#vannat

The cabin has long been set aflame. 

Nights are colder. Wind is harsher. Snow seems to pile up more frequently. The only thing audible in the forest is the crackling of old flames and the shuffling of people trying to rebuild—for a second time—what they've lost.

Everyone's been sleeping in shifts. Someone is always with their eyes open, trying to ensure that no stray wolf packs or bears appear and set things back to square one.

That's happened too many times already.

Tonight, it's Nat and Travis on watch.

They aren't technically dating anymore. No, loss after loss hasn't really put anyone in a mood for a relationship, least of all the two people whom the burden of Javi's death has weighed the most heavily on. Despite not being together romantically, it's undeniable that they still care heavily about each other to some extent. 

Nat's sitting on a chair they ripped from the airplane, staring into the cabin fire that's been actively burning for the past eight days and eight nights. She doesn't say anything as Travis approaches and sits beside her with a grunt, doesn't even acknowledge him. They've entered a flow-state the past few days, working together wordlessly.

But then Travis exhales sharply through his nose, and she spares him an understanding glance. "You alright?" It's a lame attempt at conversation, and she knows that, but neither of them are the type of people who talk about their emotions.

 "Yeah," he lies through his teeth, brushing some snow off his shoulder as the axe he was carrying drops to the ground. "Found this while I was checking the perimeter earlier." He reaches into the pocket of the hunter's jacket that he's made his own and pulls out a singular condom with a sardonic smile. "Like some joke."

She snorts despite herself, pinching the foil between her cracked and frozen fingers. "Definitely some joke. Can't even use it now." She flicks it into the fire, barely even flinching at the sudden pop of flame. "What's the point of having a lubed condom if the water-based lube is frozen?"

A beat.

Both of their faces return to the look of impassiveness they've been carrying since the snow fell months ago. 

"Not like I could even… get pregnant right now, anyway. Haven't had my period in…" She lets her sentence trail off, exhaling slowly in sheer exhaustion. 

Travis doesn't respond to that with words, just glances at the fire alongside her for another few moments in the relative silence.

Then they lock eyes again.

No words are exchanged. He just places his hand over hers, and his fingers curl around hers with a tenderness no one has had time for recently, least of all them. But, Nat knows better than anyone that this isn't a display of compassion or understanding—it's a question. One that he already knows the answer to.

After all, they've always coped the same way—carefully coordinated destruction disguised as a breakdown.

Nat nods. Leads them away from camp and towards a clearing, far enough away that no light reaches them but the reflection of the sun on the moon. They don't bother stripping past what they need to. Travis undoes the button on his jeans as Nat props herself on a rock and shimmies her pants down to her knees, not even making an offering for foreplay as Travis grunts and moves behind her. 

It's not romantic or sensual. It's barely even sexual. 

(It doesn't help that Travis doesn't really have any positive sexual experience, and has no idea what he's doing, but that's a story for a different day.)

Nat faces away when Travis begins working his way in, wincing at the sudden intrusion with no warm-up. Travis must feel her discomfort, however minor, because he does pause for a second and rest his hand on her hip, gently rubbing circles that she can't feel through the thick leather of her jacket. She waves his hand off, both a dismissal of his concern and a silent get on with it.

He shrugs his hand back and does just that, gradually rocking himself in and out of her until their hips press flush together, and he takes a second to get his stance right before continuing. It's clumsy and rushed, but it does its job all the same. 

The rock is cold under Nat's hands. She's not really focusing on the feeling of Travis rutting into her like some animal without thought. Rather, the way the gusts of wind bite at her exposed thighs, or the snow that wasn't removed from the rock dampening the fabric of her pants, or the way her breath fogs in the air.

Eventually, to Travis's credit, he does find a pace that doesn't necessarily feel like punishment, and lets out a quiet sound of approval at the barely-there pleasure. Nat feels it too, but in minuscule bursts that feel fleeting and half-baked. "Yeah," he whispers, more to himself than her. "Fuck, Nat." 

Nat's jaw tightens at the use of her name. She's not sure if he's saying it to remind himself that he's still present in this moment or just to be cute, but it isn't as romantic as it would have been once upon a time. Her knuckles ache from bracing against the rough surface of the stone. Each thrust sends a jolt through her body, but not the kind that makes her toes curl—it's the dull thud of impact, the kind that leaves more bruises than memories. 

Travis groans again on his next thrust into her waiting heat, louder this time, the sound breaking into the night air like it was impossible to keep in. His thrusting grows more intentional as he bends over her and presses his lips to her neck, a bad attempt at trying to make it romantic.

She doesn't push him away this time. She lets him have these attempts at forgetting that this encounter is anything but a transaction. His hips stutter, pace faltering as he gets closer to release, chasing something she can't quite feel. Nat lets him take, and she waits out the inevitable in silence.

