fille de dos

Parataxis (sfw ficlet)

Anonymous: I wish you would write a fic where Sera and Vivienne ended up lovers. Still at edges in public, tender and melting in private. (And even their public displays are much warmer than their original party banter!)


It’s improbable how they’ve come together, every aspect of it.  They are night and day together, sharply delineated.  The idea that the two of them could have anything in common is unbelievable.  Farcical, as Vivienne describes it.  Sera calls it stupid.

She calls it stupid, but she calls lots of things stupid.  Anything and everything has the capacity to be stupid, like the tips Vivienne passes along, or how she sees through the pranks, or how she has a fainting couch both in her receiving area and in her quarters.

“Darling, don’t you know what these were for?” Vivienne asks her.  Sundays after chantry services are spent this way now, laid out limp on the couch in Vivienne’s room, spent, spent.

“That’s stupid,” Sera mumbles, an arm flung over her eyes.  She’s tried to practice her words for Vivienne, but right now it’s useless and stupid, and all she can think is Maker, Maker.  “It’s just a couch.”

Vivienne sniffs elegantly, rising from her chair.  She approaches Sera like she’s walking the field, looking for the arrows she’s loosed from Sera’s body with her fingers, her tongue.  Vivienne likes to pull Sera taut like a bowstring, waiting for the snap of release, the low thrum of shocks running through her flesh.

“My dearest Sera,” Vivienne practically purrs, “these couches were made for Sundays.”


They clash the other six days of the week.  Mondays through Saturdays it’s open season.  They both know the importance of keeping up appearances, though Sera herself couldn’t be arsed.  She does it for Vivienne, because it matters to her.

Except it matters less to Vivienne than Sera thinks, so Vivienne softens a little, pulls the bite from her voice when she returns Sera’s volleys.  Sera has the potential to do so many things, and Vivienne is content to observe, look for patterns in the chaos.  Sera can be shaped, and Vivienne is adaptable and open to opportunity.

There is nothing Vivienne thinks she can learn from Sera.  Six out of seven days a week she is secure in the notion.  On Sundays, however, Sera’s touches are of butterfly wings, soft and fleeting so unlike her words, her arrows.  They call to things long-buried in Vivienne.  

“Darling,” she says to Sera, “my dear.”  

She means it, and Sera giggles when she first hears the change.  Sera accepts it, however, because affection is always welcome for someone as starved as she, and she’s realized that Vivienne doesn’t lie.

“Vivienne,” Sera says, singsong and teasing, Sunday after Sunday.  “Vivvy-Viv, Viv-Viv.”  She expects the immediate retort.  Madam de Fer takes her name and title seriously.

“Yes, Sera darling?” Vivienne replies, to which Sera beams.

It’s Monday.