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Beshaba's Black Bones, why were most people so damned stupid?
Zarys fumed as she read over the newest orders from the Darkhold, crumpling them disgustedly in her fist.
Was it not common-fucking-sense to avoid detailing the inner workings of the Zhentarim to a new fling?
Apparently fucking not. Some shitwit in Waterdeep had done just that, compromising at least three regional operations and causing general chaos and a local reshuffle. To be a Zhent anywhere further north than Daggerford was, presently, to be known.
The entire situation was a mess.
The longer Zarys had lived, the more apparent it had become that common sense wasn’t entirely as common as she’d thought.
It was truly a miracle how so many idiots managed to survive to adulthood in general, let alone join the Zhentarim.
Ah, well, she thought to herself, pausing for a moment. The world needed idiots; just perhaps fewer of them.
Although, they certainly made good bait after outliving their usefulness. Circle of life and all that.
Unfortunately, while those idiots were alive, they tended to blab. As a result of such loose lips, Zarys had now received orders to secretly vet all outgoing messages from her crew so as to prevent any "future incidents".
Ugh, fine. Just a temporary measure, right? Zarys figured she could suffer through it for a tenday or two, feeling confident in her abilities until she spotted a word that made her stomach drop.
Indefinitely.
Correspondences went out weekly, which made three times a month. Hells, putting herself through reading their letters once would feel akin to cruel and unusual punishment. Zarys knew her crew; deviant blockheads every last one of them, and the majority were negligibly literate at best.
Alas, that didn’t seem to stop most of them from having shit to say and people to say it to, as evidenced by the—thankfully small—parcels of outgoing letters that periodically appeared on her desk.
If only she had a well-lettered chump on her crew… one that was smart enough to read well but dumb enough to still be bullied into compliance and keep a secret… Zarys tapped a finger on her chin in silent contemplation.
Oh, hold on—just a moment… Zarys paused in her tapping, a corner of her lip curling upward into a smirk as she realized that indeed, she had such a chump.
… And there was no way he was going to say no.
Sal had been enjoying his afternoon before Zarys approached him. Seeing Zarys stalking his way was never a good sign; usually it meant she wanted him to set up some impossibly intricate—and dangerous—trap within an unreasonably short time-frame. The mental and logistical acrobatics it usually required to fulfil her demands nearly always left him drained at best and feeling physically ill at worst.
… And yet he always did it. Of course he did; she was the Swordhar. She was his boss. That’s why he always seemed to drop everything to do her bidding, even when he didn’t want to.
… Right?
So who could blame him for feeling his pulse quicken and his mouth go dry as Zarys' short but imposing figure advanced towards him? Surely it was just his nerves anticipating another insane demand.
… Right?
Sure enough, as Zarys closed the gap between them, she opened her mouth.
"Got a job for you."
Sal sighed. "I don't suppose it can wait?"
"It can—and should, actually," Zarys said, taking him by surprise. "Orders from the Darkhold. Need someone who isn't a complete idiot. You're the smartest one here besides me," she finished her sentence there, although Sal could have sworn he'd heard her tack on a 'though that's not saying all that much' under her breath.
"Oh, alright. Erm, thanks?"
"My office. Tonight. Keep it quiet." And with that, Zarys turned on her heel and walked away as brusquely as she had approached.
So much for a quiet evening to himself.
Thinking Zarys was out of earshot, Sal hazarded a soft complaint. "Bugger, that’s absolute bullshite."
"What was that?"
Oh for the love of—
"Just saying 'how dare they bug you with that absolute bullshite'," Sal offered, backpedaling in an attempt to save face.
"Hah. Good one."
Sal sat in silence for several minutes longer before daring to heave a deep sigh of resignation. What had he been thinking, talking back to Zarys like that?
… He’d been spending too much time around Rugan, the old bastard.
Late that evening, after waiting until the rest of the crew had dropped off to sleep, Sal quietly made his way to Zarys’ office. Seeing the glow of candles pouring through the bars of the door, he felt momentarily hopeful that perhaps she had already gotten through whatever she'd needed him for, and that he’d be turned around and sent on his way just as soon as he showed his face.
No such luck.
Zarys was seated at her desk, a small pile of tightly-furled but unsealed scrolls littering its surface. "About damn time you showed up."
"All you said was tonight. Plus, Bellar took forever to get to sleep," Sal responded, "twitchy bastard."
"And all I’m hearing are excuses." Zarys pointed to a small stool against the nearby wall. "Pull up a seat; odds are we’ll be here awhile."
