Many Journeys by Elleth

Mother-Name

Written for Wanksgiving 2024, for the prompt "*puts the tip of my sword in your mouth* enough, you will only talk when I tell you t- stop sucking on it" by Kira_K. Galadriel, Aredhel, a sparring match in Araman and an unexpected turnaround. Mildly NSFW, involves genderplay. 

Their blades clash.

Both black and golden hair go flying with the force of the onslaught, but Artanis is the one who fights more ruthlessly and gracefully, a dancer on a wave. The icy dark of Araman steams with their breaths. Irissë pants, her eyes distracted by the lingering glow of ships burning across the sea, her footwork less sure. She is an archer - an ancient art - while blades and the ruin they bring are new not just to her, but to the Noldor.

Her sword goes clattering onto the ice-crusted ground; she slips, holds herself on one knee. Artanis stands above her, towering against the sky and crowned with stars.

The blade is icy against Irissë's throat, not yet nicking the skin.

"I win," Artanis says in a voice near-devoid of joy or triumph. If this were not a practice match, to prepare for the wide lands across the sea and for meeting Moringotto and Fëanáro (if they ever find a way there) Irissë knows she would lie dead in the snow.

"Artanis. Nerwen," she breathes, part awe and thrill and rushing blood in her ears, at her cousin's beauty and fierceness. Part of it is want, and part of it that she does not like to acknowledge is pity for her cousin's single-mindedness. It makes for a potent mix in her body, sending her nerves thrumming.

Artanis' eyes narrow, sensing, certainly, that Irissë wants to say something else.

The sword trails up her throat, the tip leaving a thin line of fire on her skin. The weapon is deadly, but that only serves to excite her more.

"Do not speak," Artanis dictates. "You will only speak when I tell you to." As the winner of their match, in an unspoken but often-acted-upon agreement, she is the one who may claim the spoils of the match, and she lays the sword on Irissë's lower lip, pushing inward so, so carefully.

The metal lies cold and heavy on her teeth and tongue, and she cannot help but gasp while Artanis stands, and, considering her next actions, her hand slips under the furs and layers of robes she wears against the cold, toward her center, pauses and stills there. Artanis' eyelids flutter already and Irissë dreams of following her cousin's hand with her mouth, lips closing around her pearl, tasting her and undoing her.

Her lips close around the tip of the sword instead, pulling it into her mouth a little further, careful to steer clear of the sharp edges, her cheeks hollowing.

Artanis surprises her by moaning at the sight.

"Be still," she commands. "Stop sucking it." But her voice shakes and Irissë smirks around the blade, knowing full well that Artanis' amilessë, Nerwen, is given in foreknowledge and understanding.

"Man-Maiden," she breathes. "Would you truly have me stop?"