Vhenan Aravel
Chapter 7: Married Life - Gratitude

Copyright© 2017 by eatenbydragons

Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 7: Married Life - Gratitude - Raviathan, a city elf with too many secrets and regrets, undergoes a long journey in order to find his way in the world. Part 1 is a Dragon Age Blight fic with many additions and twists to the original story. This story starts off on the fluffy side, but beware. Thar be dragons, and it will dip into darker territories. I'd rather overtag for potential triggers than undertag. Rape and prostitution occur rarely in the overall narrative, but they are present.

Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Ma/Ma   Consensual   Magic   Rape   Reluctant   Romantic   Gay   BiSexual   Heterosexual   Fiction   Fan Fiction   High Fantasy   Interracial   Anal Sex   Analingus   First   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Petting   Prostitution  

When Nesiara returned home with the fabric she had bought for their wedding clothes, she found her husband at the table folding a section of parchment. The ink and quill had already been stored away. “What’s this?” she asked, setting the canvas bag on the cabinet shelf.

“I’m writing a prayer.”

Curious, she looked over his shoulder, watching his hands bend the paper into intricate folds. “Writing a prayer? I thought you didn’t like the Chantry.”

“I don’t. It’s not a prayer for them. Shoo,” he said, hunching his shoulder over his work. She laughed.

At a glance she noticed the pattern he was making matched the ones she had seen hung from the vhenadahl. She had thought the decorations odd as she’d passed the tree the day before, thinking to herself that they must have prettier things to hang there. Yet another reminder that she still had a lot to learn about this alienage. Knowing his weakness, she gently lifted the hair off his neck and started to caress her lips along his skin. Though he tried to hide his reaction, his fingers turned clumsy. When she got to his ear, gliding her lips as light as a breath along the shell, he dropped the folded paper. “But I want to know,” she whispered.

“No,” Raviathan said, more a moan, and she knew she had him. If she over did it, he’d take her to their bed and there would be no finding out, so instead of nibbling his ear, she lightly ran her nose up the long outer curve. He trembled, his soft spoken voice growing quieter, “It’s considered bad luck.”

Her teasing had been enough that he would give in, so she sat next to him. “Bad luck? What sort of prayer is this?”

Raviathan bit his lips. “It’s for the vhenadahl. When there’s something we’re grateful for, we write a prayer and hang it on the tree. It’s... “ he fumbled for a good way to describe the practice. “It’s like opening your heart to the world, to the good things out there.”

“To the Maker?”

He nibbled his lip as he made another two folds. “I suppose. I know some people do, like lighting a candle at the Chantry. But the Chantry candle is more for good wishes for loved ones or hopes. I guess you could make it to whoever you want.”

Nesiara grinned a flirtatious smile to get him to open up a bit more. “What about you?”

The look she got in return, a reluctant but impish smile, told her he knew exactly what she was doing but was enjoying it anyway. “I ... I guess the Maker might be in there. I sort of make mine to the world at large and whatever good spirits might be listening. It isn’t to anything in particular. I think the act is more important than who it’s to. It’s valuable to recognize the good things in your life.”

“Like what?”

“What do people write in their prayers?” She nodded. “Oh, different things obviously. The birth of a child, if you’ve been prosperous, or a sick relative gets better. It can be for something simple, like you hear a bit of music or see a sunset and it reminds you of how beautiful the world can be. It’s meant for anything that makes you realize your life is worthy, the things that touch your heart, give you inspiration and lift you up. You know those moments? Sort of like when you step back and stop thinking about yourself and you just exist in a good moment, and for that time, there’s nothing but happiness. And the prayer is to give thanks that, to be grateful for the gifts you receive in life.”

“So why is it bad luck?”

“It’s not. Well, the prayer itself isn’t,” Raviathan amended. He looked at her pensively then shook his head. “How you can stand to be without a vhenadahl at Highever I’ll never understand.”

