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dinoistrash · 2 months ago

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Parhelion - Chapter 1 of ??

Skin Parade

This work will be co-authored with @victory-for-sylvanas with independently written entries being added anthology style.

We've been talking about a sex club AU for two years now. Needless to say, a lot of flavor has been added since and it now covers two very different periods of Warcraft history. Oh, and in one of those Jaina is the Last Guardian and Sylvanas is fresh out of hell prison. Whee.

NSFW

8966 Words

Read it on Ao3!

Desire’s baring teeth Biting into me Welcome to the skin parade Before you give in, stay

Jaina Proudmoore, the Last Guardian and savior of Azeroth many times over, knows exactly how she wants to spend the first night she’s been in Silvermoon for pleasure in over two decades.

Saving the world, after all, does have its benefits. Being welcomed back into a city that had good reason to shun her previously with newly open arms is one of them. Reminiscing over how she remembered it in her youth is another, maybe tinged with a certain bittersweetness that she’d rather not dwell on too much.

Tonight, she focuses on good news. And the good news is, despite all that has happened to and within Silvermoon in the last year, the tall spire of Parhelion is still standing.

In fact, not much has changed about it at all. In a world where everything changes rapidly, terrifyingly, and often for the worst, it is a small comfort. The elven sex club of Jaina’s youth remains the same. She supposes that if Silvermoon were to have a sturdy foundation, it’s no surprise that this is it. The elves love their hedonism, and in that—and sometimes only that—Jaina has always aligned with them.

There’s no tinge of shame or apprehension even daring to gnaw at her as the bouncer eyes her, very much knowing who and what she is. Jaina has always been a person who turns heads—even the very first time she came here she turned quite a few. Now, she does so for different reasons. And if the elven man were to sneer and glare at her, well, he would not be the first. He would not be without his reasons.

Still, she is a foreign dignitary, and a card carrying member of the club, of course. Their cards are good for a century, and it has only been a mere twenty-two years since Jaina first claimed hers.

And while the bouncer quirks a long eyebrow at her, he does not bar her entry or refuse or offer a snide comment, he merely opens the door and lets her in.

What he does add, as she nods to him and takes her card back, is a quick recitation of the club’s rules. “Guardian,” he says with a returned nod. “It has been some time I see, but things remain mostly the same. If you recall, no thank you means no thank you, you are responsible for the quality of your own experience, you must be seen by the healer at the door on your way in, and, most importantly, what happens here stays here.”

Jaina is aware the membership card has arcane properties. The bouncer—a mage himself—is able to both read and write them. They speak of her past attendance, good standing, and what, if any, private suites she might be allowed access to, among other things.

She waves the card at him, reading the Thalassian runes of his filigree-bordered name tag, “I did my research to ensure I was abreast of the current rules and regulations, Galdanis. But I appreciate your reminder.”

She tucks the card back into the pocket of her robe. She might be so bold as to seek entry into Silvermoon’s elite sex club as a former enemy to the elves who made it, but she’s not so bold as to stride through their city as scantily clad as she is beneath her robe. Jaina knows this place has a coat check of sorts. She also knows that she likes to leave things to the imagination, if only for a little while.

Another pair of somewhat ridiculous elven eyebrows shoot up as she enters the door and is greeted by the priestess on station there. Elves think of everything, and being free to play without worrying about disease or unwanted pregnancy must be chief among their thoughts. As much as the dark-haired elven priestess does wear an expression of confusion mixed with curiosity, she holds out her hand to cast her blessing all the same. Jaina puts her hand in it, and feels the warmth of the priestess’ Light flowing through her, purging her of any possible ailment she might bring with her, and ensuring that nothing else leaves with her. She’s getting a little too old to have to worry about the second possibility anymore.

It’s all well and good, and an honest precaution all the same. But Jaina doesn’t think she’s here for men tonight and would have no such worries even if she were younger. She’s not sure what she’s here for, honestly. Maybe she’ll just have some drinks or smoke hookah and watch the burlesque shows in the lower lounges. Maybe she’ll stick to the baths in the basement level. Or maybe she’ll just watch others enjoy the upper lounge with the couches��where anything and everything may or may not happen.

Who is she kidding, really? It’s never just that. She’s never quite been content with just watching.

Her tastes have long been varied and enigmatic. Well, at least from the perspective of most human cultures. It is no wonder she fits in better amongst the elves—at least when it comes to sex.

The priestess lets go of her hand and nods to her. “Guardian,” she says.

The title sits heavily on Jaina. It is another reason for her to seek Parhelion again. Another reason she is glad to find it still thriving.

She knows Khadgar did not mean to burden her with it. She was the natural choice, after all, if it could not be him anymore. And when Silvermoon nearly fell again, he felt compelled to make that choice, rather than suffer in his perceived inadequacy. The combined efforts of all of the Kirin Tor’s mages had not been enough to cure him of the Void ailment that stole much of his mobility and had nearly stolen his life. They had not been enough to restore Dalaran either.

Saving Silvermoon was a consolation prize, of sorts. A rare victory in a string of seemingly endless defeats. Jaina doesn’t feel as though she can truly stand between Azeroth and what it may next face, but she does know there’s no one better for the job than her.

So she sports a robe of embroidered raven feathers with a mixture of pride and caution. They shimmer with blue and purple iridescence, as pure black has never quite suited her. She thinks about giving it over to the coat check, but decides to keep it on. The lingerie it covers only offers the same embroidered feathers spaced sparingly over a mostly sheer leotard, and Jaina wants to get a lay of the land first before that makes its debut.

One thing that has changed about Parhelion is that she is no longer one of few non-elves within its confines. The bar still bristles mostly with long ears and glowing eyes, but there are a few other races represented. A human woman dangles from a drape of deep red silk on the small stage to Jaina’s left, performing a topless aerial act with a mixture of strength and grace. A male orc, similarly shirtless, tends bar beside an elven woman in a lacey bralette and tight leggings. There’s even a tusked troll man leading a giggling pandaren Jaina isn’t sure she can further define toward the spiral stairs heading to the upper rooms. Truly a sign of great open-mindedness and tolerance amongst the once xenophobic elves.

A real symbol of peace, maybe, of change. Everything keeps changing.

But Jaina has changed too.

She seeks the bar, the natural first stop on a journey such as this. The orc nods to her as he pours her a glass of dry, mana-infused elven sparkling wine. In her younger days, her orders were usually the fruity cocktails and mixed drinks on offer with obscene names because she thought they were funny and preferred their sweetness. The bartender offers an orcish salute as he deposits it onto the bartop for her, his large fist thudding against a hairy green chest.

“Guardian,” he says.

Another reminder, but Jaina thinks it might be to acknowledge why he doesn’t ask for her membership card. No money changes hands here. Payments are set up separately though an unconnected office and tracked to the person via their membership. Very elven. Very efficient. Very thought out.

Jaina always appreciated the simplicity of it, and made sure her account was well-funded ahead of her visit.

She nods her thanks. The bar is too crowded to afford her space to properly scan the room, so she seeks a table near the stage. It has two chairs, a silent invitation for the other to be filled by an interested party. Jaina doesn’t think she’ll have to wait long for such a thing to happen, but sips her wine and takes a moment to look around and see if she will offer any invitations of her own first.

Finding nothing interesting amidst the sea of ears and eyebrows and the occasional something else, she watches the aerial act and wonders if they still have the room with similar strands of cloth hanging from its ceiling. Only these were connected to it in two places and meant to be used as swings. As Jaina begins to reason with herself that, yes, in all likelihood, the room still exists—despite all of Azeroth’s relentless changing, a graceful hand on the back of the empty chair stirs her from her thoughts.

