Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Roundtable Hold has become a quiet place.

The Nightfarers move through it with a somber serenity, the impending battles always lurking in their minds. Days pass, expeditions fail, and they are left to lick their wounds over and over again. When they speak, if at all, it is in hushed tones and short conversations.

The eight of them carry the burden of a task no one before them could have ever imagined, and the weight of it all is visible. They turn in towards themselves, solitary and confined. New and old wounds alike bear heavy on their souls as night by night passes.

They cope, in their own ways; It’s all they can do to stave off the despair of another fight lost. The faintest glow of hope illuminates the Hold, taking root in the small things. The Wylder sharpens his greatsword, the Executor paints, and the Iron Menial bakes bread (or tries to at least). Their wounds heal slowly, and the wheel continues to turn as the sun rises on a new expedition. 

And so the Roundtable Hold has become a quiet place–but not tonight.

Tonight the fireplace is ablaze, the stars are bright, and ale sloshes over the edges of cups as they are knocked together in a toast. For the first time since the Nightfarers were gathered, celebration is in order.

The Guardian stomps along to the drinking song the Raider is trying to teach everyone, something he used to sing with his crew. It’s bawdy and loud and the perfect background for the night. As he bellows out the chorus, the Recluse pulls the Executor into her arms and swoops him into a jaunty dance. The Executor, despite his unparalleled dexterity in battle, follows the steps like a baby deer on stilts. It isn’t long before the whole room is dissolving in laughter.

“Switch!” the Recluse cheers, and spins the Executor away until he lands in the arms of the Revenant and the dance begins again.

The energy in the room is electric, buzzing with the adrenaline of a battle well fought. Against all odds, Gladius had been defeated and the relief of victory had made everyone eager to celebrate. 

It wasn’t long before the Iron Menial had suggested opening the ancient casks of the Hold, and the festivities had begun. Soon, there was enough food and alcohol to feed a small army, and the Nightfarers indulged until their aches and sore muscles were forgotten.

“Wylder, dance with me!” the Recluse says, approaching the swordsman in the corner and tugging at his arms. 

He doesn’t relent, unwavering from his spot. “You’re drunk,” he says instead.

“And you’re not, which is much worse!”

The Wylder doesn’t respond, so she chooses instead to drape herself over him and survey the room. 

The Raider and the Guardian have begun an intense arm wrestling match, with the Duchess acting as judge. They grapple back and forth for a few moments, before the Raider surges ahead and slams the Guardian’s fist down onto the table to the sound of cheers.

“Raider wins!” the Duchess declares, and the Raider aims an exaggerated wink her way. The Revenant elbows her way forward and demands a match as well.

The room glows bright enough to hurt, and not just from the fire.

“There is so much sadness, so much pain in the world,” the Recluse says softly to the Wylder. “But tonight, there is hope. Finally , there is hope.” She rests her head on his shoulder. 

Although he hesitates to admit it, the Wylder agrees. For once, their burden feels a little lighter. Not enough that he doesn’t still feel the weight of it all, but enough that he can breathe for the first time in what feels like ages.

Because we’re sharing it, he realizes suddenly. 

These people, strangers summoned from far off lands, are no longer just his allies in the war against the Night. They’re his friends.

The Wylder wraps his arm around the Recluse’s shoulders and gives her a gentle squeeze. “There’s hope,” he says, and likes the sound of it.

~

Ironeye sits alone at the table, watching the embers pop in the fireplace. The other Nightfarers have long since retired, stumbling giddy and drunk into their beds (that’s what he hopes, at least. The Raider might have passed out in the training grounds). The air is still warm, and somehow he feels so full and so light at the same time. 

Today’s fight had been brutal, and they had fought with every ounce of strength they had. He doesn’t know what had tipped the scales towards victory this time, but he’s glad for it either way.

As he watches the dying fire, Ironeye senses a presence entering the room and cranes his neck to see the Wylder shuffle in. The swordsman quietly makes his way over and joins him at the table, letting out a sigh.

He isn’t sure exactly when the Wylder had left, but he recalls noticing his absence halfway through the night. Somehow he’d snuck off without anyone seeing him leave.

