[This is probably my favorite ship, and I've got a lot to say about them. Might write more on them, but I might save it for the longer fics. Either way, please enjoy!]
ooooo
The de Laurent manor is a cold place when the snows fall in the latter of the year. Riven has endured harsher winters in harsher lands, but the blizzards in Demacia hit heavy enough to block stagecoach travel and build drifts all the way up to the windows. It's beautiful in it's own right, a fairytale land and a Snowdown that's always white, but it's also fucking cold.
The hallway is long but the polished floorboards hide beneath rugs of the finest Freljord furs, so Riven's toes are spared from frostbite as she navigates the estate with a confidence that only comes from familiarity. Her destination greets her as does the rest of the manor, with silent dignity, and she shuffles up to an inconspicuous pair of doors, painted figures of black and orange looming behind frosted panes of glass.
These, the entrance, and Fiora's bedchamber's are the only doors in the manor that creak on their hinges. With so many spurned suitors and political enemies too willing to wet their blades, Riven easily imagines why.
The warmth of the study welcomes Riven like a firm hug from an old friend, and she closes the doors behind her to keep the heat from escaping. The study is double-storied, a balcony saturated with shadows circumnavigating the tall corners of the room, and the unlit skeleton of a chandelier hangs from above. Furniture is sparing, just a couch and a few chairs, and closed curtains seep the frigid pitch of night between walls of bookshelves. A fireplace blares orange on the carpet and the walls and quiets the goosebumps on Riven's skin.
Her heart swells like the flourishing whine of a violin chorus when she spies Fiora across the room, hunched over the royal bureau and focused sharper than her dueling rapier- so much for a creaky door. Riven lets her feet fall heavier on the floor as she approaches.
Fiora shoots a look over her shoulder when she hears Riven coming and eases when she recognizes her. Her eyes linger on Riven's lower half and her pretty, rosè lips separate like a zipper slipping down the back of a dress.
"It's too chilly to walk around without pants, no?" Fiora says. Her voice is parched and rich with sleep, but her tongue curls around the syllables as lithely as golden-inked cursive, and Riven's thighs churn with heat.
The chair Fiora sits in is less impressive than the mahogany beast the bureau was originally paired with, but it's comfier, and it lets Riven wrap around Fiora from behind. The crook of her neck smells of cosmetic powder and remnants of ginger soap washed out by too much rose perfume, and the hair glissading the slopes of Riven's cheek is cool gossamer draped over a warm expanse of skin. She peers down at the crisp sheet of paper embellished with painfully elegant calligraphy, and her eyes follow Fiora's provocative fingers as they move and twist and touch the quill across the page while phantoms dance the same jig up Riven's flesh. She buries her face in Fiora's neck; her knees are trembling, she can only watch for so long.
"The bed is warm," Riven says, "warm enough for two."
Fiora reacts like Riven is massaging the base of her neck, lets her head fall back and roll, hums unabashedly. Her hands adjourn the letter and flatten, and only Riven knows that she's bracing herself against the table.
"Work," Fiora grumbles, and the problem isn't Riven's arms folded tightly over her chest or the warm innuendos spreading across her neck, but the formal apology to Bucer and Sons Inc. for the mass shipment of defective goods leering beneath her fingertips.
"I haven't seen you all day. Will the night be similar?" Riven asks. It's an honest question, but she can't resist influencing the answer by stroking the ridge of Fiora's collarbone in that gentle, back-and-forth way she likes.
The fabric of Fiora's tights titters as she shifts her thighs like flint on steel. "This is all I have left."
Riven arises from the crook of Fiora's neck like the dead reawakened and feels like it too, and Fiora turns her head where Riven just was. Strands of ashy white and raven black mesh between their lips, but it doesn't matter when Fiora's tongue, svelte and hot like the rest of her, grazes Riven's upper lip, and Riven delves into her mouth in chase. Her fingers brush absently along the edge of Fiora's jaw and Fiora gently cups her hand as she does so; Riven is still cold, but the touch warms her more than the fireplace.
Lips divorce and each shared breath is sacred, stirs the matte of hair between them like dreamcatchers in the wind. Riven pulls back and witnesses Fiora's sleepy eyelids open, and it's like cold spring water in her minty mouth, Fiora's eyes are so icy blue. It's her most captivating feature, more than her lips, her hips, her long, slender legs, and Riven is left wondering how a set of eyes can be so sharply, crisply blue.
Riven turns the chair with ease and Fiora inhales an eager breath. The quill is tossed carelessly on the desk and Fiora moves her hips closer to the edge of the seat, and the tension raises as Riven lowers and preserves eye contact like it's a relic of unfathomable value. The carpet is comfortable on her knees, like it always is, and Fiora lifts her legs to let Riven in closer to the dark splotch of fabric calling to her like a charm.
Riven reaches out and strokes the dampness with her middle finger- Fiora twitches, clenches, "ah,"- and when she's done feeling her, she taps twice on her hips. They raise reflexively, and when Riven hooks both waistbands and escorts them down her pale legs, Fiora's underwear peels from her like syrupy pancakes.
There's a glowing candelabrum on the desk that Fiora uses for working late nights, and the candle choir lays a melody of shadows across the sharps and narrows of Fiora's face. Her thighs press snug to Riven's cheeks, and the lithe warmth of her flesh contrasts with the thrilling cold of her eyes. Riven scoots forward and bows her head.
