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16 Marpenoth, 1339 DR, the Year of the Weeping Moon
Chill mid-autumn rain pattered down on the streets of Zhentil Keep, deepening shadows on the black basalt walls of houses and fortifications, washing through gutters and slicking the uneven cobbles with a sheen that soon enough would turn to treacherous ice. It tapped against slate roofs and tight-fastened wooden shutters in a way that pressaged sleet later that evening, perhaps even snow if the air cooled enough. Wind off the Moonsea howled its way through the city’s narrow roads and winding lanes, singing of the coming of winter, a hymn to the Frostmaiden.
Manshoon of Zhentil Keep, High Lord and archmage, could not bring himself to care. Lash as it might, the troubled weather failed to touch the interior of the Tower High, where he was safely ensconced for the first time in months. Fire crackled merrily in the hearth of his great hall, filling the space with a comforting warmth and light. The near-emptied glass of wine— a pleasant Sembian vintage— he still cradled in his left hand had filled him with much the same. The grand hall had been set for nigh a dozen people earlier in the evening, his high table thronging with favored guests and his eager apprentices, but as the rain began to fall heavier they had, one by one, taken their leave. Even the unseen servants had gone, having cleared the table of dishes and cutlery, leaving him alone with his final guest, still seated opposite him at the table.
He took another sip of his wine and studied that guest through heavy-lidded eyes. The guest, unperturbed, stared forthrightly back. A corner of Manshoon’s mouth quirked with amusement; Fzoul Chembryl was never more appealing than when he meant to pose a challenge, and he had expected one that evening from the moment Fzoul had walked through his doors. He’d been gone from Zhentil Keep for too long this year— the priest had grown bold in his absence.
Bold, yes, but no less handsome, he mused. Fzoul was attractive as ever— a strong jaw, his face patterned with the ceremonial tattoos of a high-ranking cleric of Bane. His sensuous mouth, half-concealed beneath his well-kempt moustache, had set in a thoughtful line. Emerald-green eyes and curling copper hair alike caught the firelight and held it. He’d worn his customary blacked ceremonial armor this evening, though somewhat less than the usual panoply for a more relaxed social gathering— cuirasse, pauldrons, vambraces— over his red-trimmed black vestments, and though Manshoon could not see it where he sat, he knew the ever-present mace of disruption hung beside one muscular thigh.
Manshoon was looking forward to stripping him of such accoutrements.
“Well? Leave me not out of your plans, my lord,” Fzoul said, breaking the quiet between them. There was a note of irony in his voice, heaviest on the title. “What word from Shadowdale? Have those responsible for the death of Lord Aumry been caught?”
The slightest of smiles played about that lovely mouth. Manshoon covered his own with a last sip of wine, then set the glass aside and leaned back in his chair.
“None conclusive, and with the weather as of late we may not know before spring,” he said. “The latest rumors from the caravans say the perpetrators are sly as serpents and twice as elusive, though I am given reason to believe the Pendant of Ashaba is within young Jyordhan’s grasp. He will bring them to justice, or so I am assured.”
Fzoul snorted. “One wishes the would-be lord luck. I should hate to track such a foe in winter.”
“Oh, indeed,” Manshoon replied. “And for his sake, one hopes his serpents are not venomous.”
“You’re terrible ,” Fzoul said, with a note of laughter in his voice. “Daggerdale is ours already— would it not have been easier to sweep in with a company of the Zhentilar and bring them all to heel?”
“Not without risk of Harpers, my dear,” Manshoon said, sweeping a hand expansively. “The Silverhand woman settled there but a few years past— I should expect the place now fairly crawls with the meddlers, and they would contest us fiercely, even if we were fortunate enough to avoid Elminster's attention. With Jyordhan legitimized by the Pendant, however, they will have no recourse, unless they wish to refute their own custom. If the boy holds his tongue, they will have no reason to suspect him, either, not when Aumry’s killers are revealed to have been in my pay. He brings justice, we abide, and come Midsummer the northern Dales will be open to us, mark you my words.”
“And where will you be in all this, my lord, if you mean to keep the Harpers off the scent?” Fzoul asked. He tipped his head inquiringly, letting red-gold curls spill forth over one broad shoulder— as fetching and infuriating as ever. Before the night was out, Manshoon meant to wind his fingers through those tresses and pull.
Manshoon traced a finger around the rim of his wine glass, thoughtful. “It’s been long enough that the ogres of Thar will muster again, and sooner rather than later. Come Mirtul, perhaps Tarsakh if the spring is fair, I expect our allies in Melvaunt and Phlan will hear the beating of their war drums and call on us for aid. As High Lord of Zhentil Keep, I will be expected to take the field.”
“On the far side of the Moonsea from it all, of course,” Fzoul said. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table with a muffled clunk , and clasped his hands together thoughtfully. His green gaze was keen and forthright, a look that sent a hot bolt of desire through Manshoon. “And this so soon after your engagement in the Ride this past summer. Shall we all suffer your absence more than your presence?”
“Oh, you will suffer me,” Manshoon said, a smile crossing his face. “I’ve as many duties here as I do abroad, Fzoul.”
Fzoul’s eyes darted towards the spiral staircase that occupied the center of the tower, its doorway open into the narrow confines of the stair itself. Manshoon tensed, though he did not let himself look. Fzoul’s ears were keener than his own. If he had heard something— someone — on the steps, listening in—
Fzoul rose to his feet and turned his gaze back to Manshoon, who relaxed at the assurance. The priest circled the end of the table, and Manshoon turned to face him as he settled gracefully to his knees at Manshoon’s feet. He tilted his chin up, looking Manshoon directly in the eye. Manshoon smiled, almost despite himself, and caressed the tousled curls at his crown.