“You didn’t enjoy the party then?” Ironeye asks.

The Wylder looks at him strangely. “It was good,” he supplies, “but I needed quiet. Our companions are…energetic.”

Ironeye chuckles. “That's one word for it.”

They settle into an agreed upon quiet, letting the crackle of the fireplace fill the silence instead. It’s nice, being able to exist alongside someone with no expectations.

Stifling a yawn, the Wylder stretches his weary shoulders before reaching back to swipe a leftover mug of ale. As he raises his hands to remove his winged helmet, Ironeye is struck with a strange realization: he’s never seen the man’s face before.

This soldier, with whom he regularly risks his life with, has never taken his helmet off in front of Ironeye. Trying to hide his curiosity, he watches the Wylder out of the corner of his vision.

For some reason, it’s startling.

“You’re–” foamy ale drips down the corner of the Wylder’s lips and he swallows hard. “–blonde.”

The Wylder flinches, nearly choking on his drink, before erupting into a bout of hearty laughter. He doubles over, clutching his sides. 

It’s so small, so ridiculous, but it’s somehow the one thing to make him finally lose his composure. It’s the first time he’s ever truly laughed, full bodied and loud, since he arrived at the Hold. 

Ironeye likes how it sounds.

It takes a minute for him to calm down, and even then he grins like an idiot. “I guess you wouldn’t have known, huh.”

The Wylder sets the mug down on the table, and turns to Ironeye expectantly. “Well?”

Ironeye cocks an eyebrow at him, and the Wylder bumps their shoulders.

“I showed you mine, now you show me yours,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Ugh you’re insufferable.”

“I’m serious!” The Wylder laughs again as Ironeye huffs at him. 

Then, slowly, as if not to startle him, the Wylder reaches up and brushes the edge of Ironeye’s hood. He takes it gently, feeling the texture under his fingers, and pulls it back to reveal the other man’s face.

It isn't until the Wylder lets go of the fabric and leans back that Ironeye realizes he’d been holding his breath. Thankfully, his cloth mask remains pulled above his nose and obscures the growing heat in his cheeks.

“Huh,” the Wylder says softly. “Well I don't see what the big deal is.”

Ironeye hits him on the shoulder. “I hate you. I actually hate you, you know that?”

The Wylder makes a big show of fighting him back, trading playful smacks until Ironeye threatens to leave if he keeps it up. He settles back, deciding to lay his head on his arms crossed on the table.

The Wylder takes him in, studying his face like the Executor often does while working on his paintings. If Ironeye shifts under his gaze, he doesn't notice.

He could almost fall asleep here, listening to the embers pop while he soaks in the lingering warmth. He thinks about it for a moment, before Ironeye clears his throat.

“You were good today. On the expedition.”

The Wylder smiles. “Only saved your ass ten times. Duchess said we should've left you behind,” he jokes.

“Ha-ha,” Ironeye deadpans. 

He considers the Wylder for a moment, and adds, “The two of you work well together. You're in sync, like you can anticipate each other's moves.”

The Wylder hums in agreement. “It’s just instinct for me, you know? I guess it helps when you care about the person fighting next you. We watch out for each other.”

The words register in Ironeye’s mind and he straightens up. 

“Oh, I see. I hadn’t realized, the two of you…” he says, trailing off.

This time it's the Wylder’s turn to shoot up from where he had been resting his head, face turning pink.

“No! No, not like that!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly. “I’m–we’re, uh–she's my sister!”

Ironeye decides to walk into Limveld and let the Night Lord kill him right then and there.

“I don’t think she remembers though, or at least I didn’t at first, so uh. If you could not say anything, that would be good.”

The Wylder rambles on as Ironeye considers the least painful way of putting himself out of his misery.

A heavy silence falls between them, nothing like the quiet contentment they had previously shared. Ironeye stares dead ahead, not daring to look at the Wylder, who takes a sudden interest in the floor.

A few tense moments pass before the Wylder breaks the silence with a weak laugh. “Sorry, that’s a lot of information all at once, but yeah that’s–that's the gist.”

