Welcome To The Shitshow

“You guess?” You ask, rubbing the space between your eyebrows with your fingers. The two more sober men lead Bob into your bedroom, half-dragging him. They lay him down on your shared bed with a softened thump that has him groaning on top of the sheets. “I can’t believe you guys.”

Bob went out with the rest of the squad for some coworker’s promotion celebration, and he promised to come home perfectly sober, as always. He doesn’t even need to promise, if you’re being honest, because that’s just how he is; the most levelheaded person in the room. He would stay until it was socially acceptable for an acquaintance to leave, then he would head home and help you cook dinner to your favorite old school tunes. You never expected to see him shitfaced at 12:29 AM.

Javy shakes his head as he steps around you, taking Jake for a clean escape. “We tried to warn him. I hope he feels better in the morning, but until then, we’re gonna have to leave him with you.”

You sigh, eyebrows just as pinched as they were before. For the first time ever, you’re scared that Bob is going to die in his sleep, and the thought frustrates you to no end. “Thanks. It’s so great that he’s drunk out of his mind, but I have to give you credit for getting him here in one piece.” Your tone is sarcastic enough to get the two men cringing in shame, but you also know that without them, he might still be at that party.

Jake pats you on the shoulder. “Good luck, soldier. You’ll need it.”

With that, Javy and Jake walk out of your bedroom, past your living room, and out of your house like they couldn’t wait to leave. As you hear them close the door, you look down at your husband.

He’s still conscious, thankfully. His eyes are slightly unfocused, he’s blushing like a madman, and he’s groaning lightly, but he’s not completely gone yet. You brush the damp hair away from his forehead and he whines just a bit.

“Wife.”

You quirk your eyebrow in confusion. “Yes?”

“I… have a wife. Y’ can’t touch me like that.” He mumbles. It feels like he’s looking past you. Despite everything, you feel like laughing.

You adjust his glasses on his face and lean over him a little more, fully in his field of vision. “I am your wife.”

His eyes widen like he’s seeing you for the first time, and he smiles crookedly. He tries to sit up, but only manages to prop himself up on one arm as he takes in the sight of your face. “S’ pretty. You’re really my wife? My girl?” In combination with the slurred words of someone down in the cups, the slight southern accent he took so much time to push away is coming back as he speaks to you.

“Yes.” You confirm, kissing him on the cheek. He somehow smiles even wider and reaches out to touch the apples of your cheeks.

“Love you. I missed you.” He mumbles. “Spent that whole party wonderin’ when I could see you again.” He flops back down onto the springy mattress, throwing his arms up. He moves with the precision of a toddler, his limbs seemingly coated in lead. He almost smacks the glasses off his face as he motions to you with grabby hands.

“I missed you too, honey. Can we get you into your pajamas? I’m sure you don’t want to sleep in jeans and a polo.” As you ask that question, his fingers are already attempting to pull the shirt off of his body. It doesn’t work very well, considering he’s still laying down, but you appreciate the effort. “Sit up, my love.”

He sits up, winking at you heavily. It’s more like a slow blink with how long it takes him to do it. “Can’t wait to get me naked?”

A laugh escapes your mouth, and you smother the rest of your giggles with the heel of your palm as you gaze at his slightly crestfallen face. He’s funny when drunk, apparently, even when he isn’t trying to be. It’s like seeing him completely unhinged with none of his usual, careful filters. “Sure. You need to be in some state of undress to get your pajamas on, anyways.”

His face falls into a slight pout as you help him unbutton the top of his polo and slide it up his chest. He seems to notice how your hands hesitate when meeting the warm, taut skin of his abs, and the pout fades instantly. “Like it?”

“I always do.” You hum. He does have a great body, one that you’ve found to be extraordinarily hot. Strong arms, tight muscles, and yet a gentleness in the way his hands hold yours. Right now, though, it’s a bit of a problem as you’re attempting to get his jeans off. He’s still sitting, and you think you could lift weights for ten years and not be able to pull them out from under him. “Can you stand, Bobby?”

“Gladly.” He sings. You help him stand, supporting a bit of his weight. He seems to find a little bit of his footing as his other arm presses into the wall, allowing the both of you to shimmy his pants down his legs and kick them to some unknown corner of the room.

You gather his neatly folded pajamas, a soft shirt and some plaid flannel pants, and help him put them on. Luckily for you, he’s been revitalized by your touch and is a little more helpful now. He’s still moving awkwardly and shifting around like he’s constantly trying to get his balance straightened out, but it’s better than nothing. It would be hell to get him to do anything other than dress, though, so you settle for just getting him in bed. His dental hygiene routine will have to wait.

You lay him back down after he’s dressed and pull the blankets up to his chin, kissing his forehead gently and tucking his glasses in your dresser drawer. You’re already ready for the night (the perks of thinking he would come home three hours ago), so you slip in bed next to him. He immediately pulls you into his arms, his body comfortingly warm. He’s always run just a little hot, which is amazing on cooler nights like this.

He sighs contentedly before moving to stare directly into your eyes. “Y’know,” he starts, “I can’t sleep without your arms ‘round me, and your legs ‘round me, and you breathing all sweet on my neck. ‘M up all night when I’m deployed, at first anyways. My carrier roommates hate it.”

You shift just enough as to where your body is clutching on to him as tight as possible, and he hums in relief. It’s like the little tension that he was holding dissipated entirely. “I’m sorry, baby. That must be hard.” You soothe.

“Payback gave me his pillow once so I could wrap it in my arms, but it didn’t help. He threatened to ‘come up there n’ cuddle me himself’ if I didn’t stop moving.” He scrunches his eyes closed at the memory. You do your best to suppress another bout of laughter, but he makes it even harder when he shivers like he isn’t covered in three layers of blankets and you.

“Did he ever follow through?” You ask, pressing your lips together to stop from smiling. Bob shakes his head.

“Thank god he didn’t.” He utters. You turn to shove your face into your pillow to muffle your expressions. He just keeps his eyes closed, completely unaware of the fact that you’re losing it next to him.