Sal grabbed the stool, wincing as it scraped on the ground.
"Pick it up," Zarys said, an unspoken warning in her tone. "Make too much noise and the rats will come scurrying."
Nodding, Sal did as told, placing the stool down overly gently opposite Zarys. "So, erm, what do you need me for?"
"I don't need you for anything," Zarys spat, suddenly appearing defensive, "just wanting to share the suffering, so to speak." She motioned to the untidy pile of scrolls on her desk. "Outgoing letters from the crew. Darkhold wants me to read them before they're sent out; make sure no important info is leaked if things get nicked."
"… And you want me to read them instead of you?" Sal was oddly touched. Did Zarys truly hold that much trust in him?
"Your words, not mine."
Bugger. His phrasing had unintentionally volunteered himself to bear the brunt of the work.
"I reckon I should just… get on with it," he sighed after a prolonged awkward silence. "Whose to start with?"
"You think I know who wrote which?" Zarys rolled her eyes. "What, you think everyone signs their names on the back of their parchment in big block letters like good little schoolchildren? No, you twit." She motioned to the small pile dismissively. "Just grab the first one you can reach; let’s get this over with."
"Wanna wager a few coins over who wrote which, then?" Sal offered, hoping it would liven things up some, or at the very least ease the tension that had settled between the two of them. "Come on; if we’re going to torture ourselves, we may as well make it a little fun."
"How?" Zarys sounded intrigued. "Make it pure luck? Or… read out the first sentence and guess from there?"
Sal blinked. He hadn’t expected Zarys to respond remotely positively to his suggestion, let alone bite. "Uh—"
"You said you wanted to make it fun," Zarys scoffed, leaning back in her chair and looking at him. "Read the first sentence aloud, then I'll place my bet." She cocked a brow. "Plus, gives me a chance to see if wizard school taught you more than just how to blow shit up and whine."
By Elminster’s Stinking Cheesy Beard, she certainly knew how to make a man feel small. Instead of responding, Sal decided to just do as told, grabbing the roll of parchment closest to him and slowly unrolling it to see what he was working with.
Nine hells, what a mess. The writing was atrocious: trailing down the page at an angle and spaced unevenly, it reminded him of his first few years in school as a youth, before he’d learned to write in a straight line.
"Oy, future self…" Sal began haltingly, squinting as he tried to mentally reorganize the mess of misplaced and poorly-written characters. "… Had an idea… fig-red—oh, wait: figured—you'd wanna 'memmer this." He looked up at Zarys. "And that's the first sentence."
Zarys stared back at him in exasperated confusion. "You sure you're as well-lettered as you say you are?"
"Penmanship's a disaster; I'd like to see you give it a go," Sal grumbled before remembering who it was he was addressing, prompting him to snap his mouth shut before he said anything else that was liable to land him on Zarys' shit list. "Erm, never mind that… who do you reckon wrote this?"
"Hmm," Zarys mused, tapping a finger on her lips (and making Sal sag slightly in relief). "Writing a letter to your future self, how… oddly twee."
Gods, she was putting legitimate effort into her guess. The fact that she was humouring him at all gave Sal a slight thrill.
"One gold says Garias." Zarys’ voice was confident. "He seems the type."
"Garias," Sal confirmed, waiting for her to nod before continuing to read aloud.
… It wasn’t Garias.
That realization quickly dawned on both of them as Sal unwittingly detailed the state of the writer’s unmentionables amidst a reminder to ‘buy a jock knife that folds’, his voice fading out in horror as he closed out the letter with an oddly cheery sign-off from none other than Bellar.
Tyr’s Balls—wait, no, worst possible oath for the situation, Sal grimaced to himself as he looked up to Zarys from the parchment in his hands.
Zarys’ brow was furrowed, her mouth agape in bewilderment and disgust as she appeared to be processing what she'd just heard.
After who-knows-how-long, they both broke the silence at the same time, voices overlapping as they spoke over one another.
"Of all the things to write to yourself…"
"You’d think he wouldn’t need a reminder for something like that…"
"What a terrible night to have ears…"
"Ears?? What a terrible night to have eyes! I had to read that!" Sal was indignant.
"Oy! Shut it!" Zarys hissed as she lunged across the desk, grabbing his lips and pinching them together in a painfully firm hold. "Keep it down; this is supposed to be secret, remember?"