When Ironeye says nothing, he risks a glance up at him. Despite his better judgment, the Wylder continues.

“Besides, there’s someone else anyway.”

Ironeye is pulled from his crisis in time to see the Wylder reach again for the discarded mug of ale and make shy eye contact over a long gulp. His expression quickly turns to a shit-eating grin as he laughs into the mug.

“Don't look at me like that! I swear, you looked less terrified the first time we saw Gladius!”

Ironeye isn’t sure what face he’s making, but it can't possibly be that bad. Still, he blinks incredulously at the Wylder and grasps for some explanation.

“You’re fucking with me,” he finally settles on. “I upset you and now you're playing a joke on me.”

It takes little deliberation from Ironeye before he decides to leave and save what dignity he has left. 

He pushes back from the table and stands with a huff, but before he can stomp off there’s a hand at his wrist, yanking him back down.

“What are you–get back here,” the Wylder says, pulling him back to his seat.

Ironeye turns to reprimand the Wylder, but stops short. They're sitting much closer now, and the Wylder is looking at him strangely again.

Gods help me, he thinks. I’ve faced the Beast of Night and come out alive, but a blonde man is what does me in.

Neither of them move. The Wylder swallows, throat bobbing. He’s still holding Ironeye’s wrist in one hand, and the other comes up to softly brush Ironeye’s mask.

“Can I–” he begins, fingers trailing down Ironeye’s jaw over the fabric. He sucks in a breath.

The Wylder is cut off by Ironeye swiftly reaching up and yanking the mask down himself, before surging forward to kiss him.

Cliché as it may be, the Wylder kisses exactly like he fights. It’s entirely instinctual, letting his mind turn off and his mouth move on its own. He wants to put his hands in Ironeye’s hair, so he does. He wants to angle Ironeye’s jaw to kiss him deeper, so he does.

It’s frantic and open-mouthed and relentless, and it’s everything he’s wanted. He doesn't back down in a fight and he doesn't back down when Ironeye’s hands fist in the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. In fact, he hooks an arm around Ironeye’s waist and pulls him into his lap.

They stay like that for gods know how long, a mess of hands and lips and tongues. Ironeye rears back and nips down the Wylder’s jaw, making the man shiver. When he sucks a mark onto the Wylder’s pulse point with deadly precision, he lets out a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan.

Ironeye clamps a hand over the Wylder’s mouth, leaning in to whisper, “the entire Hold will wake up if you do that again.”

The Wylder pulls Ironeye’s hand off, pressing his lips to the inside of his wrist. “They’re all passed out drunk anyway, and I can hear Raider snoring from here.”

Ironeye lets out a resigned sigh, choosing instead to pull the Wylder into a heated kiss once more.

By the time Ironeye has snaked his hands up the front of the Wylder’s shirt and left a smattering of bruises across his neck, neither one notices the sound of the hallway door opening and footsteps approaching.

“Sir Wylder, have you–” the Iron Menial calls out, and the two of them spring apart.

As soon as it rounds the corner, the Iron Menial assesses the scene for less than a second before turning back around. It calls out a quick “Apologies!” and scurries back down the corridor.

The Wylder hides his amused laughter under a cough, while Ironeye smooths out the front of his clothing. He picks up a chair that had toppled in the commotion and sets it neatly at the table before turning back to the Wylder and clearing his throat.

“I believe that's our cue,” he says, composing himself.

Still, he lets himself be pulled into one last slow, languid kiss by the Wylder, before backing away.

“Goodnight, Wylder,” he says, watching a stupid grin spread across the other man’s face.

“Goodnight,” the Wylder all but whispers.

The pair return to their rooms, silent as ever, and the Roundtable Hold is quiet once more.

~

Chapter Text

In the following days, Ironeye decides that whatever happened that night will never happen again.

His lapse in judgement–truly that's what it was, a lapse of all critical thought process and common sense–does not and cannot mean anything in the long term. Wylder is his ally; he will not jeopardize the success of their mission with something so foolish.

