#hank writes

The metal of the faucet felt cool beneath your hand as you gently turned it to the side and cut off the water supply, quietly, as if not to make a sound. It was more out of habit, you suppose, than actual necessity. The kids were all off doing their own thing, Mrs. Murphy was away on business for the weekend, and Mr. Murphy– well, Mr. Murphy tended to keep to himself and resign to his room early in the evening.

You tugged the end of your hair, squeezing the last remnants of your shower with the towel. The house was practically yours for the rest of the evening, and you had absolutely enthralling plans to park yourself in the living room and watch something until your eyelids got heavy. It wasn’t often that you had that luxury. 

This job had come around by happenchance a few years ago while scrolling through thousands of “odd” jobs. The description itself was vague enough to the point that, up until you sat down with them, you had thought it was an elaborate scheme to get murdered. The surprise relief that flooded your body when it was apparent that the Murphy’s were not planning on butchering you was overwhelming, and the feeling had been shortly replaced with the flushing feeling of school girl attraction. 

Mr. Murphy was handsome, no doubt. His large, almost clear-colored eyes seemed to look right through you. He oozed wealth in a very low-key way, a trait that was seemingly rare throughout your experience of nannying. You had indulged yourself in the naivety of a crush for the first month of the job, but had managed to shut it down as your nannying required more and more of your attention. Still, the prospect of being alone with him was enough to get your heart beating a little faster. 

Your feet hardly made a noise as you crept down the stairs to the living room, any sound muffled by the calf-length socks you adorned. Although they had made it very clear that all the facilities of the house were yours to use as well, there was still a level of “sneakiness” that consumed your being when you walked around the house at night. It felt like a proverbial monster was waiting, crouched, hiding in the shadows of the tall walls. So when you turned the corner to the living room and saw a figure already sitting in the arm chair, your soul nearly leapt out of your body.

“Jesus!” you whispered loudly, clutching your chest as you hastily sought the source of the voice. 

Mr. Murphy let out a breathy laugh and quietly shut his book, looking up at you from his perch.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the grit of his voice heightened from the quiet tone in which he spoke, “I figured you had gone out for your night off.”

“No, no, no,” you countered, rubbing a hand down your face, “it’s your house. I shouldn’t be spooked that you’re here.”

The floorboards creaked as he rose from the dark green barrel chair, carefully placing his book on the coffee table, and picking up an empty wine glass. “Well then, I won’t disturb you from your night off. I’ll be upstairs.”

You frantically moved towards him as if to usher him back into his chair. 

“No, don’t leave! I don’t want to disrupt you at all, I can watch something on my laptop instead. Really, it’s no problem. Actually, I quite enjoy it–” 

Mr. Murphy calmly said your name to halt your apologetic rant, closing the space between the both of you as he reached out a hand to your forearm. The touch made you halt, your eyes darting between his hand (his big, beautiful hand) and his face. “You’re not disturbing me, promise.”

“Mr. Murphy, I can’t in good conscience let you leave this room,” you chattered nervously back, trying not to lean into his invitingly warm touch. He laughed lightly at the order and let his hand back to his side.

“Then follow me.”

Your heart skipped a beat and you were sure all color in your face drained. “Huh?”

“Follow me. I’m headed to the kitchen to get myself another glass of wine. I was planning on doing so even before you entered the room, so I’m not violating that good conscience of yours, hm?” he spoke with a slight smile on your face, brushing past you towards the kitchen. You blinked a few times and then followed lamely, suddenly feeling incredibly underdressed compared to his slacks and cardigan. The sweatshirt and (short) sleep shorts you had thrown on were incredibly, embarrassingly, juvenile in comparison to his older man sensibilities. 

Mr. Murphy opened a small fridge nestled underneath the counter tops and pulled out two pristine bottles of wine.

“Do you prefer Cabernet Sauvignon or Sauvignon Blanc?” he asked coolly, uncorking the both of them. A small wisp of vapor pooled from the top. 

“Um, Sauvignon Blanc,” you said plainly, cursing yourself for how smooth it rolled off his tongue and how junkily it came off yours.

He wordlessly poured himself a glass of Cabernet and you a glass of the Blanc. The silence in the kitchen was intense, an itch gathering in your spine to break it. As you opened your mouth to speak, he broke first. 

“I hope you’ve been enjoying your time with us. The kids adore you,” Mr. Murphy said, handing you the glass. You took a polite sip of the wine, the dryness invading your mouth as you looked back down at the glass with a slight rouge to your cheeks. 

“I have absolutely loved it. I adore them too, though with each day I can feel them slowly getting ‘too cool’ to hang around me,” you said with a small laugh, fingers rubbing up and down the stem of the glass. You could’ve sworn you saw his eyes dart to watch them. 

“Welcome to the reality of parenthood,” he countered, leaning back against the counter and sipping his cabernet. 

“It’s brutal,” you said with a dramatic exhale, “I can’t imagine how hard it must be when it’s your actual child.”

Mr. Murphy tossed you an amused look, crossing his legs as he stood. “Do you want kids of your own?”

If you hadn’t been already blushing, you sure you were now. You looked at him wide-eyed and then took a big gulp of the wine. 

“Well, maybe, I guess. I don’t know… it feels a bit cruel to bring them into a world like this.”

He shrugged his shoulders and finished off his wine with a large swallow.”

“Not that you and Mrs. Murphy are cruel! I don’t– I wouldn’t–” you said quickly, getting hit with a wave of embarrassment. “I just–”

“Hey,” he said coolly, waving a hand. “I didn’t think you were.”

You tipped your head back to finish your wine off and set the glass down on the counter louder than you had hoped for. 

“It’s a very rewarding experience,” Mr. Murphy continued, rubbing his fingers across his cleanly shaven jaw. “You’re a very pretty and well behaved girl. I think you’d have great children.”

You weren’t sure if it was the onslaught of tipsiness and when you became such a lightweight, but he seemed to be much closer to you. You quipped a laugh in response. 

“I’m not sure if you can say that to me, Mr. Murphy, but thank you.”

“Please, just call me Cillian,” he said, his body nearly parallel to yours as you leaned against the island and him against the counter. You could’ve sworn there was a dark sort-of hunger prowling around in those blue eyes of his.

“Cillian,” you repeated, feeling the way it felt in your mouth. His jaw tensed up, the muscle highlighted in the low lighting of the kitchen. The room felt so much smaller than it had twenty minutes ago.

Cillian put his glass down slowly, his movements precise and calculated in the same way a big cat moves. Your breath hitched, half anticipating him to pounce on you like a predator to his prey.

“I mean it,” he repeated, his eyes boring into you and that common casual indifference written onto his face, “you’re a very pretty girl.”

In one quick movement, his hand found the fabric of your sweatshirt and he firmly tugged you forward, closer to him. You stumbled, letting him pull you like a doll. Your eyes found his expectantly, searching for a sense of regret in his eyes. Instead, you were greeted with the feeling of his plush lips meeting yours.

The kiss was surprisingly chaste in comparison to how he had pulled you closer. His lips left yours as quickly as they had found them, his face still held close to yours. His hands reached up and brushed your cheeks with his knuckles repeatedly. You kept your eyes closed, leaning into the touch.

