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Marcille is the last one awake.
Usually one of their party takes watch, but that’s when they are out in the dungeon, where monsters prowl looking for unsuspecting parties ripe for brutalizing. But not here, hidden away in a long-forgotten kingdom. Here, there were no monsters that could harm them, and no one needed take watch.
The others had all gone to sleep what felt like hours ago, drifting off one by one until only she remained. Izutsumi is curled at the foot of the bed, her weight at Marcille’s calf an anchoring presence. Next to her, Chilchuck lays still and silent; she can’t hear his breathing at all, the only sign of life the steady rise and fall of his chest. Senshi and Laios are both snoring, but Laios is the loudest, his occasional snuffling keeping her suspended between sleep and wakefulness.
It’s been too long since she had the comfort of sleeping in a bed, and the mattress is now almost too soft compared to her usual bedroll and the hard ground. The air this far down in the dungeon is warm and punishingly humid, her skin feverish and sweat-prickled beneath the cotton of her sleep clothes. She can still taste the sweetness of wine on her breath—the muted, wooly sensation of being just on the other side of drunk. Maybe she should’ve stopped after the first cup, but the residents said it had been so long since they had visitors, and they had so much wine, and really, just one more cup would be okay, surely she could manage to try a new recipe they’d been working on for the last 150 years—
And now she gets to lie here, over-warm and woozy and hopelessly awake. Would that she had Chilchuck’s tolerance.
It's not often that sleep evades her like this. When she was at the academy, Falin would help her sleep sometimes, most of the time with riddles, exchanging stories, or recounting the day’s lessons. But when Falin wasn’t awake to help her sleep…
Marcille’s cheeks glow with heat when she realizes where her mind has gone. She swallows, the sound of it clicking in her throat. Between her thighs, there is an insistent pulse, the promise of distraction. She peels the blanket down, rolling onto her side with a low sigh; her fingers trip down the front of her stomach, hovering just above the waistband of her sleep trousers. She stops, flustered. She shouldn’t. Not here, surrounded on all sides—Izutsumi at her feet, Chilchuck at her side, Laios and Senshi still well within earshot.
In the dim light, Marcille’s eyes focus on Chilchuck, squinting to see if there’s any sign of him waking. This close, she can see the silver threading through his hair, the downturned mouth and pinched brows. Even in sleep, his expression is not quite relaxed. Her mind wanders, wondering if he’s like this outside the dungeon, too—if he sleeps in his bed at home, brow furrowed, tensed and ready to bolt at any moment. It dawns on her that Chilchuck has never told them anything about his personal life, so she can only imagine this version of him: grumpy, withdrawn, often bordering on mean. Sometimes, though, Chilchuck will silently beckon her to sit before they set off for the day, braiding her hair out of the way with quick but gentle fingers while she eats her breakfast. It’s the nicest thing she’s seen him do for any of their party. He’s never shown anything better than mild irritation for the others.
She realizes quite suddenly that her fingers have dipped below the waist of her pants, seeking out the ache between her thighs, where she’s already slick and wanting. She exhales sharply in surprise, her breath ruffling Chilchuck’s hair, then freezes. When he doesn’t stir, she slowly moves her hand, careful not to make too much noise—tight, quick circles, practiced and steady like she’s done before. Another exhale, this one slower, through her nose.
As her fingers gain speed, Marcille realizes she’s still staring at Chilchuck, tracing the profile of his face in the darkness, allowing her mind to wander. She doesn’t know why she thinks of his hands in her hair, except maybe because it’s the only physical touch she’s gotten in weeks. Or maybe just because she’s drunk and craves affection, even if it’s only Chilchuck innocently helping tie her hair up. Chilchuck, who would never agree to anything more. Chilchuck, who probably sees her as a nuisance at best. But it would feel nice, at least, to be desired, or at the very least for someone to touch her with intent.
Her eyes slip closed, and she conjures the memory of that morning: her eyes still half-crusted with sleep as Chilchuck wordlessly braided her hair into its usual plait, the warm leather of his gloves scratching over her scalp. She knows that the real Chilchuck would never desire her, but in the vision she conjures in her mind, he does. His breath against the nape of her neck, thumb rubbing slow circles over the notch of her spine, firm but gentle, guiding. The heat of his hand as it descends, palm against her soft belly. Sweat dampens her temples. The careful aloofness in his eyes, just warmed enough that he can't hide the want for her when she's bared for him. Her wrist burns with exertion, but she’s so close. The humid air feels heavy in her lungs, each breath more ragged than the last. She curls in on herself, biting the inside of her cheek to staunch the noise, and holds her breath, feeling the unraveling start deep in her stomach, closer and closer and—
“Marcille.”
Marcille jolts, snapping her thighs closed around her hand. Her eyes open, meeting Chilchuck’s blank gaze before he makes a show of pointedly looking at where her wrist disappears between her legs. Face burning with shame, she slowly removes her hand from between her thighs, cradling glossy fingers close to her chest as if to hide them. Chilchuck blinks slowly, the hollows beneath his eyes seeming so much deeper.