The motion of the fingers, long and elegant in the way they meander, one by one, over the back of the chair is a memory in and of itself. Only now, their skin is an ashen, almost purple hue. The nails at their tips are painted black and filed to sharpness. Well, all but two of them, of course.

Jaina looks up to find none other than Sylvanas Windrunner peering down at her with newly blue eyes. Well, somewhat newly blue. She spent at least four, maybe even close to five years in the Maw with them—until the somewhat contemptible decision was made to release her from her punishment there so that she might help in the battle against the Void. Jaina, of course, had been one of the many detractors holding out against said release.

But now she finds herself with an amused smile on her lips as Sylvanas returns it. Except hers is more than that. She grins like a cat who’s finally caught the canary—fangs and all.

It’s only been more than twenty years since she’s last caught Jaina, for all of her newfound feathers.

“Well, well,” Sylvanas says. “What do we have here?”

At least she doesn’t call Jaina by her title, but then again, Sylvanas has never been one to stand for such formalities.

—

Twenty-two years ago

“Well, well. What do we have here?”

The words sound from above Jaina in smooth, flowing Common she doesn’t expect this far into Silvermoon’s heart.

It’s a relief. Her spoken Thalassian is passable at best, and while the elves who know her seem to tolerate it, those that don’t have scoffed more than once during her trip to Silvermoon. It doesn’t take much to make an elf scoff, though, so Jaina doesn’t let herself wallow in shame for it.

Shame is not the place or feeling for today. She’s banished it entirely from her mind. She’s just managed to get herself a much-coveted invitation to Silvermoon’s legendary sex club and plans to thoroughly enjoy it. Nevermind that she had to make some promises to Kael’thas she didn’t intend to keep to get said invitation. Such is the price of her present to herself, though. She’s earned it, working her way up into the Kirin Tor as fast as she has.

Light and Tides both know she needs the vacation.

Her more innocent tourism has made her familiar with the face associated with the voice. It’s Sylvanas Windrunner who grins down at her now—the Ranger General of Silvermoon, head of the elven army. Earlier in the day, Jaina had spent some time sketching a fountain dedicated to her and the statue of her at its center. It was in a peaceful square not too far from here—well circle. Everything is round here. The elves love their curves.

Sylvanas Windrunner has fewer curves than her statue, but in a good way. She is all angles and a broad, slightly lopsided smile that is not quite a smirk, but could easily transform into one.

She is the first person of all people in this club to come up to Jaina, and waits with well-practiced etiquette to take the seat opposite her.

Jaina hides her surprise in a sip of her cocktail—a sunfruit and cherry flavored thing called a Belore’s Blush. She wills her own cheeks to avoid redness as much as she can, which isn’t much. It’s only the most important and beautiful woman in the room who seeks her attention right now, and Jaina gestures for her to sit as she knows she must.

There is apparently a lot of etiquette associated with these sorts of establishments, and even more so in this one—Parhelion, where Silvermoon’s elite come to play. Jaina received a pamphlet on it that afternoon as she turned her invitation into a membership card. The process was very formal and very elven. She expected nothing less, but still found herself surprised by how regulated it all was.

Jaina remembers the rules and expectations that she’s since committed to her mind. She’s responsible both for initiating and acknowledging the initiations of others she welcomes here. Ensuring she does both when necessary are important for her enjoyment and the enjoyment of others—so the pamphlet says.

Sylvanas sits, grinning. She is tall for an elf and her eyes glow a soft grey along with their slight oversheen of arcane blue. She is a stunningly attractive woman—more statuesque than her statue. She wears a vest of deep blue silk embroidered with golden thread that can barely be called a vest—for it only clings to the top of her shoulders and goes no lower than the feather-shaped lace edging of her cream-colored bandeau. Her well-defined abdominal muscles are on display for all to see, but it’s Jaina who’s already thinking about how they might be properly highlighted in other ways.

She looks at Jaina as though she already knows her name, or maybe that she just isn’t concerned with it right now.

Jaina does her best to show she isn’t concerned with it either. “Are you saying that because I’m the only human in the room, or because of something else?” she dares to ask over the sugared rim of her Belore’s Blush.

“Do you think me that crass? Word must get around even to Dalaran, if so,” Sylvanas answers with a laugh.

Their voices carry sharply over almost too loud and definitely too close music. On stage, a pair of elven women in sheer robes play dueling harps that somehow lose the soothing nature of the instrument to sultriness. Jaina regrets how close she chose to sit to them, but she liked the flowing elegance of their movements, and had reasoned with herself that she could settle in quite nicely watching them with her drink while she thought about her next move.

Only Sylvanas came to her just after she sat down, and Jaina has had no time to think this through. Not that she minds. This is the best possible result she could ask for, after all.

Sylvanas’ statement about Dalaran proves she knows who and what Jaina is and isn’t asking otherwise. Jaina already likes that about her.

“I never said it was crass. Some people are direct in their preferences for the exotic. I mean, what do you think I’m doing here?” Jaina asks in return.

“Seeking something you do not yet have,” Sylvanas offers, lifting her own drink in a mock toast—a glass of sparking mana wine, of course. “Or rather, seeking something you didn’t know you were missing.”

—

Sylvanas must be celebrating her heroic redemption here in Parhelion, but then again, how is that so different from what Jaina’s doing? It’s not, and the irony isn’t lost on her. It’s why she smiles up at the woman she’d railed against releasing from the very bowels of hell itself.

It’s also because they first met here, and it’s somehow so fitting for them to meet here again, despite it all.

Jaina answers the question she left to hang in the air for a moment, above the murmur of the full bar and the rustle of the aerialist’s silks, “A woman seeking something she does not yet have, or maybe something she didn’t know she was missing.”

She gestures for Sylvanas to sit.

Sylvanas smirks her quiet acceptance and does. Tonight, her ashen skin contrasts against a black leather bra that has far too many straps to it for them all to serve a practical use. It matches the black leather and other impractical straps of her leggings and knee-high boots.

“I would say you’re just about the last person I was expecting to see here tonight, but I’m certain you feel the same about me,” Sylvanas tells her. Echoing the past as they have been, she offers her glass in a mock toast—a double shot of a dark-looking liquor on the rocks with a peel of sunfruit twisted in it. “To Azeroth,” she toasts.

Jaina lifts her mana-wine to match it, clinking glass to glass. “To Azeroth,” she agrees, as it is the one subject she’s sure they can still agree on.

They sit in a club in a city where they were once shunned and now return to as unlikely heroes. Sylvanas attracts as many wary gazes as Jaina does from the patrons of the bar, but they remind themselves of the rules and mind their business. It makes Jaina think she must have arrived only shortly after her.

“So, you’re back to the old stomping grounds, I see?” Jaina asks for her own curiosity.

“I could say the same of you,” Sylvanas points out. “Truth be told, it is the first night since things have settled down that I’ve had the opportunity to come here. It was very kind of them to honor a dead woman’s membership.”

When she speaks casually like this, the banshee echo of the double tone of her voice isn’t as easy to hear. Jaina can almost ignore it to find the smooth lilt it had in life, but there is no questioning that Sylvanas is still very much undead. Her soul is intact now, her eyes glow blue instead of red, her sins are somewhat redeemed, but she is still dead.

She herself does seem to forget this, but does not suffer in her beauty for it. The angular frame of her archer’s musculature remains much the same as it was all that time ago, when Jaina first eyed it at a different table too close to the stage. While many things have ravaged her through wars and death and conflicts alike, time is not something that eats at Sylvanas Windrunner.

Jaina watches her lean back in the chair. Sylvanas makes a performative sip at her drink but mostly seems to enjoy swirling the ice in it around. Jaina wonders if she can even taste it.