"Oh," Fiora says when the tip of Riven's tongue flickers over her. The first suspicions of flavor graces Riven like the first sip of a fine wine: strong and bitter, a bit overpowering, but the sweet aftertaste persuades her to try more. Riven tastes a little deeper, flits up and down her slit, and Fiora's hands find Riven's on her hips and squeezes when she plays cat-and-toy with her clit. She groans when Riven puts her whole mouth on her.
Trimmed curls tickle her nose, and Riven smells overpriced shampoo and a hard day's work in her musk, feels her stresses and woes leak into her mouth and dribble down her chin. She strokes all the way through Fiora and her buttery-smooth folds melt like cotton candy on her tongue, and Fiora curses beautifully in a language Riven doesn't understand when she pushes into her as deep as she can and swirls. She slips out, lavishes her clit, and delves inside again, and Fiora cards through Riven's hair and grips vice-like in her scalp.
The flames snicker and the winds weep, but the room is passionately quiet. Fiora fills the emptiness with long, labored breath and gentle moans that taste of black liquorice- sharp and sugary, and dark as molasses. Fiora's skin burns Riven's cheeks like good whiskey burns her throat, and she wraps her arms around her thighs and pulls them tighter around her face- Fiora indulges her, crosses her ankles over Riven's back and drowns her in the plump flesh of someone who's eaten quail and glazed ham all their life, and Riven is sweaty and drunk on suffocation.
"Suck on my clit," Fiora sighs, and it's the command Riven's been waiting for all night.
She sets her lips around the slick bud that controls Fiora's hips and sucks until she's bucking in her mouth. She cradles her clit with her tongue and curls in that special way until Fiora's dry lips bleed a string of her delicious language, and it's still mostly gibberish but Riven rides the rolling 'r's and breathy 'ah's like Fiora rides her tongue: with rumbling groans and closed eyes. Riven digs crescents in her flawless thighs as her scalp starts to prickle under Fiora's endlessly tugging fingers.
Fiora purses her lips and swallows hard. She sucks up a choppy breath that fights her the whole way and holds it with white knuckles for a deafening eternity.
Then she exhales and her body shudders. Her hips raise as high as her voice and Riven follows her up, stays loyal and noisy on her clit, and her ravenously inquisitive hands explore the convulsing muscles of Fiora's tummy. Riven's name is a prayer rolling off Fiora's lips again and again, and she doesn't catch everything she says in that blessed tongue, but she tingles when she recognizes, "my darling," ,"my honeybun," and, "my snowy bunny rabbit."
Fiora's moans croak into groans like a river torrent breaks into a thousand tiny streams, and her hips finally comply with Riven's aching shoulders. It's a while before she's speaking comprehensible Demacian again, and even then, it's mostly a silvery anthem of Riven's name. Her scalp smarts, but clean-cut fingernails plowing her hair into rows is the miracle tonic for all of Riven's ailments, sore arms, sore jaw, and all.
Fiora taps her temple as light as a feather and the motions of Riven's tongue cease. She isn't hasty about cleaning up, all smoldering strokes along her perineum and wet kisses around her labia, but she doesn't dare go any farther unless her partner says so.
She's peaceful, now. Hopelessly short of breath and endearingly flush in the cheek, but her body rests tranquil and appeased if not slouched lower in the chair than a disinterested schoolboy. Riven wipes her face and licks her fingers- she genuinely enjoys Fiora's unique flavor and she's left mourning in its absence- and shrugs carefully out of her quivering legs. She stirs Fiora when she stands and those eyes, those delicate, lucid eyes, crawl open and fix her with total transparency.
Riven is a creature of control and discipline, but her resolve shatters like ice amidst the truth of those eyes, and she's cupping Fiora's face and kissing her before she realizes she's digressed into her lap. It's what she came here to do, though, isn't it? To taste her trembling passion and lose herself in her tongue, to revel in the grace of her duelist's fingers skirting up her bare thighs, to feel wanton excitement as she frees each button of her blouse…
Riven stops her by the wrists halfway up, and they hover with an inch between their lips for far longer than they mean to.
"If you finish quickly," Riven whispers, nodding to the desk, "you can have me."
Fiora's fingers slip into her shirt and dance up her sides, and she considers her prize up and down with hungry satisfaction.
Riven crosses her arms around Fiora's neck and lets her forehead rest against hers. "Capiche?"
The corner of her mouth curves coyly upward. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to have you sit on my face, darling."
Warmth drips down Riven's leg into Fiora's lap, and she kisses Fiora open-mouthed and groaning before she can put in a wry comment. Their lips conclude as succinctly as they'd met, and all the places where Fiora has touched her skin are burning remnants of her warmth that only begin to fade when Riven disentangles herself and stands.
"Don't keep me waiting," Riven murmurs. She takes Fiora's hand and reveres a smooth knuckle with a kiss before she saunters off- she likes to saunter because she knows how Fiora watches her go- and throws open the doors to the hallway.
The trek to their bedchambers is long but Riven doesn't notice the cold anymore.
ooooo
[Yeah, this pairing is a bit unconventional, but I hope you liked it regardless. Have a great day!]