“I would suffer you gladly,” Fzoul whispered.
“Do not promise that so easily,” Manshoon whispered back. He leaned in towards Fzoul, tightening his grip on the hair he’d caressed and using it to tilt Fzoul’s head further back as he did. Their noses brushed, just barely. “You will find that I am a difficult man to please.”
“As if I could not please you, lordling,” Fzoul replied, his voice a low rumble. His hands came up to clasp in Manshoon’s robes.
“You grow bold in my absence,” Manshoon said coldly, at his normal volume. He tightened his grip on Fzoul’s curls again and stood, pulling the man off his knees to an uncomfortable-looking crouch. Fzoul stood most of a head taller at his full height; Manshoon relished the sight of him below , his emerald eyes squinting against the tug on his scalp. “You think you can best me, Fzoul Chembryl? Come, test your assumption and find how foolhardy you truly are.”
Fzoul laughed as though he had won the bout. “Oh, I mean to, Manshoon of the Zhentarim.”
Manshoon released his hold on Fzoul’s hair only to hook his fingers over the lip of his gorget instead, pressed between the metal and the warm hollow of his throat, and pulled him unceremoniously to his feet. Fzoul caught hold of his forearm, more for the show of it than for any real stability; Manshoon knew that to an outside observer it would appear as if he had seized the priest by the neck. He smirked and strode forward, forcing Fzoul back step-by-step towards the stairs, then released him and spun him around, a hand on the small of his back to push him forward.
Fzoul went obediently, letting himself be prodded up the narrow stair. Manshoon kept close to his back, letting him feel the weight of implied menace; there was nowhere to go but further up. They passed the first landing— he could hear, muffled, the voices of his apprentices settling in for the evening— and the second, presently empty, before arriving at the third landing and the door to Manshoon’s quarters. He slipped past Fzoul then, retrieving the key to unlock it as he did.
The instant it had turned in the lock, Fzoul pounced. Strong arms caught Manshoon about the waist and bore him back against the door. He gasped as his back struck the hardwood, heart leaping in his chest— Fzoul’s mouth pressed to his, smothering the sound before it could reach the air. Manshoon caught hold of his gorget again and grasped hold of the doorknob with the other hand, kissing back fiercely.
Then he wrenched the door open and spun Fzoul past him into his rooms. He shouldered the door shut behind him, free hand fumbling for the carvings worked into the doorframe and tracing them hastily. His innermost wards swelled around him as the permanent casting of private sanctum worked into the wood sang to life and cut them off from the outside world. The working done, he slumped back against the door for a moment to catch his breath, eyes squeezed shut. The tightness in his chest slowly unwound.
“Manshoon?” Fzoul asked. His voice had gentled, all pretensions gone, replaced with a note of concern.
Manshoon opened his eyes and exhaled sharply. His quarters were as he had left them that morning— plush Tethyrian carpets, four-post bed hung with curtains to keep out the chill, his desk with reports and books stacked neatly atop it, the table with its map of the Heartlands still unrolled across the surface. Fzoul stood a pace or two away, between Manshoon and the foot of the bed, light from the continual flame lamps dancing warmly across his face. His fiery brows were pinched with worry.
Manshoon took another deep breath. All thought of playful threats had fled, replaced with something cold. “What if one of my apprentices had heard us go past, and come up to ask after me?”
What if someone had seen? he meant.
By the gentling of Fzoul’s expression, he knew that meaning was understood. “I apologize,” he said softly. “I forgot myself.”
He stepped forward, and Manshoon went to him, let himself be taken into Fzoul’s arms. His head came to rest against Fzoul’s shoulder, eyes falling closed again. The heady scent of the Black Altar’s incense wafted up around him. The armor between them kept the embrace from being truly comfortable, however, and he lifted his head to meet Fzoul’s gaze once more.
“...I’m not angry, Zoulya,” he murmured, letting the pet name slip where no one else could hear it. “But, you know, all the power in the Keep could not save us if…”
“I know,” Fzoul said. He reached up to cradle Manshoon’s face in his warm, broad hands, one calloused thumb brushing the arch of a cheekbone. “And yet…this is your domain. Your tower, your keep, your city. You know that I—”
“Resent that we must hide it, yes,” Manshoon replied. He leaned up and caught Fzoul’s cheek in turn, pulling him down for a slow, lingering kiss. Fzoul’s hands resettled at his waist. “I know,” he murmured against Fzoul’s lips. “One day. I promise you, one day no one , no doddering old lions or young noble fools, will be capable of harming us over this. Until then…” His hand dropped to Fzoul’s chest, tapping at the center of his breastplate. “We waste what little time we have on old complaints, beloved. Let me help you out of your armor, Chosen.”
Fzoul shivered a little at the touch. “If it please you, my lord.”
Manshoon chuckled at that and pushed him back with the hand on his chest, herding Fzoul around to the side of his bed until he stopped— the back of his legs bumping against it, no doubt, then gave a final, gentle push. Fzoul sat down hard, putting himself rather conveniently back in reach, and Manshoon casually knocked his knees apart and stepped between them. His hands knew every fastening of Fzoul's armor, knew the loosening of every strap and the unhooking of every buckle, and in moments he'd undone pauldrons and vambraces. The gorget was next, and the second he was free of it Manshoon nipped at the apple of Fzoul's throat, smirking at his startled yelp. He nipped again, then whispered the incantation for a mage hand, his free left gesturing the somatic components behind his love’s back. Fzoul grumbled, a low resonance against Manshoon's lips, and he soothed it with a kiss to the hollow of his throat and set the hand to work unbuckling Fzoul's cuirass.
“Frivolous,” Fzoul said affectionately.
“You know I'll need three hands for your ridiculous plate,” Manshoon replied, and kissed him again, moving up the line of his windpipe with his lips. “My love wears such heavy armor.”