“Is this okay?” he murmured as he continued to stroke the skin of your face and neck, “I need you to tell me this is okay.”

You nodded and sighed. He lightly slapped your cheek, just enough for you to open your eyes and look at him again.

“I need you to say it outloud, darling,” he repeated. 

“This is okay,” you said, resting your hand atop his. 

“You don’t care that I’m your boss? That I’m so much older than you?”

The harsh slap of reality hit you and you tried not to recoil from his touch. Instead, you swallowed heavily and let the waviness of intoxication wash over you again.

“This is okay,” you said again, unable to say much more than that. 

He dove back in again, recapturing your lips with an intensity he had not previously shown. You groaned in surprise, your hands finding his shoulders to keep balance. He walked you backwards against the island, one hand wrapped around the back of your neck to hold you to him. His free hand wandered up your hip and underneath your sweatshirt, finding the soft skin of your stomach and kneading it with his large fingers.

“Fuck,” he rasped into your mouth.

The corner of the island pressed into your back as you tried to keep up with the hastiness of his movements. His tongue smoothed against your bottom lip, breaking through the barrier to kiss you deeper. You mirrored his movements, trying not to let your inexperience show. You had had hookups and boyfriends before, but none that kissed you like this. None that showed this much passion.

His hand slid up from the back of your neck and grabbed a fistful of your hair at the nape of your neck, forcing your head back. You gasped in surprise, grasping his shoulders a bit more.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he admitted in between kisses. “Ever since we first fucking interviewed you and I saw your pretty little face.” 

Your stomach fluttered and you kissed him back harder in response, causing him to grip your hair harder. Cillian pressed his knee between your legs forcing them apart, closer and closer to where your core ached for him. You whined as he dragged his lips from your mouth and down your neck.

Cillian’s free hand drifted down from the flesh of your stomach and to the waistband of your shorts, eagerly searching out your pussy. In discovering your lack of panties, he nipped at your neck and groaned.

“No panties?” he panted in amusement against your throat. Your face felt hot.

“I didn’t think my boss would be feeling me up in the kitchen.”

Your smugness was interrupted by his fingers rubbing against your clit and then down further through your folds, smearing the growing wetness around your cunt. You whined and pressed forward, pushing your body as close to his as possible. The grip on your hair loosened, that hand moving to hold your waist as he buried his head in the crook of your neck and mindlessly sucked at the skin.

“You’re fuckin’ heavenly,” he breathed, massaging your clit with the pads of his fingers. You ground down into the pressure, fingers digging into his back. 

“Mr. Murphy, please,” you whined, biting at his shoulder through his cardigan. The heat of his erection pressed against your thigh. 

He dipped one large finger into your cunt without warning, causing you to yelp and lurch forward even more.

“I told you to call me Cillian, dear,” he said, his hot breath fanning against your ear. 

His finger worked in and out of you skillfully, gathering more and more wetness with each thrust. You pressed your hips against it, seeking more pressure, more friction. Cillian added another finger, causing you to moan loudly into the soft fabric of his cardigan. His fingers pumped in and out of you creating a lewd wet noise. You felt your core begin to tighten, your grinding becoming sloppier with each thrust of his fingers.

“Oh fuck, Cillian,” you whined, pulling your head back from his shoulder to desperately find his lips. He met you in the middle and kissed you messily, increasing the speed of his fingers as he felt you tighten. You bucked against him faster, the impending orgasm causing a feeling of overstimulation that threatened tears in your eyes.

“‘M gonna cum,” you said against his lips, gripping at his back as tight as you could. 

Just as you spoke, your orgasm broke and warmth filled your body. You cried out, moving your face away from his and tilting it back. The pleasure wracked your body in waves, causing your legs to involuntarily twitch and threaten to give out on you. Cillian watched you hungrily, his eyes studying every muscle in your face as he made you cum.

After letting you calm down quietly, he removed his fingers from you. The absence made you wince, cold air hitting the wet skin of your pussy. Cillian pushed the front of his body against yours, kissing you lazily and pressing his arousal into your thigh.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he stated. The bluntness nearly knocked the breath out of you.

“In here?” you asked innocently.

Cillian wordlessly pulled you away from the counter and gripped your hand, leading you away from the kitchen and up the stairs as you stumbled after him. To your surprise, he led you to your room, which you supposed made sense. It would be too real to get fucked in the bed that he and his wife share. 

He closed the door behind him, moving to you quickly to resume making out with you. Insecurity flooded your body at the messiness and immaturity of your bedroom. You pulled back and laughed sheepishly.

“I’m sorry about my room,” you whispered against his lips. “It’s not very ‘big girl’ of me.”

He stroked the sides of your face again, looking you deep in the eyes.

“It’s perfect,” he reassured, “you’re perfect.”

Cillian kissed you again sweetly, and then returned back to the depraved nature of his kisses, kneading and grabbing at your body. He lightly pushed you back onto your bed, crawling on top of you as soon as your back hit the duvet.

He didn’t waste any time removing your sweatshirt and shorts. The garments were off your body with ease, leaving you completely bare underneath him while he still was dressed in his slacks and sweater. Your hand ran up his arm to the collar of the jacket and tugged gently.

“‘S not fair,” you pouted, “take it off.”

He looked down at you with a grin and then sat up, quickly taking off his shirt and pants. You watched intently as he stripped down in front of you, admiring the tone of his body. Compared to other almost-50-year-olds, his body was trim and lithe and it drove you crazy. He pulled down his boxers to free his swollen cock and you watched in awe as it sprung up against the soft of his stomach. He stroked it gently before crawling on top of you again and assaulting your neck with kisses and nips. 

You spread your legs to get him closer, your heart skipping a beat as his cock pressed against your core. You suppressed a moan and jerked your hips against his. His lips traveled further down to your breasts, kissing them gently before finding your sensitive nipples and sucking them. Cillian pulled his head back with a sickening pop as he released the nipple, your eyes screwing shut at the offense against the sensitive skin.

“Fuck me, please,” you said breathlessly, pulling his head back up to kiss your lips. He obliged happily, snaking his tongue into your mouth eagerly before sitting up. 

He knelt between your legs, one hand holding your legs apart and the other guiding his cock to your entrance. You tried not to jump as you felt his slick head prod at you. He pressed in slowly, meeting slight resistance as your pussy tried to stretch to accomodate him. His tip pushed through the tightness, causing you both to gasp as he entered you. You grabbed his forearms to ground you.

Cillian continued to move forward, reveling in your whine as he filled you up. Once he was fully inside of you, he returned to hover above you and kissed you again. You wrapped your legs around his waist and traced your arms up and down his back, encouraging him to move.

The first few thrusts strung as your body struggled to accept the size of his cock, your pussy getting wetter and wetter with each snap of his hips. You buried your head in his shoulder again, mouth resting against his bare shoulder as he fucked into you. He was gentle- pulling out half way and then thrusting up to press himself completely inside of you. You whimpered into his skin with each thrust. 