"Hmmn!" Sal hummed from behind his sealed lips, hoping Zarys understood that he was agreeing with her. There was a beat as she contemplated his noise before she frowned, nodded, and relaxed her grip, evidently satisfied with his ‘answer’.
"Alright, well," Zarys sighed, sitting back, "we’re never unlearning what we now know about Bellar."
"We sure aren't." Sal felt ill.
"Hells, if this is what we're working with, we're going to need some help," Zarys said, reaching to her side and hoisting open the lid of a nearby crate. After digging her hand around for a moment within the cushiony straw interior, she withdrew it, her fist clenched around the neck of a dark glass bottle. "Make the suffering bearable."
Yanking the cork out with her teeth, Zarys spat it across the room and took a hearty swig before rooting around in her desk drawer and tossing a gold piece down in front of him.
"What's this?" Sal was confused.
"My wager, you idiot. I guessed wrong."
"Oh."
"Oh," Zarys parroted, her voice mocking. "What, having trouble remembering the rules of your own game?"
"After what I just read? Yeah, a little bit."
"Honestly, fair." Zarys was chuckling. She leaned back in her chair and took another drink before straightening up again and motioning towards the pile. "Alright, let’s keep going."
Sal pulled a second scroll from the pile and unfurled it. The writing on this one was much better; still messy, but Sal could tell some obvious care and effort had been put into the penmanship, unlike the first.
At least it was actually written legibly.
"Dear mum—"
"Olly," Zarys interrupted immediately. "Obvious. Take a drink." She tipped the bottle towards him. "We’re doing forfeits now, too."
"If you guess it, I drink?" Sal’s brows pinched together. "That doesn’t seem fair."
"I thought we were going for fun, not fair."
"That seems fair enough," Sal said, aware of the irony in his statement as he took the bottle from Zarys and put his lips to the opening, tilting his head back.
He had only been intending to take a small drink, a tiny sip at best. Alas, he had misjudged how full the bottle was, meaning what he hoped would be a brisk taste of mystery liquor on his tongue ended up being a hearty glug right down his throat, burning all the way down into his (lamentably empty) belly and hitting him like a hammer.
He heard Zarys laugh. "Two for flinching, Sal. Take another drink."
Now much more aware of the bottle’s fullness, Sal took a second—more reasonable—swig, actually tasting the strength of the astringent spirit on his tongue before it burned another trail down his gullet.
Nine hells, that was strong. He could already feel the alcohol going to his head. Placing the bottle down on the desk, Sal refocused on Olly’s letter.
It was nothing special; a routine check-in like the ones he used to send his own mum from school back in the day.
… Not that she’d been able to read them, but it was the thought that counted.
Seemed like Olly’s mum could read, however; judging by the contents of Olly’s letter. Passages like "yes, I’ve been washing at least once a tenday" and "well, you can tell Leon he can shove it" seemed to indicate that this was part of an ongoing correspondence between the two of them.
It was nice to see at least one good son amongst the crew.
"Boring." Zarys’ voice cut through Sal’s tipsy introspection. "So boring I’m going to take another drink." She grabbed the bottle and peered into it before bringing it to her lips. As she drank, Sal watched a stray drop of liquor bead at the corner of her lips and slowly drip down her chin, to the underside of her jaw. "Next."
Tearing his eyes away from Zarys’ mouth, Sal set Olly’s letter next to Bellar’s and grabbed another scroll from the pile.
The next few letters were nothing special:
One was a merchandise requisition for pickup in the next town over. ("Brem," Zarys had guessed nearly as quickly as she had Olly. Sal took another penalty drink, feeling it go straight to his head.)
The second was a… strongly-worded—and surprisingly long—argument to some tavernkeep regarding outstanding tab balances. (From the first sentence, Zarys had thought it was Rugan, and so had Sal. Turns out it was Jarg, surprising them both into taking a drink each. By that point, the notion of ‘forfeits’ had been forgotten, and the two of them had started taking alternating swigs from the quickly-emptying bottle of liquor.)
The third was a single, mystifying "no". (Sal had jokingly guessed "Zarys" and melted a little inside when she laughed, draining the bottle and grabbing a second one from the crate. Turns out it was Vol. Go figure.)
As they both started on the second bottle, Sal was toeing the boundary between sort of tipsy and very much tipsy indeed, judging by the swirly, giddy feeling he felt growing in his brain. Zarys’ body language had relaxed significantly, her usually pinched expression growing more open, more mischievous, her eyes growing round—almost playful.