“Your love likes not being stabbed.”
“His lord husband could enchant him something lighter and more protective.”
Fzoul shuddered at that, and Manshoon smirked against his throat, took hold of his hair, and tipped his head back to kiss the delicate skin beneath his jaw. He stepped forward at the same time, pressing his hipbone between Fzoul's legs and chuckling at the low groan that resonated forth.
“Eager,” he chided. “Have you missed me so much, Zoulya?”
“All that and more,” Fzoul said. His voice had dropped half an octave at least, rumbling against Manshoon’s lips.
Manshoon hummed in response. His mage hand unfastened the last buckle, and he released Fzoul's hair to take hold of the cuirass instead, letting the mage hand drop the backplate onto the bedding while he lifted the breastplate away. Fzoul's chest heaved beneath it, visible beneath his gambeson without his armor in the way. Manshoon laid the breastplate carefully aside on the floor, then took the backplate from the hand and set it aside as well, laying Fzoul's other armor inside it.
When he straightened and looked back up, Fzoul had already started on the ties of his gambeson. He arched a brow, and Fzoul froze guiltily at the look, a high blush spreading across his cheeks. Manshoon chuckled and leaned in to kiss him again.
“No, by all means, please continue,” he said. “Undress yourself for me, beloved, and tell me what you meant by more.”
“You’re an ungodly terror,” Fzoul groused, even as he obeyed. “Remind me why I allow you to do this to me?”
“Because no other man will fuck you as I do,” Manshoon said shamelessly, and watched with delight as the fire of Fzoul’s blush spread to his ears as well. “Isn’t that right? Even dear Chess, who knows how you like to be handled, did he not beg you to take control? Did those you lay with before me not expect that you would bend them to your will, never thinking that you yourself might wish to be bent, o Imperceptor of Bane?”
Fzoul swore softly under his breath, and his hands trembled on the laces of his gambeson.
Manshoon smiled triumphantly. “I thought as much. Now, please, do elaborate. Tell me what you imagined those long months I spent on campaign.”
Fzoul sighed, his resistance visibly crumbling. “You, of course,” he said. His hands moved steadily down, unfastening each tie. “Much of it mundane. Your messages said you were near Glister— I thought of you scouting with the skymages, tracking the movement of the Vaegould across the Ride, planning ambushes with false trade caravans of Zhentilar.”
He paused as he undid the last tie on the gambeson, shrugging out of the garment to reveal fine black-and-red vestments beneath, and looked up again. Manshoon nodded, waving him on, and Fzoul set about unfastening them as well. Manshoon watched a moment, then returned his gaze to Fzoul’s face.
“Go on,” he murmured.
“What else?” Fzoul asked. “No doubt you want to know how I yearned for you, the long nights alone, while I longed for your arms around me— for your mouth, your touch.”
Manshoon folded his arms behind his back and began to circle the bed. “And perhaps I will grant it, if you please me well enough.”
“Bastard,” Fzoul hissed. His fiery head had lowered; Manshoon knew he had paused in undoing his robes.
“Did I give you permission to stop?” he asked. He’d reached his desk by then and opened one of the drawers as quietly as he could, withdrawing a vial of oil he kept there for just this purpose, then closed it again. “The longer you make me wait for satisfaction, the longer you will wait for yours.”
Fzoul swore quietly under his breath. “...I miss going on campaign with you, as I did before you were High Lord,” he confessed. “I wanted to manage your camp, to be in your war council while you planned your engagements. I imagined finding time and space to have you in the field, when no one could catch us, to relieve you of your stress.” He paused to shrug out of his robes, then turned to look at Manshoon over his shoulder. His eyes were dark as forest pools. “I wanted to be there to catch you fresh off your victories,” he said. “You are a glory in triumph, and our conquest of Darkhold was not so long ago that I have forgotten how you burned in my arms.”
He fell quiet then, and Manshoon let it hang between them as he circled back around to stand before Fzoul once more. Fzoul’s vestments lay discarded, a black and crimson pool of fine wool on the sheets, leaving him in only his shirt, braies, and hose. The latter he unlaced and kicked carelessly to the floor— Manshoon directed his mage hand to retrieve them with a thought— and shrugged his well-worn linen shirt over his head in a ripple of powerful shoulders. Still more tattoos snaked across Fzoul’s broad chest, twining like cables of thorns across his collarbones and over his deltoids to coil down his well-muscled arms and terminating in loops like barbed cuffs around his wrists. In braies alone his arousal was much more apparent, and Manshoon could resist the temptation no longer. He stepped back into place between Fzoul’s thighs and bent to cradle his face once more, kissing him soundly.
“And I have sorely neglected you, have I not?” he purred as he broke the kiss. Fzoul chased a second; Manshoon granted it, easily and thoughtlessly as breath. “My poor Zoulya. Your lord husband has been derelict in his duties.”
He placed a hand at the center of Fzoul’s chest and pushed.
Fzoul went willingly— eagerly— collapsing back on the bed with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. Manshoon did not let him regain it immediately, pinning him to the mattress and stealing a third kiss while resting his body weight against Fzoul’s need. Fzoul moaned into the kiss; Manshoon bit his lower lip for the satisfaction of his whimper. He braced a forearm beside Fzoul’s head and snaked the other hand down to stroke him through his braies.
“Well, my love?” he asked. “You gave me so little of substance to work with earlier, so I must ask how you most want to take your pleasure before I may grant it to you. What would you ask of me, beloved? My touch, my mouth…”
He punctuated it with a firm stroke, just the way he knew Fzoul liked it, and was rewarded with a soft cry of pleasure.