His movements picked up, his rocking movement becoming rougher and more intense. He slammed himself into you, desperate to get deeper and deeper. He pulled back from you, grabbing your thighs to reposition you. His hands forced your knees back up against your shoulders, allowing him more access to your cunt. The first thrust into you made you yelp and reach down to grab his thigh.

“Fuck Cillian,” you mewled, “that’s fucking deep.”

He laughed and leaned forward, folding his hands behind your head and continuing to fuck you deeper and deeper. The pressure was unbearable, the noises coming out of your mouth were noises you had never heard before. You could feel his head in the deepest parts of you, pressing into you at an unrelenting pace. His breath was staggering, his eyes wandering around your face as you laid slack jaw underneath him.

“Harder,” you managed to ground out, swallowing deeply.

He sat up for better balance, using his hands to press down into the back of your legs and push them up as much as he could. His speed intensified, pulling himself out to his tip to then slam back into you with as much power as he could muster. You frantically grasped the sheets, seeking something to stabilize you. 

“Look at me,” he said hoarsely.

You opened your eyes to stare up at him, his blue eyes bearing back into yours. His face shone with sweat, highlighting his marblesque facial structure. His eyebrow was slightly furrowed in concentration as he fucked you hard. 

“I’m going to… I’m going to…” you tried to gather enough strength to warn him but fell flat, your eyes slightly crossing from the intensity.

“‘M gonna come inside, yeah?” Cillian spoke weakly.

You nodded and whined, keeping eye contact with him as your core tightened more and more. His hand reached down to rub your clit, causing you to crash over the edge. You came loudly, unable to hold in a yelp as pleasure washed over your body again. Your walls clenched him, drawing him in deeper and pushing him to his own orgasm.

He fucked you through the pleasure before he let himself cum, his hips staggering before slamming into yours and pressing the both of you further into the mattress. He groaned into your neck, stroking your thigh as he continued to fuck you through the aftershocks of his own orgasm. You could feel the warmth of the cum seep deep into you, his leaking head pressed as far into you as he could. 

Cillian lazily kissed you and then rested his forehead against yours, his eyelashes tickling your skin.

You laid like that for a few minutes; your sticky bodies pressed against each other, his softening cock still deep inside of you. He finally sat up after the silent bliss had passed, removing himself from you with a hiss. You could feel a small trickle of warmth drip from your pussy as he moved away.

You laughed breathlessly as the gravity of the situation hit you, the weight of his body moving to lay beside you. His hand stroked your stomach lovingly as you both stared at the ceiling.

“Can we do this again?” you said quietly.

“It is simply wise strategy to have a secondary ranged weapon. Even better strategy would be to have you able to hit things with it.”

“What about the others?” Shadowheart asked, not liking the undercurrent of whine in her voice.

“Chk!” Lae'zel spat on the ground to underscore her scorn. “Mages, wizards and adepts need not the military training you do. And I have nothing to teach Karlach that her years in the hells haven’t already taught her. You two, however, are a different story.”

It had been a poor showing that day with the gnolls. A messy, scrappy fight that they’d been lucky to win, even though they’d spotted the creatures on the road well in advance. If it hadn’t been for Lae’zel, stunningly fast, divinely vicious, it may have been that none of them would need to worry about turning into mindflayers after all.

Horses couldn’t drag it out of her, but Lae’zel had been stunning to watch. An absolute maelstrom.

So when Lae’zel dragged Shadowheart and Astarion to a clearing near the camp, training dummies set and waiting, Shadowheart ignored the churn of shame and went.

“Fire upon the dummies. I am unable to train you if I do not first understand what you are capable of.”

Astarion twanged the string of the goblin bow, dubious.

“You first, istik.” Lae'zel jerked her chin at Shadowheart.

Shadowheart set her feet. There was a surge of pride, desire to prove herself to this arrogant gith, but the emotion immediately crashed upon the shore of knowledge. She’d never been a particularly gifted archer. The bow didn’t feel entirely unnatural to her, so she had to suppose she had been trained in the art to some extent, but it didn’t slot into her hands with the same unerring coherence that she felt with mace and shield.

She drew, and fired off the first arrow. It glanced off the side of the dummy, and her face burned. A second shot. This one hit, but the arrow drooped in the straw, having barely found purchase.

She glanced up at Lae’zel, braced for the scathing criticism, but she was merely watching the performance with an electric intensity, as though they were already in battle.

Shadowheart took a breath to steady herself, looking back to the dummy, feeling Lae’zel eyes boring through the back of her head. The shot went wide by at least a foot.

Lae’zel made another of those clicking sounds in her throat, and before Shadowheart could muster a mote of defence for her performance, there was a sinewy grip squeezing her waist. It was like the gith didn’t know how to approach touch with anything but force.

“Like this.” Lae'zel tugged her with implacable hands. “More side-on to your target. I know you are used to hiding behind your shield but think a little first.” The hands moved to her shoulders, and Shadowheart flinched at the feeling of those hands on her bare skin.

“Again.” The arrow landed more surely this time, penetrating at least an inch into the straw. She felt a silly little surge of pride. Since when do you care what this monster thinks of you, girl? A voice sounded inside her mind, the harsh cadence reminding her of Mother.

This time Lae'zel approached from the front, brusquely moving Shadowheart’s hands on the bow. She closed her fingers firmly over Shadowheart’s in the new position, and when those firm hands withdrew, Shadowheart felt hot all over. From shame? From- from being touched?

When last had she been touched? She couldn’t remember. Lae'zel withdrew and took position at Shadowheart’s back, standing so close that her breathing was loud in Shadowheart’s ears

“Again.” Shadowheart listened to that breathing. She closed her hands firmly on the bow, holding the feeling of Lae’zel hands over her own in the sense-memory of her body, and drew.

The arrow missed the target by at least two feet.

The noise that came out of Lae’zel could have punched a hole through Shadowheart’s gut. She crowded in again, yanking hands, twisting Shadowheart’s hips like a doll, then taking a knee and shoving her thighs slightly wider.

Where had all the wind in her lungs gone?

“This is even more disappointing than I was prepared for. You are supposed to be a warrior of some merit-” she stood as she spoke and glanced at Shadowheart’s face.

“What is wrong?” she asked sharply. “Are you unwell? There is a colour to your skin I have not seen before.”

Shadowheart fired off a quick prayer to Lady Shar to wrench the life out of her there and then.

Lae’zel didn’t wait for a reply, merely yanked the bow from her hands. “Go rest a moment.” Shadowheart obeyed. If Lady Shar wasn’t going to kill her, she could at least be out from under those hawk eyes.

“Elf. Take your turn and maybe this afternoon’s work will not have been a complete waste.”

Astarion made a show of stepping up, moving his hands uncertainly up and down the bow, almost fumbling as he nocked. Then, with a sly tightening of his shoulders, he turned to the target, and fired off three quick shots, thwap thwap thwap, neatly clustered on the dummy’s pockmarked face. He turned back to Lae’zel with a swagger.

Instead of the praise that he so clearly angled for, she sighed. “Why did you come out here if you were not in need of my instruction? Why not simply tell me you already knew how to shoot?”

