#spellwoven

[dndtreasury]

Spellwoven Robes

[howeveryclever]

Becoming a Warden meant, Wystan had quickly discovered, that all of one’s hungers were multiplied.

It wasn’t such a problem – might even be termed a pleasure, in fact – when one’s eager, enthusiastic lover was close at hand. But when he wasn’t… Wystan groaned in frustration, staring up at the interlocking grey stones of his chamber ceiling, trying, without much success, to ignore the throbbing ache of arousal in his groin and just go back to sleep. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t exhausted, after all; they’d had a long day of it, fighting bandits in Amaranthine before making the long trek back to the Vigil. He’d barely taken the time to wash the road dust from his face and hands before falling into his very lonely, very empty bed.

Sighing finally, Wystan pushed down the coverlet and his smallclothes alike, taking his cock in hand. Just the touch was already a relief and he quite nearly bucked into the circle of his own fingers like it was a lover’s instead. Closing his eyes, he summoned up memories of Zevran – those lush, smiling lips, that smooth dark skin, hair like new wheat – and began to move his hand over himself slowly, a firm grip, almost mechanical, like the dwarven clockworks he’d seen in Orzammar. It wasn’t as though this had to be good; it only had to get the job done.

He groaned quietly, eyes of his mind firmly fixed on his fantasy. Those bright grey eyes, pale skin ruddied and tanned by the elements, hair like a slick spill of shadow… Wystan’s eyes flew open and he gasped. Somehow, the image of Zevran had replaced itself with Nathaniel, and it had been good. He paused a moment, hand stilling on his cock. Maybe he should feel guilty about how good it had been, he thought; but on the other hand, it was only a fantasy, right? It wouldn’t hurt anything, and Nathaniel was objectively an extremely attractive man. Zevran, of all people, who had taught Wystan to embrace sex with an open, playful joy, would understand attraction.

Mind made up, Wystan began once again to touch himself, this time deliberately allowing himself to dwell upon the face and figure of the archer. His fingers, Wystan decided, would be clever and nimble, callused just there from the bowstring; Nathaniel would drag those pads of roughness over the head of Wystan’s cock and he’d gasp and quiver with a sensation so intense it was just shy of pain. And his eyes would be intent, Wystan knew. Nathaniel gave his entire attention to everything he did; being the object of that focus would feel… indescribably good, as though Wystan were the momentary center of Nathaniel’s whole world. Sex with Zevran was often playful, full of laughter; he thought sex with Nathaniel would be fierce, intense. Wystan was breathing raggedly now, his hands moving over himself without finesse.

The archer’s skin, Wystan knew from the Keep baths, was lighter where the sun never touched; and it slid like fine Orlesian cambric over the broad muscles of his back and his stomach. And those muscles… abruptly, Wystan remembered that it had taken four men to subdue and capture Nathaniel; his head fell back against the pillows, neck arched into a straining column, as he imagined what it would be like to be borne backward and down, mastered by that wild, unexpected, glorious strength, Nathaniel riding him and gasping out his name.

Wystan’s cock pulsed in his hand as he came, a sweet thrill of pleasure seizing his muscles and shaking him in its grip. In the end, it had been the name that did it. Imagining his own name gasped out, Nathaniel’s velvet tenor roughened by need. His name, on Nathaniel’s lips.

“…oh, no,” Wystan said aloud, the implications of that suddenly slotting themselves into place in the aftermath of the extremely good orgasm. “Oh, shit.”

[howeveryclever]

Break Their Silence [spellwoven]

“Rendanson.”

It was hardly the first time his heritage had been wielded like an insult, nor was it going to be the last.  But where Natanael had once sneered at his antagonists because he - unlike them - was going to inherit sizeable and well-managed holdings, now all he could do was scowl and hope that the savage wolfmen didn’t let their trellwolves rip his limbs off. He told himself that he did not fear their retribution, that he only held his tongue as often as he could manage for Rahaf and Thomas’ sakes, but the reality was he had no proof of his father’s innocence to answer the unspoken accusations. Rendan the liar, Rendan the thief, Rendan the torturer, Rendan the conspirator, Rendan the trellwolf murderer. Until he could clear his family’s name he did not have a snowball’s chance in summer of ever being able to walk with his head high once more.

