Written for an areyougame prompt: March 2nd, Estelle/Rita and/or Judith: awkward but enthusiastic first times - the older she gets, the more she's certain it isn't a prince she's waiting for. Note, for a mature piece of fiction, it's ridiculously fluffy.

For the fourth time that afternoon, they found themselves caught in the rain. Estelle pulled her jacket a little tighter while Rita mumbled about the damnable weather and Capua Torim answered in kind with yet another bucket of frigid water over their heads.

The day, for the most part, had gone according to plan: a cheery breakfast of fried fish at the local tavern down by the docks and a morning spent wandering the marketplace with not a principle to guide them. Rita, in all her animosity, had been agreeable. They talked about her research and Estelle shared the details of her ventures. It was all established territory, the larger aspects of their lives. But they spoke about them anyway, because not speaking at all, about anything at all, only diminished the time they had.

The meeting had been arranged four months in advance. Booming businesses called for Rita's clever head and the court sent messages periodically asking Estelle to make agreements with strangers in the world of policies and ambiguous rulings. It seemed a whole lot like regression—but the steady flux of letters sent between them made the distance seem shorter than it was when they found themselves on opposite sides of the world. For that, they were both grateful, but Estelle began wondering when the letters started taking on a more primordial shape how long, it had been, exactly, since they'd last held hands in the dark with none of the concern that had righted them over the years since then? When the letters, laced in all their ink, had been wrinkle free and smoothed to perfection and it wasn't the quality of the paper that Estelle took into account but the many words hidden within?

Perhaps, it wasn't a form of regression, she thought. Perchance, it was a continuation of some unspoken thing between them. And, perhaps, it wasn't poor of her to make such assumptions. Estelle was curious. She wanted to uncover the truth behind this drawn out routine that had established itself so easily without warning, over the expanse of several years and several failed attempts at apathy.

They walked in a comfortable silence for the most part, focused on the stalls with bright, fluttery coverings, and they slunk in under tent flaps like two drowned rats whenever possible. For every seven stalls they traveled though, one would capture both their interests, and they'd loiter while the shopkeeper made friendly conversation and tried to encourage the gold right out of their pockets. Rita would remain unconvinced and Estelle would laugh cheerfully – Thank you for your offer but we'd best be off – and they'd be several blocks down the street before Rita would mutter something about how nice those leather bound books had been and back they'd go again at Estelle's none too gentle insistence. It was really just an excuse to watch Rita's face brighten later when she got to reading them, but Estelle didn't mention that inconsequential bit.

By the time they finally made it back to the inn (splashing through puddles and giggling at roaring winds, leaves in their hair and bodies pressed close out of a childish exhilaration) Estelle found her clothes had soaked through to her skin and left a cursed chill in their place. Movement was hindered, and, as soon as Rita snatched the key from her pocket and with shaky hands managed to knock open the door to her temporary room, they were both shivering violently. The door closed on the curious glances of men on the floor below seeking cover from the weather in the foyer, and suddenly they were laughing, and the cold skin and cold, cold noses seemed like nothing in light of the events before them.

It wasn't to say that Estelle didn't enjoy the rain, but watching Rita and her irritation made her more apt to meeting the demands of her partner than herself. So when Rita, with all the dexterity of her past sixteen year-old self offered to help Estelle out of her clothes with tears in her eyes and laughter shaking her frame, suddenly they were both awkward teenagers again talking about sex, and Rita's hands upon the bare flesh of her back felt far more surreal than she ever would have thought.

Naturally, one thing lead to another. Estelle responded in kind. It was how these things always happened in books between the princess and her dashing prince, but she felt compelled to prove, for once, that she didn't need conventional romance to make these things work.

She found, it was with the slow movement of Rita's fingers down her side, that she was compelled to make her advancements more formally known.

"I had a great time today, Rita," she murmured.

"Ah... me too," came Rita's far too demure reply, and suddenly, her proximity made her breath catch.

The shirt came off immediately, and silently, Estelle's trembling hands were already reaching for Rita's red button up excuse for a coat. "Let me help..." A question marred her face even though both were perfectly aware of what the other wanted, and, standing half-naked in front of her best friend, Estelle suspected a little concern was not something to take lightly.

"I um... I'll be going back to Halure in a week. And then Zaphias. What are your plans?"

The buttons proved to be too much for her numb fingers though, and Rita's hands finally settled over hers when they began to tug in a panic. "L-let me do it," she muttered, and soon, just as quick, both of their wet garments found themselves on the floor. "I'm going to Dahngrest. Or at least, that was the plan. I may have to wait a while for the weather to clear before I can cross harbors," she tacked on. A long time ago, Estelle may have been disgruntled with the treatment of such fabrics. Now, the expanse of white skin before her caught her attention. To think, after all these years, it was the body of a woman which she sought. Or maybe, maybe, it was just Rita. Just Rita, nothing more, nothing less—just Rita. Rita, and her very, very, naked torso.

