#faseladil sinahl

[kettlequills]

Ok since I’m a hoe for this pairing, 16 for Elenwen and Vira too please

16. a kiss that never should have happened. Tw: drunken dubcon kissing, torture references, power imbalance, nsft

“Elenwen,” says Lady Sinahl the next morning, beautiful and proud, “What do you remember of last night?”

Elenwen, on her knees with a pounding in her head and her heart, licks her dry lips. “Well, I…”

Lady Sinahl is silhouetted, gilded by the morning sun. Her hands are perfectly still on the low railing of the balcony of the sixth-floor study. The sky around her is pale duckegg blue, still tinted by dawn’s blush, but already her white hair is perfectly coiffed into her signature double bun, held by a glittering emerald pin. Her dress is velvet green today, contrasting with her fire-and-honey eyes framed by striking black lines. The set of her ears is relaxed, her mouth pursed and inexpressive. She does not look like a woman who has roused herself on two hours sleep after a night of cacophonous partying that still sees her estate full of semi-drunken guests passed out in varying states of undress and scandal.

But Elenwen remembers. Remembers being pressed up between Lady Sinahl and her husband, Viraneminwe’s beringed hands squeezing her the meat of her biceps approvingly and her liquid purr whispering wicked things in her ear to make her squirm, shiver as Faseladil Sinahl crawled atop her near-paralysed body, his beard scratchy against her chin when he stole a kiss from her lax lips. She was so drunk her body had barely listened to her, and her memory is swollen and faded round the edges, like a black eye. She remembers the kiss, remembers Viraneminwe’s incendiary mockery breathed like pure aphrodisiac into her pulsepoint, how her body firm and warm trapped her against the hands of her husband, beautiful, jewel-dripping Faseladil slinking over her with the grace of a predator, the way they undulated together when she gasped against his skilled tongue. She remembers Viraneminwe’s derisive laughter as she pulled her husband out the room to bed her by his cravat, Faseladil’s hungry eyes being the last thing to leave Elenwen as she doubled over and vomited the wine from her burning belly.

“Have you taken a lover before, Elenwen?” Lady Sinahl interrupts her. The only sign of her tension is whitening knuckles on the grip she has on the railing. “Before last night, have you ever kissed?”

“No,” Elenwen says, the tips of her ears pinking with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Lady Sinahl, I…”

Again, Lady Sinahl interrupts her. “It should not have happened,” she says, rigidly, laying the words down one after one like a commandment, like it will rewrite the past. It is not quite an apology.

Elenwen hesitates, and believes she sees the shape of the issue. Guilt lingers unbelievably in the tension of Lady Sinahl’s shoulders, her muscles straining the fine samite. She tracks the fall of the fabric over the swell of Lady Sinahl’s backside, her cane, ivory today, gleaming like teeth, and feels her mouth dry out. She remembers exactly how strong Lady Sinahl is, strong enough to catch her and hold her like a pinned butterfly to her plush chest, her silky hair against Elenwen’s feverishly clammy neck, her tender lips and her cruel words setting Elenwen alight one hungry inhale at a time.

Swallowing the acrid taste of wine still in her throat, she tries for a brave gamble. “I wanted and enjoyed it. And I would not have minded… if it had been you too.”

The austere head turns. Incandescent, her glare can cut through bone and certainly through the knees of Elenwen’s nascent courage.

“Lady Sinahl,” Elenwen adds hurriedly, dipping her head subserviently. Her palms sweat, and she tenses, preparing herself for a swift, vicious strike of retaliation.

It doesn’t come. Instead, the swishing of silk. Pulse in her throat, Elenwen stares as Lady Sinahl’s cane stops right before her. The pearl-inlaid handle is warm from her hand when she uses it to lift Elenwen’s chin up. The buttery leather is soft on her skin, but the considering look in Lady Sinahl’s burnt orange eyes is anything but. The sunlight blazes in her hair like a corona, a halo stroking down her cheeks and lighting every freckle. Elenwen inhales shakily before she can stop herself, and nearly whimpers when Lady Sinahl’s dark, weighted gaze narrows.

“I assumed one of your peers would have taken this task upon themselves,” she murmurs in her characteristically soft way, so quiet it makes Elenwen strain forward to hear her, “but I suppose this is a part of your education I have … neglected to cover.”

She tilts her head in cold amusement, and tips the handle of her cane under Elenwen���s chin up to close Elenwen’s breathlessly parted lips. Flushing furiously, Elenwen scrubs at her cheeks, unaware her mouth even slipped open.

She continues as if nothing is amiss, busying herself searching a cupboard. “There will be many in this society who are, as my husband is, attracted to … a certain kind of insecurity. They will use hesitancy as an invitation; whatever your decision is, be sure that you make it assertively and if need be, forcefully. You already know how to prevent an unwanted intrusion, but you must learn how to control yourself. There are certain expectations of behaviour among the upper class that someday, you may need to perform to achieve your goals. Do I make myself understood?”

Two shot glasses in hand, Lady Sinahl raises an eyebrow at Elenwen in clear expectation of an answer.

Elenwen nods at once. “Yes, Lady Sinahl.”

Lady Sinahl turns away and seats herself on the loveseat, folding one leg over the other and reclining. One hand smoothing her skirts down, the other curls under her chin. The shot glasses she places on the small table in front of her, procuring a tiny bottle from a hidden pocket in the folds of her skirt. White wisps of smoke curl away from the bottle when she pops the cork and pours a generous measure in each glass. She hooks the cane over the armrest of the seat and eyes Elenwen.

Then, bizarrely, she pats the seat next to her.

Freezing, Elenwen delays a moment too long in obeying her, and Lady Sinahl’s lips purse.  

“Come here,” she says firmly, in a tone that brooks no argument, and Elenwen scrambles to her feet. In a single graceless second, she throws herself down next to Lady Sinahl, one flailing foot kicking the table and making the shot glasses rattle. Lady Sinahl’s only reaction is a small sigh, but Elenwen withers anyway.

Lady Sinahl takes up one glass, waiting until Elenwen, cheeks still pink, imitates her. “An antidote against most forms of poison spreadable through saliva,” she informs Elenwen quietly, and then downs it in one.

