Ficlet: Make me to rest in the warmest places; M; Elissa/Leliana
This is a ficlet set in my current fic-universe. Prompted by Kimbo who wanted a fic of the implied Leliana/Elissa romance. I'd consider this "canon" enough not to label it AU.
Rated M for smut.
1300-ish words.
Make me to rest in the warmest places
There are many things Leliana does not remember about her Warden.
She does not remember her voice.
The tones in it, the notes and notches and traces, and how she is such a typical soldier sometimes - brawling and self-reliant and so much - which leaves no air for anyone else but she doesn't seem to notice, or care. How hers is the loudest, clearest, keenest sound in camp and how it trickles into Leliana's blood even if she shuts her mind thinking of canticles and Orlesian rhymes.
Three, four, the kingdom's at war.
Leliana tries awfully hard not to hear her at the fire with the sweet Templar boy either, but this is nearly impossible. His voice, soft-spoken and full of gentle bravado and misplaced gallantry clashing against hers, honest and stark and sarcastic.
For You are the fire at the heart of the world.
They seem to like each other's company.
She does not remember her fears.
That faltering sometimes, the hesitance and the steps not taken, the way she allows herself to fall apart when nobody is needing her.
“Tell me about the Dalish,” she can say then, to Leliana.
Or she can stand there with cheese and a bottle of something she's pilfered out of Wynne's pack and lower her gaze; it falls upon Leliana to take the goods out of her hands and nod, simply.
And then she tells her of Andraste, and of stars, and of the spices and gold in Val Royeaux and if Elissa grimaces or looks like she is about to cry, Leliana makes light of it.
She does not remember that night.
That night.
That night with Elissa all but falling over and Leliana all but pulling her down, impatient and raw-boned and eager in the tent that is still warm in the late summer.
And she shouldn't - they shouldn't - because they are both so drunk, having turned much more than tipsy on the sweet wine, much more so than they swore to become as they were raising the first glass, but then Elissa wraps her fingers around Leliana's wrist and Leliana stops thinking. Or thinks differently. Of blood and skin and lips, the very particular curve of lips.
The pressure of fingertips tapping on her bones, fingers circling over the pulsating flow of blood filling her head to toe; a soft rustle of movements as they scoot closer on the ground, leaning over bedrolls and glasses and empty bottles.
Elissa smells of wine and spices and grass; heavy scents, heavy body full of darkness but her kiss is deep and gentle, much gentler than Leliana would have imagined. She kisses back, eagerly. Her hands are free now, and they travel up Elissa's arms, up over her broad shoulders that tense under Leliana's touch as if they're greeting her; her hands travel along neck and spine, until they come to rest around Elissa's head, all tangled up in the thick, warm hair.
“You are beautiful,” Leliana murmurs despite herself and Elissa mutters something that is drowned in a kiss, and another one, followed by a soft mouth against Leliana's throat, a tongue tracing her lower lip and then Elissa almost lifts her up and puts her down on the bedroll. Leliana spreads out beneath her, feeling the weight of the other woman as she adjusts, and continues kissing her, one hand running along Leliana's leg, threading quickly and surely until she has found the lacing and begins to undo it --
-- and Leliana arches up, helping, while she's tugging at the seams of Elissa's tunic, trying to remove it without breaking the kiss - clearly that is not going to happen - and Elissa grunts as she loses her balance and has to roll off.
For a moment their eyes meet and Leliana lets out a quiet giggle because her heart's racing and Elissa's cheeks are flushed and they fell; the next thing she knows is that she has straddled the Warden and tore off her tunic and they kiss harder now, harsher, hands against skin and Elissa's breathing in her ear.
She wants this so much, Maker help her, nothing but this can ever matter, surely - as it Elissa can read her mind, Leliana feels hands caress the sides of her body, lifting her tunic at the same time.
Clothes come off, tangled and sweaty and too-tight, but at least they come off and Elissa wraps her arms around Leliana, to pull her closer and place her above her, her hands on Leliana's hips, rocking her against sharp soldier-angles and muscles being formed by this never-ending battle they share.
Maker, Leliana thinks with a head that is as soft and helpless as -- oh Maker.
Elissa cups one hand over Leliana's breast, thumb grazing the nipple; the other hand follows the line of hips and thighs, into the wet heat between her legs and pushes carefully at the boundaries, fingertips dancing like feathers against the rash curls, brushing and teasing until Leliana lets out a soft moan, pressing herself closer when Elissa enters and they both draw a harsh breath.
Bracing her hands on Elissa's chest, touching her breasts, her arms and holding her, Leliana lets herself open up and cease to think, merely exist and feel and take it in - the sensation of Elissa beneath and inside, dark swirls of warmth and strength and that controlled passion she has, that makes Leliana stay awake far too long, not-sleeping - and then she comes in a rush, arching back, feeling Elissa's hands hold her up while she falls through the skies and doesn't remember how to breathe.