“Oh, you know. I just wanted to see a little more of,” holding a spare arrow, he gestured, pointing first at Lae’zel and then to Shadowheart, where she had taken refuge on a rock, “whatever this is.” He finished with a smirk, drawing the arrow head in a circle encompassing the space between them.

That night they made camp, a safe distance from the temple, shelters perched amongst the craggy rocks of the pass. Lae'zel had done the bare minimum of camp chores, before silently taking herself away to her tent. As dusk settled upon them properly, Shadowheart walked down the short path to where Lae'zel had gone to lick her wounds.

She sat on her haunches by the whetstone, having shed her armour but had not yet cleaned the blood from her face or hands. Her golden eyes did not shift as Shadowheartrounded the tree. She gazed intently into the dirt as though it would, at any moment, answer a burning question.

The setting sun gilded Lae'zel’s brown hair, the line of her nose, the slope of her shoulder. Shadowheart blinked and remembered. She saw every line of those muscled arms pulled taut against organic restraints, ropey with pain and desperation. There was nothing she could say in the face of that horror. No words that would answer whatever question Lae'zel was asking of the patch of bare dirt she gazed dully into.

Shadowheart took a seat next to her, and assumed her meditation pose. She allowed her mind to go wandering anywhere but the events of that afternoon.

They wandered to the sound of Lae'zel breathing next to her. Sharran principles never strictly forbade her from having a sexual partner, though it was not encouraged. She hoped she had done right by stumbling into one that brought her as much pain as it did pleasure. The rings of bite marks in her thighs, the bruises gifted by Lae’zel’s gripping hands… when she pressed on them, it felt like worship.

The golden light ambled into dusk and neither woman spoke. This was the longest stretch of time time they’d spent alone in each other’s company without things devolving either into fighting or fucking.

The colour seeped from the world. Shadowheart felt a hand on her thigh and in the last dying light of the day looked up to see Lae'zel’s eyes on her mouth. She hadn’t found her answer in the dirt but instead had decided to ask questions elsewhere.

As though she hadn’t been kneeling for an hour, Lae’zel was on her feet in a blink, one hand in Shadowheart’s ponytail and yanking. Her numb legs unfolded in a jumble and she scrabbled backwards into the unerring pull of the line, reeling her into the doorway of Lae'zel’s tent.

Lae'zel had simmered away in her rage and hurt, and it needed to boil over somewhere, and for once Shadowheart was glad it was her about to get burnt.

Efficient hands stripped away her clothes, and in the grey-dark of the tent there was a bloom of blue light. A psionic appendage between the gith’s legs, blunt and thick.

Lae’zel flipped her over onto her stomach; Shadowheart’s pride as a warrior begged her to fight. The perverted thrill of pleasure at the teeth clamped into the meat of one shoulder brought her back to submissive stillness.

Lae'zel had granted her the bare courtesy of a thin bedroll between Shadowheart and the packed earth, and another kindness of a spit-slick hand swiping over the head of the blue tinged cock. Straddling broad thighs, Lae'zel spread plush buttocks to make space to rub the blunt head against her hole.

Normally (if you could call a few weeks worth of hate-fucking each other normal) Shadowheartwould have fought, struggled against being claimed with her face pressed to the dirt like an animal. But she had come to Lae’zel tonight offering comfort, and if this was the kind of comfort the gith wanted, she could have it. There was the taut pull of anticipation in her stomach, achingly familiar now before Lae'zel plunged in.

She growled, shifting her hands to the broad plains of Shadowheart’s shoulderblades, and snapped her hips viciously. Angled like this, the press of Lae'zel’s cock inside was sharp with intensity, bottoming out and filling her, heat rising from her cunt to fill her cheeks. She felt open, and wet, and willing.

Lae'zel fucked the pliant form beneath her, expecting at any moment a swell of movement, to be bucked off, or at least to feel Shadowheart’s strength pushing back against her domineering hands. But aside from a muffled moan into the bedroll beneath her, it seemed that Shadowhearthad simply given herself over to it. 

Lae’zel reached for the peace that carnality often brought her. The rising blood, the thrilling sensation of fucking Shadowheart, and putting her in place, the delicious pleasure… all denied to her in that moment.

Shadowheart felt the gith’s motion slow, and then pause, hips resting heavy on her.

That electrifying buzz between them, the friction, the clash that so typified their wanton coupling, had been so noisy. So loud in both mind and body. Without realising it, that frenetic buzz had created a wall between their minds. A wall that bloody penetration and howled orgasms had not been able to breach.

In the quiet of Shadowheart’s submission, that wall disintegrated, and the tadpole connection surged into life.

Shadowheart gasped an entirely new sound as awareness of Lae’zel’s mind slammed into hers. The woman was lost. Unbearable loneliness, untethered purpose… an aching homesickness for somewhere she’d never been. A familiar zeal to prove herself, indistinguishable from Shadowheart’s own.

As the jumbled wave of emotions crested through and past her, it mingled with Shadowheart’s own simmering desperation. A longing to go home to somewhere that she couldn’t even recall.

Lae'zel’s truth was an unsteady foundation which was crumbling beneath her. Shadowheartcould feel how she craved a moment of safety, of stability. And for some damn reason, she sought that here, in this tent… with her.

Lae'zel scrambled away as she felt her mind unwittingly peel open, breathing heavily.

Shadowheart rolled over. The other woman had retreated as far as she could to the other side of the tent, coiled in upon herself. It was almost completely dark, but she could still see, and more pressingly, feel Lae’zel’s shocking vulnerability. The magicked phallus fizzled out; Lae’zel was naked, and frightened.

The connection worked both ways, and Shadowheart’s own emotions unfurled in reply. She had thrown her lot in with Tav, handed her precious artefact to them, and in doing so had betrayed her ideals. That scared her very badly. Shadowheart’s truth was slipping sand beneath her feet, and a wolf howling in the distance. When she went back to the Sharrans, would she be welcomed back? Or had she, like Lae'zel, burnt down the home she longed to return to?

She took a deep breath, and crawled forward. Slowly, like you would approach a wounded animal. When Lae'zel didn’t pull away, didn’t snarl or lunge, Shadowheartclosed the distance between them, and kissed her.

And kept kissing her, trying to say with tongue and lips and that staggering, new connection between them -

I understand

you’re not alone

please don’t run away

She drew Lae’zel back down to the sleeping mat, pulling her atop her body and wrapping arms and legs around her sinewy form, as close as she could.

Their breathing slowed, and synced. The whirling edifice of pain and fear between them coalesced, and flattened, and this time as Lae’zel brought her psionic prick to life, she eased it inside of Shadowheart with a gentleness hitherto unfound.

Shadowheart welcomed her in, slow, seeking strokes, and when Lae'zel dropped her head to the crook of neck and shoulder, she did not bare her teeth and bite down.

The tenderness was almost unbearable, and without thinking, she brought her hand, cupping the back of Lae’zel head. She rolled her hips, agonisingly slowly, to meet each slide of the psi-cock inside her.

Lae’zel slowed, and shuddered to a halt, her full weight resting on the body below her, not in dominance, but in complete surrender. Shadowheart wrapped her arms more firmly and swallowed the choking lump of emotions – hers? Mine? – that rose in her throat.