“Manshoon, please,” Fzoul gasped, beginning to sound properly breathless. Manshoon smirked, covering it by leaning in to kiss the line of his throat, and stroked him again.
“That isn’t an answer, Zoulya,” he said, sing-song. “Give a proper one, or I will choose for you, and if you let me choose I will make you sit in my lap and grind yourself to completion against my thigh, without removing your braies or assisting you in any way. You should make a pretty picture like that, desperate, begging me to help you finish—”
“Your mouth!” Fzoul cried. “Heavens and Hells, you know you cannot talk to me like that—”
“Or what?” Manshoon purred. “Or you’ll finish like this, from my hand on you while I drip honey in your ears? How needy you are.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Fzoul huffed. “Dreadful. Dreadful man.”
“Louder, my love, or I won’t be able to hear you singing my praises,” Manshoon said dryly.
He sat up fully, gave Fzoul a last perfunctory kiss, and slipped off the bed entirely to kneel on the floor between his legs. He made sure to rearrange his robes so they rested neatly around him as he did, presenting the appearance of effortless elegance. The mattress shifted as Fzoul moved— lifting himself onto his elbows, no doubt— but Manshoon paid it no mind, instead unfastening the drawstring at the top of his braies. He didn’t pull them down immediately, however; Fzoul’s erection tented the soft, loose linen, nearly visible through the cloth, a tease like a festhall girl’s sheer silks. Manshoon couldn’t resist another slow, lingering stroke from root to tip.
Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to the head of Fzoul’s cock, using the linen as a barrier, just to indulge in the cry of protest it earned him. He smirked, knowing full well Fzoul could feel it, and settled in to mouth at him teasingly, relishing the way Fzoul’s length twitched and pulsed under the attention. He was close already, it seemed, far closer than he was willing to admit.
“You devil,” Fzoul gasped above him.
Manshoon pulled back to look up at him, taking Fzoul’s cock back in hand to stroke while he talked. “Is there something the matter, Zoulya?” he asked sweetly.
Fzoul glared back at him in reply. “When I said I wanted your mouth, I didn’t mean that.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t,” Manshoon said. “I suppose you meant something more like this?”
He turned his head and bit Fzoul firmly on the inner thigh, hard enough to draw a startled yelp and feel Fzoul jerk against the pain. His broad, muscular thighs tensed as if to close; Manshoon braced his shoulders to hold them open, yanked his braies down, and took nearly the full length of him into his mouth in one smooth, well-practiced motion. The little cry of protest above turned into a full-throated moan, and Manshoon was glad for the wards that meant no one would hear him.
To his credit, Fzoul behaved himself and did not buck his hips, despite his wrenching at the sheets and the tremor in his abdomen that said he wanted to. His cock twitched, and Manshoon held, waiting to see if it would spill him over the edge.
When it didn’t, and when his trembling had eased, Manshoon slowly drew back, pulling off languorously— he wanted Fzoul to feel every inch of it— then looked up to meet Fzoul’s gaze heatedly. Fzoul had gone red again, a blush that had spread not just to his ears but down his throat as well; a good look on him. It was always a pleasure to see the Black Lord’s most fearsome priest so far out of his depth, Manshoon thought. He took hold of Fzoul’s hips, massaging gently at the muscle with his thumbs.
“Are you quite finished with your demanding and defiance, beloved?” he asked. “Are you ready to be good, and let me have my way with you? Or must I spend more of our evening reminding you which tyrant you serve?”
“...Bane?” Fzoul asked.
Manshoon burst out laughing, leaning his head against Fzoul’s thigh. Fzoul chuckled as well, his lovely face relaxing, and Manshoon patted him affectionately.
“I take it you do need a reminder, then?” he asked coyly.
“No, no, I will behave,” Fzoul said, still chuckling. “Please, Manshoon. I want nothing more than to please you, to serve you—”
“Mm, and which of us is on his knees, again?”
“And yet I am utterly at your mercy— please, my lord—”
Manshoon snorted and leaned back in, laving over the underside of Fzoul’s cock and relishing the whine it elicited. “Beg louder, Fzoul, and pray I have mercy.”
He cut off any response Fzoul might have made then, taking his length back into his mouth and sinking down, relaxing his throat as he did. Fzoul was a large man, tall and powerful and well-endowed to match; Manshoon was intimately familiar with every inch of him. He swallowed hard— the cry of pleasure it drew forth shot an answering bolt of heat through him— and began to bob his head. Fzoul’s thighs trembled, his body tensing, the bedding shifting as he clutched at it for stability, but he held still, too well-trained to thrust. Pleas spilled forth from his lips, only half-coherent at best.
He lasted about as long as Manshoon had expected— minutes, if that. Manshoon waited until Fzoul was arched and trembling, on the edge, then pulled off and stroked him through his climax, relishing his full-throated cry of pleasure.
Then he stood, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, to look down at his work in satisfaction. Fzoul sprawled gracelessly across the sheets as the last aftershocks rolled through him, the mess of his release splattered across his stomach. His chest heaved, cabled tattoos seeming to strain with every ragged breath. He’d turned his face aside, eyes closed, to breathe through it.
Manshoon snapped his fingers, and the mess evaporated as if it had never been. He seated himself on the bed next to Fzoul’s shoulder, carding his fingers gently through Fzoul’s curls until he roused. Those glimmering green eyes eased open, and after a moment Fzoul leaned his face into Manshoon’s hand.
“Better, beloved?” he asked gently.
“Much,” Fzoul replied. He rolled sideways, towards Manshoon, and lifted himself onto one elbow. The other hand came up to cup Manshoon’s cheek, thumb tracing over his cheekbone. “Your change self wore off. I’ve missed your true face, you know.”
