It’s almost over, thank the Creators.
Human parties, Lavellan decides, are bizarre and uncomfortable. The subterfuge, the odd rules for manners, the restrictive clothes, the bad music, none of it feels right. She’s painfully homesick for a Dalish revel. Her people haggle power and money over parties, everyone does, but it’s honest. Even when they’re on the verge of war with each other or patching up a conflict, the clans aren’t expected to stick each other’s noses up the enemy’s ass in the meantime.
To say that she’s exhausted is to be gentle. With Florianne in captivity, and the Empress thoroughly blackmailed into working with Briala and Gaspard, it should be time to relax. It’s what she would do at home.
But no. No, for some freakish reason, humans want to keep schmoozing and lying and tittering over who dances with who, and as the orchestrator of everyone’s salvation, the Inquisitor isn’t allowed to just run away without her advisors crawling right up her ass about it. Leliana had practically blockaded the door and guilted her into staying, though all she wants is to take a bath and sleep for the next week.
So she stays. She mopes. She drinks, and it steadily becomes easier to pretend to listen to the nobles who are, for some reason, finally inclined not to treat her like garbage under their jeweled slippers. The crowd is a sea of faces with mouths that move and eyebrows that don’t, and she can’t tell what’s making her feel worse, the homesickness or the wine.
Marquis Vivant of Gascony only needs a minute or two to know if it worked.
Everyone else can call the night a success, but Vivant knows the truth: an elf — a Dalish elf — had swept into the party and destroyed Grand Duke Gaspard’s bid for the throne. She had invaded the Winter Palace as surely as the Venatori, embarrassed the Chalons name with Florianne’s public humiliation, and she’d done it while stumbling around and offending everyone in sight. How she had managed to wander into the Inquisition, barefoot and stupid, and crawl her way into its leadership, he can’t begin to guess.
She’s a figurehead, he reasons. A puppet. No elf he’s ever heard of, not even the snake of a creature that the Empress has just turned into a member of the aristocracy, has enough wherewithal to organize something like Gaspard’s loss to Celene. Even heretics can’t deny a natural order to the world, and he longs to strangle her with the strings they’re tugging to make her say and do the right things.
Inquisitor Lavellan realizes none of this, either before or after she’s taken the drink. Vivant puts little effort into taking down her guard; she’s already tired and fed up, staring at his collar instead of his face as he speaks. She wears no mask, only a dark green vallaslin that does nothing to hide her facial expressions, and he can see the sedative’s effect in the furrow of her eyebrows and slack of her jaw. Lavellan’s protests of you really don’t have to are nothing against the polite-looking grip he takes on her arm.
Up close, she is… not bigger than he expects, but he thinks that she should feel reedy and delicate under his hands. Vivant has had his hands on elves before, gripping their arms and their thighs and their necks, but the Inquisitor lacks their softness. She’s small and solid, and he thinks that she might just hold up, for a while.
He drags her to an out-of-the-way drawing room, where bitter loyalists to the Grand Duke — mostly men, other gentry like himself, but a Comtesse as well —- have holed up after making their mandatory congratulations to his alliance with the Empress. They’re old moneyed, blue blooded, and the Inquisitor’s arrival is like throwing a fennec into a den of lions.
Vivant locks the door. Though the sound is as foreboding as the slamming shut of a cage, the elf doesn’t flinch. She’s too far gone to realize that she’s trapped. So much for the Dread Inquisitor.
The conversation in the room falls to a hush. Trapping the Inquisitor had been Vivant’s idea, but only one of them had protested it: Comtesse Louisa, who had thought Lavellan’s people would make it too difficult, and that he was wasting his time even trying. She’s unreadable, her eyes hidden behind her swan-feather mask and her mouth behind her swan-feather fan, but from the flutter of the fan that she’s impressed.
“You’re all so silent.” He has to laugh, especially when the elf in his grip looks up at him and squints, trying to focus her soft eyes on his mouth. “Give no reverence to the Inquisitor, my good friends. She’s still just an elf. Perhaps they’ll see you in the right light when you aren’t dressed in finery, rabbit.”