Still, that didn’t stop him from wearing his family’s crest on a pendant around his neck, the snarling bear head a fitting match for his usual thundercloud of an expression. Rahaf sighed every time she saw it, but she’d since given up trying to convince him to take it off. Discarding his family heirloom did not make him any less Rendanson, Natanael had pointed out coldly, and it wasn’t as though the wolfmen would welcome him with open arms if he cast it aside. Moreover, it wasn’t like they were here for pleasure; they were here to work off their father’s debt to the heall, paid for with their sweat and tears because Rendan’s holdings had gone to his greedy neighbours.  

If Natanael was being honest with himself – a rarity, sadly – he did not altogether mind the work. While he was no burly wolfman he was not without his own muscle, and the chores (while mindless) were helpful in clearing his mind. Even more importantly, he could often do them alone or in limited company, which made them somewhat of a respite. Unlike his siblings, Natanael had yet to make himself any friends at the heall, a by-product of his pride in his heritage and his unpleasant demeanour. As far as Natanael was concerned, however, his lack of companions suited him just fine. He didn’t need to “play nice” with the wolfmen, or the gaggle of boys they kept around in the hopes of pairing them up with wolves one day. Natanael’s obvious disinterest in trellwolves only further separated him from his peers, which suited him just fine.  

There was, however, one young man who didn’t seem to take the hint. He was the only person that Natanael had had to actually go out of his way to avoid, his determination to befriend Rendan’s eldest son so strong that Natanael was finding it difficult to resist him. But while Natanael could steer clear of him at meal times and other gatherings there was no getting around it when they were partnered to do chores together, as they were that morning. Natanael tried not to grimace as he adjusted his axe over his shoulder, stepping past his chore partner with a stiff, “Good morning,” that was purely out of ingrained politeness.

Perhaps this time they could chop wood without engaging in mindless chatter.

@spellwoven

[motleysins-blog]

Drabble prompt: the bigger the smile, the sharper the knife.

“So? Do we have a deal?”

Zevran looks up to where the trader hovers, eager to make a sale. The assassin’s gloved fingers spread over the cover of the books he is holding—they are battered things, well-loved and well-read, and though they have no great coin value he knows how much they had meant to the woman who was forced to sell them to feed her children. “Four silvers?” he says, feigning foppish ignorance. “For these?”

“Ser, these are rare editions,” the trader beseeches; seeing nothing beyond the fine cut of Zevran’s clothes, too blinded by the clink of coin in the elf’s pocket to notice the blade up his sleeve. “They would command twice that price in Orlais.”

“Hmm, so they truly are valuable.” The elf turns them over in his hands, and when he looks up again, there is none of that harmless interest in his eyes; only dark threat and a thin, sharp-toothed smile. “Valuable enough that you would only pay their last owner two coppers, I hear. That when she tried to bargain, you made certain to see her evicted from your store; without her belongings.”

The trader’s face has turned white, and Zevran presses his advantage. “The people in this town are good people, or so a friend tells me,” he says, and with a silent, practised ease those books are replaced by a blade instead, its thin, sharp edge catching the light.  “And good people do not take well to extortion, my friend.”

Neither, he finds soon after, does the floor take well to blood. It is a horrible, clashing colour against the carpet, and he side-steps it with disdain, wipes the blade clean, and pockets the books.

He does this for the Warden. For the Warden’s overly-kind heart; for the people he wants to help, although Zevran cannot always fathom why. 

He will not tell the man where he has been, or whatever became of the corrupt trader this night. But he will be there to see him hand those books back to their rightful owner, and the Warden’s smile will always be worth the fresh blood on his hands.