seven seconds of trying to go to sleep, he finds himself standing outside of Yasha's room. His hand hovers, against the door, but he finds himself knocking anyways, gently.
She answers quick enough that he knows she was not yet asleep. Her eyes look at him. No, they don't look at him, they are fixated on the wings, sprouted from his back.
They curl in as close as they can, tightening in some attempt to be smaller, to hide from view. It is an unconcious movement, the things seem to respond to even the faintest hint of emotion, none of the tight control he claims over the rest of his body.
The hallway is silent, for several moments.
"I can not sleep," he says, finally. It is not entirely what he means to say, but the message comes across, at least.
Yasha closes the door to her room behind her. He takes her cue, and he returns to his room, and the only sound is that of her footsteps behind him, and he can feel the weight of her gaze upon him.
"Lie down," she says, and he does, leaning back into the far too extravagant softness of the bed. "Not like that," she says, almost instantly. "On your chest."
It strikes him as almost silly. He turns over, to lie down upon his chest, face buried against the pillow. He shifts, his head to the side, to try and see Yasha, as she sits down beside him.
"You need new shirts," she says. The one he wears now is the same he was wearing when the wings had sprouted on his back, and the rough holes have started to wear down, against their movement.
"Hopefully," he says, "these shall be gone before that becomes necessary."
He can only half see her face, but her frown is clear.
"Do you want them gone?" she asks. He can not read the emotion in her voice. Yasha is difficult to read in the best of circumstances.
But he knows, some, about angels and aasimar. He knows what wings must mean to her, having seen the dark, skeletal ones that she bears, against her back.
"I do not deserve them," he tells her. The words are soft enough that he is not quite certain she can hear them, and he does not know, whether he wants her too or not, not fully.
Yasha looks at him, gently. "They are yours," she says, "whether you deserve them or not."
She presses a hand into the center of his back, hard, and he feels himself being forced down against the bed, for a moment, freezes up, but then he feels the movement of her hands, massaging muscle that hadn't existed, days before, her hands, strong and gentle. It has been a very long time since he has been touched like this. He can not help, but melt against her hands.
"They are not true wings," he says. "Not like- they are a magical misfire. They could have happened to anyone. It is only unlucky chance, that they are mine."
"Fate gave them to you," she says. "It is a sign."
"I am the least among us," he tells her.
Her hands pause, and he can still feel them, through his shirt. She has shifted, her face entirely out of his view, now. He tenses, and almost sits up, but the hands resting on his back are still enough to hold him down.
"Yasha," he says, to the emptiness, waiting for a response.
"You need to take better care of them," she says. He can feel her hands shift, letting up from his back. "Will you let me touch them?"
He nods, and it takes a moment, before he realizes that she can not see the movement, his head pressed down and hidden. "Ja," He manages to choke out, finally.
Her hands gently maneuver one of the wings, gently stretching it up, so that it fully extends into the air above. He lets her take control with no complaint, does nothing but try to stay perfectly still.
Only some of what she does, he can feel. Fingers running over the top, gentle tugs and preening. He is grateful for how little she hovers over the areas he can feel, the skin fresh and sensitive in ways he can't quite handle. Even those light touches, the gentle maneuvers, are enough to send him shiverng.
He keeps the wing aloft, where she had set it, keeps it as still and unmoving as he can manage, to not hit her, to let her do this, to not acknowledge how much it is affecting him.
This is for her. He can tell, how hard this hits her. Her eyes have not left the wings since they sprouted from his back. It is an emptiness, he figures. If this is what she needs, to care for wings once again, for all that they are a sign of what he knows she must have lost. Of what he has lost as well, of what he never had.
The room is quiet, only the sounds of the wings shifting involuntarily, of Yasha's breathing, slow and calm, and his own, rushed but softening, muffled into the bed. Underneath her breath, he catches her humming, and when he gives no reaction, keeps still and lets her pull at the wings to maneuver them into position, the hum becomes her voice, gentle and singing in Celestial.
At some point, before Yasha leaves, he falls asleep, to hands gently grooming wings, to his body's inevitable surrender into darkness, to the lilting sound of a lullaby, to an overwhelming sense of peace.
His dreams are still full of fire. They were never to be anything else.
