Idle Hands.
A gift for my friend, artist and writer, Nick, and her incredible OC 💙 @quinthebard!
Summary: A standoff between a sore Sorcerer Tempest and an idle Harper, Quin (Affectionately) CW: pregnant OC Rating: Mature(flirting) Word count: 1606
Deer dividers by @bonnieknowsbest
Tempest paced back and forth barefoot, one hand rubbing beneath her gently curved bump and the other resting against her bandeau top. A tight-knit frown settled on her face as she moved, deep in thought.
Quin studied her quietly from beside the campfire, his turquoise eyes tracking her tall profile, alert to her stormy mood. She had flung the tent flap aside only moments ago, wrestling her way out of the pile of furs and blankets after sundown. Without acknowledging him, she reached for a hair tie and, with impatient movements, pulled her long silver braids into a high ponytail.
Meanwhile, Quin had frozen, silently questioning what any of this meant.
They had only just made camp and secured their tent poles. A small cauldron simmered over the fire with a sparse, clear rabbit stew. Busying himself with unlatching the straps covering his arms and shoulders, the Harper wondered—not for the first time—whether there was any threat to the sorceress’s state of being, and whether he would be able to help her.
They had taken a risk coming out here, trekking through the woodlands in search of a possibly missing druid. Still, his instincts told Quin it was best not to stir the waters. Tempest had reminded him more than once that she would tell him if anything was amiss and that he needn’t worry.
Setting his sword belt aside on the bedroll where he sat cross-legged, Quin became lost in his own worst-case scenarios. An inexperienced bachelor with no more knowledge of pregnancy than his textbooks provided, he failed to catch the frustrated warlock’s low curse as she pivoted and marched towards him, her eyes backlit and trained upon their target:
The fey bard.
It was not until a broad shadow and a wash of heat reached his side that Quin nearly jumped out of his skin. He whipped his head around, only to be met by the muscular thighs of the Amazonian woman standing over him, thankfully with her laced trousers still firmly in place, though loosened.
The Harper could feel the stag in him stir, fine copper hairs standing on end as he craned his neck. His eyes widened as he faced the fury of storms within the dark woman’s chiselled face.
For a moment, he sat tongue-tied, his throat bobbing as he prepared to utter an apology, his muscles already coiling to move away. Then Tempest pursed her full lips and tilted her head. One hand rested upon her cocked hip while the other continued caressing her baby bump.
She stood close enough for him to catch her scent: an intoxicating blend of spiced vanilla and purified salt from her trip to the river.
“How are your hands?”
Her deep yet unmistakably feminine voice caressed his senses like a tempered spring, distracting Quin for a fraction of a second before he furrowed his brow.
“How are my…? I beg your pardon?”
Lifting her chin, Tempest raised her brows and stepped closer, forcing Quin to straighten where he sat beneath her. He strained to maintain eye contact, wary of the tension and static in the air. A surreptitious glance down her toned body revealed the shifting cycle of colours moving along her tattoos and scars.
“Your hands, Quin. Show them to me.”
She stood so close that he noticed her lightly coloured belly button peeking at him.
Quin swallowed nervously.
“…As you wish. May I ask what this is for?” he replied with a titter.
His voice was light, as though attempting to dissuade a hungry lioness.
How Halsin comes out of this unscathed is a miracle…
Her imperious expression did not help matters, those opal-whites giving nothing away.
Quin hardly knew her. He had only joined with the formidable storm sorceress for a mission or two, never while she was pregnant and under pressure.
Removing his gloves while keeping his eyes on his companion, Quin habitually folded them neatly and placed them beside him. He caught her curious glance before it returned to him with its full strength and focus.
A minute twitch tugged at her lips.
Meanwhile, Quin found it increasingly difficult to keep his curious eyes from wandering over her. This close, he realised he had never truly taken a good look at her—certainly not outside her leathers.
Why Halsin had not objected to his lover traipsing around Faerûn armed to the teeth in her condition was beyond him, yet deeply fascinating to his bardic side.
His freckled hands now bare, he held them palms-up. His dishevelled bangs fell forward over his eyes like copper.
The College of Swords bard could feel the faint fatigue settling in his broad shoulders after a long day of fighting. His padded armour hung open at the chest, revealing his loosely fitted undershirt.