Elenwen makes the mistake of sipping the chalky liquid. It tastes foul and she splutters, about to spit it out, but Lady Sinahl’s hand swiftly covers the bottom of the glass, forcing her to swallow or choke. When the liquid is all gone, she takes the glass, leaving Elenwen to thump her chest and grimace.

“That’s disgusting,” she snaps, forgetting herself a moment. She goes still, waiting for a punishment, but again the axe does not fall.

“Mint?” Lady Sinahl offers, and thoroughly bemused, Elenwen takes the small white pill and chews. It helps, a little, to cover the taste lingering in her mouth.

She is still unprepared for Lady Sinahl turning to face her, propping her elbow up against the back of the loveseat. At once, Elenwen becomes aware of how closely they are sitting, so close their thighs nearly touch, so closely she could reach out and feel the expensive brocade of Lady Sinahl’s corset. She can smell her rose perfume, and a faint glimpse of the previous night’s wine. Her stomach flips pleasantly, and she averts her eyes in embarrassment as she feels her ears prick interestedly. Her desire has to be written all over her face.

“Kiss me,” Viraneminwe tells her.

It is no less a command for how gently she says it, but this is finally a step too far.

“What?” Elenwen says dumbly.

“Say ‘pardon’,” Viraneminwe corrects, “You sound common. I told you to kiss me.”

Convinced she is trapped in some perfect dream, Elenwen clumsily leans forward, into Viraneminwe’s space. Her hands stop short of touching her and hover awkwardly in the air above her waist, uncertain of what is permitted. As Viraneminwe’s breath warms her cheek, Elenwen shudders. This cannot be real. She is so close Elenwen can see the cracks in her skin. But she does not push Elenwen away. Impossibly, her face remains still, unmoved, and she does not strike to punish her for even this temerity.

Her confidence dies.

“I don’t – I don’t understand,” Elenwen whispers, ashen, and Viraneminwe exhales faintly out of her nose. The barest hint of her disappointment is as crushing as a blow, and Elenwen cringes, hope and anxiety warring terribly in her knotting guts.

“Did you not say you would have preferred myself, too?” says Viraneminwe. “It should not have happened. You are not required to choose me for this, but if you are amenable, I will teach you how to do it properly, so you will not be caught by surprise again. I will teach you control.”

Elenwen swears she is pitching her voice lower so it sinks like a heated rock into the pit of her thighs. She squirms involuntarily at the last word, and Viraneminwe’s pupils dilate as her eyes darken. She is still not brave enough to touch Viraneminwe, not without encouragement, so she plants her hand against the armrest of the loveseat, shuffling forwards on her knees to get close enough to reach her face. Elenwen isn’t certain of how to position herself, and Viraneminwe is no help, watching Elenwen with a placid expression and ravenous eyes as she remains still in the circle of her arms, her hands clasped loosely in her lap. Stomach churning, Elenwen plucks up her courage, screws her eyes shut, and goes for it.

She nearly misses Viraneminwe’s mouth, but at the last second Viraneminwe inclines her head and saves it, and then they are kissing. Tentative brushes of their lips at first, then harder when Viraneminwe does not throw her away in disgust. Frantically, Elenwen rakes her brain for the memory of Faseladil’s lips on hers and clumsily tries to imitate it. She catches Viraneminwe’s soft bottom lip between hers and sucks on it, releasing her immediately when Viraneminwe hums quietly in the back of her throat.

“Continue,” Viraneminwe murmurs when Elenwen, panicked she has done something wrong, searches her face. “Be assertive, Elenwen.”

Assertive. Elenwen clears her throat. Slowly, she places her hand on Viraneminwe’s waist, near-hyperventilating at the feeling of the silk dress, the warmth of her body, the steady movements of her breath. Viraneminwe’s face does not change, tacit permission. Emboldened, Elenwen slips her other hand around Viraneminwe’s neck, resting her thumb against her nape. Viraneminwe’s skin is very warm here, and when Elenwen strokes her thumb over the back of her neck, she can feel wisps of her hair tickling her wrist.

A brow twitches, but Viraneminwe says nothing.

This is quickly shaping up to be the most erotic experience of Elenwen’s entire life, including every single charged moment in the dungeons, even the one where she broke her first subject, his arms covered in cuts from her dagger and his lips spilling all he knew. Her heart skipping a beat at her own daring, Elenwen tugs on the back of her proud neck. Viraneminwe is stiff at first, but Elenwen firms her grip, refusing to back down. All at once she relents, her spine softening and permitting Elenwen to pull their bodies close.

Viraneminwe’s breasts pressing against her chest through their clothes makes her body pulse. She squeezes her thighs together, hoping it looks like she is just anchoring herself for a better angle. Viraneminwe’s eyes fix on hers, her stare so intense it feels like she’s flaying Elenwen down to the bone, and tugs on the threads of arousal from her gut to the base of her thighs. Parting her lips, Elenwen’s half formed sentence deserts her the second she sees Viraneminwe copy her and soften her mouth, leaning into her just the slightest degree.

After that, all Elenwen can do is kiss her.

It is sloppy and unpractised, and Elenwen nearly clinks their teeth together in her eager advance. She goes for Viraneminwe’s bottom lip at the same time Viraneminwe tilts her head to give Elenwen better access, and their noses bump hard enough that her eyes water. Ignoring it, she chases Viraneminwe when she tries to pull away. Her grip on her tightens spasmodically, her mouth greedy for more. Viraneminwe indulges her with another lingering, wet kiss.

She never wants to let go. She wants to be in this moment, kissing her, forever.

Elenwen’s tongue laps against the seam of Viraneminwe’s lips, and Viraneminwe opens for her, breath hitching faintly as Elenwen’s hand on the back of her neck presses them together, refuses to let her wriggle away, even though she shows no sign of retreating. She cups the back of Viraneminwe’s head and pushes in closer, forcing Viraneminwe to open her mouth for the whole of Elenwen’s explorative tongue. She tastes of the foul antidote they swallowed and mint, but Elenwen could not care less about the taste when it is Viraneminwe’s mouth she’s licking it from. Their slippery tongues slide together and Elenwen moans, squeezing Viraneminwe’s hip. At this, Viraneminwe wrenches her face to the side and breaks the kiss. She is out of breath, though the rise and fall of her chest is much less obvious than Elenwen’s panting gasps.