Fill: Angel's Lullaby (Caleb/Yasha, T, wingfic)
After twenty two minutes and thirty seven seconds of trying to go to sleep, he finds himself standing outside of Yasha's room. His hand hovers, against the door, but he finds himself knocking anyways, gently.
She answers quick enough that he knows she was not yet asleep. Her eyes look at him. No, they don't look at him, they are fixated on the wings, sprouted from his back.
They curl in as close as they can, tightening in some attempt to be smaller, to hide from view. It is an unconcious movement, the things seem to respond to even the faintest hint of emotion, none of the tight control he claims over the rest of his body.
The hallway is silent, for several moments.
"I can not sleep," he says, finally. It is not entirely what he means to say, but the message comes across, at least.
Yasha closes the door to her room behind her. He takes her cue, and he returns to his room, and the only sound is that of her footsteps behind him, and he can feel the weight of her gaze upon him.
"Lie down," she says, and he does, leaning back into the far too extravagant softness of the bed. "Not like that," she says, almost instantly. "On your chest."
It strikes him as almost silly. He turns over, to lie down upon his chest, face buried against the pillow. He shifts, his head to the side, to try and see Yasha, as she sits down beside him.
"You need new shirts," she says. The one he wears now is the same he was wearing when the wings had sprouted on his back, and the rough holes have started to wear down, against their movement.
"Hopefully," he says, "these shall be gone before that becomes necessary."
He can only half see her face, but her frown is clear.
"Do you want them gone?" she asks. He can not read the emotion in her voice. Yasha is difficult to read in the best of circumstances.
But he knows, some, about angels and aasimar. He knows what wings must mean to her, having seen the dark, skeletal ones that she bears, against her back.
"I do not deserve them," he tells her. The words are soft enough that he is not quite certain she can hear them, and he does not know, whether he wants her too or not, not fully.
Yasha looks at him, gently. "They are yours," she says, "whether you deserve them or not."
She presses a hand into the center of his back, hard, and he feels himself being forced down against the bed, for a moment, freezes up, but then he feels the movement of her hands, massaging muscle that hadn't existed, days before, her hands, strong and gentle. It has been a very long time since he has been touched like this. He can not help, but melt against her hands.
"They are not true wings," he says. "Not like- they are a magical misfire. They could have happened to anyone. It is only unlucky chance, that they are mine."
"Fate gave them to you," she says. "It is a sign."
"I am the least among us," he tells her.
Her hands pause, and he can still feel them, through his shirt. She has shifted, her face entirely out of his view, now. He tenses, and almost sits up, but the hands resting on his back are still enough to hold him down.
"Yasha," he says, to the emptiness, waiting for a response.
"You need to take better care of them," she says. He can feel her hands shift, letting up from his back. "Will you let me touch them?"
He nods, and it takes a moment, before he realizes that she can not see the movement, his head pressed down and hidden. "Ja," He manages to choke out, finally.
Her hands gently maneuver one of the wings, gently stretching it up, so that it fully extends into the air above. He lets her take control with no complaint, does nothing but try to stay perfectly still.
Only some of what she does, he can feel. Fingers running over the top, gentle tugs and preening. He is grateful for how little she hovers over the areas he can feel, the skin fresh and sensitive in ways he can't quite handle. Even those light touches, the gentle maneuvers, are enough to send him shiverng.
He keeps the wing aloft, where she had set it, keeps it as still and unmoving as he can manage, to not hit her, to let her do this, to not acknowledge how much it is affecting him.
This is for her. He can tell, how hard this hits her. Her eyes have not left the wings since they sprouted from his back. It is an emptiness, he figures. If this is what she needs, to care for wings once again, for all that they are a sign of what he knows she must have lost. Of what he has lost as well, of what he never had.
The room is quiet, only the sounds of the wings shifting involuntarily, of Yasha's breathing, slow and calm, and his own, rushed but softening, muffled into the bed. Underneath her breath, he catches her humming, and when he gives no reaction, keeps still and lets her pull at the wings to maneuver them into position, the hum becomes her voice, gentle and singing in Celestial.
At some point, before Yasha leaves, he falls asleep, to hands gently grooming wings, to his body's inevitable surrender into darkness, to the lilting sound of a lullaby, to an overwhelming sense of peace.
His dreams are still full of fire. They were never to be anything else.