“I was similarly surprised to find mine in good standing as well,” Jaina tells her. “Funny enough, this is also the first time I’ve made use of it since…”

She trails off. Neither she nor Sylvanas offer the conclusion of that sentence. They both know what it is and lack the words to describe it. They both know too that some things are better left undescribed. Words can make things messy. Here in Parhelion, one learns to stay quiet when it makes sense, or at least when one is told to.

“It is fate then, that we should share a drink here again. I know there is little left that either you or I are likely to put our faith into, but I think that we can both believe in that sort of providence,” Sylvanas offers.

Sylvanas is right in that regard. She is wrong about many things. She is also right about many things.

Jaina weighs and measures her. It’s said the Sethrakk have a god who weighs one’s heart against a feather to see if it is light enough to gain entry into their heaven. She and Sylvanas both know there is no heaven—only more work to be done and a now empty hell await in the afterlife. Both of their hearts are too heavy anyway.

Jaina’s is made of lead these days. “Is a drink all you’re planning on sharing?” she asks.

Sylvanas smiles. “I mostly plan for nothing but disappointment these days. You, however, have never been disappointing.”

—

Jaina is a little more buzzed than she intended to be—between her second Belore’s Blush and the mana-infused blood thistle in that hookah—but it doesn’t really matter because she’s kissing the Ranger General of Silvermoon.

And Sylvanas Windrunner is a very good kisser.

She tastes of wine and smoke and magic. Her lips leave Jaina’s to brush against her neck and Jaina finds herself pressed into the smooth marble of the lounge’s walls. They haven’t quite made it up the stairs yet, and they’re not the only people who have found distraction on that journey. Jaina would be content to be fucked right here and now and perhaps desires it, but one of Parhelion’s rules is that clothing must remain on in the first floor lounges. Well, with notable exceptions for the performers, though—and with very little limitations on how much that clothing can show or not show, or what acts might be performed despite it.

Jaina does know that she wants to see this woman naked. In due time. Eventually. She knows she very much wants to fuck her in some way, shape, or form. They must move upward for that to happen in proper fashion.

“Do you have a suite here?” Jaina asks as Sylvanas scrapes at the skin of her neck with teeth that hint at their ability to do far more than just that.

“You could say that,” she answers, dawdling the dip of Jaina’s collarbone.

Jaina has learned she likes to tease. Sylvanas has been teasing her for the last hour and she’s never been this worked up in all of her twenty-two years of life. She wears a robe that’s really more just a shawl—Kirin Tor purple fringed in gold—that covers a bodice with laces that scream to be undone and panties she knows are forever ruined from Sylvanas’ teasing. Or perhaps improved. Jaina hasn’t decided yet.

She forces the issue, sliding her hand down between them to inch a finger past the waistband of Sylvanas’ deep brown leggings. “Tell me, or maybe you should just show me,” she demands.

Jaina finds the barest hint of wetness there, then pulls back and settles the evidence of her arousal against Sylvanas’ own hips. Further actions await prompt responses.

Sylvanas grins still, found out. She kisses her way up Jaina’s neck leisurely anyway before her own hand moves, gripping Jaina’s jaw as a thumb graces her still wet lips. “Will you have such a mouth on you when you’re in the Ranger General’s suite, I wonder? Or is that too auspicious a place for me to bring you on our first playdate?”

“The mouth isn’t optional, I’m afraid,” Jaina informs her. “But it can be kept otherwise occupied, should you like. As for the suite, well, I’ve been described as a bit of an overachiever. I like to aim high.”

“It’s on the top floor.”

“Of course it is.”

They both laugh. That has been driving Jaina as wild as Sylvanas teasing and touches have for this past hour. She’s very funny and charming and she knows it. Jaina knows she’s laying it on somewhat thick, but she likes it. She likes her.

She would have been just fine going straight up to some place to fuck, but appreciates the condensed and intentional courting that’s been going on. She also knows when it’s time to end it. That time was five minutes ago.

“Allow me then,” Sylvanas says as she drops her hand from Jaina’s face to offer it to her to be escorted. “And I’ll take you to the highest target I have for you.”

“If you’re about to make another pun about arrows, I may smack you,” Jaina warns, but takes her hand anyway.

“What if that’s what I’ve come here for tonight, hmm? To be slapped around by a pretty mage. Not a bad way to spend an evening,” Sylvanas notes. “Maybe not my particular fetish, but perhaps I will be on my own journey of self-discovery tonight.”

“You’re insufferable,” Jaina tells her.

“You’re wet for me all the same,” Sylvanas observes.

In the middle of the stairs, there is an elevator powered by some form of enchanted crystals Jaina will have to investigate later. Right now, she’s too preoccupied with the way Sylvanas goes from guiding her to it like a gentleman to grabbing her by the ass and holding her as tight to her as they can manage once the elevator doors close behind them.

The elevator glass and everyone can see them. Everyone climbing the stairs around them can see as Sylvanas slides a thigh beneath Jaina’s short shawl robe and between her legs and everyone can see as Jaina leaves it soaked in her wake. Everyone can see as she squirms on it and nearly comes—still fully clothed—for this incredible woman before they even reach the top.

But Jaina has other plans. She can wait. She can wait just a little longer.

—

Jaina’s third glass of mana-wine feels the same as the first. Sylvanas still nurses the same rocks glass, but now it’s mostly ice and citrus peels. It makes no difference to the temperature of her undead skin, which Jaina finds tepid, matching the air and not heated by the rush of blood. It’s not unpleasant or even cold, as some might describe.

And she’s still an excellent kisser.

Jaina learned long ago to separate names and titles and expectations from what happens in Parhelion. Things are what they are and people are just people. They all fuck the same, except when they don’t. While she will happily confess that she’s fucked many people since then, she’s never found someone else quite like Sylvanas Windunner.

Her skin might be temperate and her teeth might be a little more sharp. But her mouth is still wet and wanting and for that, Jaina thinks other things might be too. If not, they can have a quick visit to the club’s shop to find potions and spells that might provide other ways to have fun, but Jaina desires a simpler easing back into things. At least for tonight. The slowness of Sylvanas’ advances and the fact that they’ve taken three glasses of wine to get to make her think she feels the same.

They test these waters together in a somewhat private alcove in the hall between the second floor lounges and the bathrooms. It’s not that Jaina doesn’t want to be seen with her—Parhelion’s rules protect her from any gossip that might go around this, and are surprisingly well-enforced—but more that she craves the small distance a somewhat hidden place provides. She can hear a man moaning in the bathroom as he’s presumably having a good time with someone in there. She can still see two couples fucking on the glass-walled exhibition stage from this angle. They likely can’t see much of her, as smothered by the dark leather of Sylvanas as she is now, but they are focused on other things.

It’s one of the reasons Jaina always enjoyed this place. She likes feeling a part of something. She likes belonging while standing apart at the same time.

And maybe, just maybe, she likes fucking when and where other people know she’s fucking.

“A shame about the suite,” Jaina says as Sylvanas’s teeth let go of her bottom lip.

She doesn’t say Ranger General’s suite or “your” suite, because that would feel too sore and raw and too close to dark seas she doesn’t want to dive into. Sylvanas knows what she means. She doesn’t need the words to remind her.

“Funny you should say,” she hisses as Jaina now bends to suck at the skin of her neck, mostly to see if it’s still capable of bruising. “I just learned earlier today that Halduron refused it, and that, technically, the suite is still registered to me. Lor’themar took the royal suite, of course, so what use was it to one of his lovers? Needless to say, I’ve arranged for some renovations. I’m afraid we must wait until they're finished. The old styling no longer suits me.”

All of this is surprising and not surprising to Jaina at the same time. Elves are long-lived and seldom changing people. They do not move quickly on things and often stand on ceremony. She could certainly see the suite being left to Sylvanas for a time as some form of respect or mourning among friends. She doesn’t really understand how that lasted through the events of the Fourth War, but perhaps it was just forgotten, as many things are.