When you finally come up for air, he is drifting in and out of sleep. “Love ya. G’night.” He whispers. It’s so soft that you almost start laughing again.

“Good night, Bobby. Love you too.” You say, kissing his cheek. You click off the lamp on your bedside table and snuggle deeper into his grasp.

He’s going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning. At least he’ll have his wife, breakfast in bed, and an aspirin to take care of him.

The slow descent begins when he wakes that next morning, having pierced his pillow sometime during the night. He’s a good sport about it. Shares a laugh with Karlach, says something about sleeping on the ground from now on, pleads with Astarion to sew up the hole for him.

But you see it. The drained light from his good eye, the sag of his shoulders as he picks through his coin purse to uphold his end of the deal.

When he thinks nobody is looking, he observes himself. The wretched thickness of claws where fingernails once grew; the sharp, jutting edges of high cheekbones; the weight of those horns, an ever-reminder of what his gallant sacrifice so kindly gifted him in return: mockery.

On the surface, between epidermis and soul itself, not much has changed. He’s still him, but lesser now. More prone to wayward thought, to silence than before. Such is the bane of resolve, of unfair consequence, you suppose.

From your place by the fire, you watch him at his tent, engrossed in some dusty adventure novel he found in the last dilapidated ruin. The night’s gone on long enough, yet your companions fail to sleep. Thoughts plague each of you, unique in their manifestations, but you feel them. Every sharp strike of fear, the simmer of anger, the cool wash of dread.

The tadpole squirms inside your head, and the sticky spill of alcohol coats your lap as your hands shoot to both throbbing temples. Its presence always consumes you, the midnight loom of death. Inevitability.

Perched nearby on the log, Karlach calls out, an outsider’s worry licking up the back of your skull. “Alright, soldier?”

A few moments of eye-gouging pain before relief finds you with a weary huff. “Nothing more than a headache,” you say, sitting your emptied tankard on the packed dirt at your feet.

“No, I get it.” Her gaze shifts to the sopping wet state of your robe, head tilting in pity. “Waste of a good pint, though.”

You like Karlach. She’s strong and skilled, could light up a pitch-dark room with her commentary. And she cares, in a way none of your other companions do. Without all the flimsy strings attached. Craves connection in a way that none of you can fathom: the physicality of existence itself.

You glance at Wyll once again to find his fingers tracing the base of a horn, almost subconscious in their slow trek over the jagged skin as his eyes focus on the page. The temptation to delve into his mind, his thoughts in particular, proves tantalizing. You could do it. Finding your shared connection is easy as breathing, as the beat of your heart, as tugging loose a knot, but you don’t.

Instead, you stand, legs tacky from the drying ale.

He looks upon you at your approach, greets you with a stretch of pretty lips then a flash of worry in the furrow of his brow. Knows your mind-state better than you do. Privacy is nonexistent and boundaries mean nothing when you’ve effectively synced brains, and when you think about it, you’ve lived six different lifetimes. Comforting in its own way. No hiding like this, understanding at its most potent. The telepathic intimacy is nice, given the otherwise hopelessness of the situation. But it’s something you struggle to normalize.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, voice a soothing lull to the noise rooting around inside your brain matter.

“I just wanted to check on you, considering…” you motion with your hands to the world around you, unable to find the best phrasing.

He offers a once-chuckle in response then sets his book aside. “I understand.” A hand rises, possibly to motion for you to settle beside him, before he catches the darkened fabric of your—

“I’m an absolute mess right now,” said before he can open his mouth to comment.

“As we all are.” He breezes past the subject of your appearance—no doubt you took some souvenirs of the forest in your hair, and the kohl around your eyes has long-since smudged, and Gale commented far earlier about the state of your robes—

Your thoughts must echo too loud, because a sharp ring cuts through your head and his face twists up as he shares in your sheepishness.

“Don’t worry. I’m no judger of appearances, especially as of late.”

He’s charming in a way that would make some younger, more idealistic version of you swoon. A sickly-sweet feeling that coats your ribs in thick honey, and he looks at you as if to look inside you, through you. A mourning type of sadness, a touch of grief.

“I meant what I said a few nights ago. Although, you’re more handsome than devil to me.”

He laughs. “And as I said a few nights ago, I’ll pretend you aren’t fooling me.”

Yesterday morning, while on the road to Waukeen’s Rest, utterly bathed in goblin blood, Astarion asked you a simple question (which companion’s blood would you rather taste?) then found your answer amusing (Wyll? I always thought he’d taste too sweet). Now, looking at the man-turned-devil, at the crinkle of his eyes and display of pretty teeth, you’re inclined to agree.

You crave him, in the way that Lae’zel craves blood upon her sword, or Astarion craves a living pulse, or the druids crave the expanse of the wild. It’s a carnal longing that you’re sure the tadpole must facilitate. No better explanation for it.

“How are they?” you ask, settling in beside him.

“More sensitive than I imagined. Quite itchy.” His hand follows the curve of a horn, claws twitching.

“I wouldn’t mind helping, if you need.” You blink. “To scratch them, I mean.”

He searches your face for any sign of a jest and, upon finding a calm sincerity, he looks away. Picks up his book with a slow smile. “I’ll consider it.”

Your camp lay quiet the following morning, the grasses of the surrounding woods still wet with dew, the sun not yet bright enough to rouse those shielded by tent fabric.

Karlach joins you, restless and excited, the skin-deep burn of her beating heart lighting the way forward.

“Think we can make it back before the others wake up?” she asks, peering down at you as an arm lifts away a mess of vines.

You pass easily through the brush, spotting the dirt path that continues on toward the grove.

“If they have what we’re looking for,” you say. “By the way, what are we looking for?”

“We have the rogue’s morsel. Just need poison ivy berries. I’d say Nettie’s our best bet.”

“Poison ivy? Seems a bit counter-productive.”

“Good thing we won’t be rolling in it.”

A favor for a favor, she had said. Overheard your conversation with Wyll and offered a solution based on her own horned experience.

“Did yours itch like that?”

She takes a moment to give a hearty laugh. “I drove my mum crazy when they started growing. We’re born with tiny little nubs that grow with us, so you eventually get used to it.”