Lavellan makes a squeak of protest when he pulls roughly at her jacket. Buttons pull free of their threads and skitter across the floor, leaving the fabric hanging haphazardly. Another tug of her underclothes and her breasts are exposed, small and pale and round, her nipples dusky pink and already hard.
Lord Jesper is the first one to break ranks, the ruby-encrusted mustache on his mask like a wide, bloody grin. Lavellan’s attempts to fight them off are useless as they are, but Jesper renders them entirely moot by tearing her jacket from one arm and getting a grip on her bicep. She’s built like a sapling, tight and flexible, her limbs thin and easy to grab.
“No—-” She slurs around even a single syllable, tugging at their grip and succeeding in nothing more than making her small chest bounce. It’s met with a tittering of the small crowd.
Louisa rises from her seat on the chaise, the click of her heels on the marble floor quieting the room. When she comes close, she snaps her fan shut and presses it underneath the Inquisitor’s chin, forcing the elf’s head up and exposing her delicately tattooed throat.
“It’s a shame you won’t remember most of this, rabbit,” she says. Her lipstick is dark red, almost as black as the detailing on her mask that blocks out her eyes. Her teeth are bright white — a predator’s teeth — when she sneers. “Walking in the Maker’s light requires humility and a knowledge of your place in it. How unfortunate for you that you must be returned to the Inquisition. Open your mouth.” Louisa makes the demand sound almost boring. When Lavellan doesn’t comply, Louisa smacks her jaw with the fan, hard enough to leave a red mark. “Open.”
Lavellan opens her mouth to gasp. Louisa seizes on it, forcing two gloved fingers inside and pressing down harshly on her tongue until she opens so wide it threatens to unhinge her jaw. She grunts in protest as Louisa guides her to look to one side, then the other, inspecting her teeth.
“I heard the fearsome Dalish have fangs in those delicate little mouths.” Louisa huffs, pushing her fingers in further and pressing against the elf’s throat until the girl squirms with discomfort. She gives the girl a firm, disciplinary shake, forcing her still. “Don’t whine. If the Inquisition’s doglord Commander was smarter, he would have ruined that gag reflex ages ago. Now you’ll suffer for his neglect, I’m sure.”
Lavellan coughs when the Comtesse pulls back, too busy catching her breath to object when Louisa smears her own saliva on her cheek. She flinches when Louisa taps the low table between the sofas and the chaise. By now she’s limp, her head swimming too violently to hold herself up.
Vivant and Jesper drag her to the table, like a rabbit into a den of foxes. Other hands are on her in an instant, tugging at her hair and her clothes, stripping her like a child tearing apart its least favorite doll. Vivant holds her head with a fist in her hair and grabs her knee with his free hand, picking her up clear off the ground with only Jesper’s grip on her other leg to help support her. They hold her legs open so wide that she lets out a high-pitched grunt of pain, threatening to signal their activities to passerby outside the door.
Louisa shoves a balled-up handkerchief into her mouth. Lavellan’s cries are stifled as Jesper and another nobleman — a Comte named Laurent — prod and stroke her cunt.
“You’ll want to be wetter, little rabbit,” Jesper warns, so affectionate as to be obscene when he pinches her clit and makes her squirm. Her flailing is useless, her movement severely limited in the air. “Elf pussy needs to be dripping wet to take fat noble cock.”
Laurent pushes her labia open wide, exposing her briefly to the cold air before spitting wetly between her legs. The cat’s face on his mask is molded into a sneer, the teeth bright with pale jewels. He’s rough when he forces his fingers into her pussy, the saliva doing little to ease the sudden intrusion. Someone clamps a hand over her mouth to further muffle her squealing; someone else takes her tits in both hands, squeezing hard and pinching her nipples just to make her writhe.
Vivant just holds her tight, watching as Laurent buries his mouth against the elf’s cunt and leaves angry red marks on the inside of her thighs with the cat’s teeth. He can almost feel her heart pounding against his hands. He’s never fucked an elf with this many people before; it’s always just been him with one other person (usually Jesper, whose house servants never wear smallclothes and are trained to say thank you when someone comes in their mouth). The cries of the heretical Inquisitor make his cock so hard it might burst the seams on his trousers. The overwhelming ideal of seeing her as she should be — ruined, humbled, dripping with human seed and servicing them on command — is more than arousing. It’s righteous.
