Hush

There are a limited number of things Zeth’rinn expects to find on his bed when he returns to his room after weapons-practice, and Iphis Nydalla isn’t one of them. A thing he’d quite like to find, certainly, but given that his bunk in the Bregan D’aerthe safehouse is, well, in the Bregan D’aerthe safehouse, which is notably located inside the Clawrift and not on some pretty West Wall thoroughfare, it’s not a thing he ever imagined would happen outside of some very involved late-night fantasies.

“Good session, Baenre?” Iphis asks, sweeping his too-blue eyes over Zeth’rinn’s sweaty form. He’s reclined on the bed, comfortable as you please, toying with a knife.

Zeth’rinn curses and slams his door shut, lest any of the others traipsing back to their rooms catch sight of the interloper. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t I visit our favourite pet intruder?” Iphis says, affecting a pout.

“Alright, correction—how are you here?”

Iphis shrugs, an elegant roll of shoulders. “You broke into our house, you know the fundamentals of such things.”

He’s certainly dressed for stealth, immaculate in close-fit black and violet—Zeth’rinn is suddenly very conscious of the scrappy, sweat-stained clothes he wore for training, of how he must smell, his lack of adornment, the knotty mess of his roughly bound hair. Iphis’ curls are messy, but they’re artful, purposeful. He swings his legs down, sitting forwards, the knife dangling casually between thumb and forefinger.

It’s one of Zeth’rinn’s knives.

“I didn’t steal anything from you when I came to visit,” Zeth’rinn says, shooting it a pointed look.

“You stole plenty.”

“Name one thing.”

The knife flicks up as Iphis steps into his space, the point landing under his chin. Iphis is shorter than him, and there’s something unspeakably arousing in the way he lifts up onto the balls of his feet to whisper in Zeth’rinn’s ear. “Our time,” he says. His free hand is at Zeth’rinn’s belt, tugging it loose. “Our attention.” He shifts the knife, laying the edge of the blade across Zeth’rinn’s throat. “A kiss.”

“More than one of those, if I remember rightly.” Zeth’rinn puts a hand on Iphis’ waist, the heat of him spinning up a cascade of hungry memories. Iphis draws back, a smirk dancing at his lips.

“The ones from me don’t count. Matron Nydalla gave those to you. The one you took from her, on the other hand…”

“Was also given.”

“Was it now?”

Iphis slips a hand inside his trousers, beneath his smallclothes, clever fingers brushing through the soft thatch of hair between his thighs. Zeth’rinn lets out a shaky whimper as two fingers settle either side of his already swollen clit. The knife presses harder into his throat.

“Something about a blade in my hand excites you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Zeth’rinn gasps, and grabs at Iphis’ hair to pull him into a kiss. The slide of lips and graze of teeth makes him groan—makes Iphis laugh, low, into his mouth. His fingers move down, down, sinking into the arousal it would be pointless to deny, spreading Zeth’rinn open in a tease that has him moaning and bucking his hips.

“Hush,” Iphis says. There’s a scratch of pain across Zeth’rinn’s neck, his own knife biting into him. “If you get me caught, my—our—Mistress will be very unhappy.”

Something in Zeth’rinn’s chest cracks open. One of his hands falls to Iphis’ collar, the black leather warm from long hours of skin contact. Would Minisstra ever call him the same thing she calls Iphis? Name him Ra’soltha and claim his heart as she’s claimed that of her consort? Maybe if he’s quiet now, she will. Maybe this is a test.

Iphis slides a finger into him, then another, slow and torturous. Conversation and laughter pass on the other side of the door, Zeth’rinn’s compatriots milling about before dinner, ignorant of the intruder in their midst. He bites his lip, swallowing the sounds he wants to make. If this is a test, he’s damn well going to pass it.

“That’s it,” Iphis purrs. “I know it’s probably hard for you, but keep that pretty mouth shut, alright?”

The slick of fingers in and out of him is quiet, yet still too loud in the absence of all the other sounds Zeth’rinn’s accustomed to when it comes to sex. Iphis kisses him again, lips insistent, and Zeth’rinn opens to their deman, submits to the tongue mapping the inside of his mouth, to the teeth biting his lower lip almost bloody, and though it takes everything in him, he still doesn’t make a sound.

His reward is a third finger and a faster pace. He grabs Iphis’ waist, pulling him closer, wanting more—he has more, has plenty of fun accessories stashed under his bed that Iphis could use on him, if he could only tell him they were there.

“You’re being very selfish,” Iphis says. Zeth’rinn, not wanting to fail whatever this challenge is, queries what? with his eyes. Iphis stops fucking him and takes his hand, pressing it to the front of his trousers. “Reciprocal hospitality,” he says. “Or are the Baenres just poor hosts these days?”

Zeth’rinn shakes his head frantically. He fumbles with Iphis’ laces, the knife cold against his throat, harder and harder until he finally sets his hand over Iphis’ cunt—hot as his own, wet and welcoming to his delving fingers. Iphis hums, apparently satisfied, and returns his own hand to Zeth’rinn, lessening the pressure of the blade. Their hips slot close, knuckles intermittently knocking together as they touch and tease and fuck, and Zeth’rinn keeps his mouth firmly, agonisingly closed.

He can still hear the others in the hall. Can make out Valas’ voice, cutting through the chatter, directing the younger boys to get a move on or miss out on food. He’s just a few feet away. A few feet and a door that used to feel solid but now feels like it might turn to glass at any moment, and what would Valas think of him, fingerfucking a Nydalla—a House that, despite its youth, already has a bloody reputation.

Someone raps on the door.

“You coming for dinner or what?” Fel’rekt’s voice cuts through the lust fogging Zeth’rinn’s mind. His stomach lurches.