He tensed when the sorceress’s warm, velvet hand enveloped his own, turning it this way and that for her inspection.
Wherever does this lead, I wonder?
Clearing his throat, he watched the gears turning behind her eyes.
Quin reached Tempest's shoulders on a good day. To be seated directly beneath a woman of her stature was something else entirely—and not wholly unwelcome.
Tempest’s touch was purposeful.
Her manicured nails and the soft pads of her fingers traced the veins along the back of his hand, smoothing over his nails and palm.
The dimple in her left cheek told him she was worrying the inside of her mouth, a habit he had noticed but did not particularly want her to know he had observed.
She was gauging him for something.
Apparently, he passed.
As soon as she had turned his hand over, she released him. Then, as though conjured from thin air, two small, teardrop-shaped glass bottles landed in his lap.
“They’ll do.”
Bewildered, Quin lowered his hands into his lap and squinted at her.
“They’ll do?”
“Mhm.” Tempest shifted her weight gingerly onto her other foot, returning one protective hand to her belly. Her laser focus remained upon him, now wandering up and down his seated form.
“Halsin’s hands are broad, warm, and rough. But yours? Suspiciously smooth, clean, and well-groomed.”
“Right. That’s… thank you, I guess. But that still doesn’t—”
Looking around for something to anchor himself—or perhaps an escape—Quin rubbed his hands against his thighs.
“You haven’t seen a day’s worth of honest work, have you?” Tempest asked, tucking her chin and raising her brows.
With a sigh, Quin rose to his feet, the faint irritation of a long day beginning to show upon his face.
“I used to tend my parents’ garden, actually.”
That earned him a snort.
“Look, I am but a humble bard. If you’re looking to have a go at me, I’m afraid you’d be wasting your—”
“A humble bard?” Tempest challenged.
For a moment, Quin was distracted by the way the flames painted her shimmering skin and glinted off the beads and cuffs in her tresses.
Quin was shorter than his partner, Astarion, but Tempest’s physique was comparable to Karlach’s. He remembered the tiefling being rather partial to tossing him over her shoulder with great exuberance.
“Every noble lady and lord fawning over your prowess with a fiddle, yet here you stand before me, idle and empty-handed.”
Quin scowled and blinked incredulously as he followed the woman’s descent. She lowered herself, her gold-painted lashes fluttering at him, then sat cross-legged upon his bedroll. Her back remained slightly stiff and the movement visibly strained as she turned away, sweeping her long hair aside to bare her back and neck.
She waited expectantly.
“At ease, Harper. I’m only messing with you. It relieves me of my discomfort. Now come, sit… Please.”
Patting the blanket, Tempest looked over her shoulder with a tender smile.
Quin’s resistance came tumbling down.
He found himself doing exactly as she asked, as though bewitched, and lowered himself behind her.
Then, to his shock, she closed what little distance remained.
Tempest showed him the bottles again. The tips of Quin’s ears grew hot from the sudden proximity. Wide-eyed and at a loss for words.
“I asked to see your hands because I need you to help me apply these oils.”
The sorceress grinned at him, triumphant, though her laugh was almost sheepish.
All Quin could muster was:
“Oh.”
Is that all?
They had certainly had their differences of opinion throughout their journey, but to think she was capable of setting him up like this?
Tempest faced forward after he accepted the harmless bottle of fragrant oil and uncorked it.
“What does it do?”
“Helps with the soreness. No matter how many pillows I have, or which side I sleep on, I cannot find relief.”
“And Halsin assists you, I take it? I’m not sure I’ll be of much use here…”
“You’re a swordsman. Your grip is loose but controlled—firm enough to keep your weapon, flexible enough not to strain your hand. So, I imagine you know your way around fingerwork… and pressure.”
At that, Quin choked and coughed into the crook of his arm.
Tempest laughed aloud, but it did not last long.
Quin concentrated on his handiwork, following his companion's direction. He carefully worked over the swell of her hips, and later, just shy of the edge of her bandeau top, before progressing to her neck and shoulders.
He found that he did not mind the task at all.
He revelled in the feel of her skin and the firm muscle beneath his grip, careful to keep his unguarded attention away from her closed eyes and unabashed moans.