Nesiara cocked her head at him, but she was beginning to get a sense of the tree’s place here. At first she’d thought it little more than a pretty thing, all decorated and cared for, a permanent version of the solstice tree that humans kept in their homes during the month of Haring. Now, she was starting to realize that although the elves here didn’t see it, they had a tendency to center their lives around that tree. It was very subtle, and Nesiara was going by intuition and impressions, but the vhenadahl was more than just a focal point in the alienage.

Maybe she was imagining it, too much of her artist’s eye coming out as her mother would say, but she got feeling that the arrangement of the alienage interior made a strange, organic sense. The buildings weren’t haphazardly constructed as she had always thought when she was in Highever. The old buildings in Highever resembled those here in Denerim, but the randomness of the new additions built at Highever during her lifetime gave the whole place a different feel. At this alienage there was an echo of the tree in the placement of homes, the way they grew out in branches and had roots. At first it seemed chaotic, but as it became more familiar, it started to make an intuitive sort of pattern. “Will you show me?”

Raviathan sighed, and his shoulders hunched. “You’re not suppose to see it. That’s the bad luck part. A prayer needs to be made from your heart. It has to be pure. If another person sees it, it’s like you’re showing off. Then you have people making prayers because they want something, or to show they’re sorry rather than saying it, or to prove something. The last is really bad. You know how humans try to show off how pious they are by building bigger Chantries or giving more expensive things to the prayer fire as if it was really their sacrifice to Andraste? Plus all that wealth was made from someone else’s labor and is wasted in a fire. They do it to show off to others, how much money they have, how ‘noble’ they are. They don’t do it because they really believe. Showing a prayer taints it and takes away its honesty.”

“Please? I want to know how to do it.” He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Please, Rav? What you wrote, and the reason you wrote it won’t change. I want to make a prayer for...”

“Don’t,” he said quickly. “Don’t tell me. Just write it down, and I’ll show you how to fold it.”

“Alright,” Nesiara said a little taken aback. So this was the serious stuff. He kissed her temple and got the writing material. “Can it be a wish?”

“No,” he said. “Wishes are what you want. These prayers are for what you receive. Sometimes gifts come in unexpected ways. If you’re full of expectations, then you’re less likely to see a gift when you receive it.” Raviathan bit his lips looking at her. She was struck again by how much emotion could be contained in his large eyes, and it made her feel still and wondering.

He said hesitantly, “Maybe this isn’t the best example. In fact it’s probably a really horrible example, but it’s what came to mind. I know a woman. She really loved being a mother, especially when her child was young. Loved every minute of it, but she was only able to have the one daughter. She was always a little sad about that, and she often talked about how she wished she could have those years over again. If the circumstances were different, she might have helped with the orphanage. She always regretted having to leave for work every day, not spending more time with her daughter, more so after her daughter left to be married. She would never get that time back.

“One day she received word that her daughter had died of pneumonia. She was heartbroken. Her one little girl was gone.” Raviathan blinked rapidly, his eyes bright in the dark room. “She’s grieving, and she’ll always grieve for her daughter. There isn’t anything that can replace that person in her heart. In the letter, her son-in-law asked her to come to his alienage. You see, he has two children now, one just a few months old. There isn’t any way for him to care for the children, not when he has to work.

“It’s a tragedy, and there’s no erasing that. But she would never have seen her grandchildren otherwise, only heard about them in letters. She’d have to work, and the only time she would be able to visit would be when she’s too old to make the journey. Now she’s going to be there with them, watch them grow. She won’t have to trade off with an aunt because she has to work. In fact, she’s going to be the one other mothers look to when they need help or advice. She’s going to be respected in the alienage, and she’s going to be doing something a hundred times more satisfying than cleaning a bann’s chamber pot.

“She could spend her life wishing for the time back with her daughter, but that’s never going to happen. Whatever life she wished for her daughter, she had no control over. She can let this make her bitter, or she can spend the rest of her days in sorrow. I’m not saying she doesn’t have the right to grieve. Not at all. But all those wishes ... It’s normal to want things. We all do that. But you shouldn’t open your heart to things you want. It’s just a way to make yourself bitter, and it can blind you to what you receive. That’s why these prayers are always in gratitude, because it makes your heart open to the joy in the world.” Raviathan bit his lips and looked down at his hands. “Does ... does that make sense?”

