#virawen

[maybeathreat]

"Don't..."

"... by your will"

-

@kettlequills

[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]

Ahh that last Virawen one was just delightful! Now I'll request 82 and 96 for Elsinanwe and Tisibet, and 49 and 76 for Vira and Elenwen again <3

here's the virawen!

49: tending to your lover's wound, placing a kiss on top of their head, grateful they're still alive

They argue, or Viraneminwe moves too quick to speak. They kiss, a moment of agony and regret, or they stand rigidly apart. They talk about the truth, or they snarl out lies.

Either way, Elenwen falls.

It rains that night, mulching the blood-sodden roses and making Erephor’s shears flash like wet diamonds as he aggressively prunes the destroyed rosebush. The clicking of the shears reminds Viraneminwe of the snap of bones, the absolute silence after the wet impact of a body striking the ground from six floors up. The roses save her life.

The Sculptor works through the long, rainy night reconstructing Elenwen’s shattered spine and broken body. More restoration magic than is safe is poured into a body so brutalised it barely looks like an elf, regrowing skin, flesh, blood and bone. The seams crisscrossing Elenwen’s body like puppet strings still hum with prickling energy when Viraneminwe enters the hastily-converted infirmary closest to the door by the spot she fell.

There is no one by her bedside.

No one to see Viraneminwe dragging her own chair up to sit beside Elenwen for a moment, studying her bruised, swollen face. Flickers of magic itch and glitter under the skin, revolting against the body they are trapped in. The Sculptor believes she will walk again, but only time will tell.

 “You stupid girl,” Viraneminwe sighs. There is blood in what remains of Elenwen’s hair. Hanks of it cover the floor where the Sculptor has frantically cut at it to get to her skull. It has dried into matts, and try as she might, Viraneminwe cannot see a way to tease it out.

Frustrated, she drops her hands into her lap. There is nothing she can do to change what has been done. It will have to be enough.

Viraneminwe leans down and places a single, relieved kiss on Elenwen’s brow. Her skin is cool but soft under Viraneminwe’s lips, which tingle like sparks leap between their bodies. She closes her eyes and permits herself a single, terrible moment of weakness. No one is there to see, and this will be the last time, the very last time. She will never have an opportunity like this again.

Elenwen’s skin is soft, but her lips are softer. She sighs in her drugged sleep when Viraneminwe ghosts her mouth against her, memorising her texture, her shape. Those thin dry lips are so often quirked in a mischievous smirk and wild grin that Viraneminwe can hardly recognise her at rest. She looks painfully young wrapped up in bandages and blankets to keep the cold from her broken bones, like a fledgeling pushed from the nest.

It is better this way.

Viraneminwe cannot love her how she craves it. She has no more room for grief left, no more warmth for anything but death and memory. This, a kiss on the lips of a sleeping woman, hours out of her deathbed, is all she can give. It is poignant from how acrimonious their separation will become, a poor parting gift to a wonderful girl who has served her so well. If only, Viraneminwe thinks bitterly, she loved her less.

When she rises, brushing her skirts free of imaginary dust, she does not look back at the huddled body in the bed.

The Sculptor is curled up in a cot outside the door, breathing heavily in the deep sleep of the truly exhausted. Ondir is washing the Sculptor’s tools in a bowl of steaming water, a frown on his face at the blood. He startles when Viraneminwe reappears, eyes darting from her to the door like he expects Elenwen to miraculously follow her.

“As soon as she wakes, throw her out,” Viraneminwe murmurs coldly, “I never want to see her face again.”

//

76: unrequited love that is now requited, and a kiss that proves it

The past is weighted, vast and immeasurable. It colours their every interaction, every lingering look and not-quite hidden reflex to incredible violence. The sweet mixes with the bitter like the gold and blood that have ruled their lives. For power Viraneminwe married once, and through her blood tried to drag Elenwen in her footsteps. They are dangerous women, and neither will ever permit time to defang them, but years and two balconies later, things are different.

“Are you coming, Viraneminwe?” Elenwen calls.

She checks herself in the grand mirror, critically eyeing the fall of her stiff brocade frock coat. It is formal and tapers in sharply at the waist, giving her a sleek, masculine appearance only accentuated by her plain blonde hair left loose around her shoulders. The Thalmor’s eagle is for once not blazoned proudly on her breast but is more subtly represented by a pin through her lapel.