It means nothing. He reminds himself, more often than he should need to. The sentiment becomes a mantra, repeated in those moments where all logic seems to escape him: Wylder, manic grin on his face as he grapples through the air. It means nothing. Wylder, trading travel stories over dinner with the Raider while something twisted and green makes a home in Ironeye’s stomach. It means nothing.

Wylder, now in the training grounds with his sword in hand. He flies through the air, launching into a downwards swing as he lands. The training dummy makes a thud as the blade collides with it, and he rolls to the side to assume a defensive stance. 

Seemingly satisfied with the maneuver, he comes back to standing and sheaths his sword. Ironeye watches, despite his desperate attempts to wrench his eyes away, as Wylder pulls off his helmet and scrubs sweat off his face with his shirt, revealing a thin strip of skin where the hem lifts. 

It means noth– Wylder catches his gaze, flashing a lopsided grin that shines brighter than the midday sun.

Fuck it.

They end up tucked into a corner of the training grounds, Wylder’s back pressed up against the hard stone while Ironeye kisses the stupid grin off him. His hands are fisted in the front of Wylder’s shirt, who in turn holds Ironeye’s jaw and pulls him deeper into the kiss.

Soon enough they pull away for air, both breathing hard. Wylder rests his forehead on Ironeye’s shoulder as he composes himself. After a moment, he turns his face so his nose is nestled in the juncture of Ironeye’s neck, lips pressed to his collarbone.

“I take it I should show off more often then,” he says, and Ironeye can feel the smile against his skin. He rolls his eyes.

“Somebody needs to do something about that mouth of yours.”

“Hmm,” Wylder hums. “I can think of one idea.”

~

And so it happens again. And again. And again . Quite frankly, more often than Ironeye could believe.

There is little privacy to be found in the Roundtable Hold, and even less spare time between expeditions, and yet Ironeye loses count of the amount of times he or Wylder have pulled the other into some dark corner to indulge while they can.

Somehow, it isn’t the most shocking change in their dynamic.

When Ironeye first arrived at the Hold, he had characterized the Wylder as solemn and short-spoken. The swordsman seemed to enjoy a solitary existence, keeping to himself whenever possible. He had a palpable sobriety to him, a weight to his presence. These days, he is anything but.

Much to Ironeye’s exaggerated annoyance, the Wylder goes so far as to regularly seek out his company. Usually they engage in some kind of idle small talk, but occasionally something as simple as a meal shared in silence next to one another is enough to bring a small smile to his lips. 

It isn’t just Ironeye, though. The Raider and Guardian both seem to develop a rapport with him, enjoying rowdy conversations and sparring matches. Even the Revenant cracks a smile at one of his stories eventually. That’s not even mentioning the fierce–albeit complicated–protectiveness he has for the Duchess.

In such a short time, the Roundtable Hold has transformed into something indistinguishable from how it began. 

It’s no surprise then, that he ends up in Wylder’s quarters after a particularly disastrous expedition.  

He’s sitting on Wylder’s bed, half unclothed, which would typically give him all kinds of unnecessary feelings if he wasn’t in so much pain. Instead, his head is a mess of exhaustion and anger that drowns everything else out.

“We were so close ,” he breathes out to nobody specific.

Wylder says nothing, securing a thick bandage to Ironeye’s side.

Tonight’s team–Executor, Revenant, and Ironeye–had returned looking like all three might collapse at any minute. From what Wylder could gather, it had been promising until the end of the second night. The trio had barely survived the enemy waiting for them there, and against their better judgement decided to take on the Nightlord in their injured state. It had been a brutal fight that lasted much longer than it needed to.

Ironeye screws his eyes shut. There are so many things he could’ve done differently, so many choices he didn’t make. The image of his teammates, half dead while he made the last stand, is burned into his mind.

 “If I had just been able to cover for Revenant, or if I had gotten one more shot off, I swear we could’ve–” He’s cut off by Wylder’s hand at his chin, gently guiding him to turn and face the other man.

He opens his eyes, and Wylder is looking at him with a serious expression. His brows are knitted together, and it takes a moment before he speaks. When he does, his voice is soft yet resolute.