She glows as she speaks of her family, shimmers beneath the orange rays of sunrise, and you listen, enraptured, as she recalls her time as a young tiefling. The growth spurts and the teething and the unyielding love of her parents.

By the time she asks the inevitable, the sun has risen in the sky and the surroundings spark familiarity. A cut of the landscape here, an oddly-shaped rock there. Close to your destination.

“So, what’s your deal with him anyway?”

“Who?”

“Wyll.”

You stumble over a broken-off branch at the mention of his name, and Karlach moves to catch you—such burning heat—before recoiling back. Your face twists in a show of empathy as foreign frustration gnaws between the cage of your ribs.

She huffs. “Don’t give me that look. You’re trying to change the subject.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. He’s just,” you gesture wildly, magic sparking from your fingertips. She takes a step away from you, “nice.”

“Just nice? Oh, you have it bad, soldier.”

The breath empties from your lungs in a long, heaving sigh. “I know.”

Nettie is quick to gift you what you need, nice enough to crush the ingredients into a smooth balm. No coin needed. Something about being grateful that your group saved the grove from impending goblin invasion.

Look at what being nice gives you in return. Astarion would be fuming.

“We made a bunch’a these for the little ones running about.” She scoops the ointment into a jar then seals the top with a stretch of hide and a piece of twine. “Should take care of all your itchy-horn needs. Just keep it somewhere dark. The berries will spoil otherwise.”

The trip back passes quickly, and soon Karlach is waving you over to Wyll’s tent, jar held tight between your hands.

You feel much like a child, front tooth missing, knobby-kneed and veiled to the horrors of the world. Wrought with butterflies by a flourishing crush. Doubly so when you spot him knelt by his bedroll, struggling to finesse his shirt over his horns. It’s adorable yet so utterly, horrifically sad. The latter wins out by a large margin.

“Fancy some help?” you ask, mouth twitching into a frown when his body tenses.

Helplessness and Wyll stand on opposite sides of one very large spectrum. But that’s it, isn’t it? Part of Mizora’s punishment? The valiant hero, left to roll in the dirt due to his golden, crumbling heart. Becoming the very thing he fought against.

How much can he take from himself to better those around him? How much more can he lose, can he give sans recompense?

“Never, in my wildest dreams, could I have imagined that putting on a shirt be this damned difficult.” He turns toward you in silent resignation, and humiliation rolls off him in assaulting waves.

“Nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone needs help sometimes.” The issue is his arm, specifically the clump of sharpened bone-teeth protruding from his elbow that catch the fabric. His other arm twists up, unable to reach. “Straighten this arm for me.”

With a big of finagling, the shirt gives just enough for you to tug it down over his head.

At the reveal of his face, you breathe out a heavy sigh. “You might need to invest in larger sleeves from now on.” You meet eyes as your fingers smooth down the collar. “A wider neck, perhaps.”

He huffs a breath through his nose. “You may be right.” Upon glancing down, he spots the jar sat atop his bedroll, head tilting. “What’s this?”

You pick it up and begin to unwind the twine. “It’s horn balm. Supposed to help with the itching.”

There it is. That smile blooming warmth across his face, and that warmth settles like a fresh cup of tea in your chest. “Where did you…”

“Nettie was kind enough to make some.”

He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have—“

“Just try it.”

He’s slow, hesitant to reach for the jar you offer, claws curling inward as they near your palm. Careful to avoid grazing the skin.

The first pass of ointment around the base of a horn leaves his skin shiny, rips a relieved sigh from his throat.

“How does it feel?”

He hums. “It’s numbing, both hot and cold. A wonderful relief nonetheless.”

“You have Karlach to thank. I just carried the jar.”

He looks up at you, good eye blood-red and piercing. Softened at your sheepishness. “Well, I’d rather thank both of you. So,” a simple nod, “thank you.”

A simple nod unravels you at the seams, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. He feels it.

Godsdamn it, you do have it bad.

But things get worse, as things are wont to do.

As a child, you possessed quite odd thoughts: hypotheticals, what-ifs, fantastical daydreams of the innocent variety. While amongst the crowds in town, you wondered—feared—sometimes if those around you could hear your inner monologue.

There was a boy a year your senior, pretty with his freckles and expressively pointed ears who utterly enamored you. But you let your fear consume your mind (don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it), and the boy thought you aloof, uncaring. You couldn’t listen when he talked, failed to play like the other children. Eventually, he stopped talking to you altogether.

History tends to repeat itself. Except the fear now manifests into the realm of rationality.

With mortality looming, a taunt in every wriggle amongst the folds of your brain, you can’t afford attachment. This won’t end well, but Wyll’s presence lingers. Your tadpoles find companionship in each other. He is the boy and you are ten years old again, and in your effort to appear normal, you make one great, big fool of yourself.

Such as tonight. Gale falls ill with chest pain (you suspect the increasingly-erratic orb, but he waves off your worry with a weakened hand and a jest) and a newly-joined Halsin tends to him, which leaves the rest of your group scrambling to find a cook for tonight’s dinner.

Sticks are drawn and, during an unfortunate bout of unluck, you choose the shortest one.

Wyll tends to hover when food is about. He requires no sustenance, but his human body still craves the experience of eating: the smell of garlic, the chopping of vegetables, the bubble of broth.

He sits just over your shoulder as you prepare ingredients for soup, and you lock your mind behind a wrought-iron cage to keep away all the prying fingers sat in wait.

Blue skies. Dead goblins. Boars. The river looked beautiful yesterday—a nice time to swim.

He leans forward to smell the cooking meat, eyes closed, and the leash on your thoughts pulls taut.

Red. Such a beautiful color. The smell of jasmine and iron and ozone is quickly becoming your favorite. Just a little further, and he’ll be—

Your cut of a particularly stout carrot grows sharper, more heavy on the knife’s downswing.

Stupid tadpole. Stupid pretty warlocks. Stupid cultists. Stupid—

Pain lances through your hand and you recoil back, dropping the knife with a dull clatter onto the cutting board. Blood pools in your cupped, uninjured palm, fingers numbing.