Nesiara took a long, slow breath to consider. While she thought, Raviathan went back to folding the paper. It was a rather pretty and intricate sort of braid. The paper was very thin and delicate with his pen scratchings making visible patterns through the folded surface. She could make out a few letters but little else. What was he giving thanks for? The paper was thin enough that it would dissolve in rain, which was probably intentional. The tree wouldn’t get cluttered and the prayers would dissolve instead of falling to the muddy ground. “Okay. I know what I want to write.”

He smiled up at her and finished the series of folds so he could put it down without losing his work. He placed the ink, quill, and a tattered old turkey feather in front of her then very carefully cut off a section of the paper with a knife. “It’s thin, so be careful as you write. Once you’re done, give it a minute to dry, then fold it in half with the writing on the inside, then fold again. Make sure you remember what you wrote so you can say it at the vhenadahl.”

“Is there a particular way I should phrase this?” Nesiara asked touching the paper to get a feel for how it would take the ink.

“These are private, so I don’t know how others would phrase it. I usually just start with ‘Thank you for... ‘ then say how this has touched you or why it’s special.” Getting the sense that he was hiding something, she gave him a look. He squirmed under her gaze then said in an embarrassed undertone, “Gratitude fills my heart for the gifts in this world. Thank you for blessing me with...”

Why did he try to hide this more poetic side of himself? Still, it was nice to know it was there, and that with a little prodding he was willing to share it with her. She made her letters small so she could fill the paper.

Gratitude fills my heart for the gifts in this world. Thank you for blessing me with such an amazing husband. I love his kindness and sensitivity. I love how he is sweet and thoughtful. Thank you for making him so handsome and for the warmth that fills my chest whenever I see him. Thank you for taking away my fears and giving me this gift in its place.

Nesiara blew on the paper gently to speed the drying process. She folded it as he had instructed just as he was finishing his own. Seeing she was finished, he smiled at her, and she felt the familiar tingle that arose whenever he gave her that smile. He got up to lean over behind her for the folding demonstration. “The paper is this wide, so remember to make all your folds that wide.” As he demonstrated, Nesiara realized that the pattern was more like a series of knots rather than folds. After seeing three knots, she made the fourth under his gaze, then a fifth. “You’ve got it.”

His hands rested on her shoulders, his fingers slipping under the top of her dress as he watched her fold. He didn’t do more than that, but as she worked, Nesiara kept wanting him to either reach further down and play with her breasts or start slowly undoing the buttons that held her dress up. Every once in a while he would shift. They were tiny movements, but it was incredibly distracting when she wanted him to do other things. His hands left when she was two thirds of the way done. “The fold is different here. When you hang the paper up, it has to fold inside like this,” he said demonstrating. “That way you can loop it around a branch.”

“Makes sense.”

“Then the rest is the same kind of folds you’ve been doing.”

“Got it.” Then, instead of his hands with their tender invasion, his fingertips caressed her bare shoulders. Sometimes she felt impossibly lustful around him. She wanted him to touch her and undress her, right there in the main room. How could he respect a wife like that? But then he would look at her with hunger, like he never seemed to have enough. She continued to work under his supervision, and she wondered why this lighter touch seemed worse than when his fingertips had gone under her dress. The thick, many layered cloths of her dress helped hide the aroused points of her breasts but chaffed her too.

“Okay,” said Raviathan. “Now the final fold.” His breath had been right next to her ear while he was touching her. A tiny outrage sparked in Nesiara’s chest. No wonder his touch seemed worse. He had been teasing her, and she hadn’t even known why she was so affected.

His hands wrapped around hers to demonstrate the last knot that served to keep the paper from unraveling. His lips weren’t touching her ear, but she could feel the lightness of his breath. Instead of fantasizing about what she wanted him to do, Nesiara took perverse pleasure in the frustration he was causing. “There. If you’re ready, we can go hang them up.”