“The other wasn’t so different,” Manshoon said, dismissive, though it wasn’t strictly true. For appearances like this he kept the guise close to the reality— high cheekbones and delicate, angular features— but for public view he favored dark eyes over his own silvery-grey, concealed waist-length midnight hair with shoulder-length locks and kept from risking the illusion by pinning the whole mane in a high bun. Better to appear mundane, unprepossessing— it kept enemies off-guard.
“To me, it was,” Fzoul said. He paused again, eyes darting as he took Manshoon in in his entirety, then snorted. “And, of course, you’re fully clothed yet. Am I to be allowed no dignity?”
“Not in my bedroom, you’re not,” Manshoon said cheerily.
His hands were on the clasps of his archmage’s robe even as he said it, unfastening them to lay the heavy garment aside. Fzoul swore fondly at him, but when Manshoon turned back towards him, he’d sat up and leaned in, bringing them nose-to-nose. His eyes were very bright. Manshoon couldn’t help the frisson of excitement that ran through him.
“Hello,” he cooed.
“And to you,” Fzoul said. His hands sought Manshoon’s face again, cradling it for another tender kiss. “Let me handle it, little lord. It’s beneath your station to do this unassisted.”
“And are you my chamberlain?” Manshoon teased back. “Isn't such a thing beneath you?”
“For you? An honor.”
Fzoul kissed him again, then lowered his hands to Manshoon’s throat, where even in the safety of his own tower his battle gorget was clasped. It was one of his favorite wondrous items, a mage’s defensive toolkit; he was rarely without it. He lifted his chin and let Fzoul unfasten it, lifting the weight of his armor at last.
Manshoon exhaled a slow, shuddering breath. It was always— a shock, almost, to be so bare around another, even Fzoul. He met the priest’s eyes again and found only affection awaiting him.
After that, the rest of his garments were easy. His wide-sleeved outer robe and heavy skirts followed— Fzoul treated them with much more care than he had his own, folding them neatly and laying them aside at the foot of the bed— and at his prompting Manshoon turned his back to Fzoul and let him pull free the dozens of pins holding his hair back, casting mage hand once again to ferry them to the dish on his desk without either of them needing to rise. Manshoon leaned back into his touch and released the spell, letting his eyes fall closed as Fzoul’s warm, strong hands kneaded at the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders, then slid up to card gently through his hair.
Long minutes passed that way. Fzoul’s hands moved seamlessly from mere caresses to plaiting Manshoon’s heavy hair in a low, simple braid, pulling it neatly out of the way. His lips pressed to the juncture of Manshoon’s neck and shoulder, moustache tickling, as he finished the plait; Manshoon suppressed a shiver and waited, eyes closed. A second kiss followed, and then a third, near Manshoon’s nape, sending a spark of heat through him. He tilted his head to the side in clear invitation.
Clear invitation, it seemed, that was all Fzoul needed. Broad arms settled around his waist, pulling Manshoon back against Fzoul’s chest. He leaned in again to press still more kisses to Manshoon’s throat, his shoulder, his cheek, the curve of his deltoid. Manshoon hummed in satisfaction and reached back, catching Fzoul’s cheek and turning to kiss him on the lips.
“I take it you’re ready, then?” he asked.
“Always,” Fzoul said. His voice was a low rumble, resonating through Manshoon’s chest where they were pressed against each other. He pressed his face against the side of Manshoon’s neck again— teeth grazed his skin briefly, and a hot bolt of want lanced through him.
“Fzoul,” he said, a note of warning in his voice.
“Does something trouble you, my lord?” Fzoul asked.
Before Manshoon could answer, Fzoul bit him. Hard enough to bruise— hard enough that the heat low in his stomach blossomed into an inferno. Manshoon moaned before he could stop himself, his back arching, eyes fluttering closed.
Then he shook himself, drawing a deep breath to regain his composure. Fzoul was smiling against his neck, and one of the hands at his waist had slid to his stomach, cradling him against Fzoul's body. Those lips moved, sucking at the spot Fzoul had bitten in a way that went straight to Manshoon's cock, made it a struggle not to squirm or cry his pleasure again.
“Did I say you were allowed to mark me?” he demanded breathlessly, even as his fingers curled in Fzoul’s hair, holding him in place and belying his scold. Fzoul huffed— though it wasn’t as if he could pull away to speak. Manshoon smirked. “No, I don’t believe I did.”
He punctuated his words by grinding back against Fzoul’s burgeoning arousal, and laughed as Fzoul groaned against his neck and renewed his attentions there. Manshoon was certain it would leave him with a darkening bruise, one to hide beneath his gorget and relish later, not that he would say as much. Broad hands dropped to his hips, but did little more than hold— certainly not enough to stop him from doing it a second time, or a third, until he’d spurred Fzoul into motion himself. His grip on Fzoul’s hair tightened further, eliciting a muffled protest.
“Well. I suppose I can allow it, seeing as you’ve been good so far,” Manshoon murmured. “So long as I may leave my own in turn. You’ll need a higher collar this tenday, Zoulya.”
He slackened his grip on Fzoul’s hair, letting him pull away to catch his breath, which came in short, hot gasps against the side of Manshoon’s neck. Fzoul rolled his hips again, seemingly unable to stop himself. His fingers flexed, though he didn’t release his hold on Manshoon’s hips, and Manshoon gave a satisfied hum. He hadn’t yet given Fzoul permission to touch him, after all, much as he clearly wanted to.
“As if I ever wear low collars after you’ve come home,” Fzoul huffed. “Are you seeking an excuse?”
“I don’t need one to claim what belongs to me ,” Manshoon retorted.