Your humiliation sings to the farthest reaches of camp, and you refuse to look up. You crave to outrun it, into the forest where your thoughts are your own and though you experience no peace nowadays, the chittering of the woods drowns out the hum of the tadpole.

The creek muddies red as you rinse away the blood, well on your way to self-pity. Perhaps… hm. Perhaps you haven’t been coping as well as you assumed. At its core, the issue isn’t your child-like crush on Wyll at all. It’s everything. Your mind is not your own. Your body is soon to forsake you as well. Your enemies sit in wait, and those who align themselves to you worship the very cause of this mess. A mysterious visitor haunts your dreams, neither friend nor foe.

Your fingers ache, and the blood slows.

A short while after, the crunch of footsteps echo throughout the area, almost purposeful in their heaviness. You feel him before he pushes past the tree line, a striking shiver that licks up your spine.

“I know you need time alone, and I’ll give you that, but I just,” he stops himself with a sighing breath, kneeling beside you on the muddy bank. “I’m worried about the state of your hand. That knife was quite sharp.”

You lift it from the water, fingers half-curled to keep the wounds calm. On fore and middle finger, a deep gash just below each fingernail. Deep enough to reveal the white of bone.

He makes a noise deep in his throat then outstretches a hand, palm up in invitation.

Against your better judgement, you accept and oh, gods, he tends to you so delicately, cradling your injured fingers, skin warm as the Hells. Like a stream of midday sunlight, or a thick blanket, or a loving hug. Despite horns and claws and ridges and all (despite nothing—he need not change for anyone, specifically you), his touch feels a little like home.

Don’t cry.

“I’m no Shadowheart, but I have an extensive knowledge of first aid.” With a grin, he tilts his head to showcase the long scars bisecting his cheek before centering his attention on your injury. “I believe I also owe you for the horn balm.”

“We didn’t do it so you could owe us, Wyll.”

In a moment his face falls, and he stays silent, deigns to focus on the cloth that he weaves around each finger.

“I’m serious,” you say. “There are still people in the world who do nice things for the ones they care about. To make their lives a little easier.”

“I think you deserve a bit of care every once in a while.”

He’s deflecting, you know this, but you’ll allow it this time. Allow him to aim some of that characteristic kindness your way.

But that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it.

“Well, you should prepare for reciprocation.” Your lips spread into a smile. “Karlach has a very big heart.”

He laughs, and the sun burns brighter.

You realize only when he’s finished that your fingers feel no pain, and something intimate—more intimate than mind-reading or shared emotion—thrums between you. It tastes of ozone in your mouth. Of peace and bonding and hope: a future that lingers just beyond the horizon.

He squeezes your hand, ever-gentle, careful with his claws, and a piece of you crumbles. That burgeoning stubbornness you’ve tried so hard to cling to, ever since you were ten years old, slowly being chiseled away. “This should suffice until Shadowheart’s free to help.”

Dread gnarls in your stomach. “Shit. The soup.” You wince. “How mad is she?”

“I think I saw some steam wafting from her ears as I left.”

Your laugh bubbles up with ease. Happiness is always easy where he’s concerned. “That’s just fantastic.”

Your grumpy Shadow gives you an earful before patching you up until two thin scars are left behind, and you suffer no failure to your range of motion. To repay her, you agree to wash her clothing for the next month.

Soon after, you learn that Wyll loathes mirrors—his comment about not having one to look into is a lie. Most everyone in camp tucks one away in their bag to ready for each day ahead. Easier to fix hair, to trim beards, to straighten clothes.

But not him. He works on muscle memory.

His avoidance becomes apparent the farther you venture on the road. Even the deepest tombs contain mirrors, dusty and filth-ridden as they might be, and he skirts around them like they seek to carve through his flesh.

The first incident comes by way of your own vanity—Astarion’s, actually, you swear. A speck of blood on your face that he comments on yet makes no effort to help remove. Not even a simple on your cheek, to the left, the asshole.

Which is how Wyll finds you: crossed-legged on the ground by the fire, curled in on yourself, mirror in hand.

He sticks close most days. Settles in next to you for meals, spends each evening at your tent, impresses you with flourishing tricks of his rapier (as if you need be more taken with him—you’ve seen the man tear his way through hordes) in the clearings nearby.

Your tadpoles are smitten with each other, no doubt a result of your own emotional influence. Though you like to think that maybe, possibly, hopefully—

You spot him in the mirror just as he spots himself, and unrecognizable horror—bone-striking, heart-rending, earth-shattering horror—seeps deep into your marrow.

It’s his turn to flee, to hide behind the flaps of his tent.

To your left, Gale sighs, lowered brows casting a shadow over sunken eyes, veins a pronounced shade of blue against the sickly shade of his skin. “I know what that’s like.” His hand rises to his chest, a subconscious act, and you wish to comfort him. “A part of you ever-changed, never to be made whole again.”

Your worm-brain flits through a chaotic flurry of emotions: horror then fear then melancholy then rage then grief. So much grief nowadays.

How malignant, how spiteful, how rotten must one world be? Filled with tormentors so sadistic in nature?

Like the evening by the creek, you grant him the time and space needed to process his emotions. Only when your connection fades a bit, when the tide begins to wane, do you go to him.

You loiter outside his tent, just long enough for him to sense your presence. And then you call to him, the simple sound of his name, and a hand pulls aside a flap. His head peeks out a moment later, bathed in the blooming orange of the fire.

“Do you feel like talking?” you ask. “Or maybe you would just like to sit together?”

He nods and you settle in beside him, and the small space is bathed in darkness once again. Your knee thumps against his, but he makes no effort to move it. Small victories.

The tadpole lurches and your vision shifts until you stare through unseen eyes, your own figure seated on the ground, the mirror blurring as you see it—yourself. A you that is there but not. The thick horns that curl away from your forehead, that settle a heavy weight upon your neck. The chasmic darkness of your one good eye, blotted in the center by a hellfire-red iris. That same horror you felt before surges, devours the brittle bones of your ribs.

You blink and the vision ends. All you feel from him now is… acceptance. How very Wyll of him.