"Last one," Zarys said as Sal grabbed the final unread scroll from the desk, "you know, barring that first letter, perhaps this wasn’t as awful as I’d thought."
Sal smiled to himself as he unfurled the scroll, feeling a comfortable warmth blooming on his cheeks. This was definitely nicer than he’d anticipated it being. Feeling buoyed by Zarys’ almost-compliment, he confidently leapt into the first sentence of the final mystery letter.
"Hey sugartits, miss me?" Sal’s smile immediately faded.
Nine hells, was that honestly what it said?? He rubbed his eyes and read the opening sentence over again in his head, suddenly afraid of what lay beyond it.
"Hah!" Zarys snorted out a single, sharp laugh before snapping her mouth shut and covering it with her free hand. After several long moments of listening for any stirring and (thankfully) hearing none, she let her hand fall away, revealing a grin. "That’s Rugan." She sounded infinitely confident, taking a swig of liquor and offering the bottle to him. "You’re gonna need it, Sal."
Sal took the bottle from Zarys, the tip of a broad finger grazing her knuckle as he gripped the dark glass. He brought it to his lips, swallowing down a couple more mouthfuls of this newer, gentler alcohol.
"Leave some for me, you idiot," Zarys teased, swiping the bottle back from him. "We’re both suffering here." She heaved a long, theatrical sigh, rolling her eyes in his direction. "Come on then; go in hard, finish strong."
That was certainly one way to phrase it. Sal felt his mouth go awfully dry as he steeled himself for the gauntlet of filth that lay ahead. Taking a deep breath, he nodded to himself and dove right in:
"You filthy minx, telling me you rubbed yourself off to my last letter. You liked it that much, did you? Have some more."
Alas, the rest of the letter was a backslide. Sal willed himself to just read and not think, feeling his cheeks burn ever hotter as he soldiered through surprisingly lurid descriptions of ‘perky nipples begging to be sucked’ and ‘spreading wet folds with fingers’.
"I know you‘ve been dreaming about my thick co—" Sal’s brain suddenly shut off, unable to bring himself to continue. "Zarys, please."
"Go on," Zarys said, her voice quiet and intense. "Finish it."
"I—I don't think this contains any… compromising info—"
"I said finish it."
Trying to keep the quaver out of his voice, Sal continued from where he'd left off, mid-sentence: "… you’ve been dreaming about my thick cock." He swallowed, pushing himself to continue. "Are you trying to make me miss you? Telling me all the filthy things you do to yourself when you’re all alone in the middle of the night? How even fucking yourself with three fingers can’t compare?"
His hands trembled as he orated the incessantly descriptive, pornographic letter, becoming increasingly aware with each filthy turn of phrase that he was saying these things to his boss.
To her face.
While she was staring right at him.
Sal furrowed his brow, slogging onwards through the mire of smut. He was approaching the bottom of the page; freedom was nearly at hand. He took a deep breath.
"Touch yourself again. Tell me every filthy detail. I’ll be waiting on your next letter… Karad."
A thick silence descended upon the room.
"Well… that wasn’t Rugan…" Sal almost didn’t recognize his own voice.
"No, no it wasn’t."
More silence.
"Well, that was the last of the letters, should I go?" Sal moved to rise from the stool.
"No."
"Erm… okay… did you need me for anything else?" He felt the intensity of Zarys’ gaze focusing on him, gathering a moment of boldness to look up from the desk and into her face.
"Yes." She was looking at him like he was a meal.
… And she was hungry.
Sal nearly tipped over backwards in surprise as Zarys climbed over the desk, coming to sit on the edge and spreading her legs, bracketing him between them. He stared up at her, the tension in his stomach curling ever lower.
Was this really happening? He certainly hoped so.
Suddenly, her hands were on his shoulders, pushing him onto his knees, making the stool clatter out from underneath him.
Bugger the noise, he didn't care anymore. Neither did she, it seemed.
"Remember the part of that letter where he licked her cunt?"
"Yeah?" Sal could feel his pulse thundering in his chest, positive Zarys could feel it through her grip on his shoulders.
"Do what it said."
He could do that. He could definitely do that. Possessed by a sudden confidence, Sal reached for the waist of Zarys' trousers, shimmying them down her hips just enough to expose her smallclothes. She pulled her hands back from his shoulders and gripped the edge of the desk, arching her back and canting her hips towards him in coy invitation. Hooking his fingers in the dampened fabric, he pulled her smallclothes aside, barely able to believe he was undressing his boss. Sort of.