Then there's a sudden loss of skin against hers, and Travis is wrapping his hand around his length in a frantic, uncontrolled motion. It only takes a few strokes before he spills across the snow next to Nat's boots, and everything slams back into reality. They're still trapped in the middle of nowhere, still starving, still barely getting by. 

Nat doesn't turn around when she pulls her pants back up with stiff and aching fingers, tugging her jacket tighter around her shoulders as she stares directly ahead at the treeline. Travis fumbles with his zipper behind her, muttering out a "Thanks," as he looks over her, neither of them commenting about how Nat didn't get off.

She waves him away with a simple "Yeah, sure," and cracks her knuckles as they begin the trek back to camp.

They don't speak about it again.

The following morning, Nat and Shauna are moving some supplies to the new site they've decided to make their temporary home. They haven't spoken the entire walk there, and they don't meet eyes as Nat lights a small fire next to where they're setting up the groundwork for a future hut. 

There's a quiet between them that's heavier than usual. They've never been best friends, sure, but they've never been enemies either. When Nat sits on a log next to the fire for a brief break, Shauna joins her, sitting adjacent to her with little ceremony.

"How was watch last night?" Shauna asks, just some conversation to fill the constant silence.

Nat grunts. "Fine. Nothing happened."

"Shocker."

Shauna doesn't try to continue the conversation. Just tenses her jaw and moves her hand to Nat's knee, a silent question—the same one Travis had asked last night. 

The answer is the same, but the method is different. 

This time, it's clear that Shauna is the priority here. She doesn't even attempt to get Nat off.

Nat doesn't mind. She lets Shauna maneuver her hand to the waistband of her cargo pants while the fingers of her free hand dig into the frozen bark of the log she's sitting on. Shauna isn't exactly wet, and it'll likely take longer to get her off than Travis, but she's no stranger to getting chicks off.

So, Nat does what she knows how to—closes her eyes and pretends they're anywhere else but here. Shauna's heat provides Nat's fingers a welcome respite from the cold, and there's no hesitation as she begins tracing them through Shauna's folds, trying to encourage some slickness before giving up with the teasing and just going right to her clit. Her middle and ring fingers circle the bundle of nerves steadily, imagining it's the filter of a joint rolling between her finger tips, muscle memory taking over any small fragments of desire that might still linger.

She imagines the cold air that freezes her lungs is the draw of smoke from a perfectly wrapped blunt, the wetness is staining her fingers just a product of terpenes and saliva. It's better this way—to feel nothing. To pretend she's in Kevyn's basement, or some garage with her elbows deep in an engine, or anywhere else with her lungs burning and her hands busy. It's better just to be a machine, her fingers moving in and out with practiced ease, her mind miles away.

But even a machine has its limits.

A soft gasp tears through the oppressive silence, and Nat's eyes fly open as Shauna's head rolls back. Shauna's eyes are closed, face contorted as though she's imagining someone else doing this to her—and Nat doesn't blame her. This isn't exactly the ideal scenario. It's far from the sound that smoking a blunt would provide—it's the sound of a girl who's been starved for touch finally getting it, even if it wasn't who she wanted to receive it from. And in that moment, all of Nat's carefully crafted fantasies crumble, leaving her exposed to the elements. Her hand is still between Shauna's legs, but the illusion is shattered. 

Nat isn't sure how long it takes for Shauna to reach her climax; all she knows is that Shauna digs her nails into Nat's wrist hard enough that it draws blood, and the sharp stinging sensation that shoots up her arm feels more like penance than anything else.

Shauna grunts out something that sounds like thanks, but it's hard to tell with how quickly she removes Nat's hand from her pants and stands up from the log, stomping out the fire that Nat didn't even realise was dying.

"Let's go. We need to bring those chairs over," Shauna says, already walking off to the path they had marked back to the cabin's remains. 

"Yeah." Nat wipes her fingers on the fabric of her pants, frowning at how the slick immediately freezes and clings to her like dried-on glue. 

Nat doesn't mention that Shauna definitely thought of Jackie. Shauna doesn't mention how Nat thought of literally anything other than her hand down her pants. 

Lottie is different than the others when it comes to this. 

She approaches Nat like she knows that things have been especially rough recently, and that Nat's been pushing herself harder than anyone else—punishing herself harder than anyone else. Her hands are soft when they come to rest gently on the shoulders of the one wearing the crown, and Lottie guides Nat to sit on a plane chair.

"You've been pushing yourself. Trying to keep the peace while sacrificing yourself. I see it. It isn't healthy," Lottie murmurs, gently pushing Nat's bangs out of her face. 

Nat shifts awkwardly, batting away Lottie's hand. "Yeah, well, starving and freezing ain't exactly that healthy, either." 