Raviathan left to look over the fabric she had gotten. Nesiara examined at the pretty little folded prayer she had made. “So. What was yours?”

“I told you. It’s bad luck to say.”

Nesiara got up to tease it out of him but stopped when she caught the hard little grin he was trying to hide. “You knew exactly what you were doing to me,” she accused, putting her hands on her hips.

Raviathan looked at her out of the corner of his eye, mischief written all over his dark features. “You little tart. Did you think I was going to let you get away with all that teasing?”

“Tart am I? Cad.”

He couldn’t suppress his smile anymore, and she swatted him on the shoulder. It only made him laugh outright, and he grabbed her around the waist and spun. She ended up pressed against him, his lips parting hers. His eyes softened as he gazed at her. “We still have a couple hours before sunset.”

“Do we now? But I need to measure for your clothes. Indeed, dear husband. You’ll have to be patient while I take all sorts of measurements.”

He kissed her again, his hands slowly roaming down her back and over her rump. “I can’t wait for summer when you have to wear less clothing.”

She tried to wiggle away in mock offense, but his arms were like iron around her. “How dare you call me a tart. You brute. Unhand me. I should run off to the Dalish.”

She had only managed to get turned around, and when he pressed her close, she could feel him hard through their clothes. “I’ll hunt you down, wife,” he said low next to her ear.

At the sound of his voice, she melted. She grabbed the chair top for support, and her bottom pressed against his pelvis. She could feel him there, hard and pressing her dress into her. He let out a growl then her skirts were up. The cool air hit her bare legs, and he had a hand inside her small clothes, pulling them down. Here? Oh no, no, no. It was wrong. This was the family place. How would she ever be able to sit at the table again without blushing? Dinner tonight was going to be so awkward.

She felt his thighs slide along the back of her legs and was surprised by the deep wanting moan that came from her own throat. One of his hands was working with clumsy fury at her dress buttons, and she thought he’d rip them off the way he pulled and struggled. It was wrong to do this here. What if someone came in? She hadn’t locked the door, and his cousins tended to just walk in without knocking. What if his father came home early? His length brushed over her buttocks, and her hips thrust back in newly awakened instinct.

The top of her dress was undone and fell, the buttons making a small tick as they hit the chair. He pulled her shift down roughly and squeezed her breast. A strangled cry escaped him as his palm roamed against her stiff nipple. “Ness,” he whispered and pressed hard against her. She felt his bare thighs, his fine skin sliding against her own, and his pants crumpled about his knees. If someone came in, how would they ever explain this?

Frustrated, he pulled back her hip, his hand keeping her chest upright so her back arched. She wondered at the picture she presented, her body contorted, presenting her sex as eagerly as a demon of lust. His hands cupped her buttock, squeezed, then delved between her legs. He had touched her so many times since that first night together, enough that she knew the pleasure his fingers could bring, but each time she felt terribly shy. She liked the shyness though. A part of her reveled when he took over like this, like he couldn’t stop himself. She only had to say one word, and he would stop. They both knew that, so she was safe to play. She could be the chaste virgin or the nymph, knowing she was desired in all her incarnations. Now, she was his uncontrollable desire. She didn’t have to be anything, only exist, to feel her husband’s need, a force as primal as the need for water or sleep.

His fingers reached in, their very foreignness, of another person touching her, raised her awareness of her own sex. She felt her own wetness through him, her heat by the cool of his fingers, the sensitivity of her skin by the touch of his. “Ness.”

Belonging overwhelmed her. I am his. I am his desire, his need. She pressed back to feel his fingers slide along the folds of her sex. His mouth was open on her ear. Without looking, she knew the expression on his face. Eyes heavy lidded, mouth open in dazed pleasure, mind nearly lost, as beautiful as a saint given deliverance, and all because of her. His lips moved along her ear, searching up for the point. She had to arch further so he could reach her ear, which further opened her body to him. His fingers roamed inside her once more before retreating. Then she felt his own sex pressing into her.

 
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