“What happened tonight was not your fault,” he says. “We win together, or we fail together. The burden does not lie on one alone.”

He says it so simply, so surely. Like it’s a common fact, not something Ironeye struggles to accept. Deep down, he can’t help but think he let down his team; but when Wylder looks at him like that, and holds him so softly, he’s tempted to believe whatever the man tells him.

“I’m tired ,” he says.

“I know.”

So Ironeye lets Wylder finish bandaging him, and neither one of them has to say anything before they decide to pull each other in and throw the thin blanket over their tangled legs. Wylder’s arms are warm, and his hands trace little patterns across Ironeye’s back. He presses a feather-light kiss to the top of Ironeye’s head.

A single thought echoes in Ironeye’s head, but he falls asleep before he can bother to worry about it.

This does not mean nothing.

~

Wylder is alone when he wakes up, although he takes no offense at it. He’s pretty sure Ironeye gets up at the crack of dawn anyways. The bastard should be resting though, if last night was any indication.

By the time he dresses and eats, he’s forgotten about it and instead focuses on making his day productive. He spars with Executor and only mildly gets his ass handed to him, he eats a hearty lunch with Raider and Recluse, and he even talks with the Guardian about the best method of maintenance for their armaments.

It's only when he, the Duchess, and Revenant are discussing strategy that he realizes he hasn’t seen Ironeye all day.

“Any additional information from the previous expedition would be useful,” the Duchess says. “Although perhaps he is still recovering?” she adds, looking at Revenant.

“How should I know? Ask him,” Revenant replies, jutting her chin casually at Wylder.

He narrows his eyes at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs noncommittally, although he notices her smirk as he leaves in search of Ironeye.

The archer, as it turns out, has been seen by everybody and nobody. Rather–everybody recalls seeing him at different points of the day, going about his business, but nobody has any idea where he went afterwards. 

If Wylder was a smarter man, he would figure Ironeye didn’t want to be found–at least not by him; but Wylder’s greatest strength was his perseverance, not his intelligence, so he keeps looking.

By the time he makes any progress, he’s wandering the grounds of the Hold with a defeated air. It isn’t until he looks up to watch the seagulls fly by that he notices a plume of feathers sticking out from one of the roof’s gables.

He makes his way to the base of the wall, climbing as high as he can on the rubble until–yep, Ironeye is leaning against the slope of the roof, watching him struggle.

Ironeye slides down nimbly, offering his arm to Wylder. As much as it hurts Wylder’s pride, he’s thankful for the aid as the other man helps hoist him onto the rooftop. Silently, they make their way to the top of the roof and take a seat.

“Found you,” Wylder says and nudges Ironeye.

He lets out a soft sigh, just shy of a laugh. “I’m a trained assassin. If you found me it’s because I let you.”

They sit, watching the waves crash against the sand over and over. It really is a great view, and Wylder gets the impression that Ironeye must have done this before. It suits him, this little perch high above the rest of the world. It’s quiet.

Still, Wylder bristles at the thought of Ironeye up here alone, hiding from the rest of the Nightfarers. He bends his knees, crossing his arms over them and setting his chin on top.

“Have I done something to offend you?” he asks plainly, because he’s too tired for pleasantries.

Ironeye doesn’t answer immediately, and Wylder looks back out to the sea instead. “Whatever it was, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any–”

“You didn’t.” Ironeye cuts him off. “Offend me, that is. And I apologize for making you feel as though you did.”

Ironeye’s voice is measured and careful. There’s a tension in the air, something unspoken that Wylder hasn’t figured out yet, and he hates it. He almost considers cutting his losses and leaving Ironeye up here, but he stops when he notices the other man sigh, his shoulders drooping as if in resignation.

“I don’t frequently work with others,” Ironeye says, and although Wylder has trouble understanding the relevance, he nods along.

“I’m part of a vast network, or course, but the job is done alone–fewer contingencies that way.” He considers his next thought for a second, before speaking. “That what others so often are, anyways: contingencies. Weaknesses.”

