#knowing elior knows its a mask its a performance its a show of power but hes going to make it something real something spectaular

[musingmycelium]

oc kiss week continues.... @m-m-m-myysurana 😘😘😘

He’s trained all his life to perform. Not in so many words, not even in the same sense as the word, shemlen understanding of story so shallow a thing. Yet even they know how words can be used to control those who listen; the tone, the cadence, the pauses all weapons for the right tongues. 

Of course, a pretty mouth to house such a tongue doesn’t hurt either. 

Perhaps performance isn’t the word for what he’s watching. A mask has been donned; casually reclining in the chair, making it clear he has little care for both those who built it and how they intended him to use it much as he does in all things, Elior sits in judgment. Theatrical, an Orlesian idea and it sits as poorly a definition upon the mastery with which Elior crafts his words. A show of strength, a display, an act yes but not quite as the Fereldens may think it to be.

The way Elior’s words carry weight, the way they drop from his tongue to soothe and cajole in equal measure, a sticky trap he lays out vowel by vowel.

If Renenh could do little else than to watch the way those words shape Elior’s pretty little mouth instead of the way they fall upon the judged who could say. Who would even know, with every eye upon Elior’s performance.

No, no, his embodiment. He is the Inquisitor in this moment, cast the trappings aside and you would still have an elf with the Halla Mother’s mark upon his brow holding absolute dominion over the people listening to him. For all he knows his power is nothing but smoke and mirrors Elior knows how to take the stage for himself.

It sends shivers down Renenh’s spine. Far more pleasurable ones than those causing the kneeling shemlen’s shoulders to tremble.

In a way the announcement of judgment is over too soon. Elior’s words come to a halt, his voice thunderously silent in the grand hall. His gaze remains on the air in front of him, on the myriad of people now making their exit from the hall. Mask high.

Renenh takes a step forward, towards Elior upon his facade of a throne, and Elior’s gaze snaps to meet him. All at once heat blooms from the point of Renenh’s ears to the tips of his toes. A full body flush. And he cannot even say it was Elior’s words alone this time to be the cause. He crosses the distance anyway.

Inches between them in the empty space, no other eyes, no other ears, no other tongues. The mask slips. Cracks with an easy smile on familiar lips. Elior opens his mouth but Renenh places a finger over it, lowering his gaze. 

In a way, the judgment could not have passed quick enough. An entire afternoon spent watching this mouth, these lips, this tongue peeking out to lick at his fingertip and Renenh’s eyes grow dark.

“If I could but kiss the honey from your lips,” Renenh leans close, words ghosting over Elior’s jaw and his smile grows, “let the sweetness of your words coat my tongue and I’d never have to speak again.”

Replaces his finger with a kiss. What words could come close to this? A master of his chosen craft, the gift of sweet words and quick thought and yet nothing he could say could ever match the way Elior’s mouth shapes his name as if it is the only word that matters. Pretty little things with their heavy illusions of power and the honey covered tongue to prove its weight. 

What else is a kiss but a way to say all the things which words cannot express.