“Well,” he says. “I’ve seen myself. The worst part is over.”

The mirror scorches the pocket of your trousers.

“And what did you think?”

“I’m not sure. It was a shock to say the least, but… well, I can learn to live with it.”

“How do you do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re so positive. You get knocked down and get right back up. It’s almost infuriating.”

He laughs, and it sounds like warm tea, like the chirping of birds, like the glow of a campfire. “I admit, it isn’t easy, but you eventually must accept what’s happened and hopefully move on from it.”

“So it’s about hope.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“You sound like Karlach. A good thing, by the way.”

A moment of silence passes between you, the space warm and inviting. You wish to lean into him—some gnawing, aching part of you that craves his touch. Instead, you find his shoulder and squeeze.

“I’d like to try again, if that’s alright.” He reaches forward to peel back a tent flap, and light engulfs the small space. “The mirror, I mean.”

You pull it from your pocket and raise it until his face centers in the glass.

He sits a moment, peering at the reflection, turning his face to view himself from every angle. “Hm. Not that bad.”

You look over at him, eyes squinting. “You know what I see?” You lean forward, searching features old and new. Handsome. “Someone courageous and capable and kind. Anyone who sees your horns above all else has proven themselves unworthy to know you in the first place.”

“You flatter me.”

“I’m telling the truth.” Your heart lodges in your throat, thick as tar, hellsbent on pulling you under. “And I’ll prove it.”

Wyll inspires some courage within you as well. After all, you owe him for his transparency, how he flays himself open to reveal the turmoil that lay within.

You open your soul, muscle and artery and blood dissected, laid out for him to witness:

The skip of your heart upon your first meeting.

The nights you dreamt of his voice.

The warmth of your affection, almost unbearable in its weight, in all its vulnerability.

How you’ve thought of kissing him, sharing a dance, crafting horn balm dozens of times.

The weight of your dilemma—this won’t end well, don’t think about it, you’re losing sight of what matters.

You blink back to the present, a bit dizzy, nausea brewing in your belly. “Well, there it is. The way I see you.”

His eyes soften, the fire sated within. “I knew… to an extent. However, I never could have imagined something like this.”

You can be embarrassed later at the revelation about his suspicions. For now, he pulls you into a hug, chest tight against yours, skin so so warm, hands ghostly as they trail over your spine.

It is here that you cry. A product of both bone-softening relief (no need to hide away) and the tender touch of another. None of your companions are particularly generous with their affections, and you’ve grown exhausted with the recent trend of enemies laying claim to your body via injury.

His hand curls around your nape and you almost purr.

“Finally,” you say, sniffling.

He chuckles and you feel it against your chest and you sink into him. It feels natural, a healing kind of tenderness.

After leaving, you find that there was no speck of blood to begin with, and you thank Astarion for his antics on the way back to your tent. (Nose-deep in a book, he grins.)

On your journey to Baldur’s Gate, Wyll kisses you after a night of woodland dancing. The birds and the bugs your music, the stretch of dead grass your ballroom. He leads you in a circular arc that spans the clearing, hand in hand, eyes crinkled with a wide smile.

Wyll is proficient in pretending. He does it quite often. Hides his sadness, his frowns, his weariness behind singsong words and the lilting tone of a man who still believes in inherent goodness.

But he doesn’t have to pretend here, never with you. He pulls you close, one arm a cage around your shoulders, the other at your waist. (What is a flighty bird that loathes the thought of freedom? your mother had asked you once, just before she died.) He laughs into your hair, a sound that carries on a gust of wind, and you think you understand now.

(A bird that knows where home is.)

You share a kiss mid-laugh, and for this little moment in time, the world akins to a place that shelters happiness and peace, if only temporary. Nothing hurts, the forest lay quiet, your companions leave you be. The night is perfect. So is he.

You find comfort on a bed of moss nearby and observe the shimmering stars overhead. He's warm against your side, smells of earth and tree bark, the taste of ozone so thick it cloys on the back of your teeth. A gust of wind whispers between the leaves, carrying with it the smell of Gale's cooking from camp nearby. You would know that mixture of herbs from anywhere.

“We should head back,” you say, sprawled out beside him, your head heavy on his shoulder.

A long moment of silence before he exhales an amused breath. “Yet we're still here.”

“Well, I didn't say right this second.”

He laughs and the sound brews a fire in your chest, hot enough to melt your insides yet spewing an estranged comfort you once thought lost. Returned like an old friend, an ex-lover, a happiness rekindled anew.

This is different, the tadpole a wretched thing by all accounts except for its state as catalyst behind connection and companionship. You feel so deeply these days, emotions and memories birthed by the ether. The curse then the blessing. The sprinkle of rain upon a budding flower, the bloom of something… more. An intimacy you never expected.

The two of you connect far beyond tangible form, sometimes forgoing spoken language in favor of mind speak. Thought reading. Sometimes you forget that the others can't hear such conversations, but you're grateful. Your own little secret, tucked away between the folds of your brain.

However, good things must end, and the journey back to camp is fraught with trudging feet and moments of pause to enjoy your final moments alone.

You sleep in his tent, spend the day resting off the small battles you've faced, and the next evening he hands you a jar, half-filled with—

Oh.

“You were kind enough to offer all those months ago,” he says, grin a bit too smug on his face. “Just be careful. They're still a bit sensitive.”

You adjust to sit before him, knees crinkling the blanket you cuddled beneath the night before. His presence shrouds you much like that: astral fingers prodding at your skull, reading thought and memory and urge; the warmth from his new form seeping into your pores. Inside this tent, Wyll is everything. Consumes your current perception of the world.

The ointment pinpricks your fingertips, a juxtapose of hot and cold meant to numb-soothe whatever it touches. He tilts his head down in offering, a special brand of trust and vulnerability that sucks the oxygen from your lungs. Nobody has ever touched his horns, and nobody has ever asked. You're the first.

The fingers upon each of his knees tighten their grip as you spread that ointment around the base of a horn, carefully painting a thick layer up the rough texture and down the smooth of his skin to coat a wider area. His eyes close, mouth parting to exhale a relieved sigh.