The silence is deafening.
“I’m sorry,” Marcille whispers, desperate to fill the silence. When Chilchuck doesn’t respond, she grasps for some way to explain. Anything. It helps me sleep, she could say. I’m just a little drunk. I’m sorry I woke you. I’m sorry you had to see this. Please don’t tell the others.
Instead, what comes out of her mouth is, “I was thinking about your hands.”
Chilchuck’s eyebrows shoot up. Marcille suddenly wishes she could spontaneously combust.
“That’s not what I meant to say.” It comes out as barely a squeak.
Chilchuck regards her for another moment before finally breaking his silence. “Weird thing to accidentally say, Marcille.”
“Can we just forget about this?” She buries her face in her hands, forgetting her fingers are slick until she feels the wetness against her forehead; she makes a noise, wiping her hand gracelessly on the front of her shirt. And Chilchuck laughs—quiet enough to not wake the others, but unmistakably a laugh. She feels the bed shift, and when she peeks from between her fingers, Chilchuck has pillowed his hands beneath his head, his eyes twinkling impishly in the darkness.
“Don’t let me stop you. Keep going.”
She raises herself on her forearm, her face so hot it feels like she might pass out. She gapes at him, eyes bulging. “What?” she squawks. Laios’ snores suddenly stop, and she whips her head around, expecting him and Senshi to be alert, witnessing the absolute mess she’s put herself in, but after a tense moment, Laios begins peacefully snoring again. She turns back to Chilchuck, then, in a loud whisper, repeats, “What?”
“I dunno, seems like you were almost done. We can talk about that weird thing you said after you finish. I can wait.” He knows. Surely he knows how her insides are knotting up, embarrassment indiscernible from arousal. He tilts his chin up, watching her expectantly. “I mean, you’re the one who woke me up, so—“
“I didn’t mean to!” she interjects. “I was trying to be quiet!”
Chilchuck taps his ear, and her heart leaps into her throat. Of course. Of course, she’d forgotten half-foots have absurdly good hearing, that even now he could probably hear her heart hammering in her chest. How much had he heard? How long was he lying there awake trying to ignore what was happening? She wishes the bed would open and swallow her whole.
Slowly, Marcille lowers herself to lie on her back, gripping the blanket at her waist. There’s no chance of getting any meaningful sleep. Despite keeping her eyes resolutely on the ceiling, she can feel Chilchuck watching her, waiting for— something. What exactly, she isn't sure; he's already seen her make a fool of herself enough for one night, so there's no need for him to keep watching. Humiliation sinks like a stone in her stomach, queasy heat rising in her throat. She’s about to roll onto the side facing away from him when he sighs.
“Can you be quiet?”
She presses her lips into a thin line, sniffling. “What?”
“If I help you, can you be quiet?”
Any residual drunkenness instantly disappears. She is punishingly sober. Sober enough to know that this is toeing a line that she never intended to cross. She stares, wide-eyed and helpless, knowing the answer should be a resounding no, absolutely not. Her sudden soberness makes it all the more horrifying when the connection between her brain and her mouth completely severs, and instead, what comes out is a breathless “yes.”
Chilchuck scoots closer to her, and they are suddenly lying thigh to thigh. She barely has time to register what’s happening before his hand is on her lower stomach, the heat of his skin bleeding through the fabric and making her squirm. She peers at him owlishly, now noticing the slightest pink dusting on the tops of his cheeks and the tips of his ears; he doesn’t meet her eyes. There is a long enough pause that she could change her mind, remedy the situation, but she remains placid and silent until Chilchuck worms his fingers down the front of her pants and cups his palm right over her cunt.
Fire blooms in her stomach, licking her insides, warming her from the inside out. She makes a sudden and undignified noise, which Chilchuck quickly muffles with his other hand. The look on his face is agitated. “You said you could be quiet,” he snaps. At her feet, Izutsumi rolls over, and Marcille makes a muffled noise against Chilchuck’s palm, wild-eyed, but he only shakes his head. “She’s still asleep. Here.” The hand over her mouth is tentatively removed, and she gasps when Chilchuck pushes the front of her shirt up until it’s bunched at the top of her chest, just under her chin. “Use that to cover your mouth.”
The air chills the sweat prickling her skin. She’s on full display, and instead of being mortified, her clit throbs. “You just want to look!” she hisses accusatorily. The corner of Chilchuck’s mouth turns up, but he only shushes her.
And then his hand starts to move.