Her light, lithe little body spasms violently in his hands when she comes, her orgasm forced out of her and soaking Laurent’s hand and mask. Vivant groans and bites down on her thigh hard enough to bruise.
While she’s still shaking, Vivant pulls her out of other people’s grip and forces her onto the table. She’s so light that he has no trouble hauling her around on his own. The elf makes a brief scramble to escape once she’s flat on her front, groping for the edge of the table to tug herself away; he ends her attempt by gripping her hips and hauling her back up onto her knees, forcing her to angle her hips so her cunt and her asshole are fully exposed.
“Are you going to run, Inquisitor?” Vivant chuckles, gripping her hard with one hand and unlacing his trousers with the other. “Will you run back to your silly Inquisition, naked and wet, and claim you were done wrong?”
She tries to articulate something, but the sedative in her wine has made her words slack and slow. The distressed, defiant words that won’t come all the way to her tongue are cut off by the sudden thrust of Vivant’s cock into her pussy. He’s thicker and harsher than Laurent’s fingers, sinking in further, and he twitches almost violently inside of the Inquisitor when she squeals and tries to kick.
“You should have been born in Orlais, Your Worship,” he says, holding her in both hands and dragging her hips, using her pussy as a toy to fuck himself rather than thrusting into her. The wet noises of his intrusion fill the room, lewd and obscene. “If you had been raised in your station, you would be enjoying this properly. You wouldn’t need to be drugged into the Maker’s place for you. Your little cunt is so wet, your body knows what you are.”
Jesper pulls the elf’s head up by her hair and takes out the handkerchief. She has only a couple precious seconds to catch her breath unimpeded while he opens his trousers. Jesper’s cock isn’t as thick, but it’s long, inconveniently so. He stuffs it unceremoniously into her mouth while she whines in objection, moaning indulgently.
The Inquisitor rocks between them, Vivant’s tight grip and guidance forcing Jesper down her throat the second she has relief from Vivant’s cock. Jesper is noisy, moaning and sighing and guiding her head so he sinks directly into her throat.
“That’s it, little rabbit,” Jesper says, pressing into her mouth and making a delighted noise when she chokes. By the time he pulls back, his cock is a slick mess that he wipes off on her cheek before filling her mouth again. He fucks her face like her pussy, bottoming out with her nose on his pelvis with each thrust. “Orlesian cock tastes best, no? Elves are better than whores, their cunts stay tight even after you use them half a dozen times.”
Someone reaches underneath her to grasp at her tits; someone else forces their hand between her legs and rubs harshly at her clit. She comes, shrieking, with Jesper’s cock muffling her cries, violently squirting into Vivant’s lap.
Vivant fills her slick, trembling pussy with his come, the waves of her orgasm milking his own until he’s empty. She’s so small, still so tight, that seed floods out of her the second he starts to pull back, leaving her inner thighs a mess of come, both his and hers.
Another man quickly replaces him, filling her filthy cunt with an obscenely wet noise. Another slicks up his fingers with the wetness between her thighs and penetrates her asshole, forcing her other hole open.
Vivant sits by Louisa, looking back just in time to see Jesper pull out of the elf’s mouth and come, mostly missing her mouth and splashing his load onto her face instead. Someone else is quick to replace Jesper, pulling the elf back by her hair and stuffing his balls into her mouth, letting his hard, veiny cock rest on her face, covering her eye.
“I told you this would work, my lady.” He glances over, gently stroking his spent cock. “Care to revise your objections?”
Louisa, hidden again behind her fan, replies, “If she weren’t the damned Inquisitor, I would keep her. My husband loves the smaller ones, and he’s wearing out the last girl I bought for him. I suppose we would have to drug this one until she learned not to bite, but that’s doable.”
The elf whimpers loudly around the man’s balls. Laurent has taken some abstract, phallic sculpture from Serault and started working it into her ass like a plug, spreading her open on the glass while someone else is still buried in her pussy. Surrounded by human nobles, the elf looks like a toy held up among them, a collection of limbs and places to bruise and holes to fuck. The man using her mouth pulls his balls away to replace them with his cock, getting in two quick thrusts before someone else joins him. The men bicker for a moment before deciding to share, forcing her mouth open wide and making her suck the heads of their cocks together. The man squeezing and fondling her tits finally comes, splashing seed onto her cheek. The man in her pussy comes with a messy grunt, filling her and smacking her ass on his way out.