Lae’zel was crying. Not sobbing, no theatrics or catharsis. Just an ooze of tears against one shoulder.

“Where will I go? When all of this is over?” She asked, voice a sharp sword snapped in two.

“I don’t know.” Where would either of them go? The fear that had been eating her – that she wouldn’t be welcomed back, echoed and rippled through both their minds.

Maybe- maybe we could find out together.

The origin of the thought- a pained hope, a question that daren’t be asked- was unclear.

Shadowheart knew this to be a blasphemy. She knew she was going home to Shar! Her family. They rescued her, they raised her! But for the first time, when she reached out for that certainty, it was a bruised and rotten apple in her mind's eye. In that moment, she didn’t feel Shar there in the tent with her.

Neither of them spoke, and Shadowheart stroked a steadying hand through Lae’zel’s hair. Her cock softened and dissipated, and they lay entwined, body and mind. It was terrifying. It was divine.

Pain bloomed in a sickening jolt in her gentled hand, breaking the reverie. She gasped, and pushed Lae'zel off to wrap one hand around the throbbing wound. She grit her teeth against it.

Funny! Some traitorous thought popped up. Shar never had anything to say when we were hurting each other. She ground her teeth against the pain, against the thought, against the moment of tenderness she had just allowed herself to revel in. Lae’zel reached for the wounded hand, but Shadowheart jerked away. The connection between them was sheared, cleft neatly by the buzz of pain.

The rivulet the party had camped by would be cold, but bathing under cover of darkness in a cool river was as easy as breathing. She peeled off her undershirt and pants. Standing naked in the moonlight, Shadowheart took a moment to breathe, and to open her heart to Lady Shar.

The fire, the heart of her strange crew’s little campsite, was well behind her through the trees. It was just her and Lady Shar out here, and she’d wandered far down the path to find solitude. Astarion was already out hunting. Karlach was on watch. Tav knew to respect her privacy. Gale and Wyll, she suspected, were still afraid of her. They thought that forbidden Sharran ideals might infect them should they come too near to her moonlit bathing. Superstitious little boys who didn’t understand anything past their own fields of expertise.

That meant the soft, leather-shod footfalls behind could only be one person. She took a deep breath in through her nose.

“What do you want?” She didn’t turn, and the footsteps didn’t falter.

Shadowheart could have lunged to snatch up her mace. She envisioned it clearly, a scene in high contrast under the harsh light of the moon. The weight of the handle, comforting in her hand as she attacked, the blood-encrusted flange crunching into that smug face.

“You know what I want.” Lae’zel replied, now close enough to Shadowheart’s back that she felt the hair on her neck shift with the gith’s breath.

Maybe not the mace then. Maybe the dagger set down with her clothes, another spray of blood for an already red-drenched day. Her eyes stayed closed and her breath didn’t hasten as her mind's eye was briefly filled with another arc of startling red.

As tempting as the vision was, deep in her heart of hearts? She knew she would lose that fight. Did the gith bleed red? She’d yet to even see Lae’zel take a wound that would answer that question.

So Shadowheart didn’t lunge for the dagger, or the mace, as Lae'zel shifted her heavy braid onto one shoulder, and leaned into the other.

Lae'zel took a slow, deliberate breath in through her snub nose, and it sent prickles washing over Shadowheart’s pale skin. “It would be a shame for the river to be the only one to taste my kill on your skin.”

She shifted closer, tongue darting out to touch the side of Shadowheart’s neck. Lae'zel’s mouth was warm, but the cool night air chilled the wet spot left behind by her tongue. Shadowheart shuddered.

Lae'zel returned to the same spot, this time mouth opening wider, lips forming a seal and tongue lapping against the skin, and with a lurch Shadowheart realised there was a bloodstain there, splattered in a furious burst, where it had dripped down her face and dried, only for a fervent tongue to moisten it. To take it in.

“Your hands.” Lae’zel commanded. Her voice was icy and Shadowheart thought of resisting, for one short moment. She could walk away from this feral woman, this animal, lapping blood off her neck and demanding more.

Shadowheart turned away from the watching eye of the moon; the cool light washed Lae’zel’s golden eyes out. There was a luminous grey flash of stars reflected, before her gaze dropped to Shadowheart’s hands. Blood and ichor stained them from wrist to fingertip, worn into the grooves of the knuckles, in the dry riverbeds of her palm lines. Lae’zel took in the sight, her pupils tightening in sick anticipation.

She licked those filthy hands like a woman starved. Holding one in a bone-creaking grip she laved her tongue over the back, ravenous, tongue finding the spaces between fingers and- it was disgusting, riveting, the sensation of wet meat drawn across her sensitive palm.

Lae’zel was making little growling sounds as she guzzled the blood off every place her tongue could reach. Her eyes were closed; it was like Shadowheart wasn’t even there. Teeth scraped the skin of the big muscle of the palm, like she was trying to scrape every last piece of gristle off a chicken leg.

Shadowheart felt… dazed by it. If anyone had ever been so hungry for Shadowheart’s skin before, she could not remember it. She was sick with something like want, stomach swooping at the feeling of a tongue rolling over the pads of her fingertips.

Lae’zel sucked two fingers all the way into her mouth, and Shadowheart moaned.

She gasped, shocked at the noise that escaped her, her free hand flying to her mouth, wet with smudged blood and spit, and Lae'zel’s eyes snapped open. Beautiful golden eyes. They pinned her in place like a dagger through the palm.

Lae’zel was feral, delighted, as though she’d caught an opening in an enemy’s defense. She leant in closer, mouth red and shining, and licked a long stripe up Shadowheart’s cheek. “I want to smell you. I want your scent. I want your sweat in my nose, down my throat.” She pulled Shadowheart in close, gripping her wrist hard. “Are you going to stop me?”

“You’re disgusting.” Shadowheart didn’t meet her eyes, or pull away.

“Chk. That is not an answer. Do you want me to stop?” Lae’zel’s eyes were mocking.

She didn’t respond, and that was enough of an assent for Lae'zel to press her advantage. She turned them both in an elegant mockery of dance, pushing until Shadowheart’s back was flattened against a tree. Without pause Lae'zel lifted Shadowheart’s hand above her head, and jammed her face into the revealed armpit, inhaling deeply.

Shadowheart squirmed against the rough bark, biting back a shriek at the invasion. She could fight back. She could. Lae’zel’s tongue licked through the hair there – like a cat grooming itself – Shadowheart thought desperately, but something about the sensation of a tongue in her armpit shot arousal straight through her, and the shriek in her throat turned into a moan, her legs to goo beneath her. If not for the hand around her wrist she may have collapsed all the way to the grassy ground.

Lae’zel tasted her fill, and Shadowheart didn’t resist as her other arm was raised. Lae’zel worshiped, drawing in deep, satisfied breaths as she made a wet mess of the aroma, the tastes, that she found there.

What defiance might have been left in Shadowheart was draining away, pooling into lust, throbbing in her belly. She could feel the slickness between her legs as Lae’zel moved her again, pushing her to a flat rock by the riverside.