Her body throbs, and a wet, slick heat is raging between her thighs. Viraneminwe’s hand pushes back on her chest, and Elenwen leans back just enough for her to catch her breath. Her nerves sing anew at the pink ripening at the tips of Viraneminwe’s perked ears, and her dark, dilate pupils. The signs are small, but they are there.

The thought of Viraneminwe becoming aroused from kissing her is too much. She strangles the direction her mind is taking before she can start wondering if Viraneminwe is as wet as Elenwen underneath her priceless skirts. Elenwen closes her eyes and focuses on calming her thudding heart before it leaps right out of her chest.

“I cannot fault your enthusiasm,” Viraneminwe says dryly, wiping her mouth of their mingled spit.  “Again, with more control this time.”

Hazarding a guess that ‘more control’ translates to ‘slower’, Elenwen eases into the kiss, keeping her eyes open until the last second to gauge the angle. Matching her gentleness, Viraneminwe exchanges a few nibbling kisses for longer, sweeter lip-locks. They kiss without tongue for a while, rubbing their lips together and breathing in each other’s ragged exhales. Elenwen slides her hand back onto Viraneminwe’s hip and then trails an explorative caress down over her thigh and back up. A muscle jumps under her fingertips, and Viraneminwe’s nails dig into her collar. Tenderly scratching her nails over Viraneminwe’s nape earns her a muted shiver, so she does it again, and again, revelling in her power.

Viraneminwe speaks, soft between meetings of their mouths, quiet instructions, “Less teeth,” “Slower,” “Harder, there,” and once, in a rough voice that has Elenwen’s whole body clenching with desire, “Do that again.”

“By your will,” Elenwen mumbles senselessly and then arches into her, desperate for Viraneminwe to touch her, do something to quench the increasing need drumming through every part of her. “Lady Sinahl,” she says, brokenly, to the cadence of please when they next part for breath. A spark quickens in Viraneminwe’s eyes.

She finds herself swiftly on the back foot as Viraneminwe takes control of the kiss, with the firm, steady command with which she approaches everything. Elenwen entirely fails to cut off a groan when Viraneminwe teases her inquisitive tongue between her lips with a scrape of her teeth. Viraneminwe opens her mouth wider, as if inviting more of Elenwen’s tongue, and when Elenwen takes the bait, she closes her lips and sucks, hard enough that Elenwen whimpers into her mouth. Viraneminwe inhales raggedly, and then kisses her again, harder. She kisses her like she wants to devour her, consume her, barely relenting to let Elenwen breathe, biting and sucking at her lips like she wants to brand bruises into them, reminders of herself.

Melting under Viraneminwe’s onslaught, Elenwen’s body goes pliable, wrenched upright only by Viraneminwe’s tight hold on her collar. She feels something in her brain shut off, and the unslaked thirst between her legs increase thousandfold. Every inch of skin pulses. The outside world dims and fades, until there is only Viraneminwe’s lips, her body against her, her quiet, jagged breaths.

“Vira?” Someone shouts, distantly.

Elenwen jumps, but Viraneminwe’s fingers curl around her throat, holding her still. She whimpers, eyes fluttering as she unconsciously presses herself into Viraneminwe’s hand, hoping for it to close and squeeze. Choke me, she begs silently, but Viraneminwe does not respond to the expectant tension in Elenwen’s body. Viraneminwe turns her head as if to better hear who is calling her, their cheeks brushing together.

“Vira!” It is Faseladil, calling from somewhere in the house.

“If he wants my attention, he can struggle all the way through to the end of my name,” Viraneminwe remarks disparagingly in Elenwen’s ear. The movement of her lips and breath over the sensitive flesh lights a searing line from point of contact to her clit, and Elenwen shudders. Her hips roll, seeking pressure, pleasure, and Viraneminwe pulls back, eyes black with lust.

“Control,” she says, sternly, and Elenwen quivers at the command in her tone.

“Y-Yes, Lady Sinahl.” She hears her own voice like a stranger’s, breathy and wanton. She is too far gone for embarrassment, and instead tries to catch her lips for another kiss.

They meet and part again just as quickly, and this time Elenwen cannot help the bereft little noise she makes. Viraneminwe’s breath catches as she looks down at her with wide, startled eyes, almost too quiet for Elenwen to notice, but not quiet enough. She bites her lip hard to choke back a plea. With near-savage fury, Viraneminwe claims her for another kiss, finality in the desperate flicks of her tongue and harsh little bites.

“Vira!” The shout is louder this time, but still Viraneminwe does not respond. Elenwen hears a palpable groan, audible through the walls. “Viraneminwe!”

Viraneminwe pulls back and blots her lips, as if checking for smeared lipstick, though she isn’t wearing any. She releases Elenwen, who sags dizzily against the other side of the loveseat, mind blank and head spinning. Her knees are water, and she is fairly certain there is no more blood in her brain, or water in her body except that which pools between her thighs. She can’t quite tear her longing gaze from Viraneminwe’s kiss-swollen mouth, trying to memorise how she looks in this moment so she can keep it against her heart, half-hoping Viraneminwe will kiss her again.

“In here,” Viraneminwe calls.

So quickly Elenwen is forced to confront the fact that Viraneminwe’s jealous husband was right outside when Elenwen had her tongue inside his wife’s mouth, Faseladil Sinahl throws open the doors to the study and strides in. Proud as a prince, he is dressed in breeches so tight they look poured on and a ruffled shirt open to the navel, revealing a heavily gem-studded amulet. He smirks when he catches her looking, still too kiss-drunk to reel herself in, but swiftly drops his attention to his wife.

He perches next to her, twirling her cane in one elegant hand. When he leans over to kiss her head, his shirt gapes open to reveal his smooth, muscular chest and the glint of piercings. Elenwen fixes her gaze on her lap and tries not to remember the previous night, his weight over her pressing her back into Viraneminwe’s arms, his kiss overlaid with hers. Her ears twitch.

