Chapter Text
Mole's golden claws are cold against Hound's clammy skin. His touch is jarring, but against all good judgement, Hound feels his armor chipping away.
He hates when Mole does this.
When Mole acts like his lover.
"Stop," Hound says, voice soft and unsteady. Only Mole has ever heard him like this, but he's never once used it against Hound.
"Why?" Mole traces the tip of one golden claw along Hound's cheekbone. "You're so lovely, darling."
Hound closes his eyes. He is not beautiful, not how Mole thinks he is. He is beautiful like a finely-crafted dagger; a weapon, perfect from afar but harsh and dangerous when you get too near it. One touch would cut to the bone.
Yet, Mole holds him like he's made of glass.
Hound gives in. He always does, when it's Mole. He loves to feel fragile in his arms, and they both know it.