Davrin Week Day 5: Sword | Wood
i'm going to be frank: E V E R Y O N E should applaud my USE of the prompt. As for everything else, i was concussed and i don't know please don't ask me questions. if everyone is nice to me maybe i'll post a part II, idk this really got away from me.
1.1k under the cut and you do have to go to ao3 for the full thing because i am feeling ✨shy✨
Davrin swipes the pad of his thumb over the smooth surface of an entirely anonymous block of wood. He's made a few half-hearted swipes at it, as evidenced by the smattering of wood shavings shriveled and strewn at his feet, but he'd made precious little progress.
He sinks back against his work bench, the soft breeze licking over his skin a quiet reprieve from the still-welcome warmth of sun across his shoulders. It brings with it a faint rustling of branches and tinkling of leaves. If he were to close his eyes, he could imagine he were in Arlathan, basking in the sun and symphony of birds and breeze and insects of late springtime.
His brow furrows as he studies the mottled patterns dancing over his toes. He turns to the open wall of his quarters, and finds evidence of what he already knows: there is no sun in the Fade. The warmth instantly dissipates, and when his eyes return to his feet, the mosaic of sunlight through leaves is gone as well.
Bellara had spent this morning's breakfast trying to explain the exact phenomenon. Something about the Fade being the land of dreams and dreams being the ultimate wish-fulfillment. Harding had been the one to dispute that fact, citing a multitude of oddities she'd found in sleep lately. Emmrich had then stepped in to explain that it was less-so about idealistic worlds, and more that the Fade was full of possibility. After that, the conversation had dissolved into unintelligible magical theory that Davrin couldn't be bothered to follow.
Most times Davrin chooses not to think about the fact that they're in the Fade at all. He's been able to take a great deal of the absurdity they face in stride, but coming home to a place that is simultaneously everything and nothing is where he draws the line.
The hiss of metal on stone draws his eyes up from his feet, and Davrin is reminded that he's rarely alone with his thoughts these days. Rook is hunched over her own work, white shirt rolled to the elbows, fabric clinging to her spine and shoulders.
At Weisshaupt, they'd had a grindstone to sharpen their weapons. He'd suggested that to her once, as a more time-sensitive alternative to her chosen methodology. She'd given him a look that bordered on disgust, and he's yet to suggest it a second time—especially given that her blade-honing seems to be the same as Davrin's carving. A way to keep idle hands busy and racing minds at bay.
She straightens with some effort, and he follows the trail of her right hand across her forehead. Simultaneously, Rook tosses one of her knives onto his desk. It lands among several others strewn among his own mess of sketches and candles and carvings. He'd probably complain more about her clutter if he didn't have so much of it himself, these days. Tidying isn't exactly on his list of priorities.
Hands clasp behind her back, and a quiet groan leaves her as she extends her arms in a stretch. Davrin allows his eyes to slip appreciatively over the arch in her back as she does, and then over the round curve of her ass. He might have ogled more were it not for the fact that she turns abruptly toward him.
There's an assessing arch in her eyebrow as she sinks back against the edge of his desk. Dark tangles of hair have escaped her attempt at a braid, curling around her face and ears, and her tunic is unbuttoned lower than usual, revealing the line of delicate muscle between her breasts. Her arms cross decidedly over her chest, the wry tilt to her head a sure sign that she caught him staring.
Davrin smiles, unrepentant.
Green eyes glance over him before landing on the block in his hands. She retrieves her saber from the desk, still propped back against it as she jerks her chin in the direction of his hands, "You look very…rapt."
An irreverent smile pulls at uneven lips—the kind of expression that almost always precedes mischief—as she makes a show of running an oiled cloth down the length of the blade at hand, slow and deliberate.
He raises an eyebrow. "I'm getting the sense that you're not."
"Well," She gives a theatrical sigh, running a cloth over the length of her sword. "It's not the sword I'd prefer at the moment."
Overt doesn't begin to cover it, though he doesn't get the feeling she meant to be cryptic. It seems to be part of the game—whether because she hopes to pry embarrassment out of him or simply because the absurdity entertains her, he isn't sure. Davrin fights to hide his own amusement, but knows by the delight sparkling in her eyes that he doesn't quite manage it.
He hums, attempting to sound disinterested. Judging by the smile he just manages to catch as she turns her back, he's unsuccessful. He'd wonder why they even bother with the game, but maybe the pleasant ache at the corners of his mouth is reason enough.
Still, he shakes his head at her—eyes catching on his own belt, still hanging from the back of his desk chair. Davrin smiles to himself as he unfurls, leisurely depositing knife and mostly uncut-wood on the work bench behind him.
"You have a preference?" he asks with feigned curiosity, deftly de-tangling his sword belt off the chair to his left
"I think I do, actually." Her head is tilted artfully to one side, listening for his every movement even as she pretends to pay him no attention at all.
Quiet, though not soundless, Davrin makes his way until he's standing just behind her. The earthy scent of blade oil entwines pleasantly with the sweetness of her, as his fingers close around her hip. It doesn't take much encouragement to draw her back against him, noting the tight-lipped smirk she wears.
His own lips curl as he presses them obediently to the space just below her ear, allowing his nose to skim along until he can murmur in her ear. "You'd prefer mine, then?"
Rook turns her head just enough that he can easily capture her in a kiss, tasting mirth and anticipation in the curve of her mouth. He loosens his grip so she can turn to face him, arms winding up around his neck—before she pauses at the brush of his sword-hilt, hard and obtrusive against her stomach.
"Is that not what you were referring to?" he asks, guileless.
She studies the offered hilt for a long moment, teeth very clearly latched onto the inside of her lower lip—to quell her amusement and ire, he can only imagine. He studies every flicker of expression that crosses her face—from genuine surprise to blatant irritation to obvious amusement. Davrin doesn't even attempt to hide the smug curve of his lips when she finally drags a believably unimpressed expression up to his.
Even so, there's an edge to it that sends a significant thrill through him.
But her voice remains dangerously steady as her fingers slip just into his waistband, dragging him into her again. "I'll make you a deal."