“My love,” he begins, seductively, and Viraneminwe raises a tired hand.

“What do you want, Sinahl?”

“Can’t an elf see his wife?” asks Faseladil in an injured tone, and Viraneminwe’s lips thin.

“I have a headache,” she tells him bluntly, and Faseladil blinks. Elenwen frowns but knows better than to say anything. Viraneminwe hasn’t been acting like she has one of her terrible migraines, often brought on by her pain medication.

“Should I call Anisse?” he says, concern softening his voice, and Viraneminwe looks to Elenwen. There is a glitter of schadenfreude in her eyes; poleaxed, Elenwen realises she is being let in on the joke.

“No need to bother her with something so trivial,” Viraneminwe says, eyes still on Elenwen. It takes every inch of her willpower to strangle her smirk. “I shall simply take some rest in bed. Alone.”

Forestalled before he can even open his mouth, Faseladil graciously accepts defeat and switches track. At once, Elenwen feels the full weight of his attention bear down on her, and freezes.

“Hello again – Minnwen, wasn’t it? Something -wen, I’m sure.” Faseladil says, smooth voice dripping charm. She finds herself returning his warm smile without thinking about it, heat rising in her cheeks as she tries not to think about what she has just done to the man’s wife.

“Elenwen, actually,” she corrects, and he nods, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he pretends to write her name against his heart.

He rises to his feet and circles the loveseat, slow and sure as a prowling cat; not wanting to have him perched over her shoulder as he did Viraneminwe, Elenwen stands. She can feel her shifting arousal trickling down her thighs and blushes so brightly the heat feels visible. She resists the urge to check that the front of her black breeches is not noticeably sodden.

“You’ll have to forgive me, sweetheart, I am just terrible with names. But I remember you,” he adds. He gives her a long look from her feet to her face. “Such a tall girl you are! I believe we became acquainted last night?”

She glances quickly at Viraneminwe, but she is staring indifferently out the open balcony doors, face as warm as a locked door. Evidently, she has no intention of intervening. Elenwen gathers her advice against her heart and arms herself with it, trying not to think of how quickly either of the two powerful people in the room could have her dismissed and silenced in an instant.

“We did, Lord,” Elenwen begins, then, “You should come visit me in the dungeons sometime.”

“Should I now?” Faseladil laughs delightedly. “Well, if my lady wife approves…”

A little too quickly, Elenwen adds on, “We recently had a guided cradle put in. I’ve been just dying to test it out.”

Viraneminwe snorts, softly. Elenwen is bolstered by the merriment suddenly glittering in her eyes.

“A guided cradle?” Faseladil looks sidelong at Viraneminwe, who tilts her head indulgently and explains, “A torture device consisting of a metal pyramid over which a squatting subject is shackled.”

“Oh,” says Faseladil, wanly.

“I think you would look just beautiful spread open,” Elenwen continues, earnestly, “I would heal you after. My trainer says I am getting much better at removing all the scars.”

“My thanks for the compliment, Lady Elenwen,” says Faseladil, smoothly sweeping into a half-bow, “But I’m afraid my tastes run to a tamer side.”

“Oh,” Elenwen echoes, not needing to feign her disappointment. “Well, if you change your mind…?”

“I will not,” says Faseladil, assertively, “I shall see you, I am sure, Lady Elenwen.”

Unwilling to take orders from him, Elenwen looks to Viraneminwe, who waves a hand boredly. To his credit, Faseladil does not seem aggrieved by her deferring to his wife, only smiling at Viraneminwe fondly, as if she has done something amusing. Elenwen bows to them both. She is just turning to leave when Viraneminwe calls her name.

“Elenwen? I trust this is the last time we will have to discuss this matter personally.” There is no doubt as to what she refers. This is a one time occasion, a kiss that should never have been, and will never be repeated. Elenwen will never taste her lips again.

Swallowing a pang of something like grief, Elenwen nods. “Understood, Lady Sinahl,” she replies, with careful formality, holding her bow until Viraneminwe glances away in clear dismissal.

As the door closes behind her, she hears Faseladil ask in a plaintive tone, “Vira, why can’t we ever sponsor the normal ones?”

[kettlequills]

14 for Laat and 40 for Vira! And 31 for an oc of your choosing as well!

14. do they remember names or faces better?

Names! As a dragon, they embody a lot to Laat. In fact...

"Among dragons, a named thing was a known thing. They roared their essences into the sky to challenge each other, to meet death that did not stick to creatures that were never made to die. Only Laataaz could wring their immortal souls onto the coil which all mortals walked, only Laataaz shredded their names beneath the jaws of the dragonborn soul and turned meaning into memory. Perhaps it did not matter to them.

Perhaps Laataaz thought he needed the names of his victims to kill them."

Laat generally tries to find out the names of people they kill, if they consider that person a worthy opponent. They do however regularly fall into the trap of forgetting to realise that other people *are* real people, and feel bad about it later. In general, Laat prefers to know names so that they can hammer home to themselves that they did just take a life.

Faces are pretty forgettable, in the end. Laat's own connection to their face and body is kinda eh, especially considering their body dysmorphia (both the draconic and the regular gender kind), and how many of their close friends use masks, illusions, or other shapechanging features pretty regularly.

40. how do they treat service workers?

Viraneminwe, surprisingly, treats service workers well. She doesn't look down on people by default for being poor, an unusual attitude in Alinor, and considers them an untapped resource by many. She will act in whatever way she considers to boost herself and her reputation most in any circumstance, however. Most of the time, this means being dismissive and cold if not outright cruel to service staff as her peers expect her to be. Viraneminwe was perhaps a little more sensitive when she was younger to tradesfolk, as she was looked down on when first joining specifically high society at Fas' side for being a child of somebody who worked for a living, even tangenitally. True rich people don't. Despite growing out of this however, Viraneminwe pays well and is relatively respectful to her staff. She knows full well how easy it is to foster spies among an unhappy workforce and is perfectly willing to employ anybody of any background ... so long as their skills are of use to her, and their devotion is absolute.