It’s a boon all the same. Maybe Sylvanas is right. Fate is watching out for them and just picking a strange venue to acknowledge it in.

Jaina will take it, and hold it amidst her tiny collection of small victories.

“Then I shall have to take you to the one I’ve arranged for myself this week,” Jaina tells a faint, but definitely forming bruise under one long ear. Its lobe is equally reft with new nicks and scars and some she’s very familiar with.

“The library?”

“How did you know?”

Sylvanas smiles. It’s still a lopsided affair—but looks more predatory than silly now. Perhaps it’s her teeth. Perhaps it’s the unnatural blue of her eyes. Perhaps it’s the guardedness they still hold as they look at Jaina, even the woman behind them clearly intends to fuck her.

“I remember,” is Sylvanas’ answer. Both words drip with hinted sentiment and an odd intimacy that Jaina finds jarring, yet comforting. It’s always how she would feel, and how she anticipated feeling from the moment she stepped back into Parhelion.

She had just expected to be the only one feeling it.

—

The Ranger General’s suite is both grand and not too opulent. Elves have a thing for gold and filigree and maximalism to the point of hurting the eyes for it all, but Sylvanas has thankfully kept the decor here on the clean and simple side—for an elf, at least.

She explained as much to Jaina through a few failed attempts to get her to unlace her high, boot-like laced sandals—and through several compliments on them as well. Jaina notes these things along with her enjoyment of Sylvanas’ own high, side-laced boots and a question for later about what cobbler made them. In this, they might share another interest—both in the sexual and fashion realms.

Only Jaina’s interests are narrowed right now. She wants to fuck, yes, but she also wants to know what Sylvanas tastes like—and her mouth is not providing enough of a sample for proper study.

She drives the point home with a playful push at the elf’s sternum. Her useless, tiny vest had just been flung aside a moment before, leaving her only in that lacey bandeau beneath it. Sylvanas allows fingers against that lace to defeat her, and gives in to Jaina’s direction toward a navy-colored velvet settee.

Jaina climbs atop her as she falls back onto it, knowing there’s no way she could knock this woman over if she didn’t want to be toppled. The golden tassels of her robe decorate sun-kissed skin. They brush over hinted pink nipples straining against creamy lace. Sylvanas’ breasts are small, as many elves are, but Jaina likes them. She likes the way they feel against hers as she brings them together in a searing kiss.

“This is the part where you tell me what you’re in the mood for,” Sylvanas says as she pointedly kisses her way towards Jaina’s ear. Jaina thinks she might enjoy the difference between them there, as she always wends and weaves her way over to it.

“We’ll get there,” Jaina tells her, because she already knows.

She slips down the further exposed swath of Sylvanas’ frame, kissing her way over scar and muscle and curves all the same. Her skin tastes of wine and a little sweat and there’s nothing wrong with any of that. But it’s not enough.

“Would it be cause for great cultural offense to your people if I say that I’d just like to get to know one another more simply first?” Jaina queries before she samples the texture of lace over breast with her tongue.

Sylvanas lets a small keening noise slip through her smirk. “Not at all. But I am curious as to what else you might want to try. Surely you did not come here for drinks, conversation, and heavy petting, no?”

This only urges Jaina onward. Sylvanas doesn’t know that she’s not the first woman she’s fucked or even the first elf. She will not be the last of either, or at least not according to Jaina’s plans for her life. Nor is she the first person Jaina’s ever fucked at a sex club, though Dalaran’s version of such an establishment can only be described as docile and meek compared to Parhelion. Jaina can find out exactly how docile later. Right now, she has a need to continue collecting data.

Jaina gives the bandeau one last kiss. She will miss it, but has other places to be. “I came here for a taste of what’s on offer. All that’s on offer,” she clarifies.

Jaina slides out of Sylvanas lap and onto the floor. A plush rug cushions her knees and she has no doubt it is here to serve that exact purpose.

Sylvanas doesn’t realize the nature of her joke until Jaina is kissing the wet spot she left behind on her upper thigh. “Is this how you prefer to get to know people?” she asks.

Jaina likes giving head, yes. That much is true. She likes to look up and see people lost in her, hypnotized by her, mesmerized by her. It makes her feel powerful in a way that usually only magic does. There’s a lot to be said about holding the world in the palm of one’s hand and all, but what about holding it on your tongue? Jaina finds that closer, and she needs this closeness.

She craves and craves. It’s not so much a satisfaction she seeks but a continued hunger. She wants the sting of its pangs.

“I’d prefer to get you off with my mouth. It’ll help it to think of how it would like to tell you what you can do to me after,” Jaina informs Sylvanas.

“Well, don’t let me stop you then.”

Her smirk widens, taking on the pink hue of the lip gloss Jaina left behind on it. Teeth bite down on it when Jaina snaps her fingers and blinks Sylvanas’ leggings away, but leaves the boots. Air hisses from it as she braces herself on Sylvanas’ strong thighs and runs her thumbs over the distinct v-line cradled by her hips. The smirk disappears entirely as Jaina sets her tongue to Sylvanas for the first time.

She tastes divine. Salt and magic. Wine and flesh. Jaina rewards her for it with a tingle of arcane on her tongue.

Sylvanas bucks into it, breathing out, “Oh, little mage. What a good trick. We’re…we’re going to have so much fun tonight.”

—

The library suite is much the same as it was the last time Jaina rented it. It's themed to evoke a period of elven history long since past but still very present even in a Silvermoon that is rebuilding itself to something new. Everything is marble and dark wood and heavy, but elegant drapery. Books line the walls in neat shelves. Some are fake triggers for the room’s features. Others are written erotica or filled with evocative art. Most of them are purely academic in nature.

Jaina has spent many a fine hour here practicing her written and spoken Thalassian by reading them aloud. Sylvanas had offered to help her study, of course, and by study, she meant fucking her while she read to her and finding out how much of a book Jaina could get through until she’d have to tap out.

Jaina remembers finishing one smaller volume on thermodynamics one night. They’d had to order room service of water and healing potions to drink with the dawn.

Needless to say, her spoken Thalassian remains excellent to this day. As does her knowledge of thermodynamics.

Sylvanas looks out of place here in her black leather. There are plenty of rooms at Parhelion that would serve it better, and Jaina would enjoy them too. It’s clear to her that they both feel a sting of sentimentality in this place, as much as Jaina feels reminiscent about the sting between her legs she’s felt here before.

“Were you needing to brush up on your favorite language lessons?” Sylvanas asks her.

Jaina pointedly responds in Thalassian, “No. I’m still quite competent. I guess I just arranged for a familiar space. I did not think I would have a familiar face to accompany me in it.”

“It’s not all that familiar,” Sylvanas reminds her, easily slipping into her native tongue to match.

The separation she needs to find to banish these words is hard. Sylvanas is right. It’s been twenty-two years. They are completely different people. They have been enemies. They are not really friends, but have cooperated recently. Jaina admits that watching her on the same side of the battlefield made her feel things, think things. She cannot feel or think them now, though.

“Then let’s be unfamiliar. We can get to know one another again,” Jaina proposes.

She emphasizes the thought for her own courage and need by stepping toward Sylvanas to weave two fingers between the purposeless leather straps that cover where her ribcage meets her breasts. Jaina has not touched an undead creature this much before, but she likes the feel of room temperature skin that still responds beneath her fingertips, if slowly.

Sylvanas brings a hand to her ear, apparently still fascinated by its roundness. She slides a finger along the ridge of it, then flicks the earring that hangs from it—a Kirin Tor eye in silver with a glowing blue crystal iris. How fitting.

“That’s fine by me,” Sylvanas answers as her hand moves to mirror the position of the other on the shoulders of Jaina’s feather robe.