Eager to please, Sal shuffled forward pressed his face between Zarys' thighs, tasting her as his tongue lazily drew a hot, wet stripe up through her folds, coming to a brief pause at the very top. He felt a hand grabbing a fistful of his hair before yanking his head back so he was staring up at Zarys, his tongue still hanging out, barely ghosting over her clit.
"I didn’t tell you to stop," Zarys hissed, glaring down at him. "You stop when I damn well say so."
Nodding almost apologetically, Sal resumed where he had left off; pressing his tongue to Zarys' clit and flicking it upwards, hearing her groan softly in response, her grip on his hair slackening somewhat.
He'd never heard Zarys make that sort of noise before. Hells, he wanted to hear it again. Encouraged, Sal reached in with one hand to grip the soft skin of Zarys' inner thigh, flicking his tongue this way and that, drawing nonsensical zigzags along Zarys' clit and pulling another, more prolonged moan out of her.
Yes, yes yes yes, he was doing a good job. He could feel Zarys arching her hips towards his mouth, wordlessly demanding more.
He could give more. Perhaps… What if…?
Sal began using his tongue to trace out the somatic components of spells he knew: Magic Missile, Fire Bolt, Thunderwave… Colour Spray. Oh, Zarys liked Colour Spray. Go figure.
Fire Bolt, Magic Missile, Fire Bolt… Zarys was beginning to pant, her grip on his hair tightening once again, her hips pressing into his mouth.
Thunderwave, Thunderwave, Colour Spray, Colour Spray… Her pants were quickening, quiet moans sounding like near-whines…
Fire Bolt, Colour Sp—Sal was unable to finish 'casting' his final spell as Zarys' grip tightened on the back of his head and pulled him towards her, grinding her hips into his mouth as she failed to hold back a soft, prolonged moan while riding out her orgasm. Abandoning 'wizardry' altogether, he resumed flicking his tongue back and forth haphazardly, determined to ensure she was well and truly satisfied with him.
Soon, Sal felt her inner thigh trembling under his palm, the hand in his hair moving to his forehead and pushing him away. Confident that was her way of telling him stop, he pulled back, sitting on his heels and looking up at her.
"Hnnh…" Zarys panted, supporting herself on the desk with her free hand. "That’s right… now you can stop." She was smirking at him, her eyes hazy and half-lidded.
Sal knelt between Zarys’ legs, catching his breath as he wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. He watched her as she pulled her hand away from his forehead to readjust her clothes, suddenly becoming aware of the throbbing between his own legs, straining insistently against the front of his trousers.
He had half a mind to undo them right then and there, pull himself out, and finish himself off in front of her.
… But no. She was Zar—his boss. He did what she said, and she hadn’t said anything about that.
As if she were able to read his thoughts, Zarys traced a foot along the inside of his thigh, ghosting it over his groin before gently pressing her toes into his confined erection.
Sal whimpered at the sensation of her leathery sole grinding against his cock, sorely tempted to roll his hips into her foot. He looked up at Zarys, his eyes asking an unspoken question.
Please?
In response, Zarys smirked and pulled her foot away, a silent, teasing answer:
No.
"Good job tonight, Salazon," she said, leaning back and looking at him down the bridge of her nose. "You can go now."
"Yes, Zarys." Sal scrambled to his feet and dusted off his knees, turning to leave.
"Wait." Her smarmy voice made him pause. "Are you going to tell anyone, now?"
She was testing him.
"No, Zarys."
"Good boy. Go on."
Good boy. The phrase sent a jolt of electricity straight to his cock, making it throb almost painfully within the confines of his trousers as he fled, taking care to close the barred door behind him.
He needed to find somewhere at least somewhat private, where sound wouldn’t carry or echo throughout the cavernous hideout, lest he never hear the end of it.
'The Phantom Wanker' they'd call him.
Bugger it all.
As Sal’s footsteps slowly faded into the distance, Zarys allowed herself a moment to take slow, deep pants, catching her breath at last.
That hadn’t gone the way she had expected that to go; not one damned bit.
… But she sure as all hells wasn’t complaining. She smirked to herself as she processed that evening’s events.
Sharess’ Nectar, with a tongue like that… it seemed like Sal had certainly learned a thing or two at wizard school after all.
If this ‘correspondence vetting’ thing was truly going on indefinitely… Zarys’ smirk became a grin.
… It wasn’t just Karad waiting on Sugartits’ next letter.