31. Describe a scenario in which your character feels most comfortable.

Carmen and Faseladil have one thing in common, which is that they are both at their most comfortable at the very centre of attention in the middle of a party. Faseladil adores being fawned over and given attention, and will uncriticially lap up any praise sent his way. His selfishness and ego is such that he generally will accept such things as his due. He derives a lot of personal pride from his ability to be a good entertainer, and loves hosting because of the responsibility that it gives him to flit about and engage with everyone. He plays extremely well off Viraneminwe's colder, rougher personality in these kind of public displays, making himself the oozing, friendly point of contact that traps people beneath Viraneminwe's gaze... the honey to the fly.

Carmen, however, commands attention because she likes control. She believes herself the most interesting person in the room, and is usually right, but she has a lot more self awareness than Fas does. Carmen likes to work a party to make herself indispensible, less because of a desire to gain accolades and more because she wants and craves distractions from the quietness of her thoughts. Carmen spends a lot of time running away from what she feels herself to be, and as such thoroughly enjoys the fantasy of control and power she gains from people currying favour from her to advance within social circles.

[kettlequills]

*Vira voice* mama I'm in love with the arms dealer

[kettlequills]

okay okay 26 mayhaps.... im very curious how would this go... 👉👈 for vira and elenwen ofc

tw: grief and death. kiss 26: "sure just interrupt me in the bath i was supposed to take alone, then."

Eleven days have passed since Lord Sinahl's death, and the house is too quiet. A pall has settled noticeably over the estate, muffling every voice and hushing every footstep. 

Unbothered, the estate's glass towers sparkle in the light of the sun. Bright, glaring beams of light peel through the hallways like an interrogator's eye, searching for weakness. The air is sweet with the balmy scent of roses, and the plush carpets that pool like shadows over the sprawling floors are the rich red of flayed tongues. Everything is gold and crimson, like blood on fine elven armour. The mausoleum glows whitely out of every window. Lady Sinahl's sister has company there, now, and without Faseladil striding around his family home making loud demands on his wife's time, the estate is silent. It is an eerie, perfumed quiet, like the tense confusion of the audience when the velvet curtain rises, only to find the stage empty and dark.

Elenwen is not sure what to do with herself. She hovers awkwardly in the palatial house she has only ever visited and tries not to touch things too much. She isn't quite sure why she's there. Lady Sinahl hasn't explained, hasn't even spoken to her since brusquely telling her to present herself to the house staff for a bedroom. Her orders were, admittedly, difficult to misunderstand, but that doesn’t mean Elenwen grasps what she is supposed to do.

The Sinahl estate is imposing in its forbidding luxuries, and Elenwen hides in the bedroom she has been told to stay in. She is terrified of breaking something that cannot be stuffed in a drawer and forgotten about. Sometimes, she paces, digging her heels into the soft carpet and revelling in a room bigger than the barracks she's used to sharing with a dozen other recruits just for her. 

It's a little lonely, by the second day. By the fourth, she starts venturing out, hoping to catch sight of anybody. By the sixth, she gives up on that and spends her days training in the grounds until her body goes numb and trembling. She stays within earshot of the house, in case anybody wants her to do… anything.

Nobody calls on her.

The servants duck out of her way when they see her coming, bowing their heads and shrinking back from the eagle on her breast. They know who she is. They know what she does. They want no part of her presence. The hall goes quiet whenever she enters the servants quarters to fetch her meals. They avoid her eyes, a polite but firm snubbing. She isn't one of them. They won't even talk to her in passing. 

Except one.��

Anisse bustles up to her on the eleventh day, a towel and a bar of soap in her arms. "You,” she says, and Elenwen starts. She wonders if Anisse knows her name. 

“Ma’am,” says Elenwen, awkwardly, and Anisse gives her the flat kind of look that tells her she may as well shove her best politeness up her asshole, for all she cares.

“Go bathe," she orders, "Second door, fifth floor." 

Elenwen manages to receive the soap and towel without dropping anything. She hesitates on questioning Anisse, but too used to her mistress' ways, Anisse simply turns around and hurries off without an explanation. 

Left standing there in the hallway, Elenwen looks down at the bundle in her arms, and wonders if she has to listen to Anisse or not. It's possible she could be passing on a message from Lady Sinahl, but she thinks that Anisse would have said. Maybe she assumed that Elenwen would know. Elenwen hopes she did. The silence from Lady Sinahl is beginning to unnerve her. 

With a sigh, she sets off in the direction of the fifth floor. She’s never been in that particular bathroom before, washing herself in the outside showers by the training areas she has used before, as a visitor. Her chest pangs anxiously; she feels that they all know she was too worried to use the indoor facilities, that she washes up in the nightstand of her bedroom before she goes out, like she was taught at home. But Lady Sinahl’s estate isn’t the barracks, and they expect finer things from her.

She really isn't sure where she stands in the hierarchy of the house, but she doesn't feel like pushing her luck today. 

She isn't the noble family of the house, and she isn't a servant, but something else that doesn't have a name, between both. She wonders, again, what Lady Sinahl plans for her. If she has planned anything at all, or if she has just forgotten about Elenwen hovering in her house. It has been over a week. Surely, she will have a purpose for her, soon? 

Elenwen tries not to pay attention to how plaintive the thought feels, even to her.

She opens the door to the bathroom quickly, like ripping off a bandage. Steam rushes out, warm and soupy in the way of very hot water left to boil for a long time. She edges her way in, confused; perhaps Anisse already drew a bath? She is beginning to wonder if she has seriously misjudged how positively Anisse feels towards her when she sees the foam of white hair across the water and freezes.

The bath is not empty. 

Lady Sinahl breaks the water with a twist of her shoulders, combing her long, soaked hair out of her face. Her skin is flushed red from the water, and her hair steams gently. Her eyes are sharp chips of stone in her implacable face. She is as composed as ever, but Elenwen can’t help but think she just looks … tired.

There are bags under her eyes, like she hasn’t been sleeping. Her lips are thin, her face pinched. Even her posture isn’t as proud as it should be, her shoulders weighted by an invisible, incredible sorrow.