Demanding, overwhelming hands shoved her down, pushed her thighs apart, and when Lae’zel’s bloody mouth found her slit she didn’t fight. She didn’t fight Lae’zel, or the moan rising desperately from her throat. When that determined tongue licked her from asshole to apex, she let out a shriek into the dark night.

Lae’zel mouth was merciless, hands finding a grip on the plush curve of Shadowheart’s hips and fastening there, holding on to prevent an escape she was no longer capable of making. Lae'zel plunged in, sucking all the soft flesh into her mouth and moaning, those sounds of delight and dominance indistinguishable from those that she’d moaned around bloody fingers in her mouth.

Shadowheart was lost in it. Unthinking, her hands scrabbled against the rock, tangling in Lae'zel’s hair, yanking against the hands and their pinprick of nails against her skin. But Lae’zel was all sinewy muscle, as immovable as the boulder they were splayed upon. Her tongue was relentless, flicking and laving, lips sucking and squeezing the flesh between them in an agony of pleasure.

Shadowheart didn’t want her to stop, but she also didn’t want her to win. Pinned down with a sharp mouth buried in her cunt certainly felt like a losing position. As her thighs began to shake with the building pleasure, she felt that defeat looming, Lae’zel pressing one advantage after another.

Shadowheart’s hands stopped their desperate roaming, and her hips rolled and bucked into Lae’zel’s hungry mouth. Her orgasm stalked up behind her despite her attempts to evade, roiling waves overcoming her.

As she came, her head dropped back, eyes finding the unblinking eye of the moon. Forgive me, Dark lady. For what, she wasn’t sure.

Lae’zel eyes were pinpricks, mouth shining and chest heaving as she clambered up Shadowheart’s body and straddled her. She grabbed a fistful of Shadowheart’s hair and yanked their faces together, sealing her victory with a kiss.

Shadowheart tasted her own arousal on Lae’zel’s tongue. She tasted blood, and she opened her lips helplessly to Lae’zel’s salty, biting mouth.

**

The sound of Shadowheart’s pleasure, a pained, defeated yowl, was easy enough to hear back by the fire, where Karlach and Wyll kept watch in companionable silence.

The noise might have been cause for alarm if it wasn’t familiar by now.

Karlach looked sidelong at her friend. “Should we… do anything about that?”

Wyll gave a helpless shrug. “What, go bang pots at them like a pair of stray dogs?”

Karlach gave a bark of laughter, then tilted her head to say, fair point. “That’s exactly what it sounds like.”

“I’m just glad they’re not fighting anymore. If this is the alternative to the whole “knives to throat at midnight,” business, I’ll take it.”

Karlach nodded. “Hey, maybe next time they stalk off like that, I should go watch.”

“For their own good, of course.” Wyll’s eye glinted devilishly in the firelight.

“Of course.”

“Hurry up and do it already.” Urgent, quiet. The last thing she wanted was to raise anyone down at the fire and have them see her torn apart and unraveled with the githyanki at her back

Lae’zel’s only response was a short catch in her throat. Laughter, maybe, or a growl that didn’t quite bloom into full throatiness.

Rough hands yanked at Shadowheart’s trousers, unbothered by the soft snap of a seam wrenched past breaking point, pushing them down around her ankles. Legs, trapped, though with just enough space between them for a rough knee to intrude, shoving the thighs apart.

Shadowheart didn’t resist. She didn’t even turn her head. A hot, sick lump rose in her throat as something cool touched her inner thigh.

“Fuck you, gith.” The words hissed past her lips as she realised it was not clawed fingers teasing through her slit, but something hard and cool.

This time the laughter did blossom from Lae’zel’s throat in a bloom of steel and velvet.

Shadowheart gasped as the sword pommel teased at the slick rim of her entrance. For all the disdain in Lae’zels laugh, she had put aside her roughness. Instead she enacted a different cruelty, letting the rounded bauble of steel encroach and retreat, without fully breaching the warmth there. Shadowheart pulsed, feeling herself twitch against the rapidly-warming metal.

Her feet slid in the dirt, as though trying to drop her hips down.

“Stop that-“ and Lae’zel spat something guttural in her native tongue that was clearly not a term of endearment. “You do not take from me. You do not decide when or how I take from you.”

The low words were accompanied by clawed hand gripping the meat of her ass, both holding her in place and-

Shadowheart swallowed as a sharp fingers slipped past the underside of her buttock, hooking into one sensitive lip and opening her cunt for Lae’zel to-

“Hnnghk!” She nearly nearly took off a chunk of her lip, biting back the cry as the round pommel, slightly too wide, slightly too much, popped though and inside her.

Knees wobbled, trying to give way, but that wretched hand now clamped into the soft flesh of her ass, holding her in place.

A curious, if maybe even approving “chk” sounded from behind her. She felt her lips stutter along the leather grip as Lae’zel pushed, the shortsword hilt nothing compared to the girth of the pommel, the leather too dry and rough.

Shadowheart had been keeping her hands splayed, elbows locked, but without a thought crossing the starry sky of her mind, her arms folded. Her upper body flowed forward and she muffled the sound of her cry into her forearms.

Lae’zel levered the hilt, just a touch, the pommel now flesh-warm but broad inside her, invasive and hot, pressing forward enough for Shadowheart to feel that sickening jolt through her again, shame swirling, breath catching, low moan in her throat escaping past any defences and oh god- if anyone saw her like this-

“Good.” Lae’zel muttered. “Now just grateful that this is the end of my blade that you receive, hmm?” The cup of her fist, firm around the haft, met Shadowheart’s lips as she pushed the sword hilt, deeper this time, as deep as it would go.

“You’re going to want this,” Wilde plonked down a glass of whiskey on the table as he sat in the chair next to Zolf’s.

Zolf looked up from the report he’d been writing. In a show of good faith, they’d been sending their information to Curie’s people. Not that they had that much to share; making any inroads on the Shoin institute was proving impossible, finding who was hexing Wilde was proving impossible, finding a way to get a team to Svalbard was proving… anyway.

Wilde looked like he’d just seen a ghost. Zolf curled his fingers around the glass and waited for whatever bomb was about to drop.

Wilde was holding a piece of paper scrawled with his own shorthand, probably a noted Sending. He held it up and half-offered it to Zolf before dropping it on the table where it immediately slipped off. He jumped up and went to pour himself a drink before picking up the paper and sitting down again.

For someone who was generally unflappable, this all looked quite flapped. Zolf picked up his own whiskey and raised an eyebrow as Wilde picked up the note, reading it over again.

“For godsake, would you spit it out?” Zolf said gruffly. Wilde’s agitation was contagious.

Wilde took a deep breath. “Hamid’s back,” he said quickly, as though racing it would make it land easier.

Wilde was right. Zolf did need the whiskey. He picked up his glass blankly, taking a huge mouthful and letting his thoughts narrow to nothing but the pleasant burn on his tongue. The emotional purgatory he’d been stuck in for the last eighteen months had almost become comforting, familiar. This threat of having to leave it, to hope again… it was too much.

“According to who?” he finally managed.