“I…yeah, I…I’ll be there in a minute.” He sounds fucked. He sounds like he’s being fucked, there’s no way Fel’rekt won’t notice.

“Are you alright?” Flat worry, the kind of affectless concern Fel’rekt has cultivated to keep everyone at arm’s length.

“Yeah, I just—” Iphis shoves his fingers deep, all three to the last knuckle, and Zeth’rinn’s pretty sure he strains something not moaning. “—pulled something in training. Got to…work it out.”

Iphis fucks him with unconcealed glee, almost bruisingly hard. He curls his fingers, pressing on a spot that spawns a wave of heat, makes Zeth’rinn’s clit ache and throb, has him gushing and choking back a groan.

“If you say so,” Fel’rekt says. “I’ll see you there.”

“Uh-huh,” Zeth’rinn manages, strangled. Footsteps retreat from the door, and only then does Iphis slow. He withdraws his fingers to paint Zeth’rinn’s clit with wet, approving circles.

“Such a good liar you are,” he praises, and Zeth’rinn’s heart sings. He remembers where his own hand is then; remembers to move it because whatever the other Baenres might be, he is not a poor host. His reward is a pleased hum, and cunning fingers teasing the sensitive, exposed head of his clit—more like a cock with every passing day as Lolth’s transforming touch lingers—and he almost bites a chunk out of his cheek keeping quiet. Iphis’ eyes burn into him, sharp as his stolen knife, and it’s like he can see Minisstra through them, her red somewhere behind that blue, waiting to be impressed.

He can’t think straight. He moves his hand, rolls his hips, all instinct and need and trying so hard to be good, be quiet, that he can’t even breathe, and Iphis is inside him again and he can’t do it, he can’t stay silent with the orgasm that’s about to crest within him; he can’t do it, he can’t—

Which is when Iphis shoves the hilt of the knife sideways into his mouth. His teeth clack painfully over the grip as it forces his cry back down his throat where it belongs. Release spins through the core of him, pulsing like a second heart. He bites down, tasting leather, sagging against the door. Iphis slaps his wrist, and he does as he should, thrumming with pleasure at having Iphis pressed against him, grinding to completion on his hand.

At last Iphis comes with a pleased sigh, and plucks the knife from Zeth’rinn’s mouth.

“That’s pleasure out of the way,” he says, and it’s a sin that he sounds so collected when Zeth’rinn can hardly remember how to spell his own name. Or if he even has one. “Now we can get down to business.”

“I…what?” Zeth’rinn asks, eloquently. There’s something cold under his ribs, scrabbling at the bone with needy hands. He can’t stop looking at Iphis’ collar.

Iphis tugs the hem of Zeth’rinn’s shirt down to clean himself up with, before re-lacing his breeches and setting his cuffs straight. Then he goes to the bed and takes up a small black bag Zeth’rinn hadn’t even noticed was laying atop his pillow. Iphis tosses it to him.

“Take the contents of that bag and leave it somewhere subtly obvious in Matron Krathik’s chambers.”

Krathik. Zeth’rinn searches his scrambled brain for the name. A minor House, up-and-comers. They haven’t made waves yet, only ripples, but their ambitions are clear. He opens the bag, and his heart skips. The dark stone idol he draws out is not Lolth. It’s a drow woman, curved in dance around a silver sword. It’s Eilistraee.

It’s heresy.

“Why?” he asks, shoving the dangerous thing back into its pouch. Iphis arches an eyebrow.

“Because I asked you to.” Then his face shifts, eyes wider, mouth softer, as he steps forward and curves his small palm to Zeth’rinn’s jaw. “You will do it, won’t you? I told Miss Nydalla you’d have no trouble—I wasn’t wrong, was I?”

Red eyes behind blue. Waiting to be impressed. “No. No, you weren’t, I…I’ll do it.”

Iphis’ lips very nearly brush his. “Good Baenre.” He pulls away. “You’d better get to dinner before your friend comes looking again.”

“How are you getting out of here?” Zeth’rinn still has no idea how he got in here in the first place. Jarlaxle will have a fit if he finds out. modify

“Don’t you worry your pretty head about that. Go eat. You look like you need it.”

He looks like he’s been fucked apart and put back together wet. Zeth’rinn rushes to clean himself up, swaps his shirt for one not covered in cum, then, with one last, longing glance at Iphis—at his collar—races to the dinner hall. Fel’rekt gives him a weird look, and he’s sure everyone within a ten-foot radius can smell the sex on him, but the hall is packed and loud, the food alarmingly spicy, and he brushes off all questions about his alleged injury with a quip and a laugh.

The moment he can, he rushes back to his room, and it isn’t until he finds it empty that he realises he was hoping Iphis would still be there. Instead, there’s only the idol, out of its bag, laying on his pillow. There’s a note beside it, written on his own paper with his own ink in Iphis’ well-educated hand.

I rather like this knife of yours. Take good care of Krathik, and maybe I’ll let you have it back.

It’s signed with Iphis’ name in a curlicued flourish, careless and careful all in one.

Zeth’rinn drops to the bed, all the energy collapsing out of him. His cunt still faintly aches, as do the chambers of his heart. He holds the note in one hand, the idol in the other. They seem to weigh about the same.

House Krathik are nothing. Not to him, not to his father, not to Menzoberranzan, but clearly they have something the Nydallas want—or did something to piss them off. If all it takes to ruin them is one little planted trinket, then they have no business playing at nobility in the first place.

Zeth’rinn tucks Eilistraee’s stone body into its pouch and flops to his back with Iphis’ note clutched tight in his fist. Minisstra Nydalla wants House Krathik to burn?

He’ll make sure there’s nothing left of them but ashes.