“I’m so sorry, Lady Sinahl,” Elenwen blurts, “I didn’t mean-”

She holds up one hand. It trembles slightly, but Lady Sinahl doesn’t appear to notice. When she speaks, her voice is rusted, creaking like she is out of practice, and so quiet Elenwen can barely hear her over her own breathing.

“Who told you to come in here, girl?”

“... Anisse,” says Elenwen, having very few compunctions about dropping Anisse in it. Her palms are sweating, and not from the heat. She can’t even think of how beautiful Lady Sinahl looks with the water lapping over her bare breasts. This is the step too far that is going to get her killed, she knows it. 

Lady Sinahl’s faltering hand waves, like she does not care either way. She settles herself against the low seat at the lip of the bath, the water around her ribs. Dully, she stares down into the water. Lady Sinahl is always quiet, but it feels … different. Exhausted.

It has only been eleven days since the murder of her husband, Elenwen recalls, and feels her cheeks sear in a sharp, embarrassed flush.

She hesitates. She does not know what to do. Lady Sinahl hasn’t told her to leave, but she hasn’t exactly invited her to stay either. In fact, now her idle curiosity is satisfied, Lady Sinahl appears to barely notice her presence at all. Grief lurks like a terrible weight in her solemn face; it makes her look older.

Suddenly, Elenwen very badly does not want to leave her alone. She wonders if anyone has spent any time with her, at all, since Faseladil’s death. She wonders what Lady Sinahl has been doing all this time that Elenwen was hovering, unsure of her purpose; she wonders how many hours she’s spent slowly scalding her skin in a bath the heat of which she doesn’t even seem to feel.

She turns her back and begins to remove her clothes. Her heart is thudding very quickly in her chest, and she feels incredibly watched, though when she risks a glance over her shoulder she finds Lady Sinahl isn’t looking at her at all. Elenwen bites her lip, and hopes she isn’t making a terrible mistake that will just make everything worse.

She hisses when she touches the searing water, sharp spangles of pain juddering up her nerves. Lady Sinahl looks up. Her colourless expression does not shift, but her eyes skate up Elenwen’s body. Silently, she moves over, so Elenwen would have room to sit beside her on the bench.

Taking the silent invitation, Elenwen gingerly sits down, wincing at the heat. For a moment, she can’t focus on anything but wresting control from her screaming body, urging her to leap up away from the blistering water before she burns herself. She relaxes into the pain slowly, muscle by muscle, as she has been taught, and calms her heart with deep, smooth breaths. The temperature shock ebbs when Elenwen’s body realises she isn’t going to listen to it.

Beside her, Lady Sinahl inhales, opens her mouth like she is going to speak. When Elenwen looks at her, her words seem to fail her, and her mouth closes. Her eyes drop from Elenwen’s face and her shoulders curve inwards, like she is too tired to keep up the pretence anymore. 

Muscles electric, Elenwen gently nudges their shoulders together. She closes her eyes, pretending not to feel Lady Sinahl against her, not moving away. Her heart is beating hard and loud, and her skin burns, but she still hears the catch in Lady Sinahl’s breath. It is the slightest hitch, not quite a sob, but when she sneaks a glance at her, she sees that Lady Sinahl is dull-faced and tearless.

She wonders if Lady Sinahl has let herself cry at all.

She is shorter, smaller, up close against her body like this. More reachable, mortal, with lines on her skin and bags under her eyes, naked without her fine clothes. It is harder to see her as she normally is, an imposing and powerful presence, godlike in the devotion she inspires. She is simply… smaller. She has freckles on her arms and wrinkles on the loose skin of her wrist. There is a scratch on her breast from an errant pin. 

It strikes her as woefully insufficient, all they have done for her. Her husband is dead, and no one will come for her to help her make arrangements, write cards, send flowers, or make sure she has eaten, save her employees. Her son is gone, spitting abuse with his parting words, and she has no family to come and hold her until she cries herself out. She is Lady Sinahl. Her very self forbids such showings of emotion. But she is also Viraneminwe, a grieving woman, vulnerable in the bath, and all she has is Elenwen.

She can’t bring herself to quite be grateful to Anisse for risking her life like this, but a small, warm root of something soft is cracking in her heart, and she thinks maybe she is a little glad that someone is here. It may as well be her.

Pinning her courage to the sticking place, Elenwen raises her arm and drops it around her shoulders, tugging her closer. Viraneminwe resists at first, stiffening in outrage, but Elenwen avoids her gaze. She stays silent, staring out over the steam as if nothing is happening at all. She knows her well enough to know that she needs the pretence, now more than ever, that openly offering comfort would just be too much.

Elenwen wants her to take it. She wants to help.

Eventually, Viraneminwe bends - in increments. Inch by inch, she curls slowly into Elenwen’s chest, resting her cheek over her heart. Her long white hair tangles over her shoulders; she flinches when Elenwen touches it, but she doesn’t move away. Instead, she shivers very hard, once. 

Her tears are completely soundless. If Elenwen could not feel the way her breath is hitching and shuddering through the movement of her shoulders under her arm, she would think her utterly unmoved.

Gently, Elenwen presses a single kiss to the top of Viraneminwe’s head. She hopes to imbue the strange, soft feelings that settle so strangely in her chest into the movement, let her know, as burningly as Elenwen feels it, that she is not alone. She doesn’t know if Viraneminwe understands; she goes rigid and her hands seize into claws around Elenwen’s leg. Her nails are digging cruelly into Elenwen’s thigh, but Elenwen dares to think that for once, Viraneminwe is not trying to punish, but simply holding on.

Elenwen isn’t sure if this is exactly what Lady Sinahl had in mind when she told her to stay, but she knows without a doubt that it is why she is here. She has blood-stained hands, not gentle ones. She is a torturer, an interrogator, a servant of violence. But she knows that Lady Sinahl will not accept softness from any place that does not understand the bitterness of forging strength through pain. And she knows that Viraneminwe needs it, possibly more than she has ever done in her life.

So Elenwen holds her. She holds her through her silent tears and her proud grief, while around them their skin grows wrinkled, and the bath grows cold.

[kettlequills]

For the kisses, 7 virawen or 16 hawkedith, please?