He sees Wylder frown at that, so he hurries to continue. “Yet if I consider my time here so far, our allies have proven themselves anything but weak. In my mind, I know that I’ve found people I can rely on, people I can trust. I just need to convince the rest of myself of it.”

Ah, Wylder thinks. That’s it. “So after yesterday, you were troubled over the expedition,” he supplies.

“I suppose so,” Ironeye says, and he looks troubled even now. It isn’t something easy to admit, and it takes far more courage than it should before he makes his admission: “It’s been a long time since I’ve been… scared . Scared to lose a teammate, a friend.”

It hangs in the air. There’s no taking it back now. Ironeye waits to hear what Wylder makes of it, and he can hear his own heart thud in the silence.

When Wylder does speak, it’s the same as it always is. Gentle, but certain. Like it’s an obvious truth, something he’s always known. 

“We’re all scared, I think; but I think it makes us stronger, too.”

Ironeye raises an eyebrow at that, so he explains.

“Remember what I told you the night we beat Gladius? Something about ‘caring for the person next to you?’ Well, I think it really does make you better. I think you fight harder when you have something too important to lose.”

Ironeye blinks, turning that over in his head. It wasn’t the worst point he’s ever heard Wylder make. In fact, he finds he likes it. After a brief consideration, he replies, “I suppose that might make sense.”

Wylder nudges him with a grin. “Of course it makes sense, I thought of it.”

It doesn’t take long for them to settle back into their usual banter. The familiarity of it all is comforting, and Ironeye really does take what Wylder said to heart. He supposes he’ll have to fight for his friends, and trust that they’ll do the same in return.

Once they settle back into a content silence, Wylder decides to reach between them, slowly threading his fingers through Ironeye’s. His chews at his lip nervously.

“So is that how you see me?” He says, repeating his own words, “ too important to lose? ”

Ironeye looks at him, and there is so much in his chest that he doesn’t think could ever be expressed with words alone. It feels like being underwater, like running at a dead sprint, like a bowstring pulled taught, ready to release at any second.

So instead, he takes Wylder’s face in his other hand and says softly, “you are awful and annoying and I couldn’t be rid of you even if I wanted to.”

“So, yes?”

Ironeye kisses the stupid grin off him.

~

Chapter Text

The Augur goes down without a real fight.

The Wylder and The Executor take turns doling out damage, lightning crackling through the air as it traces the arc of Wylder’s sword. The Recluse follows with a flourish of her staff, magical energy exploding in whorls and stopping the creature in its tracks.

Wylder sees his opportunity and sprints forward in long strides, sliding into position just as he activates his explosive pike. It goes off with a deafening boom, leaving his ears ringing as his chest heaves. Slowly, the sound of the creature’s screeches fades back in and Wylder knows they’ve won.

For a moment, a flash of disappointment runs through Wylder before he thinks better of it. The scars are still fresh from the other Nightlords, and all eight of the Nightfarers can attest that an easy battle is something to be grateful for. Still, he almost feels like he doesn’t quite deserve the victory.

By the time they arrive back at the Roundtable Hold, the remaining Nightfarers are gathered and waiting to receive them. At the sight of the three of them returning (mostly) unscathed, cheers ring out.

The ensuing celebration isn’t as massive as their first, but it’s still a lively event. They circle around a small campfire on the beach, lounging in the sand and letting the residual day’s heat envelop them. The Recluse goes over the events of the raid, detailing their battle against the Nightlord. 

A smile dances on her lips as she paints an image of Wylder’s “heroic” final blow against the beast, and he feels the tips of his ears burn.

“I hardly did anything,” he offers happily. “You two proved the most valuable tonight.”

The Recluse and The Executor wave him off, and the group soon dissolves back into content conversation.

For once, the Wylder doesn’t feel uncomfortable or out of place at all. There is nowhere he’d rather be than surrounded by his friends, basking in gratitude and hope under the stars. His chest feels light, and he must look half-drunk with the way he lounges in the firelight.

His eyes catch on the striking blue pair across the fire, and Ironeye raises an eyebrow at him. He feels his cheeks flush, and takes that as his cue to sit up. Stretching his arms, he offers his congratulations to the rest of the team and excuses himself to get some well-deserved rest.