He turned as he said it, bringing them face-to-face once more, and released Fzoul’s hair only to catch hold of his chin for inspection. Fzoul’s cheeks had reddened again, the green of his eyes nearly lost around the darkness of his blown pupils. His lips were kiss-swollen and ever-so-slightly parted, and Manshoon adjusted his grip to press his thumb against the lower, mostly for the way his blush deepened. His own pulse surged in his ears. He leaned in until their noses brushed, still keeping hold of Fzoul’s chin, and trailed his other hand down Fzoul’s chest, only to stop just short of where Fzoul wanted him.
“Do I?” he asked, letting his tone dip towards ice.
Fzoul, as he had expected, shuddered. “Of course not,” he breathed. “And I am yours.”
Manshoon smiled, satisfied, and leaned the rest of the way in to kiss him.
“Now and forever,” he murmured. “Lay back for me, beloved. I want to see your face tonight. I’ve missed you more than I can bear.”
He released Fzoul then, turning from him to retrieve the vial of oil from a pocket in his archmage’s robes— he’d be needing it soon enough— and refolding the garment as Fzoul had left it. It wouldn’t do to despoil his work, not when he meant to despoil the priest himself. He could hear Fzoul moving behind him, the rustle of bedding as he situated himself. Manshoon waited until the noises ceased, then turned to look.
And, for just a moment, froze, unable to do anything but marvel.
“Well, now aren’t you a vision,” he purred.
Fzoul had oriented himself correctly on the bed, head up on one of Manshoon’s pillows, and had stolen the other to prop up his hips. His loose curls spilled across the undyed linens like a halo of flame, a sunrise robbed from Lathander’s vaults to grace the dark halls of the Black Lord’s temples— or, more immediately, Manshoon’s high tower— like a war prize. One arm was folded behind his head, the other across his broad chest, gently rising and falling with each breath. His feet were braced against the mattress, knees up, legs spread to accommodate Manshoon’s slender frame between them. Emerald eyes were trained on Manshoon’s face, dark with desire.
An answering rush of heat surged through Manshoon’s core, and before he could restrain himself he’d lunged forward, taken his place between Fzoul’s thighs and leaned in to kiss him urgently, fervently. Fzoul met him eagerly, wrapping his arms around Manshoon’s shoulders to hold him in place.
As before he reached down between them, taking Fzoul’s cock in hand and stroking him— but not the teasing strokes he’d given earlier, a steady pace that had Fzoul moaning into the kiss and arching off the bed. He broke the kiss, tilting his head to nuzzle the tender underside of Fzoul’s jaw— to nip at his earlobe and make him yelp— to kiss and suck and bite his way down the line of Fzoul’s throat, trailing small, darkening bruises in his wake. Fzoul keened above him, high and desperate.
Manshoon pulled back when he reached Fzoul’s collarbone and caught his breath, sitting up a bit to study his handiwork, pausing his strokes as he did. A high collar indeed, he thought to himself; no doubt the marks would add to the rumor that Bane’s highest priest had a secret mistress somewhere in the Keep, when his subordinate priests inevitably caught sight of them. The wild speculation afterwards was nearly as entertaining as leaving the marks— before he’d left on campaign in Tarsakh, the latest and most scandalous rumors had suggested Fzoul's lady love was a whipmistress of the Tower of Pain Exalted, that he should go about in such a state.
“Manshoon,” Fzoul said, a sulk audible in his tone. One of his muscular calves hooked across Manshoon’s lower back, trying to pull him back in.
“Now, beloved,” Manshoon chided. “Do you want me to fuck you tonight, or do you want to continue with this foreplay? You know you pout awfully if I let you come before I’ve prepared you to take me.”
“Because you bully me during it,” Fzoul groused.
“And how am I to help myself when you beg so prettily, even when you know not what you ask me for?” Manshoon asked. “Perhaps I should, I’ve missed your pleading with me to stop and keep going in the same breath. Is that what my Zoulya wants tonight?”
Fzoul whined, falling back against the mattress and draping an arm dramatically across his face. “Enough with your dramatics. Just fuck me."
“Mm, tragic,” Manshoon said, and uncorked the vial of oil with an audible pop. “I suppose I shall have to find another way to make you beg, then.”
He slicked the first two fingers on his left hand— still the more practiced of the two, after all these years— and recorked the vial, then laid it aside and leaned back in to kiss Fzoul’s jaw. His fingers slipped lower, lower—
Fzoul shuddered beneath him, and Manshoon hummed soothingly and nuzzled into his neck as he pressed in.
“Good, love,” Manshoon murmured. “You’re doing well, Zoulya. It has been too long, hasn’t it?”
“I missed you,” Fzoul whispered, and a moment later his cheek pressed against the top of Manshoon’s head. Arms wrapped around his shoulders again to hold him close.
Manshoon pretended, for the sake of his dignity, that he hadn’t heard Fzoul’s voice break.
“I’m here,” he answered, pressing another tender kiss to Fzoul’s throat, and eased his finger deeper. “I’m here. I have you.”
Fzoul’s arms tightened around him, and a moment later he drew a deep breath and nuzzled into Manshoon’s hair. “You were gone for months,” he whispered.
“I know,” Manshoon whispered back. He pressed himself closer to Fzoul, skin-to-skin, easing his finger deeper still and crooking it gently, seeking. Fzoul gasped, his hips arching, and Manshoon smiled gently and did it again. “I know, beloved. I missed you too.”
“I missed you more,” Fzoul murmured.
“Like a limb, as I missed you?” Manshoon asked. He paused in his ministrations, then slowly eased the second finger in, relishing Fzoul’s trembling. “I have not forgotten Darkhold either, beloved, or anything that came before. I wanted you at my side, I wanted your cunning and your courage, your support, your faith. And— I needed you here. Who else could I have entrusted my city to? Chess? The magelings? Should I have recalled Sememmon, let him take the reins in my place? No, Zoulya, it had to be you—”
Fzoul cupped Manshoon’s cheek and drew him up, his thumb tracing over the cheekbone, then kissed him tenderly. Manshoon did not melt, but he did settle, relaxing into the kiss.