She slides her hands apart from one another, letting the robe widen at the neck and sag. It catches on Jaina’s breasts and the hook of her elbows, but she blinks it away and lets her magic tell it to fold itself neatly on the back of a desk chair.

Sharp blue eyes of a mended and supposedly repentant soul rove her with interest both old and new. Beneath the embroidered feathers over her lingerie, Jaina knows they will find her changed where Sylvanas has not. Her figure is fuller, and age and time do ravage her, though the Guardian’s power now slows them significantly. Still—she is forty-four, a far cry of difference from twenty-two. She enjoys how the age looks on her, how it transforms her—how she jokes now that the crow’s feet on at the creases of her eyes are raven’s feet to accompany her new title—but stepping into elven territory where people do not age much always has Jaina questioning that confidence.

Still, a familiar smirk returns. Sylvanas’ hands find her hips. They lift her with strength enhanced by undeath, but a gentleness learned long before that. They set Jaina down onto her knees on the curtained bed, not bothering to take off her boots first. Or, perhaps choosing not to.

Sylvanas lays herself down on her back, halfway on the bed and half off of it. She looks up to Jaina with a grin as she says, “I am familiar with a very good way of getting to know someone, would you like to try it?”

By the time Jaina answers, “Of course,” Sylvanas is already sliding her hands between her thighs.

With one of them, she braces herself as she slides further beneath her. With the other, she grips Jaina’s inner thigh and uses the black lacquered tip of her thumb to pull her leotard aside. She urges Jaina toward her mouth, and Jaina follows.

That mouth is the same temperature as the rest of her. It sends a shiver up Jaina’s spine in the best of ways, and she relishes in the difference. It’s enough to banish reminiscence from her mind for a moment, even if it’s clear Sylvanas’ tongue remembers what she likes. They can be strangers again. They can find the new in one another.

Jaina can agree to fuck her like she doesn’t remember. Like she can forget all they’ve done to and for one another.

This is different and divine. Sylvanas’ tongue and lips grow warmer and wetter as they leech both things from Jaina. But she doesn’t begrudge the theft. She braces herself against the silk of the bedcovers and the thankfully plush mattress. She grows bold enough to seek a hand hold on Sylvanas’ upper arm, then to find a use for those straps around her bra as she rocks into her.

Jaina moans with disappointment at herself at how quickly she’s coming undone. She doesn’t want this to end but desperately reaches for the finish. But she needs more. So much more. Maybe that is where she’s different now.

She rocks forward again but urges her hips to still. She doesn’t want to hurt the person working so diligently between them, after all. Person, creature, enemy, friend. What does it matter? It never did in Parhelion. It never will.

Sylvanas lifts her again and Jaina thinks she seeks a break. Or air.

It’s anything but. She pants with only desire as she says, “Stop holding back. I don’t need to breathe.”

Jaina looks down to find new blue eyes full of lust, lidded as they stare up at her, waiting for acknowledgement. The very thing they acknowledge is terrible, but useful. So useful in this moment.

Jaina nods to her, too lost to do anything else. Too lost in the strength of the arms that hold her aloft and how her pinky finger is the only one that maintains its grip on black leather now.

Sylvanas sets her down. All the way down. It’s not just her tongue Jaina feels, but her lips, her teeth, the skin of her entire face contrasting in varying degrees of the heat it craves to steal from her. Her own moans join Jaina’s—purposefully breathless and lacking in air she refuses because she does not need it and this is so much more important.

And that’s how Jaina comes for this new Sylvanas Windrunner for the first time.

—

Jaina licks the Ranger General clean. It’s the right thing to do, after all, and Sylvanas seems to love her attentiveness. Each little jerk of her hips and roll of her head on her neck makes Jaina think she might be able to get her off a second time like this, but then her soft eyes blink themselves open, and any thoughts of a leisurely paced worshipping are banished.

Sylvanas is lifting her into her lap and Jaina lets herself be lifted. Sylvanas is kissing herself from Jaina’s lips and cheeks and Jaina lets herself be kissed.

“You are full of surprises,” Sylvanas kisses into her shoulder as she peels the shawl-like robe off of them. “But you haven’t told me what you want yet.”

“I was thinking,” Jaina informs her.

“If that’s how you prefer to think, I can’t imagine how any of the women of Dalaran survive your studying,” Sylvanas jokes.

Her voice has lost some of its nasal notes, dipping deeper into a place that only lust can color. She’s still hungry and that’s good, because Jaina is starving. At the same time, she’s ready to be eaten—and wouldn’t mind it physically as well as metaphorically, but whatever is happening in Sylvanas’ lap is fine too.

The robe, for all its golden tassels, is soon shoved to the floor. Sylvanas plays with the laces of her bodice for only a few moments, thankfully, before she begins to undo them.

“And study you must have,” Sylvanas goes on, each word punctuated by laces sliding through grommets. “But that doesn’t get you out of telling me. So, what do you like, Jaina?”

It’s the first time Sylvanas says her name and proves that she does indeed know exactly who she is. It’s also the word that frees her breasts, and Jaina struggles to react to both revelations at the same time as Sylvanas slides the bodice down her arms to join the robe on the ground.

Sylvanas buries her face in her chest. Jaina can feel the heat in her cheeks. “I like this,” she answers. “I like you. I like a lot of things.”

She can tease too. And the result is worth it. An elven fang nips dangerously close to her nipple as a rebuke, and clever hands shift her higher onto Sylvanas’ lap. One of them delves into her panties, but they might as well not even be there for how soaked they are.

Sylvanas circles her with two fingers, asking again, “Tell me more. What do you want me to do to you? What do you want to do to me?”

Jaina is almost painfully turned on. The moment friction finds her, the retorts she had prepared fall out of her head. She is writhing and wanting and needs those fingers to touch her harder than this.

She gives in, and has never been so happy to in all her life. “Blindfolds,” she hisses. “Ropes and restraints.”

Sylvanas smiles against her collarbone. She flicks her fingers to gather more wetness and circles Jaina again, just once. “And? Surely that’s not all. Surely you desire something you can only find here.”

“Magic,” Jaina breathes. “The enchanted toys and potions I hear can be found here.”

“Tame and predictable for a mage, I’d say,” Sylvanas says, but rewards her with a little more pressure all the same. “That can’t be all of it.”

A moan slips out rather than an answer. It turns into a whine as it isn’t so similarly rewarded.

“It’s important for me to know this, Jaina,” Sylvanas urges her.

Jaina thinks she might come just from her saying that name alone. She licks her lips to find the remnants of Sylvanas on them. This is only the beginning of her night. She might just die here in Parhelion on her first visit, but that’s just fine. It’s so fine.

“Teasing, but you already knew that,” Jaina sighs, bowing her head to kiss the top of Sylvanas’ platinum blonde and still perfect hair. It smells like flowers and fruit and sun.

This gets her only the barest swipe, but it’s enough to have her bucking her hips as her body seeks more of what Sylvanas denies her.

“Spanking,” she offers freely without prompting, desperate for more contact.

Fingers dart in her and out of her too quickly, leaving her wishing they would never leave.

She dares to roll toward them. “Collars,” she breathes, hoping that’s enough.

“That’s a little better,” Sylvanas tells her, but keeps the fingers circling her clit, light but now unstopping. “On me or on you?”

“Both,” Jaina says.

“Interesting. Very interesting. What else?” Sylvanas continues, beckoning both with her voice and her fingers.

Jaina has run out of her list. There’s more and she knows it and Sylvanas does too. The words aren’t coming but she’s close to coming herself. She wants. She needs. And she knows Sylvanas can give it to her. She already knows.

“You. I want you. I want whatever you want to show me, whatever you want to give me,” Jaina says, the words falling from her lips between hitches and hisses and into Sylvanas’ hair.