Marcille has to press the cloth to her mouth to keep from moaning, her other hand flying to Chilchuck’s wrist, encircling it like she can somehow ground herself. Despite years of working in the dungeon, Chilchuck's hands are surprisingly soft, and he has apparently dropped all pretense and gone straight for efficiency. Her legs tremble, her heels slipping on the sheets as she tries to somehow simultaneously scoot away from his hand and closer to it. It's overwhelming, all-encompassing, like the sweetest fizzle of magic coursing through her body. Panting into the fabric at her mouth, she tilts her head back, screwing her eyes shut and thinking of—
Hands in her hair, gripping, yanking— the same hands that are touching her, the same hands that— that—
Chilchuck’s breath is soft and damp against her cheek. When she looks over at him, she’s surprised to see him staring back, pupils blown wide and dark. He looks just as stunned as she feels.
“Are you normally like this?” he asks, seemingly at a loss for words.
“Mmph,” she replies, the sound thankfully muffled by her shirt. She doesn’t remember if it was yes or no, doesn’t care about anything else; all she knows is the pressure low in her belly, her hips arcing up to meet Chilchuck’s fingers, chasing her impending orgasm. She’s embarrassingly wet, can hear the squelch of his fingers as they work over her, rubbing maddening circles at the apex of her cunt, overly-loud in the silence of the room. She doesn’t regret waking him up at all anymore, and she doesn’t know how she will ever return to her own hand afterwards, or even worse, how she will handle him braiding her hair or being in her general vicinity again.
When she looks down over the fabric bunched at the top of her chest, she watches the movement beneath the blanket, Chilchuck's hand as it works over her clit, and the sight is enough to drive her to the brink of madness. It dawns on her, heat lancing through her like lightning, that she would let Chilchuck do anything to her, and she wishes this would have happened in any other situation where they weren't surrounded by their party. She clenches a fist in her shirt in frustration, clamping her eyes shut and clenching her teeth so she doesn't say anything stupid and ruin it for both of them. If Chilchuck senses her frustration, he doesn't show it; but Marcille doesn't think she imagines hearing her name, barely a murmur above the silence.
It comes on suddenly and quickly—unstoppable force, immovable object. She bites down on the cloth with a juddering cry, her back bowing up off the bed as if to buck Chilchuck’s hand off, but he follows easily, the steady pressure of his fingers working her through possibly the most mind-numbing orgasm she’s ever had, and she’s left suspended in time as it crashes through her. She’s glad for the makeshift gag now, unable to concentrate on anything other than not kicking Izutsumi off the bed as she spasms. When she collapses back to the sheets, dazed and spent, Chilchuck slides his fingers through the mess one last time before mercifully extracting his hand from between her legs.
The fluid strung between his fingers glitters in the low light. Marcille stares at it, almost like she’s looking through a pane of glass. Unprompted, she tugs his hand closer, then sucks the fluid off with a lewd, wet pop.
Chilchuck stares at her in blatant shock, his mouth hanging open. Something about the sight strikes a chord in her chest, and she covers her hand with her mouth, suppressing the giggle that bubbles up. He might’ve said something, but she’s not listening anymore. Limbs loose and heavy, she worms her shirt back down her chest, pulls the blanket up around her shoulders, and sleeps.
-
Marcille is the last one asleep.
It dawns on her the moment she’s lucid: the memory of the previous night, the taste of herself still on her tongue. Izutsumi is the only member of their party who remained behind, curled against her side. She bolts upright, startling Izutsumi in the process. I’m an idiot, she thinks. I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot.
She feels disgusting, her skin clammy and tacky with last night's sweat. Dreading leaving the room, she takes her time changing, fumbling through combing and braiding her hair herself. When she looks in the mirror, it dawns on her how horrible she looks: circles under her eyes, hair disheveled. It’s almost like she didn’t sleep at all.
She takes a deep breath, then sets out to find her party.
They’re seated in the room where they ate dinner the previous night, talking with Yaad as breakfast is prepared. Senshi and Laios seem engrossed in discussing monsters and their domestication, so only Chilchuck notices her enter. She avoids his gaze, her ears turning downward in shame. When she takes her seat, Izutsumi sits in her lap, oblivious.
A moment passes before Marcille hears a chair scoot across the wood. Chilchuck ambles behind her, plucking her braid from her shoulder.
“I’m fixing it,” he says. Then, as an afterthought, “It looks horrible.”
“Oh, thanks,” she retorts, tugging nervously on the tip of one of her ears. “I haven’t done it myself in a while.”
Neither of them speak, and nothing is out of the ordinary. She tries not to focus on Chilchuck’s fingers unraveling her braid, or the soft scratch of leather-clad knuckles grazing the top of her shoulder. As always, he works quickly and efficiently, and he’s finished almost as soon as he’s started. Satisfied, he returns to his seat, making a show of sighing as he drops back into the chair.
Marcille pretends she doesn’t notice the dusting of pink on his ears, sniffing glibly as she tucks the braid behind her ear.
“Thanks, Chilchuck.”
She finally meets his eyes over the top of the tankard he’s brought to his lips. He takes a long swig, then drops it back to the table. “Yeah,” he replies, scratching the side of his head. “Anytime.”