“He’s with Curie and Einstein at the moment, along with Azu.” Wilde’s voice was still quick and tight.

Zolf frowned at the notable absences. “What about the others?”

“Curie didn’t mention them. Just that the two of them returned from Rome, with the hostages.” He ran his hands through his hair, already unruly from repetition of the action.

Hope threatened to overwhelm Zolf, to come crashing like a wave through all the careful barriers he had constructed. He looked to Wilde, who was staring wide-eyed at the note, reading it over and over.

“I don’t know,” Wilde’s hand came up to cover his mouth, thumb compulsively running over his scarred cheek. “It’s been… it’s been too long.” The certainty that the others were dead had calcified over the last year, and cracking into that seemed an impossible task.

Hope was harder than grief.

He grimaced at the thought and pulled his hand away from his scar. “It’s not them,” he said firmly. “It’s not them, Zolf, it’s been too long! It’s just another fucking trap.” He picked up the note and tried to shred it with hands that shook.

Whatever wave that was about to come crashing over Zolf suddenly didn’t seem important anymore. He felt it wash through and around him as he put his glass down. He leant forward to cover one of Wilde’s hands with his own, squeezing gently until it stilled.

Wilde didn’t look at him, because if he did, if he was forced to look into Zolf's eyes, as the dwarf held Wilde’s hand in his, on top of everything else, he might expire. “It can’t be,” he whispered. “We’d be fools to believe it.”

Zolf slid out of his chair, coming down to his knees in front of the seated Wilde and slipped both of his hands under and into Wilde’s. He kept his gaze lowered, and his eyebrows twitched in surprise, as though only just realising what he’d done, where his hands had travelled of their own accord. With a curious tenderness, Zolf rubbed his thumbs over the backs of Wilde’s knuckles.

Wilde took a shaky breath, letter momentarily forgotten. Zolf only ever touched him like this when it felt like the world was falling apart.

“Aye, we’d be fools,” Zolf agreed softly. “But there’s a chance. We’ll be careful, but it’s alright to be fools for a chance.” Wilde hadn’t taken his eyes off their joined hands, resting on his thighs.

For so long they had both told each other, and themselves, it was simply nice not to be in it alone. But Wilde knew that it wouldn’t feel like this to be touched by just anyone, to have just anyone grounding him in warm palms and a gentle rub of thumbs. He knew that even Zolf felt the same horrible, dawning hope. Only Zolf really understood why Wilde was shaking and pulling his own hair at the idea that perhaps all wasn’t lost, after all.

The slide of Zolf’s thumbs was almost hypnotic, and Wilde allowed himself to drift. He let go of the news that was poised to turn their world upside down again, let his focus narrow down to the sensation. Floating up from the drift was fear, the panicked moment of looking into the eyes of someone you loved, and seeing they weren’t in there. The image of Bosie’s kind eyes shot with blue, suddenly replaced by Hamid’s, the idea of it happening again... it all slowly washed away, until there was only the feeling of Zolf’s hands beneath his. Wilde let it all disappear. It had to disappear.

He looked up. Zolf hadn’t raised his eyes, and for the briefest moment Wilde considered asking Zolf why he only touched Wilde just as he was about to break into pieces. But Wilde didn’t know if Zolf would have an answer, or if Wilde could handle the answer he might be given. What if Zolf still thought him weak, in need of bolstering when times got tough?

Wilde wouldn’t be able to cope with that, so he stayed his questions and calmed his breathing. “Alright.” Zolf let his hands still at the sound of Wilde’s clear voice. “We can give them a chance.”

Zolf looked up. “Aren’t you lookin’ forward to the chance to use that silly trapdoor, finally?”

Wilde felt a smile twitch to life on his lips. “I told you it would come in handy!” He smirked and squeezed Zolf’s hands. Zolf let go and came to stand, looking sheepish, as though only just realising what he’d done. Wilde felt the word stay rise on his lips, but didn’t let it break the surface.

“Zolf… thank you,” he said instead. That felt safer. That felt possible. He watched Zolf as he returned to his chair and gave a half shrug, brushing off the thanks.

“S’alright. I get it.” And he did. Like no one else possibly could.

Wilde ducked his head to hide the blush in his cheeks, and as he did Zolf’s comforting phrase bubbled back up in his mind. It’s alright to be fools for a chance.

***

The inn was far less quiet with the squadron of kobolds around.

After reading the letter from Sasha, Zolf had disappeared even more thoroughly than usual. When Zolf had one of his introspective spells, Wilde knew better than to chase after him. It never led anywhere good. Besides, after Wilde’s first solo quarantine, Zolf had been zealous in protecting Wilde’s privacy. It felt like an apology for the violations forced on them both. Wilde merely thought it good manners to return the favour.

This felt… different, however. At some point self-exclusion became punishment, and Wilde knew that all too well.

He found Zolf easily enough. One of his favourite haunts was a nearby cliffside clearing. It wasn’t exactly picturesque, but you could hear the ocean waves crashing down below, and on a clear day the horizon was visible through the gaps in the trees.

Wilde stuck his head into the small clearing, taking as much as he could see in the moonlight. Zolf was seated on the ground, leaning against a jagged piece of granite.

“Come ta scold me for breaking quarantine, Wilde?” Zolf said blearily. It was too dim for Wilde to be able to see the wine bottles on the ground, but he could hear them in Zolf’s voice.

“That depends. Did you see anyone on your way up here?” Wilde asked mildly, still half in the bushes.

Zolf considered the simple question at length. “No one ‘til you.”

“Then it seems the quarantine is still in effect.” Wilde finished pulling himself through from the game path. Zolf had cleared the way somewhat, but he hadn’t needed the extra head room that Wilde did; there were twigs in his hair.

Wilde came close enough to properly see Zolf’s outline in the moonlight, but not so close as to intrude. He could still turn and head straight back down the path. He waited for Zolf to tell him to do so.

Through a haze of grief and booze, Zolf considered this interloper on his self-imposed exile. The news of Sasha and Grizzop had stripped him back to raw, frayed edges, exposed parts that he had always felt would be better left unseen. And yet. This was Wilde. For some reason it didn’t feel so dangerous to let the man see him like this.

So Zolf offered Wilde his half-drunk bottle of wine. Wilde accepted with a ceremonious bow of his head, as though he were being handed a crystal piece of stemware, not a cheap bottle of grog. He leant over to ineffectually brush the scraggly grass with the other hand, as if to clean it, and sat down next to Zolf, letting their knees touch together companionably.

Wilde necked a few good mouthfuls of the wine straight from the bottle. It was… not good. One might even go so far as to say it was bad. He used to be the kind of person to get worked up about that sort of thing.

Wilde didn’t ask if Zolf wanted to talk about it. He simply handed the bottle back when he’d drunk his fill. They both looked forward, out to the gap in the trees where the ocean gently roared in the darkness. Wilde couldn’t see very much, and Zolf was several sheets to the wind, but together they managed to pass the back and forth, hands sometimes brushing.

Zolf realised as they finished off the bottle that he was glad Wilde was there. Every other time that he’d felt like this, all of his instincts screamed at him to go through it alone. This was new.