"We can't survive on just food and water alone. You know this." Lottie presses her lips to Nat's forehead in a gentle display of care that Nat doesn't know if she deserves right now, but she doesn't push her away. Despite being the pragmatic of the two, she understands Lottie's need to cling to faith—to find something higher to believe in. Even if Nat has long given up belief in a higher power.

Lottie's hands are soft as they pop the button of Nat's pants and work them down her waist, and her words come out in a reverent whisper, "You're something sacred."

Nat lets herself believe Lottie for a fleeting second. She lets herself believe that Lottie stripping her from the waist down is something more than just a transaction. If they were back home, and things were still normal, maybe this is something Nat would have initiated after a soccer practice, or something Lottie would have prompted during a drive back from a party. 

Today, the feeling of Lottie's fingers parting Nat's thighs doesn't make her feel giddy or even relieved. If anything, Lottie's lips gently walking up Nat's thighs makes her jaw tense and lips morph into a strained frown.

"You lead with a fair hand, but your need to feel useful blinds you from what you actually need."

Nat lets out a shaky breath and turns her head to the side as tears begin to prick at the corners of her eyes. "I don't need a… shaman, Lott. I just need…"

"You need to let yourself have something that doesn't feel like suffering, Nat," Lottie finishes for her, gently pressing her middle finger into Nat's—surprisingly—welcoming cunt. Nat jolts a little at the intrusion, not from pain, but from how careful it is. Lottie moves slow—agonizingly slow—like she's tracing scripture into her. Her finger curls gently, drawing out a quiet gasp that Nat bites back with her teeth pressed hard into her lip.

"You don't have to hold it in," Lottie whispers, leaning forward to press a kiss just above Nat's navel, as if sanctifying her body with each and every touch. "Not with me. Not ever."

Nat's eyes screw shut when the first tear falls. She hates the way her body betrays her, arching up ever so slightly to meet Lottie's hand, chasing something she's not supposed to admit she wants.

Lottie hums softly as her tongue swipes across Nat's clit, adding a second finger when Nat presses a hand over her mouth—still denying that she's allowed to feel good.

"Lott—" her voice cracks, low and hoarse, like the sound was pulled directly from somewhere deep in her soul.

It's different. So much different than the previous encounters in this strange role she's found herself in. Lottie touches her like she's more than just a body to burn through, more than just a means to an end. "Just let your pain open you to this moment."

Nat presses her hand to her mouth, but it can't contain the sobs that break loose, can't disguise how she trembles as Lottie takes her apart. 

When she comes, it's with one hand fisted in Lottie's hair and one hand firmly planted over her own mouth. Reluctant pleasure rips through her body as Lottie's fingers start to slow, letting Nat ride out her orgasm before the clarity that follows shows itself.

They clean up in silence.

Lottie helps Nat put her pants back on and get herself back in order, gently swiping the frozen tears from Nat's cheeks in the aftermath. For once in her life, Nat lets someone else dote on her. And when Lottie whispers, gently, as though she cares, "You'll be the reason we find rescue. Don't let yourself get lost on the way," Nat doesn't tell her to shove her woo-woo bullshit where the sun doesn't shine. She just nods, smiles sadly, and gets back to work.

They still have a winter to survive.

It doesn't stop after that day. If anything, the rate at which it happens increases.

The next time it happens, Nat is setting up a hut with Tai and Van at the new campsite. Everyone else is travelling between locations, transferring the last of their supplies to where they'll be staying from here on out. 

Nat makes some bad joke about how all the huts they've built won't do shit in the rain, that they'll all be constantly soaked during a storm, but no one laughs. 

When she looks up, Tai and Van are staring at her with contemplative expressions that make an uneasy feeling rake down Nat's spine. She knows what they want, and she does nothing to stop it when they flank her, fumbling with Nat's clothes like she owes them something.

Maybe she does. She's supposed to be the one leading them and encouraging survival, but it's hard to feel in control when everything that's happened is out of your control. She owes the group survival, and if the group decides that their survival is dependent on tearing Nat apart piece by piece until there's nothing left, then she'll let them. 

There's little shelter out here, and the air is still cold enough to cause frostbite within thirty minutes if you're not careful, but that doesn't stop the wandering hands that explore Nat's body—they just adapt to the surroundings. The touch is needy, frantic, but without the usual heat of desire. It's more like consumption, and Nat lets them consume her—because it's what they believe they need to survive.

She had no fight left in her. The joke about the huts was a weak attempt to feel normal, a fleeting spark of her old self that had gone out the second it left her mouth. She was exhausted—hollowed out by the constant state of survival, the weight of leadership she never asked for. The guilt of Javi, of all the dead and dying, was a stone in her gut. That stone is the reason she doesn't stop their hands when they come for her.