Laurent interrupts the group (much to their disgruntlement) by dragging the elf to the nearest sofa. She’s given up fighting, letting herself be pulled around like a doll, but she still moans when Lauren drags her into his lap and impales her ass with his cock, pinning her back against his chest.
“Someone take her pussy,” he grunts, holding her knees tight together and pulling them up and to the side. Someone obliges him, kneeling on the sofa and taking her filthy, dripping cunt. Laurent groans harshly as her asshole tightens, relentlessly thrusting up into her. “I have the thickest cock here, rabbit, you’ll thank me when someone else wants this.”
Laurent pushes his free hand between her legs again, rubbing her overstimulated clit until she spasms, tightening almost painfully around his cock. She moans and whines as she’s used, held too tightly to properly squirm. Laurent’s hand is wet with her own come when he wraps it around her throat. He fucks her with heavy, selfish grunts, bouncing her in his lap and shoving her onto the cock that’s inside her cunt.
Laurent comes buried deep in her ass, pinning her down onto his cock and grinding until she’s full and dripping.
The man fucking the elf’s pussy drags her out of Laurent’s lap when he lets her go, taking hold of her legs and spreading them, watching his cock thrust into her body while she lays prone on the sofa. He slips out and guides himself into her ass, grinning when it makes her startle. Stretched open and slick with come, her ass is almost as soft as her cunt; every thrust inside of it makes her grunt and squeal and tense, pushing the mess of seed out of her holes. Her thighs are dripping with come, making a mess of the sofa underneath.
She’s left alone for only a few moments. The swarm of nobles seems determined to use every free part of her body they can find: her hands, her breasts, one of them comes rutting vigorously against her cheek and comes messily on her face and her hair. The man inside of her fills her with another load, abandoning her to be used by other one who’s still hard.
The Inquisitor is left on the sofa, exhausted and numb. The defiant light that had been in her eye when she’d foiled Duchess Florianne is gone, the glow from her Mark dim and quiet. There are red marks on her skin where she’s been held almost hard enough to bruise. Her silly tattoos are obscured by the seed of men too careless to come in her mouth, a similar, larger mess between her legs. She looks as she should. The nobles, spent and satisfied, have gone back to socializing with each other, moving back toward the refreshments and leaving her behind, a toy used and discarded.
Vivant, hard again and arrogant, crosses to the sofa. “There you are, rabbit.” He coos at her, like a pet, guiding her with a hand in her hair and the other on her arm to sit up. Her face and her chest and her hands are filthy, and she’s long past squirming and fussing about it.
He strokes his cock, guiding her to lean in against his lap. She’s so calm that Vivant needs to open her mouth with his fingers before thrusting inside, her jaw slack and her mouth fuckable.
“You can still taste your cunt on my cock, can’t you?” Vivant strokes her messy hair, lazily fucking. “Next time a human puts you on your knees, you’ll know what to do with it, won’t you? The Maker gave us all a place. Yours is here. There you are—-take it, rabbit, swallow it—-”
The Inquisitor whimpers when she drinks Marquis Vivant’s come. He holds her down, making her swallow around his cock until her eyes water and he softens on her tongue.
When he’s finished, he discards her as readily as the rest. She’s forgotten, even when the time comes to retire, leaving her alone in the locked parlor, fucked out and too exhausted to pick herself up.
Lavellan has no idea how long she’s been left alone in the dark before someone finds her. Elven servants come with cool water and rags, gently cleaning her tender skin, wiping at the mess between her legs so she’s no longer sticky. Her head is pounding, the hangover sharp, and her vision is still fuzzy at the edges when she’s helped back into her clothes.
Her legs are wobbly and weak. An elven woman in the uniform of the kitchen staff picks her up and carries her through a series of hidden hallways back to the guest rooms given to the Inquisition, slipping into her bedroom through a door behind the wardrobe.
She’s tucked into bed, so clean she feels raw, too tender to touch. She tries to thank her mysterious helpers, but all she gets in return is a gentle refusal and a soft, “We’re so sorry.”