#☾ ship: fatewoven ! ❛ —�� ( you forgive like god forgives )

[silksworn]

❛ show me how much you missed me. ❜

❛ —— ☾ ₊ ⊹ 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 / @fatewoven

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐓 is fetching against Enver's dark skin. Cold steel warms itself upon his breastbone, moved only by the gentle rise and fall of breath. An idle threat with no real intent, not yet. The dead do not speak to her the way that he does, do not worship her with palm and flesh and fervor. Their cold veins no longer remember how to properly bleed. Only a quick flick of the wrist to artery and he would spill out for her a font of red as vibrant as a bouquet of spider-lilies and poppies. You have missed me too, for you have brought me flowers, she would say.

Enver makes a show of ignoring the weapon, though he cannot hide flittering pulse in his neck. Moth-wing heart, animal dread. She wants to sup of his fear like sweet-wine.

Ah, but she rushes ahead of herself. That would only spoil the meal.

Her lover's saturnine face is upturned towards her. Candlelight paints Enver's features in broad strokes. She is left with the impression of his leer, the high cheekbone and the architecture of a nose broken more than once. His deep-set eyes are lined with sleepless nights and smeared kohl, both hungry and arresting. He is some crepuscular creature that has crept into her bed, a version of himself that belongs solely to the few stolen hours they find for one another.

Only here does he kneel for her. She still tastes the power of his willingness all the same. His attention is almost as satisfactory as physical touch would be.

"You presume much," she breathes, face kept as placid as she can make it. "Who says that I have not had my share of pleasures in your absence?" Yet she cannot contain the undercurrent of longing, voice little more than a suggestion of speech. The insides of Iraestra's thighs are wet with her desire for him, telltale tremble as she spreads her knees further to show him the lilac bloom of her cunt. Her hand works practiced, languid circle over her sex. She dips two fingers inside of herself just to hear the slick, filthy sound of it. The loudest noise in the room is her fluting breaths.

A crude mockery of how she takes herself, Iraestra exerts enough pressure so that the blade may open delicate skin. Blood wells quickly to the cut, a small river of pain traveling the broad muscle of chest. She gasps at the sight as if she had been the one pierced, body tightening around the trivial intrusion of her slender digits. It is not enough. She would have him bleeding and on top of her.

"Come to me," demand or plea, she does not know any longer. She does not care. "Let us see who missed the other more."

[silksworn]

❛ night terrors . and ❛ gouge . where a source of comfort comes from his claws at her throat, reminding her the worst thing to deal right now is him no matter the specters of her past

❛   night terrors .   hold  my  muse  after  they  wake  up  from  a  nightmare . + ❛   gouge .   wield  a  sharp  object  at  my  muse . / LOUD & DEAFENING SILENCE starters ! ❛ —— ☾ ₊ ⊹ @fatewoven

𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐋𝐘 in a liquid tongue that is too complicated for Iraestra to fully follow. Her hair falls in a stream of starlight, whispering across Iraestra's upturned face and making her scrunch her nose in mild protest. Her expression is serene in a way that the little girl has never seen before, but she finds herself mirroring it all the same. Everyone remarks on how much she looks like her mother, after all. Maybe one day she will be as beautiful as her, too.

Belbol, are you ready for bed? she asks. Iraestra smiles and takes her mother's smooth hands. They are too cool to be pleasant to hold, but she does so all the same.

Belbol. Belbol. Belbol, a chant under her breath. She likes the sound of it better than her own name. Treasure.

It is rare that her mother visits her quarters. Even stranger still, that she personally sees to her. Child-rearing falls to the wean-mother and the slaves of the compound; Iraestra knows that it is because her mother is occupied with her duties as a high priestess.

She is old enough that she understands that now, as she has just passed her sixteenth name-day. Quite grown already! And while she hadn't seen her mother on the actual date, the surprise of her presence now more than makes up for it. She had even dismissed the servants, saying they would not be needed for the night. She would speak to her daughter alone, learn of how she has grown as of late. Iraestra had heard her dismiss the wean-mother with that assurance.