A laugh shakes them both. A smile accompanies the fingers that slide into her and the thumb that takes over their work.

“That’s what I thought,” Sylvanas says as Jaina feels herself tighten around those fingers.

—

The tall, arched window of the library suite streaks with the first purples of the coming dawn. It is a sacred hour for elves, and while Jaina is sore, she is not yet tired.

Sylvanas does not tire and does not need to sleep and has reminded her of both of these things at least twice. They are as handy and as sexy as her lack of need for air. Still, she doesn’t seem to mind the breaks Jaina needs. She even remembered the wine Jaina was drinking before and ordered up another bottle and ice for it.

Two glasses too. Sylvanas’ sits, still half-full atop a book that was featured earlier in the night. They only made it through the first two chapters, but Jaina thinks she’ll strive for three next time. Her endurance isn’t what it used to be, but can be improved. Such is the way of the living and changing.

Jaina’s glass needs refilling, but she doesn’t feel like asking and doesn’t want to stir quite yet. She lays on the bed comfortably apart from Sylvanas, but close to her—a finger’s breadth between them at the shortest distance.

Her lingerie and boots are gone. She is naked save her anchor necklace and the Kirin Tor eye earrings. The only other thing that covers her skin are the marks that Sylvanas has left behind. Bruises, bites, the delicate puncture of fangs on a thigh that Jaina had to beg for, but not long. Not much.

The room is a wreck of cast off clothes and leather. A leather harness and the dildo it held are tossed next to a vase of dried flowers near the window that frames the dawn. A rope of fine jute drapes, discarded over the end of the bed. A bottle of enchanted, self-warming lubricant sits next to the bucket of half-melted ice the wine swims in.

There’s equal evidence of the aftermath of all of this. Towels aplenty. Massage oil that smells of soothing lavender and other healing herbs—and was slick and wonderful on Sylvanas’ strong hands. A cheese plate empty of all but a few crumbs that Sylvanas insisted was necessary on the last break. She’s lucky that Jaina has longed to reconnect with Silvermoon’s legendary fromagerie scene, now that she is no longer unwelcome here.

“I’m not tired yet,” Jaina echoes her thought to Sylvanas.

“You should be,” she replies.

She is naked too, but has been for less time. It took more convincing for her than it once did for her to let Jaina touch her. There was a point where she wasn’t sure it would happen, or if she should stop asking. But it turns out that the Banshee Queen can still come.

No. That’s not her. That’s a Sylvanas Jaina never knew like this. The woman who she is now is less spiteful and spitting, more hesitant and contemplative. Despite the filth she’s whispered into Jaina’s ears all night, it’s seemed to her like she’s had something to say to her this entire time that she simply won’t spit out.

But Jaina is fine with it. She’s fine with not talking about these things or the world or how it’s all changed so much around them, around this place where they’ve come together yet again. She’s fine with just being here. Just laying here. She’s fine with just fucking.

She’s fine with admitting that this version of Sylvanas is just as good for her as the first one was. She’s fine with keeping that admission to herself.

Jaina shifts from her back to her elbows. In the process, she plants one in the gap between Sylvanas’ arm and her ribs.

She leans over her and says, “I should be exhausted. But I’m not. I want more. You want more. Let’s have it.”

Sylvanas looks up at her. She brings a hand up to trace the line of her jaw, and thumbs the earrings she seems to like so much. She smiles, and it somehow looks more tired than Jaina should be right now.

She’s touched Jaina’s face more than she used to. Jaina tries to banish the comparisons, but they keep coming. She cannot have them be strangers. Not when Sylvanas continues to prove that her soul remembers, time and time again.

“What will you have next, then?” Sylvanas asks.

“It’s your turn, Sylvanas,” Jaina reminds her. “At least I think it is. So, what do you want?”

Sylvanas keeps the hand on her cheek, but moves the other around Jaina’s hips to scoot her further on top of her.

“You,” she answers without breaking eye contact, arcane blue to blue. Jaina’s eyes glow now too with the grace of the Guardian. They match, finally.

Jaina kisses her, because she feels that’s all she can give her right now. Because Sylvanas has just said what she’s been biting back all night.

So Jaina gives her herself.

#hey i know them #the good fic #the sexy adventures of jaina proudwhore

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dinoistrash · 3 months ago

Text

In Dreams 4

An Interlude: Marble and Stone

Oops. I put Valadrin smut in this Sylvaina fic. It's me. You knew it would happen sooner or later.

NSFW

3828 Words

Read it on Ao3!

I’m holy alone With filth-ridden fever dreams Oh, she sings Prayers without words, yet she worships me

“Not now.”

Two words greet her like scathing accusations. Valeera knows they aren’t for her. Still, they sting a little.

Not in a bad way.

She knows she isn’t the only visitor Liadrin gets in her dreams. Sylvanas had just been by. Valeera had been tailing her, after all. It was interesting to see how she delayed her inevitable nightly trips to Jaina Proudmoore’s dreams.

Tonight, Liadrin is the sculptor again. Tomorrow, she might be something else. Her dreams are always very serious and focused things. Sometimes, Valeera will watch them for a while before she disturbs them.

She has watched countless sermons, stayed late in an office to find Liadrin pouring over ledgers and accounts, and has seen this statue come to life many times over. Valeera knows the finished product always looks like her, and she should be flattered by the fact.

She isn’t. Worship isn’t a thing she enjoys. Attention, yes, but that’s different. Very different.

But she isn’t here for any of that. If there’s one thing she can be honest with herself about, it’s the very reason she’s willing to join anyone’s Void dream: curiosity.

“Not even for me?” Valeera asks.

She’s not supposed to say this. She can feel the dream resisting her, threatening to pop like a bubble around the disturbance of her very existence. She wonders if this is what it was like for those that tried to free her from her own sleep. But that’s another thing she won’t entertain thinking deeply on. Not now.

Still, against her own grain, Liadrin turns. She looks at her. The flash in her golden eyes tells Valeera her voice is familiar to her, even in this scenario. Valeera knows it is. Still, she likes this attention.

It’s what she’s come for, after all. Curiosity is second place in this particular dream.

Valeera knows the feeling of those dusty, calloused hands on her skin. It’s not so different from life. It’s why she chooses to visit her sometimes lover in her dreams. She craves familiar satisfaction in new and exciting flavors.

Mostly, she craves people. Not enough of them are awake. Reality is bleak and barren, but Liadrin’s dreams always have a sense of containment to them that makes a world with a population of two seem comfortable. And they are temporary. The state of the world is not. Well, maybe.

That’s not up to Valeera. Not tonight. Probably not ever.

She hangs on the doorway to Liadrin’s workshop, lingering and wondering if the other woman has any awareness of her comings and goings. Surely, she never fucks her like it’s the first time. At least there’s that.

“For you, maybe not,” Liadrin replies.

The stiffness of her long, ruddy brows softens a little. It makes Valeera want to lunge forward and give her a reason to scowl again. But she doesn’t.

“Only maybe?” Valeera asks. “I think I’ve earned more than that.”

She tests dreams subtly. It is an art to her. A gift.

Sylvanas and her Forsaken advise others to be direct and honest when attempting to wake others--to tell them what’s going on outside, to remind them of friends and family. Valeera thinks these are terrible ideas.

She remembers what it’s like to sleep and not to want to wake. If she knew what waited for her on the other side, well, she still might be sleeping.

Sometimes, the illusion is better than the truth. It’s like how Sylvanas pretends not to see her stalking around her on the battlefield at night. It’s the same as how Valeera pretends her stomach doesn’t turn into knots as she witnesses the younger Windrunner sister crying in camp when she thinks she’s alone. At least Vereesa has left for Dalaran again now, and there’s no chance of such an encounter happening again for a while.