He isn’t back inside for long before Ironeye appears at his side, catching his sleeve and silently tugging him towards his room.

They move in tandem; Wylder shoves the door closed with his foot as Ironeye rounds on him, fisting his hands in Wylder’s shirt and pulling him into a kiss. Their lips slot together easily, and Wylder snakes his hands around Ironeye’s waist to pull him closer.

When Wylder sighs into the kiss, Ironeye takes that as an invitation to lick into his mouth, tongue chasing that taste he’d been craving for the last three days. He’s hungrier than usual, and needier than he cares to admit. 

Wylder breaks away to breathe and ends up panting into Ironeye’s hair as the other man noses down the column of his throat. The scrape of teeth has him making small noises that ring out in the silent room, and the sound makes Ironeye’s head swim. A well timed roll of Ironeye’s hips has Wylder stifling a moan, and he wonders what other sounds he can draw out of him tonight.

“ Bed ,” Ironeye says earnestly, and walks them further into the room until the back of Wylder’s knees hit the mattress. They shuffle for a moment so Wylder can sit fully on the bed and Ironeye can climb into his lap, pulling him back in for an open-mouthed kiss.

Wylder sheds his shirt eventually and Ironeye runs his hands over the broad expanse of freckled skin, feeling the hard muscle underneath. Gods, he could sit like this for hours just running his fingers up and down Wylder’s torso, watching the way he flexes under the touch.

Wylder presses a kiss to his jaw. “What are you thinking, hotshot?”

Ironeye shudders as his head races with everything he’d like to do to the other man. Images flash through his mind of hands, of mouths, of Wylder’s face twisted in pleasure.

He brings their foreheads together, hands on either side of Wylder’s jaw. When he speaks, his voice is low and dripping with intention.

“You did so good today,” he says softly, looking at Wylder through half-lidded eyes.

Wylder blushes. “I didn’t–”

“Mmh, you did,” Ironeye cuts him off. He leans in until his breath is ghosting the shell of Wylder’s ear. “Wish I could’ve seen it, seen you in action.”

His hands leave Wylder’s face, trailing back down his chest and stomach. He punctuates his next words with a hand dipping just barely past the waistband of Wylder’s pants.

“I want to take care of you tonight. Want to make you feel good.”

Ironeye doesn’t have to see the other man’s face to know his eyes have gone wide. The blush on his cheeks has spread down his neck, his skin flush and warm.

Wylder starts to speak again, tries to tell Ironeye he doesn’t have to, and he’s cut off again.

“I want to.” Ironeye says. He returns his hands to Wylder’s chest and gently pushes him to lay back. “Yes?”

Wylder can only nod silently in response.

Ironeye crawls over him, leaning down to capture his mouth in a searing kiss. The press of his hips against Wylder’s has the man letting out a shaky gasp against Ironeye’s mouth. They stay like that, rocking into each other, until Ironeye decides to bring his hands back to toy with the waist of Wylder’s trousers.

Wylder lets out a gut-punched “ Please ,” so Ironeye makes quick work of the laces and tugs the fabric down Wylder’s legs. They shift so he can pull the garment completely off, and Ironeye divests himself of his own shirt in the process.

The noise Wylder makes when Ironeye takes him in hand sends shivers down Ironeye’s back, and he imagines bottling the sound and getting drunk on it every night. He doesn’t want to stifle it with a kiss, so he opts instead to mouth at Wylder’s neck as he strokes.

Wylder lets out a wrecked moan with every movement of Ironeye’s wrist. He’s too lost in ecstasy to worry about being heard, and Ironeye’s decided he doesn’t care either. 

Wylder’s moans turn to semi-incoherent babbling as he writhes under Ironeye. 

“Gods, don’t stop, I–fuck, Ironeye, please.”

Ironeye can feel him losing control, can tell he’s close, but that won't do. He takes his hand away and Wylder actually whimpers at the loss.

“Not yet,” he warns. The look on Wylder’s face makes him feel guilty enough to press an apologetic kiss to his lips. “Patience.”