Zolf pulled another bottle from his coat. He pulled the cork, lifted it and said hoarsely. “To Sasha.” He took his swig and handed it blindly to Wilde. He wished he could think of something apt to say. He wished he could feel anything but the weight of Sasha’s heart in his hands.

Wilde took the bottle, and a deep breath. “To Sasha Racket. We were all richer for having known you, our enemies infinitely poorer.” He hesitated, then added, “And to Grizzop drik acht Amsterdam. You were a deeply caring man, who improved the lives of many in your short years.” He thought of Grizzop. He thought of the darkness behind his eyes after his collapse, and the whirlwind of recovery that the goblin doggedly pushed him through. “May your hunt in the next life be long, thrilling and bountiful.”

He took a drink.

When the second bottle was through, Wilde stood, a touch unsteadily.

“Now, I know you would be happy enough to sleep out here and awake without even a hangover,” he began, “But I am heading back inside. I would suggest you come with me, so that you don’t roll off a cliff in the middle of the night. It would be a terrible shame and for all you’re a pain in the rump, I would miss you.”

“Ye’d miss me cooking, more like.” Zolf said with a touch of a smile in his voice. “S'alright, you don’t need ta hassle me. I’ll come down.”

Wilde offered Zolf his hand. Zolf’s legs were a technological marvel, but they weren’t a flawless tool, and getting up from the ground was one action they didn’t handle well. Zolf clasped Wilde’s hand in his. Wilde braced his feet wide and pulled, leveraging just enough to compensate for the less-than-standard amount of bend in Zolf’s “knees”.

Despite their inebriated state, they’d done it a hundred times before and it went off without a hitch, though Zolf held onto Wilde’s hand a little longer than he usually would, swaying slightly. It felt steadying to hold Wilde’s hand in his as the world tilted viciously around him. For some reason, holding onto Wilde’s hand made him feel like perhaps the world wasn’t ending after all. He considered this feeling, prodding it and turning it over through the safe distance of being extremely sloshed.

Wilde considered making a snide comment, but he was having his own careful considerations of the feelings of a warm and substantial hand enveloping his. He took a rare opportunity to keep his mouth shut and simply squeezed Zolf’s hand.

They let go of each other to head down the trail single file, though Wilde kept a hand on Zolf’s shoulder; he couldn’t see properly once the trees were hiding the moon, and every second step Zolf took threatened to veer him off into the underbrush. His head was spinning like a plate on a stick. As they came out of the trees and into the inn’s yard proper, it was unclear which one of them was holding up the other.

After Wilde’s quarantine he’d kept his hands to himself for a long while. Even after calling a team meeting and divulging his past, there had still been a careful distance. As he stumbled again and Wilde’s hand steadied his elbow, Zolf was grateful that some of their ease was returning, even if they had to get wasted to return there.

Wilde walked with Zolf all the way to his room, which had a western-style bed against the wall. Zolf stumbled in and flopped down on the bed immediately; even by dwarf standards he had drunk an impressive amount.

“D’you want a hand with your legs?” Wilde asked amiably.

“Nah, s’fine. I’ll just sleep in ‘em.”

Wilde’s face scrunched, in a most unselfconscious way, as he considered that. Another complaint Zolf often had was that lengthy wear of the legs made his thighs sore, and the last thing Zolf needed right now was a physical ailment to go with his heartache. “Are you sure? Or are you just being crotchety out of habit?” Not up to his usual standard of witty repartee, but he was drunk and unfiltered.

Zolf lifted his head and glared. He was too drunk to have a good comeback. “Tha’s uncalled for,” he slurred.

“I just don’t want to have to listen to you complaining about being sore tomorrow!” Wilde pointed out, not unreasonably. Goddamnit Zolf. Just… let me help you. Let someone else be the useful one for a change.

Zolf held onto his glare a moment longer, then let his head flop back. He groaned argumentatively but waved one hand. Go on then.

Wilde nodded graciously, and yanked off the boot closest to him, then placed one knee on the bed to reach over for the other.

He wasn’t quite sure where it all went wrong. He was pulling the boot, leaning, one foot still balanced on the floor, then suddenly he wasn’t. He pitched forward, losing contact with the floor, and found himself lying diagonally across Zolf’s broad chest.

He managed to catch himself at the last second, so at the very least he hadn’t body-slammed the poor drunk dwarf, but both men made slightly winded noises of surprise.

“I- oop- I'm so sorry, I’ll just-” Oscar went to get his hands underneath him on either side of Zolf and push back, when he suddenly felt Zolf’s arms wrapping around him, folding Wilde into his chest. Another surprised and now slightly confused noise popped out of Wilde’s mouth.

Oh. It was a hug. He was being hugged. He stopped trying to press himself up and instead let his chest lie against Zolf’s, head swimming from the sudden tumble.

When was the last time he’d been properly held?

Zolf wasn’t in his right mind, and Wilde didn’t want to take advantage of that. But as he lay there, fitting strangely well on Zolf’s roomy chest, Wilde felt a tension he didn’t know he’d been holding start to melt away. He wiggled ever-so-slightly to lay his head on Zolf’s shoulder, face turned away.

Zolf’s arms settled from a squeeze to just resting across Wilde’s back, one broad hand resting between shoulder blades, the other almost reaching Wilde’s lower back. Wilde’s heart felt full in his chest, his whole body warm on wine and contact. Some part of him had wanted this, and badly. He quieted the questions in his mind, letting his confusion dissipate into the drunken haze.

“Y’alright, Wilde?” Zolf’s voice was soft. “After… the kobolds. That can’t ‘ave been a pleasant.”

Wilde sucked in a sharp breath. He had been trying not to think about the midnight ambush. He’d been reading in his office, so used to the inn being a place of safety, his office a sanctuary, that he hadn’t even heard them enter the building. (In his defense, they were very sneaky.) He’d been trying not to remember the onslaught of fear and confusion as he was overwhelmed with scaled skin, clawed hands trussing him up with cold efficiency.

The reflexive I’m fine nearly popped out his mouth, but that didn’t seem right. Not in this moment. Not drunk and comfortable with Zolf’s arms around him.

“It was horrible,” he heard himself say. “Not that I even had the chance to get a spell off, they were so fast, but gods I miss my magic.” He trailed off and rubbed his nose against the fabric covering Zolf’s shoulder. “If you hadn’t come back up when you did- I didn’t know what they were saying, what they wanted, or how long they were going to keep me- I-” He felt a waver threatening in his voice and stopped before it broke properly. The hand between his shoulder blades gripped and released, staying heavy and soothing against him. Wilde sighed his gratitude.

Time passed as Wilde breathed, letting his eyes droop and the memory dissipate. It was harder to hang onto fear from the safety of Zolf’s embrace. He lay there for long enough, listening to Zolf’s steady breathing, to think that perhaps he should say something else.

“I- thank you, Zolf.” He murmured into Zolf’s shoulder.

Zolf didn’t reply.

Wilde shifted again to look at Zolf's face, so near his own, and promptly realised that his eyes were closed, fast asleep. Wilde huffed out a small laugh. What a mess the two of them were becoming. Like something out of a romance novel.