Van's the first to act, their touch fumbling and hesitant as they worked to push their hands underneath the fabric of Nat's frayed shirt. There's no gentleness or care; it was the same way Van would unwrap a piece of jerky—quick and without thought. Tai's touch is more purposeful, her fingers finding the hem of Nat's jeans and pulling them down with a single tug.

When Nat's guided onto a thin piece of fabric they're calling a bed, she lets herself fall onto the ground without grace. Van is the one who straddles Nat's thigh, and Tai is the one who makes herself comfortable on Nat's face. 

Nat lets it happen.

At least Van is putting some effort into making sure Nat gets off, with their knee slotted firmly against Nat's center as they roll their hips down into her thigh—Tai just seems interested in completing the whole thing like it's some transaction, like she isn't all there as it happens. 

Time moves both too fast and too slow.

Van is the first to climax, growling like the wolf that had once ripped a hole in her face. Tai is quieter when she comes, the only indication that she's finished being the sudden pulsating of her pussy on Nat's tongue and the cessation of her hips rocking on Nat's face. 

They readjust their clothes in silence, and Van helps Nat to her feet with a shaky hand and shifting eyes, like they're unable to accept what they had just done.

"Thanks," Van murmurs, glancing at a pile of logs. "Guess we got soaked a little early, huh?"

It's a cheap attempt at a joke, but it does earn a small, hollow laugh from Nat. "Yeah. Guess we did."

Nat hasn't slept much since the cabin fire went out. They've fully settled at the new location, everyone in their designated huts, but they don't do much to fight the chill. Nat's lit a small fire in hers, careful not to catch on any of the logs that make up her housing, and stares into it like it'll provide her with answers.

It doesn't. It never does. 

Misty stops by the Antler Queen's teepee before she falls asleep that night, lingering awkwardly by the entrance like she's waiting for permission to enter.

Nat just looks at her with a blank expression. "How do you want me?" she asks, like she's already resigned herself to this role. 

Misty doesn't answer with words. Instead, she slowly steps inside, the cold air following her.

Her touch isn't as frantic or desperate as the others'. It's measured—almost methodical—as she reaches for Nat's hand, uncurling the stiff fingers and gently massaging the blood back into them. Her gaze is clinical, like she's still relying on her babysitter first aid training even now, but there's something else there, too. A quiet need for connection or a desperate desire to be a part of something, even if it's just taking pieces of Nat like they were never hers to begin with.

It isn't about sex or hunger for Misty. It's about being seen—and, like Nat, about feeling useful. 

And, for Nat, in this moment of sheer exhaustion and resignation, it's about being needed for something other than her body's strength. She doesn't have to pretend or dissociate—she just has to let Misty take care of her, if only for a few moments.

This time, Nat's the one murmuring out a weak "Thanks," as Misty goes to leave.

Misty just smiles back at Nat, as if she were happy to be of assistance. 

There's a strange rhythm to it now.

No one asks or checks in with Nat first; they just take. And, well, Nat lets them. 

Mari takes her turn, Shauna comes back for more, Travis passes her a canteen before undoing his zipper, and even Robin—the same girl who cried when she got a mosquito bite—has her fill.

But there's one person who hasn't.

You.

You sit by the fire one night after everyone else has gone asleep, staring into it like you're watching some Stone Age TV. And, when Nat sits down next to you, she almost expects you to take what you want from her as well.

When all you do is stare into the fire, she's the one who prompts it. "You want something too?"

"You don't have to let them," you mutter, poking the flames with a stick. 

Nat laughs at that. Not necessarily bitter, but just tired.

"I know. I want to."

A beat.

"Feels good, I guess. Being wanted. Being useful."

You take her hand in silence, thumb gently rubbing circles into her palm like it'll bring Nat back from the torment she's confined herself to.

"If you ask, I'll still say yes, y'know," Nat murmurs, gently nudging your shoulder with hers, as though she can't fathom the idea of someone not wanting her for flesh and flesh alone.

You don't ask that question.

The one you do ask, Nat couldn't have seen coming even if you gave her a heads-up. "You wanna get some sleep? If you stay in my hut tonight, I don't think anyone'll bother you."

Nat blinks. Hesitates. Internally debates the pros and cons…

"Yeah," she replies eventually, your hands still joined together. "I think I'd like some sleep."

So you go back to your hut together. Nat lets herself be held for something more than just sex and consumption. You hold her like she's still a person underneath the walls and layers she's put up.

Things will go back to normal tomorrow. You'll squeeze her hand in the morning, tell her that she's doing the best she can, and she'll lie and say she believes you as someone else takes another piece of her.

And the cycle repeats.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown of the Antler Queen.