He leaves the bed, much to Wylder’s dismay, and hurries to rummage through the chest in the corner of the room. After he finds what he’s looking for, he turns back to see Wylder propped against his elbows, watching Ironeye’s movements with an intense gaze. Ironeye holds eye contact as he makes his way back, stopping just before he reaches the bed to remove the last of his clothing.

When he climbs back into Wylder’s lap, the heat of their bare skin against each other makes him groan. Wylder sits up fully to take Ironeye’s mouth in a kiss, hands already trailing over bare thighs and hips.

Ironeye threads a hand through blonde hair, tugging lightly. He pulls back after a moment, and brings his other hand up between them, offering up the small bottle of oil he’d retrieved. Wylder seems to read his intentions clearly enough, and takes it from him. 

He yanks the cork out and pours a generous amount into his hand before pulling Ironeye close and reaching around. His head rests against the crook of Ironeye’s neck as he gently works the other man open, one finger at a time.

Ironeye’s arms find purchase around Wylder’s shoulders as he gasps at the feeling. His nails scrape against the skin there, leaving red trails in their wake.

“So good to me,” Ironeye praises as Wylder takes his time with him. There’s a muffled groan against his neck, and so he continues.

“So strong and brave,” he says breathlessly, squeezing Wylder’s biceps. “Too brave for your own good, and stubborn too,” he adds with a soft laugh.

“Not to mention heroic, always taking such good care of us.” Wylder crooks his fingers just right and Ironeye moans. “ Mmh –such good care of me.”

Ironeye guides Wylder’s face back so he can look him in the eye. “Let someone take care of you for once, hm?”

Wylder kisses him then, long and slow. Ironeye lifts off his hand and lets him slick himself up with the remaining oil, before once again softly pushing him onto his back. He looks beautiful, pale hair splayed against the bed and eyebrows already knitted together with anticipation.

Ironeye sinks down slowly, taking it inch by inch. When he’s ready, he finally starts to move his hips and Wylder throws his head back at the feeling. His hands grip at Ironeye’s thighs hard enough to leave bruises.

“That’s it,” Ironeye says as he watches Wylder’s face screw together in pleasure. “Feels so fucking good, like you were made for me. Fucking perfect,” he groans, and he means every word.

He picks up speed as Wylder moans, trying to draw out as many desperate noises as he can.

They’re both so worked up already that it’s not long until either of them is trembling as they writhe against each other. Ironeye’s movements become frantic, chasing the delicious feeling of Wylder hitting that perfect spot in him.

“You’re so gorgeous like this,” he says, “letting me ride you so good.”

At that, Wylder pulls him down for a crushing kiss, sliding his tongue into Ironeye’s mouth with fervor. As they pull apart, he reaches down to wrap a hand around Ironeye.

“I’m so close,” he breathes against Ironeye’s mouth. “I’m so–please, fuck, I want you to come with me.”

Gods that's hot, Ironeye thinks, and who is he to deny such a sweet request? Wylder’s calloused hand strokes him faster, and knows they’re both heading fast for their release.

It’s only a matter of time before he feels Wylder shudder underneath him and let out a guttural moan as he flies over the edge, and soon enough he’s spilling into Wylder’s hand as well.

It takes a moment before either of them makes a move to separate, riding out the aftershocks together in silence. Eventually they pull apart, catching their breath. They’re both ready to collapse onto each other, and cleaning up takes all their remaining energy.

Afterwards they crawl back into bed, lying face to face on their sides. Under the sheets, their legs tangle together and Ironeye runs his fingers along Wylder’s jaw. The candles have long since burned out and it’s almost pitch black in the room, and yet he tries as hard as he can to commit this sight to memory.

“Beautiful,” he says, barely a whisper.

Wylder blushes, taking Ironeye’s hand in his and pressing a kiss to his palm. “If you keep saying things like that you’ll get me worked up again,” he says smiling.

Ironeye smirks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The two drift off, wrapped tight under blankets and the embrace of warmth between them. 

It’s the best sleep either of them has ever had.