“And I have kept our city,” Fzoul said. “But I must ask: must you go north next summer? Can you not stay here, in the Keep?”
“We’ll see,” Manshoon said softly. “I cannot control the ogres, nor do I command the Vaegould, and they were…strange, this summer, more restless than they've been in decades. I worry something bigger may be at hand than I can see.”
“Send the Amandon brat,” Fzoul said, and kissed Manshoon again. “Let him prove his worth, and that his loyalty is greater than that of his faithless father.”
Manshoon snorted. “You know the boy is hardly a strategist,” he said. “What can he do but botch a campaign, should one be needed?”
“Spare you the trouble,” Fzoul replied.
“Of botching my campaign?” Manshoon asked sweetly.
Before Fzoul could answer he crooked his fingers again, pulling a drawn-out moan from him instead. Then he did it again, setting a rougher pace than he had thus far and biting Fzoul’s lower lip again for good measure. Fzoul arched into him, crying out in pleasure, and Manshoon was grateful the priest kept his nails trimmed short as he clutched at Manshoon’s back.
“My love, if you can yet advise me, I have not done my due diligence,” he purred. “You want me home next summer? Shall I remind you what, precisely, you’ve asked for?”
“Yes,” Fzoul gasped.
Manshoon smirked, leaning in so his next words were whispered directly into Fzoul’s ear. “Be careful how you word your wishes, Zoulya.”
He pulled his fingers free as he said it, ignoring Fzoul’s protests, and slipped out of his embrace to retrieve the oil once more. Manshoon had ignored his own arousal as much as possible— this role took a clear head, and a level one— but that, he thought, as he poured a measure of oil into a hand that carefully did not shake, was about to come to an end. Again he recorked the vial, this time one-handed, and laid it aside once more.
Then he settled back on his haunches and looked up at Fzoul, eyes heavy-lidded.
Fzoul had lifted himself on his elbows to gaze back. Gone was the unruffled facade from their dinner; the color was high in his cheeks, had reddened his ears. His lips were parted, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. The marks Manshoon had left bloomed like dark flowers down the side of his neck, the lowest mingling with the dark tattoo scrawled over his collarbone. His hard cock jutted up proudly, though he’d kept his hands from it— good. While he was within the Tower High, that was Manshoon’s providence alone.
“So eager, my love,” Manshoon said, and resituated himself so Fzoul could see him more clearly between his legs. “Watch.”
He spread the oil carefully across his palm, then took himself in hand with an undisguised shiver of pleasure. Fzoul’s eyes locked onto the motion, and he stroked himself again, exhaling a heavy breath to keep from crying out. He’d left it too long, was almost painfully hard, and there was an impulse to keep going, chase his own pleasure while Fzoul watched.
He crushed it ruthlessly. There was a game yet to be played, one that required two participants; one for which he would need to be rightly armed.
Manshoon straightened, whispered an incantation, and the oil lingering on his palm evaporated as if it had never been. He prowled forward until he loomed over Fzoul, who subsided beneath him in eager expectation. One of his hands came to rest against the underside of Fzoul’s thigh, lifting his hips just enough to align himself. The head of his cock rested against Fzoul’s entrance, not quite breaching.
“You are ready, aren’t you, beloved?” he lilted. “You would not insist so if you weren’t. You want me.”
“Don’t make me beg,” Fzoul said. His words were cross, but his tone said otherwise.
Manshoon smirked and rocked his hips, just enough to press in, to hear Fzoul’s gasp— and pulled back, denying him. “Oh, come now,” he said, as if scolding him for a falsehood. “You’re not nearly well-prepared enough to take me. Perhaps I should give you another finger first…or two, or perhaps more. You would like that, wouldn’t you, taking my fist—”
He punctuated the tease with another thrust, just as shallow as the first and just as quickly withdrawn. Fzoul whined beneath him in protest, and Manshoon tutted at him and did it again. His free hand closed around Fzoul’s cock, too light a touch to truly be considered a stroke. Fzoul’s hips jerked, trying to rut into it; Manshoon released his hold to deny him even that.
“Manshoon—” Fzoul protested.
“Say it, beloved. Say ‘please, Manshoon, I want you to fuck me’,” Manshoon said. A fierce smile crossed his face, and he rolled his hips again.
“Manshoon, please!”
Good enough. Manshoon thrust, sinking home in one smooth motion and gasping his pleasure as he did. Fzoul wailed beneath him, back arched into it, and clenched around him. Manshoon held still, breathing deeply to steady himself. It wouldn’t do to let this end before he was ready. The hand on Fzoul’s thigh stroked soothingly, kneading at tense muscle until it relaxed. As much, if he admitted it, for Manshoon’s own benefit as for Fzoul’s. It took everything in his power to restrain himself, to give Fzoul time to adjust to the stretch, not to chase his own pleasure to the exclusion of everything else. He trembled, taut as a drawn bowstring.
Fzoul relaxed around him long moments later, his limbs slackening. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps.
“There we are,” Manshoon whispered.
He took a moment more to breathe, closing his eyes briefly.
Then he began to thrust.
He had neglected himself for too long, Manshoon thought. Too caught up in the performance. In drawing the responses he wanted from Fzoul. Heat, need coiled low in his stomach, stoked hotter with each roll of his hips. Fzoul’s arms closed around his shoulders again, pulling him down. Manshoon kissed him fervently, focusing on that instead.
He slid the hand on Fzoul’s thigh up to his knee and pushed it up against Fzoul’s chest, shifting the angle in a way he knew Fzoul liked, was rewarded with a moan of pleasure and Fzoul clenching harder. He tightened his grip on Fzoul’s cock and began to stroke in earnest, increasing his pace as he did.