“Good?” you ask, more breath than whisper.

“A great relief.”

“Is it… too much?”

“No. It never is with you.”

You think back to your childhood crush, when you feared the state of your own thoughts. And now, baring yourself so completely to a man you definitely do not deserve. A man who allows you to touch the parts of himself he once despised.

How did you get so lucky? What have you done in your life to warrant such companionship?

“Your thoughts are very loud.” He looks up at you, eyes crinkling at the edges, and you busy yourself with the other horn.

If your brain was a normal one, it would promptly shrivel up and die. “Sorry.”

You attempt to sever the connection, a strain that crinkles your brow, and he stops you with a clawed hand curled about your wrist.

“I like them.”

He shines upon you an eye crafted from the finest jewels, blood red and glittering. The other captivates you just as much.

You kiss him then, smearing leftover ointment through the prickly fuzz along his jaw. He hums against your lips, beckons you closer with a strong arm cradling your back. Just outside, Gale argues with Astarion about clothing choices, Karlach laughs until she chokes, Lae'zel sharpens her sword with a grating clang. But none of that matters. Nothing, not even the end of the world. Nothing but the ghost of your fingers down the rough bark of his horns and his shuddering sigh into your mouth.

He tastes of ash and the berries from Gale's wine and something otherworldly. He is no incubus—an inconsequential fact. You wish for him to consume you all the same.

And then you remember the dying rays of sun that pierce the opening of the tent. You pull away from him to look outside and spot Karlach leaning back on her log. Watching you with a bone-white display of teeth.

Oh, you'll definitely be hearing about this later. Especially when her call of, “About damn time, soldier!” echoes throughout camp.

Wyll sighs, reaching over to close the tent flaps. Yells back, “Can't a devil get some privacy?”

You laugh, thumbs following the jut of spikes upon the skin of his neck as the world conforms to darkness.

Still, he tries to rationalize. There's not a lot of good-looking people in the company's IT department. That's probably it, he thinks to himself, as you smile warmly and introduce yourself to everyone.

Wonwoo has just been deprived of good views. That's it. That's all.

As you go to do rounds, he tries to focus on troubleshooting the network issue that some higher-up has been complaining about. But then you get to him, expecting his name, and Wonwoo suddenly can't bring himself to care about the DNS check he's supposed to be running.

"Jeon Wonwoo," he says in a perfectly level voice. "Welcome to the company."

Your face lights up. "Oh! I think you're the one who's supposed to be training me on the new systems."

Right. His boss had mentioned this. Something about onboarding the newbies. And Wonwoo had said yes, because that was just the type of person he was.

Fan-fucking-tastic, Wonwoo thinks as he gives you a quick once-over.

He manages to look bored as he does it. Almost scrutinizing. Truthfully, Wonwoo is not-so discreetly checking you out. The crisp white blouse, the tight pencil skirt, the black stockings.

So help him, God.

"Hope you can keep up," Wonwoo says for the lack of better thing to say.

The easy smile on your face remains, like you're unperturbed by Wonwoo's infamously cool demeanor. Somehow, that makes things infinitely worse.

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose as you leave to meet other people. He tries very, very hard not to watch the way your hips move as you walk away.

You're good, he'll give you that.

Wonwoo, once again, tries to make excuses. One had to be good in this field of work, in this company. You're not an exception; you're supposed to be the norm.

Even as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it's not entirely true.

There's one too many nepotism babies and pushovers who barely survive performance evaluations. But you're good. Eager to learn. Sharp in all the right places.

Wonwoo is a little bit jealous.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it, though, in between training you on the company's cloud service models and hammering out the new machine learning workflows.

And so he keeps his head down, and he points out the bugs in your codes, and he chalks up his initial attraction as a moment of weakness.

That is, until the two of you are last to leave the office on an unassuming Tuesday evening.

The two of you had gotten in to some long-winded debate about the future of AI. Wonwoo is only made acutely aware about how much time has passed when the janitor shuts off the lights, assuming everyone has gone home. You giggle; Wonwoo cracks the smallest of smiles.

As you both emerge from the company building, Wonwoo's glasses fog up.

It's a normal enough occurrence that he shouldn't be annoyed but it's also a little bit embarrassing. He's used to going home late, to being alone when he does this little ritual of his.

He's just about to take off his glasses when you do it for him.

There's nothing much he can do or say as you gently tug the glasses off his face, as you use a corner of your blouse to swipe off the condensation on the lenses. You're saying something— something about this being the most annoying thing about wearing glasses, about knowing the struggle— but Wonwoo can't hear it.

His gaze is fixed on your lithe fingers and the careful way they hold his specs. Something sparks in the back of his head. A thought, unbidden. How those fingers would look so much better wrapped around his—

Jesus. Wonwoo swallows hard as you hold out his glasses back to him.

The look on his face must be odd, because you're suddenly apologetic. "I must have overstepped," you say sheepishly.

Overstepped?

Wonwoo is pretty sure he's the one overstepping. He's the one imagining you bent over his desk, after all, where he'd be more than happy to keep two fingers in your mouth to keep you quiet.

Instead, Wonwoo mumbles "you're good" as he puts his glasses back on just a little too forcefully. The nose pad presses in to his skin and leaves the smallest of marks, but he figures he deserves it with how he's being.

Wonwoo decides that maybe he's just repressed.

He's always been too busy to sleep around, to sleep with anyone, so this is just some twisted form of karmic justice. To have someone so desirable within sight but not within reach.

He asks for Mingyu to start setting him up on dates. His best friend is a little too glad to comply.

Wonwoo goes on about four before giving up.

Because it doesn't matter if he ends the night with a heated kiss or a mouth around his cock. Every single time, with each girl, he can only picture his company's drab cubicles, fingers flying across a keyboard, clicks of heels on a floor. (You, you, you.)

Things only go from bad to worse when the company celebrates its annual Christmas party at some swanky speakeasy. The alcohol is free-flowing, and God knows that Wonwoo needs it— because you're certainly not doing him any favors.