Her skin is damp as she rests her chin on Elissa's shoulder; the other woman's arms slung around her waist, her lips kissing the curve of Leliana's neck, tasting salty skin and faded oils, she presumes dizzily.
She kisses a path along the toned abdomen, the faint roundness of her belly - she looked different all those months ago, Leliana remembers, fuller and gentler, a different kind of beautiful back then - and the trail of hair leading from her navel down to where she can scent earth and sea and salt.
As Leliana bows to kiss the softest, warmest parts of her body, she feels Elissa's hands in her hair, urging her, keeping her in place with a small force and the same anxious tremble as her own, before; Leliana has a moan stuck in her throat at the held-back sounds rising from the other woman, the shuddering want. When she looks up she sees Elissa biting down on the back of her hand and Leliana doesn't stop, she keeps at it and it takes no more than a few moments for the other woman to relax against her, fall back on the ground, fingers slackening in Leliana's hair and her breath coming in short bursts.
They spread out on their backs, side by side, not speaking.
And Leliana wants to ask her to stay, wants to sleep next to her, make sure Elissa does sleep and not merely pretends, but she says nothing.
She does not remember sitting with her until dawn, holding her hand.
The Warden is not someone you can hold on to. She is too broken and too hard for that, all of Leliana's words slipping out of reach and beyond control in her presence.
Untouchable, she thinks, tracing the lifeline in Elissa's palm when Elissa sleeps. Her eyelids flutter, framing the face where Leliana has seen scars appear and fade over the course of time. Has brushed over bruises and blood, inefficiently soothed and helplessly prayed.
Maker lead her into Your light.
She's very difficult to love and much too careless with herself, but sometimes, Leliana thinks in her own defence - making excuses for being here and doing this -sometimes this is what people desire. There is beauty in it, in trying to mend. There is beauty. But to bear it, endure the weight of it, one has to be very strong.
Leliana is disappointed but relieved to watch it shatter.
They pack their things and part their ways and when Leliana leans in to give her a kiss and it is returned; when Elissa's fingers slowly reaches around that pulsating, shuffling dread of leaving and the joy at being free, Leliana closes her eyes and wills herself not to cry because even if heroes are untouchable, she is not.
“Maker watch over you, my Warden,” she says, breathlessly.
And she does not remember, not at all, how she is not even asked to go with them to Orlais. If she did remember, her heart would break. Just a little, just around the edges.
So she does not. It's better that way.
Rated M for smut.
1300-ish words.
Make me to rest in the warmest places
There are many things Leliana does not remember about her Warden.
She does not remember her voice.
The tones in it, the notes and notches and traces, and how she is such a typical soldier sometimes - brawling and self-reliant and so much - which leaves no air for anyone else but she doesn't seem to notice, or care. How hers is the loudest, clearest, keenest sound in camp and how it trickles into Leliana's blood even if she shuts her mind thinking of canticles and Orlesian rhymes.
Three, four, the kingdom's at war.
Leliana tries awfully hard not to hear her at the fire with the sweet Templar boy either, but this is nearly impossible. His voice, soft-spoken and full of gentle bravado and misplaced gallantry clashing against hers, honest and stark and sarcastic.
For You are the fire at the heart of the world.
They seem to like each other's company.
She does not remember her fears.
That faltering sometimes, the hesitance and the steps not taken, the way she allows herself to fall apart when nobody is needing her.
“Tell me about the Dalish,” she can say then, to Leliana.
Or she can stand there with cheese and a bottle of something she's pilfered out of Wynne's pack and lower her gaze; it falls upon Leliana to take the goods out of her hands and nod, simply.
And then she tells her of Andraste, and of stars, and of the spices and gold in Val Royeaux and if Elissa grimaces or looks like she is about to cry, Leliana makes light of it.
She does not remember that night.
That night.
That night with Elissa all but falling over and Leliana all but pulling her down, impatient and raw-boned and eager in the tent that is still warm in the late summer.
And she shouldn't - they shouldn't - because they are both so drunk, having turned much more than tipsy on the sweet wine, much more so than they swore to become as they were raising the first glass, but then Elissa wraps her fingers around Leliana's wrist and Leliana stops thinking. Or thinks differently. Of blood and skin and lips, the very particular curve of lips.
The pressure of fingertips tapping on her bones, fingers circling over the pulsating flow of blood filling her head to toe; a soft rustle of movements as they scoot closer on the ground, leaning over bedrolls and glasses and empty bottles.
Elissa smells of wine and spices and grass; heavy scents, heavy body full of darkness but her kiss is deep and gentle, much gentler than Leliana would have imagined. She kisses back, eagerly. Her hands are free now, and they travel up Elissa's arms, up over her broad shoulders that tense under Leliana's touch as if they're greeting her; her hands travel along neck and spine, until they come to rest around Elissa's head, all tangled up in the thick, warm hair.