Fzoul arched beneath him, crying out again. “Manshoon—” he gasped, “—please, please—”
“I have you, beloved,” Manshoon breathed. “You’ll have it—”
He shifted his angle again, ever so slightly. Fzoul swore at him in every language he knew. The leg not pressed between them hooked around Manshoon’s lower back, pulling him in, slowed the pace to an agonizing grind that had Manshoon’s eyes rolling in their sockets. He growled and slowed the pace of his hand in turn, tortuous strokes that made Fzoul shudder beneath him.
Manshoon forced his eyes open and lifted his head. His braid had slipped over his shoulder at some point; it coiled atop Fzoul’s copper curls like a spill of fine ink. He focused his gaze on it, catching his breath, and stopped stroking entirely, though he couldn’t stop himself from rolling his hips, grinding steadily into Fzoul. Fzoul was close, he could tell— it was in every shuddering breath, in the way the arms around his shoulders and the calf pressed into his back trembled. In the way Fzoul spasmed around him, ground his hips into Manshoon's most minute thrusts to seek more stimulation.
“Come now,” he rasped, and ground himself deeper. “Fzoul.”
Fzoul released his grip, letting his foot fall back to the mattress. Manshoon nuzzled his cheek. Kissed him tenderly in reward, murmuring praise under his breath as he renewed his strokes, but kept the slow, shallow pace. That got him squirming, and he laughed, nipped at Fzoul’s earlobe, and took the hint. All pretense he dropped; his awareness narrowed only to a point of friction, of pleasure, of his lover’s body against and around his as they moved together.
Neither of them lasted long after that. Fzoul shuddered beneath him, his back arching as he came; Manshoon felt him spill between them. Victory surged hot through his veins— conquest, triumph, Fzoul was his—
He buried his face in Fzoul’s shoulder, biting down hard on the meat of it, and followed him over the edge, the heat within him unleashed at last.
When he came back to himself, the first thing Manshoon did was whisper the incantation to clean the mess of their release, from his place curled into Fzoul’s chest. That was always the worst part, frankly— he detested the sensation of it clinging to his skin. His hands trembled on the somatic components of the spell, still too unsteady to perform it correctly, and the threads of Art slipped from his fingers. He swore under his breath in Draconic and performed the working again.
This time it caught and held, and the just-drying tackiness evaporated into nothingness. He smiled, satisfied, and pulled gently out of Fzoul— who, mercifully, did not rouse at it— and wrought the cantrip a second time to finish the job.
Task accomplished, he eased his way out of the tangle of their limbs to settle on the bed beside Fzoul, pull a blanket up to cover their nakedness, and drape an arm around Fzoul’s shoulders. Fzoul hummed drowsily in response and turned just enough to curl into Manshoon’s side before drifting off again. That was well enough— he was often drowsy afterwards, and little wonder. Manshoon carded his fingers soothingly through his curls and let him sleep. He had other matters to which he could attend until Fzoul roused. A flick of a hand set his current arcane workbook flying to him from its place on his desk, and he flipped through to the last page he’d written on.
He was midway through the calculations on a modification on teleport— one designed to snatch a target, willing or otherwise, and transport them well away from the caster— when Fzoul stirred, nuzzling into his shoulder and draping a heavy arm across Manshoon’s waist. He groaned, muffled, then peeked up at Manshoon drowsily.
Manshoon smiled down at him in return. “Hello, beloved,” he said gently. “Did you rest well?”
“Well enough,” Fzoul said. “Though I expect I’ll be sore come morning.”
“Was it too much?” Manshoon asked, cocking his head. Concern welled unpleasantly under his breastbone.
Fzoul shook his head in reply. “No. It has been months since you’ve done that, I simply…let myself grow lax, in your absence.”
Manshoon snorted. “You forgot to stretch.”
“I did,” Fzoul replied.
“You’re getting too old for that, you know,” Manshoon said fondly. “Soon enough I’ll have a greybeard for a lover, and then where will I be?”
“My beard is no greyer than yours, lordling,” Fzoul retorted. He sat himself up as he said it, catching Manshoon’s chin in one calloused hand.
“You know I hexed mine off as soon as I was able,” Manshoon shot back, and kissed him.
Fzoul laughed into the kiss. “So you see my point,” he said, when Manshoon released him, and caressed his jawline to illustrate it.
“Did I say I didn’t?” Manshoon teased. “No, merely that you ought to stretch next time.”
“And now that you’ve returned to Zhentil Keep for the winter, I will. Particularly if you wish me to warm your bed again,” Fzoul said.
Again sank like a stone in the pit of Manshoon’s stomach. Again meant finding another opportunity for this, to slip away from watchful eyes and steal an hour or two, like the starcrossed young fools ever popular in minstrels’ songs.
He refused to think on how those tales ended.
“I do so wish,” he shot back. “Though, to speak of beds, it’s high time you warmed your own. The hour grows late, and the longer you linger the more treacherous your journey home will be.”
“I know,” Fzoul said.
He paused, head cocked, and Manshoon waited for the inevitable comment— that one day, they would not have to part like this. And perhaps he was right, perhaps one day they would take an evening to themselves, and a night and a morning, without worrying about the reprisal.
It never came. Instead Fzoul gathered himself and slung his legs over the side of the bed, putting his broad back to Manshoon. Manshoon regarded the new view with approval— tattooed thorns curling across those shoulders, half-concealed by the veil of Fzoul’s fiery hair, the ripple of musculature honed by battle as he stretched his arms over his head.
Then he looked back over his shoulder, green eyes flashing. “Help me dress, will you?”
Manshoon laid his spellbook aside and obliged.