Your dress is a touch too short, and your smile is pretty, and Wonwoo really needs to get his head out of the goddamn gutter. He cannot, should not be fantasizing about what it would be like to drag you in to the alleyway outside, to hitch up your leg around his waist, to finally feel his aching hardness slide in to your—

"Wonwoo?"

He starts. It's a good thing he downed his drink earlier. Otherwise, he might've spilled his cuba libre all over the front of your purple dress.

You're squinting at him, a playful sort of grin on your face. For a moment, he terrified you've read his mind, but then you're slurring out, "Your glass is empty."

"That it is," Wonwoo says dryly. He lets you lead him over to the bar.

As the two of you wait for his drink to be made, you pull the rug out from underneath Wonwoo once again.

It happens so fast. One moment, you're discussing go-to karaoke songs; the next, you're grabbing his spectacles and trying them on for yourself.

They're ill-fitting on you and the frames don't match your face shape. Wonwoo nearly winces when you awkwardly try to adjust them by the temples.

"Your eyesight is a lot worse than I thought," you whine— a whine, my God. Wonwoo wants to die then and there.

When his whiskey sour is served, Wonwoo shoots it back and promptly orders another one.

"How do I look?" you prompt, tilting your head to one side.

For a moment, Wonwoo contemplates telling the truth.

You look like sin, he could say. You look like you'd make the prettiest sounds if your back was up against the door of the bar bathroom, if his hands were feeling you up over your dress, if his mouth was leaving open-mouthed kisses along your throat.

Wonwoo shakes his head. He's definitely not drunk enough to be saying all that.

"Fine," he grumbles. "You look fine."

Once you've had your fun, once his glasses are back on his face and you're off to charm whoever the hell else, he'll wish he could have been a little more truthful.

Here's the thing: For all of Wonwoo's intelligence as the company's go-to IT guy, he's still pretty oblivious where it matters.

He doesn't realize that you don't really give two shits about AI, that you're only staying so late at work for him. He doesn't pick up that your party dress had been purple because he had offhandedly mentioned once that it was his favorite color.

All of those little things only hit him when he finds you standing outside his apartment, looking mildly miffed. "How much longer do I have to flirt with you, Jeon Wonwoo?" you demand.

Oh. Oh.

"Not another day more," Wonwoo promises as he wraps his fingers around your wrist and pulls you in to his flat. He thanks all the higher powers in the universe that Mingyu has decided to buzz off for the night.

Wonwoo's mouth is on yours the moment the door shuts behind you. It's messy, all clashing teeth and warring tongues. The sudden force of it has you reeling back a step.

His fingers find purchase at your hips, right over the very skirt of his wildest fantasies. You tilt your head like you're trying to deepen the kiss— only to have your forehead bump against his glasses.

You make a sound of protest against his mouth and he swears he sees stars.

Without missing a beat, Wonwoo lifts one of his hands just long enough to pull his glasses off. He casts them aside unceremoniously. He'll buy a new pair if he has to.

He's back to kissing you before you can even open your eyes.

By some miracle, the two of you make it to his bedroom.

It's only then that Wonwoo manages to tear himself away from your mouth, looking slightly panicked.

You're pinned underneath him, the top buttons of your blouse already undone. And you're a vision— your hair splayed out underneath you, your chest rising and falling with every heavy breath. Wonwoo has to resist the physical urge to keep making out with you.

"I—" he chokes out. "I haven't—"

Thank God you're smarter than him, because you immediately get what he's trying to say. You prop yourself up by your elbows to look at him. "We don't have to," you say carefully, your fingers curling around his bicep.

"That's the thing." He doesn't even bother to hide how desperate he sounds. "I kind of really fucking want to."

The smile you give him then makes his heart stutter. He resolves to unpack that later.

Right now, he focuses on the way you pull off his slacks, the way you spit in to your palm, the way you dip your hand past his boxers and—

"Holy shit," he exhales, because this is definitely leagues better than his imagination.

You're watching his every reaction as you slide the curve of your palm against him, as your fingers close and squeeze and tug, and it takes absolutely everything in Wonwoo not to flip your positions.

He prays for patience; he prays for grace. He prays that he doesn't finish just from a goddamn handjob.

Once you've deemed him sufficiently hard, the two of you do switch positions. Wonwoo reaches in to his bedside drawer for the condom that's been sitting there for months. (Mingyu, the cheeky bastard, had left it there as a gift. Wonwoo has never been more grateful for his best friend.)

Wonwoo snaps it on with a lot less finesse than he would've wanted. Soon enough, he's hovering over you, his fingers curled in to a white-knuckled grip around his sheets.

"I should probably stretch you out a bit," he whispers, his voice strained with the effort it's taking to keep himself together

But you shake your head, your hands catching in his dark locks as you practically drag him down. "Wonwoo, I swear," you whine. "If you don't fuck me this instant—"

It's not the hands in his hair that does it. Not the bluntness of your words.

It's that stupid, stupid whine.

Wonwoo thrusts in to you without preamble, and the scream catches in your throat as he fills you up.

"Fucking take it, then," he hisses.

Wonwoo was a bit worried that his inexperience would get in the way, but there's one thing he seems to have in common with you: He can be a pretty quick learner, too.

His thrusts are a bit clumsy and erratic, but he figures out what you like based on the sounds that you make, the way that you move.

You arch your hips up whenever he bottoms out. You whimper whenever his balls slap in to the cleft of your ass. And when his fingers finally find your bundles of nerves, you say his name so beautifully.

"Just like that, Wonu," you gasp, rendered incapable of saying his full name. He likes the way it sounds, so he rewards you with another sharp thrust. You babble on, "Fuck, yeah. That's good. You're so fucking good."

Something inside him burns, then. Enough to have him picking up the pace, to have him pressing the calloused pads of his fingers in to every inch of bare skin that he can reach.

You seem to notice his renewed vigor, and the minx that you are— despite the fact you're being fucked stupid— you give him more.

You moan that he's perfect and doing so well and so fucking hot, and his cock only bullies in to you harder with every pretty word.

"I'm not going to last—" Wonwoo warns through gritted teeth, his grip bruising on your hip. "I'm not going to last much longer if you keep talking to me like that."