Still, she wants acknowledgement. She craves understanding. Tell me you know me, Liadrin, she thinks. Tell me you haven’t forgotten me.

Liadrin doesn’t say anything. She rubs her hands together, attempting to wipe the dust from them, but only grinding chips of marble into her skin further. Valeera knows what they feel like--the texture of microscopic stone on her. She wants for many things, but that grain on her skin at least is easy to get.

Only after this does Liadrin say, “I suppose I can take a break. For you.”

Tonight, the statue is only half done. It’s roughed-out marble in the vague shape of an elf. The face isn’t detailed, but Liadrin has begun to focus instead on the folds of her dress. This version is seated and regal. Sometimes, the stone Valeera is dancing, praying, singing.

She is and does none of these things.

Valeera looks down at her own simple clothes--elven in make and all red silk. Her blouse is low cut and she wears nothing under the skirt. The dream, at this point, must know what she’s here for. Or maybe it is her will made manifest. She will have to remember to pry the thoughts out of some Dark Ranger or Apothecary. Only the undead seem to know the true extent of it all, or at least are the only ones willing to offer up their theories.

Maybe Sylvanas isn’t going to Jaina for the same thing Valeera visits Liadrin for. Maybe she’s just that desperate for someone intelligent to wake up and have an opinion about things.

Liadrin wears a sleeveless shirt--its beige cloth dusted with white. Holy on holy, even if the muscles those vestments hide are anything but.

Valeera doesn’t give her time for anything else. She’s seen how this plays out. If she lets things linger on--lets Liadrin lead, she will just start making her tea. She will try to talk to Valeera, but Liadrin has always been miserable at small talk. She’ll resort to gestures to show her interest and what Valeera refuses to acknowledge as affection. She’s an acts of service kind of woman, after all. Eventually, the tea will lead to fucking. Eventually.

Liadrin will whisper in her ear to ask her what she wants and Valeera will tell her and she’ll be bent over a workbench, hands gripping detail work and moulding pieces while Liadrin fucks her. It’s a fine way to spend an evening, sure, but not what she wants tonight.

Tonight, she experiments. Tonight, she tests limits. Tonight, Valeera doesn’t let her get over to the little hot plate. She doesn’t let Liadrin take a single step.

She kisses her, hard. Their teeth collide and click for it--elven fang to elven fang.

Valeera disrupts with her tongue. She dissents with her teeth. She rejects this vision for another, but grounds it in what they’ve always had. The dream doesn’t change. Reality doesn’t blink and become something else around her--some new sick scenario.

No, Liadrin whimpers into her mouth. It comes out like a question, and Valeera answers it with a bite.

It reminds Valeera of how they met in the real world. She is not usually the aggressor in sex and rarely has to work hard to get people to want her. Liadrin, though, she had to kiss first. Despite the fire burning behind those holy eyes, Valeera had to push past the restraint that kept it inside. She did so gladly, and upon their second meeting, Liadrin did not need her to do it again.

They had, and even in here, still have a sort of understanding. Valeera is always quick to establish the boundary of sex only. With other partners, it’s easier, because she doesn’t come back to them. Liadrin and her rough hands and hidden strength are nearly as addicting as the magic that draws all elves. Her holy wickedness beckons Valeera as any addiction on offer eventually does.

She cannot help it. It is in her blood, and she has none of Liadrin’s control or self-discipline.

Her lack thereof encourages Liadrin to drop it and all other pretenses. Even now, in this dream, her clear direction provides Liadrin with the means to an end. Her weakness and wavering is brief and fleeting. It’s maybe only a second or two before the whimpering moan ends and Liadrin is kissing her back just as hard.

In life and in dreams, Liadrin is just as hungry as her. She’s just more comfortable with starving.

Valeera eats her fill, grinning into the nips made against her own lips and the firm grip that encircles her and presses her to Liadrin. One hand finds her ass and she bemoans the skirt keeping her from its warmth. But still, it reminds her she’s here to change the course.

She breaks their kiss to run her teeth along Liadrin’s neck, telling her, “You want a break? Let me give you one.”

Valeera rests her cheek against Liadrin’s shoulder as her eyes scan the room. She should have it memorized by now. Liadrin’s dreams rarely change much.

Valeera’s didn’t change much either.

But there are no chairs and she needs one. There’s a low stool and a ladder. None of these will do.

There is, however, the lap of the seated statue. A smile curves Valeera’s lips against Liadrin’s dusty skin. She can be holy and wicked at the same time too. Perhaps more wicked, but it suits her.

She takes hold of Liadrin’s hips. She’s much smaller than her--forever petite from a childhood spent in the throes of malnourishment--and the dream gives her no new height or heft, but Valeera is strong in her own way. She suggests and others follow, even if they don’t realize she is suggesting and they are following.

Liadrin, for her part, is the one she comes back to because she knows both how to lead and how to follow and when to do both.

“Insistent today, aren’t we?” Liadrin asks as she dutifully allows herself to be backed into marble legs and gathered skirts of stone.

“I just want you.”

It’s both the devastating truth and a deflection of anything but. Valeera doesn’t let herself dwell on the words. It’s better when they mean nothing. Sex is the same.

She licks the powdered stone from Liadrin’s neck when she’s fully backed into the statue. It tastes of chalk and earth and sweat. Veins and sinew beneath tremble, just slightly, as Liadrin shifts to regain some control in the matter. She grabs Valeera’s ass again, this time as if to lift her. It would be easy for her. They’ve done it before--here in the sculptor’s workshop, in the quiet of a darkened church, at an inn in Dalaran and another in Dazar’alor, and even at that high school dance from Valeera’s dreams.

No. She’s not going to think about that. It’s over. It’s done. It was a trick. It was a terrible, awful thing done to her, among the list of many terrible, awful things have been done to her in her relatively short life.

She’s not going to let the Void win. Not there, not here. No one can tell her what to do, and nothing can hold her life in chains ever again.

Valeera grabs Liadrin’s wrists. “No, I said I’m giving you a break. Sit,” she commands, pointing with a nod to the statue’s lap.

So many things flash in the golden eyes looking down at her. Confusion mixes with a bright spark of shame. Pupils dart to lovingly crafted marble folds, then back at Valeera’s legs and seem to find their skirts unbearably similar--even though the statue’s are a classic sort of toga and Valeera is wearing red silk with a slit that goes dangerously high.

That same slit lets her swing her leg out wide, capturing Liadrin with her small frame as she pushes at her chest. It doesn’t come off playful, and Valeera supposes it’s not. She’s here because she has needs. The real world doesn’t meet them anymore.

Liadrin lets herself fall, measured and slow, carefully onto the lap of the statue that will eventually come to resemble the woman in front of her.

Valeera doesn’t give her a second to breathe or question it. She kneels, pulling off boots in a frenzy, tugging leggings with them. Her lips leave hot trails where Liadrin’s pants were, and savor each quiver of long muscles beneath. How they snap and shake like taut bowstrings--it would be enough to make a ranger blush, but not a rogue.

The dream threatens her every move. It’s almost as erotic as the way Liadrin shakes for her. Valeera can feel it reform and reshape itself around her, trying to carry the continuity along with how she’s changing things. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies a sheet falling off of a statue that was once covered in a corner, revealing a less than tasteful nude. The lap that Liadrin sits in now has a higher slit on its own toga skirt and more defined, rounded thighs. The Void seems to be fine with the distraction of sex, so long as it remains a distraction.

Valeera can agree with that. Sex is the best distraction of all.

She shrugs out of her blouse and steps out of her skirt as she rises, bare and bold, to sit in both Liadrin’s lap and that of the marble version of herself.

