Just a fluffy little aftercare scene with the boys.
Once, his bathing room had been a place of pure function. Now, it was an extension of bedroom and playroom both, as alive with Ashenivir’s influence as the rest of the house. His presence manifested in the cabinet in jars of soaps and oils; on the shelves in piles of more towels than could ever be necessary for even a drow lifespan; and across the floor, where new tiles in colours Rizeth wouldn’t even have considered a decade ago gleamed, damp with steam.
The bath, however, was the same as it had always been, and was presently filled with both himself and a very bruised, very satisfied Ra’soltha.
Rizeth ran the washcloth down Ashenivir’s arm, careful over his wrist, where manacles had held him chained to the ceiling not an hour ago.
“How is your throat?” he murmured, brushing his lips over it, right below Ashenivir’s ear.
Ashenivir shivered, leaning into his chest. “Perfectly capable of screaming for you again tomorrow, Master.”
Rizeth chuckled and moved to his other arm. Most of the bruises were on his back and thighs, which Rizeth had taken care of before they’d left the playroom, leaving the marks just unhealed enough for them both to enjoy. Ashenivir remained as lovely a canvas as ever, and Rizeth never tired of admiring him.
At length, he set the washcloth aside, and was then treated to a production of complaint as he persuaded Ashenivir out of the warm bath to be dried.
“Cease making a nuisance of yourself,” he admonished, swatting him on his freshly-bathed backside. Ashenivir stuck out his tongue, then quickly fled further reprimand. Listening to his feet thumping down the hallway, Rizeth couldn’t help but smile as he rolled his eyes. Brat.
He tracked his wayward husband to the bedroom, where he knelt by their bed in apparent contrition. Rizeth took a black silk robe from its hook on the door and fastened it around himself. “You know exactly what you’ve earned with that little stunt,” he said, as he collected a brush and comb from the dresser.
“More bruises?” Ashenivir guessed.
“A good deal more bruises.”
Rizeth sat and tugged him into position to start brushing his hair, working gentle prestidigitations through it as he did so to dry it. It took a lot longer than it used to—Ashenivir was less and less inclined to cut it of late, and another month or so would see it reach the tops of his thighs. Not that Rizeth had any complaints about such length. It afforded a most excellent handhold.
When he was finished with the detangling, he bid Ashenivir up onto the bed to sit before him. Ashenivir hummed softly as Rizeth’s fingers slid through his hair, wrapping strand over strand in sure, steady motions. The braid quickly took shape beneath his fingers, more skilled at this than he’d ever expected them to be. He could have done it in his sleep—but then he wouldn’t have been able to enjoy Ashenivir melting into contentment under his hands.
“I like this part,” Ashenivir sighed.
Rizeth pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “You can have this part whenever you want, xi’hum.”
“It’s not the same if I haven’t served you first. I like earning it.”
The last of the braid came together in a quick twist. Rizeth cast a mage hand at the nightstand to bring him a tie to fasten it off, giving it a tug to pull Ashenivir’s head back. He smiled, and Rizeth kissed his forehead. “Time for reverie.”
Despite being the wrong way up, Ashenivir managed to twine his arms around Rizeth’s neck and get his lips on the underside of his jaw. “Does it have to be?”
Rizeth knew that tone—it was the exact same one that had come before their scene this evening, and even after so many years he still wasn’t immune to it. He curved a hand over Ashenivir’s arched, exposed throat. “If you make me ruin your hair, I will not be tending to it again tonight.”
Teasing defiance flared in Ashenivir’s eyes; Rizeth squeezed lightly, and it faded. He unhooked himself and shifted around. “Can I braid yours?”
“If you must,” Rizeth said, only half grumbling. “But pull on purpose so much as once, and you will find yourself alphabetising our library again.”
“Yes, Master.”
He took Ashenivir’s place, seated cross-legged between his husband’s knees as Ashenivir worked the brush through his hair. It was far shorter, and in less than half the time it had taken Rizeth to do his, he’d fashioned it into a neat plait.
“There,” he said, tracing his fingertips down either side of Rizeth’s neck in a rather too deliberate manner. “All done.”
The late hour and the intense scene they’d completed meant nothing under the influence of his touch. Rizeth pulled him round into a kiss, tasting his tongue and drinking in the soft moan as his own pressed deep into Ashenivir’s mouth. He cupped a hand to Ashenivir’s cheek; firm enough to control, soft enough to love, and felt Ashenivir submit at once to both.
A soft bite tugged his lip, followed by a gasp when Rizeth bit back, far harder. Ashenivir shifted, pushing at his chest, making the small, hungry sounds that made Rizeth want to cast aside all better judgement and make a mess of him again. But it really was much too late to be getting so involved, and besides that, he knew he ought to stop giving Ashenivir everything he wanted every time he wanted it. It set a poor precedent.
Rizeth caught his wrists and broke the kiss. “Bed.”
“I will if you’ll come with me.”
“For sleep, menace of a boy.”
Ashenivir grinned, then yawned expansively. Rizeth kissed him once more, slow and soft, and it was easy enough to get him under the covers after that. The lights dimmed at a flick of his hand, fading smoothly to darkness. Ashenivir curled warm in his arms, one foot hooked over his ankle, his fingers linked—knotted might have been more accurate—with Rizeth’s where they lay over his heart. Rizeth ghosted a gentle kiss to the back of his head.
“Goodnight, Ra’soltha.”
Ashenivir murmured similar, as tired as Rizeth knew he was, already slipping fast into reverie. Rizeth closed his eyes, feeling him breathe, feeling his heart beating, and wondered how he’d managed to get so damned lucky.