His fingers are already fumbling; his pace, stuttering. He's not sure how much more praise he can take, but then you have to go and whimper about how badly you've wanted him, just like this—

Wonwoo manages to bottom out just one more time before coming undone.

The feeling of him twitching inside you, of him panting against the side of your neck, has you following not long after. It's absolutely torturous, the way you clamp down on him like you're squeezing him dry.

Wonwoo gathers his bearings enough to pull out. He heaves out a sigh and falls back on to his bed beside you, his own thighs still shaking a bit from all the effort he's exerted.

A beat. Neither of you speak; you're both too busy catching your breath, coming down from your respective highs.

But then you're sitting up, moving, and Wonwoo physically feels his heart drop.

"Where are you going?" he stammers. He can't even bring himself to sound cool about the prospect of this just being a one-time thing.

You put him out of his misery rather swiftly. At the foot of his bed, you pause, take one look at his face, and then soften significantly. Your gentle pat to his ankle is a welcome reprieve.

"We should clean up," you tell him, somehow managing to reassure his unspoken fears. "Where's your bathroom?"

"Ah— first door down the hall."

You don't pull on any of your clothes as you go, so Wonwoo doesn't bother to hide the way he watches you leave.

Once you're out his bedroom door, Wonwoo suddenly feels boneless. He sinks further in to his bed and contemplates how the hell he's going to go about this— whatever this is.

Wonwoo's overthinking is cut short when you bound back in to his room, your hands behind your back. He barely has any time to speak before your lips are on his.

It's a sweet kiss, one that catches him off-guard. He's frozen for only a millisecond before his eyes flutter close and he melts right in to you, his hand resting at the side of your face.

It's not quite the answer that he's looking for, but it's a close thing.

When you peel away, his head rises from his pillow, desperately chasing your mouth. You let out a tinkling sort of laugh before pulling your hands out from behind you— and placing his glasses on for him.

Wonwoo blinks confusedly underneath his lenses.

"Just need to make sure that you can see what you're getting in to," you tease as you push his hair out of his forehead.

He just looks at you for a second. And oh, is he done for.

enjoys orgasm denial and edging. his love in giving you pleasure doesn't mean he's clean of depriving you of it either. he's so finely attuned to your body that he knows when you're about to orgasm. he'd drive you insane by the way he'd slow down his pace right before you come undone, watching as you whine in frustration before slamming his hips right back into you, promising you that it'll make your final climax worth it.

what good is his evol if he can't use it? he's most definitely into temperature play. he has you squirming under your touch with the way he drags an icy fingertip trailing his hands down the soft skin of your stomach and all the way down to your thighs, tracing soft circles just to tantalize you.

wax play. he's putting the nightstand candles to use. with steady hands, he's slowly tilting the jar and watching until as the milky hot beads roll over the edge, landing onto and decorating your skin; the contrast in temperature only heightens your sensitivity to his every touch and movement.

if he's in between your thighs or above you and you tug on his hair, it will drive him feral. something about you losing regard for his own comfort because he's pleasuring you so well has his head spinning, making him lose his control even further as he's rutting into you with newfound desperation.

everytime without fail, he's leaving hickeys all over your body—from the back of your ears, down your neck, marking your collarbones, all the way down your chest and in between your thighs. thank god the hunter's uniform is full coverage.

the BIGGEST tease. he doesn't care if you guys are in public, he's leaning down and whispering in your what he's going to do to you later, causing you to blush bright red; sometimes he'll even nip at it playfully before he pulls away. he's looking at you with the same nonchalant and cold eyes, smirk subtly tugging at his lips all while he's discretely fidgeting with the remote in his pocket to turn up the vibration setting of the toy he had nestled inside of you hours prior, reveling at the way you're try in vain to rid of the way your legs are shaking and your face is flushing.

when he comes back from work and he's still in his suit, he's taking off his tie and is using it to blindfold you. if his patients and colleagues knew the amount of times he uses it on you whenever you two are having sex, they'll never see it the same way again.

similarly, he loves having you tied up and being tied up. after all, how else will he show you how surgeons tie knots?

loves having you get off on his fingers alone. it'll have been hours and he hasn't even put it in yet despite being painfully hard but he doesn't care—the thrill from watching you cry from how overstimulated you are just from his hands is enough to send hot, dizzying waves of arousal throughout his body.

he loves spoiling you with tons of revealing clothes when you two go out for special events; has you adorned with dresses with high slits or dress shirts made from silk or pants with mesh detailing that reveal the supple skin underneath; he doesn’t care who sees you, he's the only one ripping it off after anyways.

whenever he can, he's capturing you guys on camera. he has a whole album of pictures and videos so he can use them to get off whenever he misses you while on trips or overnight shifts.

when the pictures and videos aren't enough, he's definitely hitting you up for phone sex. since he can’t always be home to fuck you, don't be surprised if he calls you in the dead of night so you can help drive him over the edge.

has a breeding kink. loves having you put into a mating press, gripping your thighs so tightly that it'll surely leave bruises while messily pounding his own come right back into your sloppy cunt. he's drunk just off of the idea of you being full of his come.

your scent drives him crazy. everytime he gets even the slightest whiff of your perfume it has his mind spinning. loves doing spooning you during sex solely for the fact that he can nuzzle into your neck and inhale in your fragrance like he's just learned to breathe. if your not at home, he's grabbing your clothes and nudging his face into it while he's fucking into his own fist.

“But it’s for a friend,” you remind him.

Vernon hasn’t said anything in awhile. You crane your neck to check on him and find that he’s passed out on the floor of your parents’ basement. “We bored Vernon into a literal stupor,” you tell Wonwoo.

“It’s probably for the best,” Wonwoo says with a smile and a shrug. “Now I can tell you all my secrets.”

“You don’t trust Vernon?”

“He has a really big mouth.” Wonwoo inspects his friend’s face. “Both literally and figuratively.”

You burst out laughing, your soft giggles filling Wonwoo like the bubbles in a shaken can of soda, but nothing prepared him for the next words that come out of your mouth.

“Oh, I love you,” you sigh through the giggles.