She is nervous. It is her first time out of military dress uniform at an event since her return to Alinor, but tonight is not a night for flaunting her connection to the Thalmor. Tonight is her debut on Viraneminwe’s arm. She only hopes their arrangement will prove as successful politically as it is satiating on a personal level. She will not hide, not anymore.

Elenwen is a decorated war hero, a rising star, but even a high rank in the Thalmor cannot change her poor birth in a slum to a tradesman who will give her away to the justiciars rather than feed her. With no significant wealth or family name, still young yet unable to reproduce and marked by war, she is nothing but a hit to Viraneminwe’s status. Gracefully, Viraneminwe has not mentioned it, but Elenwen hears the whispers. That, more than anything, convinces Elenwen she is sincere. Reputation is everything. Without it, they are no better than the humans grubbing and mucking in the mud for reasons as foolish and fleeting as love.

It may be foolish, but she still cannot stop herself from gazing in awe when Viraneminwe appears at the top of the stairs, perfectly dressed in crushed silk that Elenwen abruptly aches to peel from her body, event be damned. Her cane clicks on the floor as she makes her way down, one elegant hand on the balustrade for support. Her heartbeat races, and her knees weaken. There is nothing like her, no one in the world that makes Elenwen feel as she does.

“You’re beautiful, Lady Sinahl,” Elenwen blurts. Years of habit and a younger elf’s sunstruck desire blindsides her, and she blushes hotly at her slip of the tongue. Viraneminwe brushes through the ghosts of the past to come to a stop in front of her and take her hand.

“Viraneminwe to you, from tonight,” she corrects softly. “I will not have them treat you as my lesser.”

Elenwen can feel her warmth through the silk gloves she wears. She rubs her thumb over her knuckles, raising Viraneminwe’s hand to her mouth to brush a tender kiss against the back of it.

“Viraneminwe.” She savours the name in her mouth, and Viraneminwe’s cinnabar eyes drop to her lips like she is imagining the taste.

Leaning purposefully into Elenwen’s proximity, she tilts her head up, telegraphing her movements. It is an unutterable joy to recognise all the signs of Viraneminwe reaching for a kiss, and respond, knowing her touch is wanted, is craved.

Viraneminwe sighs pleasantly when their lips meet. Flames ignite inside her, and Elenwen deepens the kiss with near feral passion. Viraneminwe matches her bite for bite, her cane hard against Elenwen’s back when she gives up steadying herself and clings to her shoulders instead. The fanged grip of her nails in Elenwen’s shoulders is a dull, painful pressure through the material of her coat. The half-healed mess of scratches on her back sings.

She wants her hands on her, her tongue, her kiss. She wants Viraneminwe everywhere, anywhere, at any time, always. Greedily, Elenwen takes what is offered and devours more. Relishing the material of Viraneminwe’s expensive dress beneath her palms as she caresses her, Elenwen fights herself to remember she cannot simply cut through it with her knife and take her there over the table in the front parlour. They have places to be. Still, she squeezes her ass, swallowing up Viraneminwe’s choked gasp.

It is a speaking, singing kiss. Viraneminwe surges against her, licking hungrily into her mouth like she just cannot get enough. There is no pretence, no lie, no distance. If their previous kisses have been taut with the unspoken, this is saturated with a bold declaration, plain as day: I want you, I want you. I love you.

When they part, Viraneminwe does not go far, breathing heavily with their cheeks rubbing together. Her grip remains tight, like she can’t bear to let go any more than Elenwen can. Soaking it in, they stand, wrapped in one another like wheels of coiled rope.

Against her lips, Viraneminwe murmurs, “Stay with me. You can stay.”

Longingly, Elenwen presses a lingering kiss to the wrinkles at the corners of Viraneminwe’s mouth. They don’t have time to take it further now, not as far as she wants to, when Viraneminwe looks this good. They’ll be late, and not the fashionable kind.

“Two days, and I ship out,” she says, regretfully.

“Then tonight, tomorrow…” Viraneminwe’s hands slide slowly, deliciously down her back to grip her hips. Forcefully, she presses their bodies together, a heated intensity in her glittering eyes. “… I will give you ample reason to return.”

Shivering at the dark promise in her husky, quiet voice, Elenwen bends to steal another kiss, whispering only when they part; “My heart, you already have.”

[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.