“You stay right there,” Valeera challenges her as she lifts Liadrin’s shirt up, desperate to press skin to more skin. “And you let me do what I want to you.”

Liadrin says nothing. She’s staring at Valeera like she’s a goddess made manifest--a statue come to life to bless the weary hands of the sculptor.

Valeera is not any of that, but she blesses Liadrin’s hands all the same, lifting them to her breasts to grant a silent permission. Liadrin’s ascent comes in a gentle grasp--almost too gentle. But that’s why Valeera comes back. It’s why she always comes back.

In her dream, they were young and Liadrin was even gentler. They’d dance once to a slow song that Liadrin guilted her into. It would happen just after Valeera would spike the punch with Lillian Voss and Vanessa VanCleef. She’d sneak Liadrin away to the spot under the bleachers where she’d smoke weed with the other rogues and she’d be so gentle with her. So good. So polite. So awed as she made Valeera squirm when she’d snake her fingers past the gathered skirts of her prom dress.

It’s not so different now. In Valeera’s dream, all these things made sense. In Liadrin’s, they make sense to her. It’s all so simple that way.

Part of Valeera doesn’t want to ruin it for Liadrin the way Anduin had ruined it for her. He’d interrupt her dance with Liadrin every time, cutting in and taking her hand and talking to her about things from Azeroth as they shuffled around beneath a canopy of colorful balloons and twinkle lights. In the dream, those things didn’t make sense to her. In the dream, she just wanted to fuck around with her friends and have Liadrin fuck her soft and slow under the bleachers.

As much as she hates the illusion and the sinisterness of it all, she misses it.

So she dwells in Liadrin’s dreams and tells herself she’s testing their boundaries.

She kisses her hard and wetly. She pushes her hands into her breasts and demands more. She braces herself against strong shoulders and lets the holy dust of them serve as chalk for her grip.

When Liadrin moans again into her mouth, she slides off her lap, kissing her way down legs again as she pulls at her hips, sliding her forward.

Valeera kneels, finding a place where her knees aren’t being cut by stone chips. Maybe she shouldn’t, though. Maybe she’ll understand Liadrin better if she can experience some of her penance. But no, she has more important things to focus on right now.

Liadrin’s bare legs are warm as she hangs them over her shoulders. The marble is cold as she braces one hand against it and keeps Liadrin flush to her with the other. And she tastes divine. She always has.

Valeera loves this. She loves how worked up Liadrin gets for her. She loves how she falls apart so quickly. Her normal stoic silence devolves quickly into small, needy sounds as Valeera’s tongue speaks barbs into her flesh instead of the air.

Normally, this comes after Valeera is too worn out and too used up to do anything but lick her thanks away. As much as she loves being fucked and fucked hard, she loves the reward at the end. Liadrin is nearly as soaked for her now as she is after fucking her for the better part of an hour. Valeera doesn’t let a drop go to waste. She doesn’t let anything stain the marble or drip down straining thighs.

She doesn’t like to rush. She is thorough and complete in her work--in all things she does, honestly. Eating pussy isn’t too far off from mixing poisons or torturing a man until he gives up his half-baked assassination plot. Each has their own recipes--a mixture of ingredients and techniques that brings her pleasure in their mastery.

At least two people get to share in the pleasure of this particular act, and get no pain in return.

Liadrin likes a firm and flat tongue and Valeera is happy to provide it. But she lingers. She goes slow. She doesn’t overwhelm or race toward orgasm. No, she carves her own statue from too holy, strong elf. She melts her slowly so she can recast her from molten metal into something harder.

Liadrin lets out a moan in full now, and Valeera opens one green eye to find her head lolling back against the undefined but benevolent face of that elven beauty goddess. The sight does something to her and she doesn’t know what to name it. The image of Liadrin being so cradled by her, so vulnerable and lost in herself and what Valeera can do for her is the best thing she’s ever seen.

Valeera isn’t a praying woman, but she’s starting to understand devotion.

She takes her hand off the stone to reach down and touch herself. She’s wetter than Liadrin even. Need throbs through her as her tongue still works, and her fingers join it in time.

She pants against Liadrin, looking up at her with both eyes open as hands fist themselves into her hair. Liadrin is still gentle even as she’s desperate for something to hold. A thumb grazes Valeera’s ear, a shaking, testing motion, and she’s nearly about to come for it herself.

It’s too much and not enough. She wills her fingers not to speed up with everything she has and her self-discipline only manifests in trying to make sure Liadrin gets off first.

“Fuck,” is the first word Liadrin whispers in a while.

Her thighs squeeze against Valeera’s ears as that thumb continues to explore the ridge of one. Gold eyes open to meet her and watch her. They stare at one another and Valeera grounds herself in the contact.

She’s invisible to everyone, but wants so much to be seen.

“Valeera,” Liadrin mutters quietly.

She comes without much fanfare. There’s a low groan she bites back and her eyes flutter closed for a moment. Her thighs squeeze hard, but she’s conscious enough even in her orgasm to make sure they’re not hurting Valeera.

Despite the muted nature of her spilling over, Valeera feels so powerful for it. She’s lit up like a mage light inside, buzzing. She moans for Liadrin and into her as she brings her down. Her fingers twist within herself as she feels her walls tighten around them. She joins her sometimes lover in ecstasy and muffles her far more passionate cries into her cunt.

The world goes white for a moment, and Valeera thinks she might have lost to the dream at the end. Oh well, at least she got off.

But then she blinks and Liadrin is lifting her up off of the stone. She’s lifting her into her manifold of laps. Her calloused fingers are helping to bring Valeera down and back up again.

They slip into her just as words of praise slip into her ears. “That was so fucking good,” Liadrin tells her as she starts to fuck her, “You’re so good with your mouth.”

Valeera is too lost in it all to fight. She accepts. She relents. She lets herself be fucked because it’s good and gentle and the rumble of Liadrin’s deep voice against her chest is the most soothing thing in the world.

She wants to dance with her at prom again. She wants to fuck her in the Dalaran sewers. She wants so much. She needs it all.

Valeera doesn’t want to be alone.

In reality, she is so alone. Anduin doesn’t understand what he’s done to her, what he took from her. He thinks he’s saved her, and he has. But Valeera understands freedom in a way he can never comprehend. He’s never been a slave. He’s never had to fight for his life. He’s never traded another’s blood for his bread.

Valeera needs someone else who understands this. Varian is dead and Broll still sleeps. Jaina sleeps and her dreams are boring unless you’re Sylvanas Windrunner. Liadrin hasn’t ever had to kill someone to please a crowd, but her gold eyes are stained with something close to what makes Valeera’s a sickly green. It’s close enough. It’s another reason she keeps coming back to her.

But she’s here, sleeping. And Valeera might be close to coming again, but she will have to wake up and face the day. She will have to go soon, lest Sylvanas stirs before her nearby.

“Tell me you won’t forget this,” Valeera breathes against Liadrin’s shoulder.

Holy dust has been replaced by sweat and the marks Valeera left behind with both teeth and nails. These changes don’t still the ministrations of Liadrin’s arm and fingers. She is freer for them, filthier in her cleanliness.

“I could never forget you,” Liadrin tells her as she holds her tighter.

Valeera is too cowardly to ask her to wake. She can persist on the dreams. She has Liadrin to herself here, and doesn’t have to share her with the world. She doesn’t have to sneak into the places she knows she’ll be. She doesn’t have to memorize her schedule. She doesn’t have to insist on the attention she craves from her. She can get it every night, if she wants.

Valeera comes again, bearing down and bottoming out on Liadrin’s three fingers. She cries out into a kiss she locks them in, and tears herself from the dream before her own guilt can catch up to her.

#valadrin #sobbing crying throwing up #the good shit #valeera sanguinar #lady liadrin #i love being dead and dieing

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