You get both because I love you.

7. Forehead kisses, Virawen

16. A kiss that wasn't supposed to happen, Hawkedith (nsft)

It is early morning, and Vira is not awake. She clings stubbornly to sleep, scrunched shut against an influx of morning light and her arm thrown over her eyes. She is too warm and comfortable to move. The world will wait another few hours; it would not dare move on without her.

The silly, reckless, beautiful girl curled up beside her has not yet grasped this. She is stroking Vira's hair, worshipping the silky strands between her long fingers and occasionally burying her face in them like she wants to drown there. Her breath makes the hairs on Vira's nape tingle and stand straight. Her spine is a long, silvery line down to the centre of her throbbing thighs and weak knees. Elenwen's lips against her forehead are softer than rose petals as she dots little kisses over her temple. But Vira is not awake, and so the girl's coaxing goes manfully ignored.

"You're so beautiful, Lady Sinahl," murmurs Elenwen in her ear, her body pushing up eagerly against hers.

Vira groans in soft displeasure, thinking disparaging thoughts to all lovers up at unreasonable times everywhere. Elenwen is truly no better than Faseladil, awakening her with his pawing and then soothing her with his clever tongue before she saw fit to kick him out of her bed for good. Truly, the girl has no redeeming qualities whatsoever.

Elenwen laughs, a hoarse little chuckle in her throat that makes some parts of Vira perk rather more swiftly than others.

Slender, elegant fingers cup the joint of her wrist and skilfully slide down her forearm to dig into the meat of the muscle. Smoothly, Elenwen digs her nail into a pressure point, just enough to make Vira's arm twitch without her consent. The pain is bright and sharp as a fox's grin.

"Leave me," says Vira, and Elenwen sighs warmly against her shoulder.

"I love your voice in the morning."

Vira cracks open her sandy eyes and irritably blows a strand of hair off her face. There's too much of it. Luckily, Elenwen saves her from having to contemplate cutting it all off by rescuing the strand, tucking it behind Vira's ear complete with a reverent caress over the tip.

"Good morning," she says, her golden eyes crinkling with amusement, and Vira sourly misses the days when Elenwen was too afraid to look higher than her waist.

"I meant it," Vira threatens toothlessly, her hand creeping over Elenwen's skinny waist and anchoring her there in the bed, in case the girl gets any silly ideas like actually believing her, "Go away and let me sleep."

Elenwen kisses her forehead instead, soft and lingering. It is so unexpectedly sweet it makes her ache. Vira trembles lightly when she pulls back, feeling her breath fan across her face and remembering the intoxication those wicked lips are capable of against her own mouth.

Perhaps she has one redeeming quality. One.

-

-

It was an accident, Hawke later insists hysterically to anyone who will listen. The Knight Commander of the Templars does not kiss mages, and the Champion of Kirkwall does not kiss Templars. It was an accident, a brief, temporary madness of votive candles and Chantry wine. The madly burning red candles wink and flicker at her, like they are calling the lie for what it is.

The sunburst brands itself into Hawke's back when Meredith lifts her against the wall of the Chantry, behind the altar where Andraste's enormous bronze skirts hide them from view. Chanters murmur and sing somewhere, and incense drifts thick and languid like snakes coiling round corpses. No one interrupts them, even if they dare to, this far back in a dusty corner marked by only two sets of feet. The rasp of Meredith's armour is steely as her voice when she hoarsely orders Hawke to come closer, to prove her mouth will follow her promises.

Meredith's mouth tastes of blood and lyrium, and her metal-plated hands are hard as her lips. She kisses like a fist, forceful and blunt, chipping her teeth against Hawke's lips and groaning harshly when Hawke yanks down her hood and yanks her closer by her golden hair. It spills over her hand like the sunshine she denies her charges, and the gimlet flicker of the cursed sword she wears over her shoulder illuminates her pale cheek like a blush. It does not hide the stress shake, the deep bags under her electric blue eyes, the signs of an intense mind grinding itself to dust under its own passion.

It is not supposed to be like this.

Hawke is supposed to win the loyal and adoring hearts of the whole of Kirkwall, to fluster and flatter them into changing their minds, an ambassador of an entire jailed people. Hawke is the bright standard before the battlecry of justice-seekers and scoundrels everywhere. Hawke is a champion, relentless and tenacious as one of Kirkwall's pit rats, never too good to run a fetch quest or do some busy work for a bit of silver.

Meredith is a knight. Loyal and incorruptible, she is not supposed unbuckle her belt behind the statue of Andraste and drop the Chantry emblazoned tabard to the stone floor as a cushion for Hawke's knees. She is a templar, a warden, and not the woman Hawke is supposed to want to watch gasping as silently as she can in pleasure, eyes narrowed like even now she suspects a trick. She tastes like lyrium there, too, salty and tangy on Hawke's tongue. Her blue eyes turn to smoky pools in the half light, near glowing with the stolen power inside of her.

"Good," she murmurs, harsh and dispassionate, and Hawke shudders.

It is an accident, she insists every time, and nothing more.

[kettlequills]

fun game

which extremely maladaptive method of showing affection from my evil elves are you? Do you:

Let them capture and torture you, because turnabout is fair play for the one you love!

Try to murder them personally, thereby demonstrating that not only can they rouse you to expressions of great emotion, they're also on your mind. Romantic!

Pay for them to attend assassination and torture school, because they want to get worse and you want to demonstrate that you support their murderous impulses.

Poison them! Secondary option of nursing them back to health personally so you both can revel in your undivided time together. Cute!

Have perfect corpses delivered to their door, with love notes painstakingly stitched into their chest to give the only clue as to the sender. Both mysterious and romantic, wow!

Challenge them to fight you and promise not to kill them in a way that definitely makes clear maiming is still on the table. What's sweeter than permanent injury? It's like a fun little reminder of you they can carry around anywhere.

Trap them in some kind of paralytic state and be sure to let them know everything you've been up to recently while they work to try and avoid losing fingers and toes from nerve damage and cold. It's good to make sure you have time to share together!

[kettlequills]

A small exploration of the characters of Faseladil and Viraneminwe, Sindor's parents, when they were both young.