“You are beautiful,” Leliana murmurs despite herself and Elissa mutters something that is drowned in a kiss, and another one, followed by a soft mouth against Leliana's throat, a tongue tracing her lower lip and then Elissa almost lifts her up and puts her down on the bedroll. Leliana spreads out beneath her, feeling the weight of the other woman as she adjusts, and continues kissing her, one hand running along Leliana's leg, threading quickly and surely until she has found the lacing and begins to undo it --
-- and Leliana arches up, helping, while she's tugging at the seams of Elissa's tunic, trying to remove it without breaking the kiss - clearly that is not going to happen - and Elissa grunts as she loses her balance and has to roll off.
For a moment their eyes meet and Leliana lets out a quiet giggle because her heart's racing and Elissa's cheeks are flushed and they fell; the next thing she knows is that she has straddled the Warden and tore off her tunic and they kiss harder now, harsher, hands against skin and Elissa's breathing in her ear.
She wants this so much, Maker help her, nothing but this can ever matter, surely - as it Elissa can read her mind, Leliana feels hands caress the sides of her body, lifting her tunic at the same time.
Clothes come off, tangled and sweaty and too-tight, but at least they come off and Elissa wraps her arms around Leliana, to pull her closer and place her above her, her hands on Leliana's hips, rocking her against sharp soldier-angles and muscles being formed by this never-ending battle they share.
Maker, Leliana thinks with a head that is as soft and helpless as -- oh Maker.
Elissa cups one hand over Leliana's breast, thumb grazing the nipple; the other hand follows the line of hips and thighs, into the wet heat between her legs and pushes carefully at the boundaries, fingertips dancing like feathers against the rash curls, brushing and teasing until Leliana lets out a soft moan, pressing herself closer when Elissa enters and they both draw a harsh breath.
Bracing her hands on Elissa's chest, touching her breasts, her arms and holding her, Leliana lets herself open up and cease to think, merely exist and feel and take it in - the sensation of Elissa beneath and inside, dark swirls of warmth and strength and that controlled passion she has, that makes Leliana stay awake far too long, not-sleeping - and then she comes in a rush, arching back, feeling Elissa's hands hold her up while she falls through the skies and doesn't remember how to breathe.
Her skin is damp as she rests her chin on Elissa's shoulder; the other woman's arms slung around her waist, her lips kissing the curve of Leliana's neck, tasting salty skin and faded oils, she presumes dizzily.
She kisses a path along the toned abdomen, the faint roundness of her belly - she looked different all those months ago, Leliana remembers, fuller and gentler, a different kind of beautiful back then - and the trail of hair leading from her navel down to where she can scent earth and sea and salt.
As Leliana bows to kiss the softest, warmest parts of her body, she feels Elissa's hands in her hair, urging her, keeping her in place with a small force and the same anxious tremble as her own, before; Leliana has a moan stuck in her throat at the held-back sounds rising from the other woman, the shuddering want. When she looks up she sees Elissa biting down on the back of her hand and Leliana doesn't stop, she keeps at it and it takes no more than a few moments for the other woman to relax against her, fall back on the ground, fingers slackening in Leliana's hair and her breath coming in short bursts.
They spread out on their backs, side by side, not speaking.
And Leliana wants to ask her to stay, wants to sleep next to her, make sure Elissa does sleep and not merely pretends, but she says nothing.
She does not remember sitting with her until dawn, holding her hand.
The Warden is not someone you can hold on to. She is too broken and too hard for that, all of Leliana's words slipping out of reach and beyond control in her presence.
Untouchable, she thinks, tracing the lifeline in Elissa's palm when Elissa sleeps. Her eyelids flutter, framing the face where Leliana has seen scars appear and fade over the course of time. Has brushed over bruises and blood, inefficiently soothed and helplessly prayed.
Maker lead her into Your light.
She's very difficult to love and much too careless with herself, but sometimes, Leliana thinks in her own defence - making excuses for being here and doing this -sometimes this is what people desire. There is beauty in it, in trying to mend. There is beauty. But to bear it, endure the weight of it, one has to be very strong.
Leliana is disappointed but relieved to watch it shatter.
They pack their things and part their ways and when Leliana leans in to give her a kiss and it is returned; when Elissa's fingers slowly reaches around that pulsating, shuffling dread of leaving and the joy at being free, Leliana closes her eyes and wills herself not to cry because even if heroes are untouchable, she is not.
“Maker watch over you, my Warden,” she says, breathlessly.
And she does not remember, not at all, how she is not even asked to go with them to Orlais. If she did remember, her heart would break. Just a little, just around the edges.
So she does not. It's better that way.