Her mother brushes her hair and helps her change into her bed-shift. She leads Iraestra in prayer to the Spider Queen, being kind enough not to admonish her when she stumbles over some of the phrases or forgets them entirely. Grandmother would not have been so kind with such a mistake. Oblodrans must seek perfection in all things.

Still, she must do well enough, for her mother kisses her cheeks and settles the blankets over her. She does not even leave, setting herself at the bedside and assuring her that she will be there in the morning! Iraestra wishes to ask so desperately what she has done to earn this reward, or what she is to do garner it in the future, but she is scared that by giving it a name she will scare her mother away from her again. No, she will not question it, and only be happy for what she is given.

She falls asleep mouthing belbol. Mother is singing again.

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The dream ends as it always does. Centuries have not managed to dull the memory of suffocation. The pillow, so soft against her face. A crushing weight atop her, her mother's voice begging her to quiet, shush now belbol, all will be well. Once so lovely, now a shrill crow's cry. Her own wildly flailing limbs, the desperation — to live, to fight, to breathebreathebreathe — that only wasted more of her quickly waning energy.

Iraestra startles from her Trance, and the terror does not end. She gasps, she chokes, she moans and feels her throat work against a force that does not budge. The ceiling spins in and out of focus, her vision graying for long, harrowing moments. There is a weight across her hips, there are five pinpricks of hurt in her shoulder, holding her down. Too many sensations to focus upon at once, each one more overwhelming than the last.

This is how death will find her then, in her sleep. A final mockery on the family name.

The pressure eases only slightly, and without warning. Iraestra gasps air in greedily, chest working to fill her lungs. The dark shape looming over her is not her mother, but for a moment it is. Her mother has risen from the grave to finish the job, she will end their blood, she will —

Enver studies her as if she is another one of their experiments brought to the autopsy table. He regards her cooly, clinically. Under his eyes she is little more than insect stuck fast to a board. Lame in one of the wings perhaps, something once splendid but now sentenced for death. An amusement, these uselessly fluttering wings of hers. A curiosity to be pickled and kept amongst his other morbid trophies. Would he take her brain, her heart, her tongue?

Sweat cools in a puddle around her, but her neck is warm with what must be her own blood. Her thrashing must have loosened her hair from its braid, as clings to her temples in mats. The tongue is a thick, unwieldy lump of flesh in her mouth. He still has not removed his gauntleted hands from her. Metal warms against her flesh, the joints of the glove pinching.

Gods, how her throat aches. She must have been screaming, as she had been unable to as a girl-child. Loudly enough to have woken her lover, it would seem.

She seeks to find some semblance of his thoughts in his eyes. Only the abyss greets her. A yawning, gaping emptiness that nothing can hope to fill.

All fight leaves her tensed limbs, her trembling arms and thighs and belly. Soft, a pinned dog showing its underbelly. She is hardly aware of the tears that spill over, clumps her lashes thickly together. Iraestra is barely aware of anything beyond the drumbeat of her heart in her chest, in her ears, in her throat.

They do not speak. There are no words for what passes between them. He holds her until the tears end, and then studies too the wicked gleam of her blood across his gauntlets.

She does not thank him. He does not ask.

[silksworn]

tag dump !

☾ ooc ! ❛ —— ( they baldured our gate! ) ☾ answered ! ❛ —— ( the taste of the grave in the mouth ) ☾ headcanons ! ❛ —— ( shame is a blade you turn against yourself ) ☾ musings ! ❛ —— ( like a god i believe in nothing ) ☾ visage ! ❛ —— ( give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb ) ☾ ask memes ! ❛ —— ( from my mouth the night pours forth like blood )

☾ verse 1 ! ❛ —— ( companion ) ☾ verse 2 ! ❛ —— ( tav ) ☾ verse 3 ! ❛ —— ( cultist ) ☾ verse 4 ! ❛ —— ( dragon age ) ☾ verse 5 ! ❛ —— ( the witcher )

☾ ship: fatewoven ! ❛ —— ( you forgive like god forives ) ☾ ship: limpfisted ! ❛ —— ( i will fulfill all of your fantasies —— i will bind your hands —— i will strangle you )