Faseladil balanced on the stiff-stuffed spare wingbacked chair his fiancée kept for callers to her private parlour and marvelled silently at the privilege of witnessing her transformation. She had been waiting for her powders to set when he had arrived, and now as he watched her, she selected a knife of kohl and began to apply it in a razorwhip thin line around her eyes, still and flat as copper coins. Her full, sulky lips resting in beautiful repose, her ears set at her permanent cant of total composure, not a line on her brow; Viraneminwe dusted only the lightest of airs over her fair face, and glittered for it like a statue.

The maid had opened the door at her call,  Faseladil had sat down, and fifty four minutes had passed, but still Viraneminwe made absolutely no move to engage him. It was not ignoring, no, such a thing would suggest a force of effort was applied, when Fas knew that Vira was both perfectly alert, and perfectly unconcerned.

Another elf might have felt insult, or disinterest, or read her cold dispassion as the worst sort of shallowness, but Fas watched her, and instead felt the corners of his lips twitch up.

He was happy, he couldn't help it. Despite the slight, heavier exhale through her nose as she swept shimmer down her cheekbones and firm jaw, he smiled. His breath stopped when with a near-silent air of irritation, she met his eye briefly in her mirror.

Her gaze sent shocks through him quicker than even her magic could; his spine tingled and his belly seemed to grow hot and cold at once. But he couldn't help himself; he grinned.

"Faseladil Sinahl," Vira said, eventually,  tightening the long elvish vowels into something as clipped as a curse. "May the sun warm our meeting."

"And the sky be fair for our parting, Viraneminwe Khraemlock," Fas finished the greeting ceremonially, and then added, as genteelly as he could, "Though forgive me, if I hope that instead it should thunder, and I am forced to seek refuge in your lovely home for a step further down Phynaster's path."

There was utterly no indication of annoyance on her perfect, expressionless face, but Fas felt a subliminal pressure to glance down at her dresser nonetheless. Thirteen bare blades winked at him there, waiting to be hidden into the clever twists of her hair. Lest he end up with one in his ribs, he continued, "Forgive me, love. I have fortunate news."

She was diamond, untouchable, unreadable. With a small knife, she cut the stick of kohl and raised it to her other eye, not yet tungsten gold outlined in pure night.

"I went to Therefenly House," he said, and Viraneminwe did not flinch.

She did not ever flinch. Fas thought that she could be dying, and do it with that expressionless calm on her face. He had never seen her without it, even in rare moments when something resembling passion took her, her gaze remained the same, flinty, unwavering, utterly as beautiful as the unknowable emptiness of the Aurbis.

"Am I to think you yearned for sunny beaches, Sinahl?"

"My heart does yearn." Fas risked sitting forward, and beamed when one of her pointed ears twitched. "For you, Viraneminwe. I spoke to your mother, asked for her permission to wed you."

"You needn't bother," she told him flatly, "I am legally my own, Elsinanwe is ... incapacitated."

"I wished only for a blessing," Fas soothed. He paused. She made no semblance of interest, but after the seconds dragged on she met his eye in the mirror again, and he forged on. "I got what I came for."

Her eyelashes flickered as she blinked, steady as a snake. "Reconsider lying to me."

"Your mother - Elsinanwe," he amended, some prey instinct sensing that, without moving at all, Vira had somehow reduced the number of knives on the table from thirteen to twelve, "she did not speak well of you at all."

Vira held his eyes in the mirror, frozen sunlight. Silently, she selected a lip stain, without so much as a glance at the colour, and began to apply it with small, precise flicks of her brush. It darkened her lips to the redness of blood.

"She said you were a poisonous snake who was incapable of love, joy, or any sunblessed feeling."

Viraneminwe's still face broke in only the necessary movement to speak. She asked barely above a murmur while his whole body strained to catch each whisper of her breath through her lips, "Do you find her correct, Sinahl?"

"She didn't give me her blessing," said Fas. "But I still got what I came for, the knowledge, that more than anything, Viraneminwe, I would take a snake's venom a thousand times, to see you wake next to me once."

She did not speak, but silently placed the lip stain down. Her lips pressed together, and apart, the bloody red colour spreading across expertly. Her long fingernails tapped the lacquered surface of the desk once.

"I know you may not love me," said Fas, unable to hold her eyes now in this vulnerable moment, "I know you may have accepted my suit only for the wealth of my estate. And I know I ... how I feel ... frustrates you. But there is no one like you, and I would have none lesser for my wife."

Viraneminwe rose on shadowsoft feet and a rustle of silk. She pinned an antlered brooch to her breast, crimson as a heart.

"As you wish."

He smiled up at her, feeling the rosiness of his affection cast her in a softer hue. Vira looked down at him with her glacial eyes, and the angle was unfamiliar enough to cause a pleasant knot of sensation in his sternum. He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar.

"I do," Fas reached abortively for her, but a sharpness in her eye stopped him almost before he could begin.

"Leave," she told him, "I have a prior arrangement."

"Of course." He rose and bowed to her deeply, not lingering over taking his leave, though he wished to badly. He had shown up unannounced. "Walk an unshadowed path, Viraneminwe."

"Auriel guide you," she replied, smoothly, and he turned to leave.

He made it not two steps from the door when she spoke again.

"It does not frustrate me," Vira said, so quietly he nearly missed it, her back still to him. Fas paused, and glanced over his shoulder, but she did not turn.

"Auriel guide you, Sinahl," she repeated, firmly, as if she could sense somehow the explosion of butterflies in his stomach, or the wide, giddy smile that painted his face.

"Til we meet again," he promised her, "I will think of you with stars in my eyes."

[kettlequills]

faseladil watching viraneminwe make a sapiarch piss himself in public with a few softly spoken threats and a little light knifeplay because he asked why she was at a party when she expressly was not on the guest list: PLEASE marry me

anyway find a spouse who loves to support what you love especially if that thing is murder because otherwise it gets awkward.

[kettlequills]

virafas is the best fictional relationship ever created because it's the perfect blend of Vira's gaslight gatekeep girlbossing and Fas' manipulate mansplain manwhoring. I'm not biased.