Estelle stared perhaps too long because Rita shivered and reached for her, and mumbled, almost as if she were strangled, "Your pants. They're soaking wet." And then those came off too. And suddenly, Rita's followed suit. And suddenly, any pathetic attempts at conversation had stopped because the words from their throats were less important than the ones they made with their eyes.

She couldn't help the giggle that erupted from her throat. Mortified, Estelle covered her mouth while Rita turned her face away.

"I packed extra clothes. W-would you like a shirt?" Wordlessly, less her red face and traitorous body give her away again, she nodded. Rita shuffled across the room to where she'd laid her books upon the table and drew out a small suitcase, stuffed to the gills. Estelle followed more slowly.

"So, how's the traveling been going?"

Estelle knotted her fingers together. "Good, for the most part. I'll be happier when all is said and done."

Rita's laugh was short, strained. "I bet. The Empire hounding you?"

"For the most part, no. I only hope it stays that way..."

They were left with nothing but their undergarments, and for the both of them, Estelle figured it was not what they had been expecting. The furnace in the room was hot to the touch – she'd ran for it as soon as she'd entered the door – but her skin still felt like ice.

But that was where the awkwardness ensued, where, Estelle, with all her gathered intellect on romance and courting and simple acts of love caught her toe on the flooring and crashed quite classically into Rita's soft figured form half-way across the thirty foot room (to think the lack of propriety over the years had turned her graceless and careless – it was embarrassing to think that she'd lost that defining trait of courtly mannerisms over the course of less than a quarter of a decade because she'd been more invested in herself than ever.)

The shock of skin on skin made them both gasp, and inevitably, accidentally perhaps – though Estelle was inclined to think otherwise with the pounding in her chest and the way neither of them moved – Rita found Estelle's mouth first. It was clumsy, it was messy, it wasn't even extremely purposeful, but it was there, and they raced for the bed like a couple of children eager for a night time story that would never come as soon as they came to their senses.

The kiss had set off an instantaneous chain reaction. Estelle sat upon Rita like a queen who had recaptured her castle, and Rita, with a look of two parts amusement and three parts desire, tugged on the bottom half of Estelle's brassiere. Her eyes held a question, as if, she were waiting for an admonishment about sticky fingers or remarks on how cold and biting her nails were, but none ever came.

Estelle took her bra off herself. And Rita watched beneath her, eyes wide, determined. She was small. They were both older and wiser now. Estelle felt modest and would have covered her chest had Rita not pulled her down where her lips could reach. Where, with spindly fingers, Rita lost the barrier between Estelle's chest and her own and Estelle's skin along her throat proved to be the perfect place for her lips to start.

It was mesmerizing, the sensation of another's body pressed so flatly to her own that she felt boneless. Boneless, spineless, weak-kneed, and—and entirely too aware of every movement. Rita's mouth ran kisses along the underside of her jaw, down to the dip of her collar bone and back up to Estelle's eagerly waiting mouth. It was when the hands slid down her back and halted abruptly on thin silken fabric that she finally caught her breath and the realization of their position finally set in.

They both froze. Estelle stared. Rita stared back and the white linens stared too. They hadn't even bothered to pull the sheets back in their urgency, she realized. They weren't thinking this through.

"Rita... is this—is this..." Estelle swallowed and ducked her head, an apology on the tip of her tongue. "Are you..."

"Is this—is this alright, you mean?" Rita's attempts at mind-reading only made her chest rumble and Estelle shivered at the feeling. Rita didn't look bothered by her fragile state of mind, but with only the single lamp in the room lit and the curtains drawn shut against the prying eyes of the weather outside, the flush of red creeping up the side of Rita's neck was difficult to see.

"I—yeah. Of course! I mean—are... are you okay... with this? With... with us? I've—I've never done this before you know..." Estelle could have sworn Rita regarded her question with all the intention she'd meant to ask it with, but no answer came. Estelle prepared to lift herself away. "...Rita?"

The words were blurted out into her face with a puff of indignation. "Of course! And I—well, we're... in the same boat..."

The last part was said in a frazzled whisper. They both laughed, two parts relief and three parts sheer delight, and Estelle brushed ash colored hair from Rita's brows. It felt soft in her fingers, softer than it had ever looked in the broad daylight. Rita mirrored her actions with a growing fascination, and when both arms came to wrap around the back of her neck, Estelle finally let herself put her doubts to rest.

She pillowed her arms on either side of Rita's head and stared her down. "Rita, I really like you. A lot. But I need to know. Do you—do you feel the same about me?"

.

.

She woke to a tickle of warm air in her ear. It was slightly annoying, at first. Then she glanced at Rita's face plastered on her shoulder and the blankets that had somehow found their way over them both in the hours of the late afternoon and suddenly she wasn't annoyed at all. In fact, Estelle felt rather complacent.

Rita was still here. They were both still as naked as the truths they'd laid bare. Their clothes, from what she could see, were still in a heap on the floor. A bra was resting on the end of the bed. Another had somehow made it's way to the desk across the room.

It was chaos at it's finest. Estelle loved all that it stood for.

Very carefully, she slipped an arm out to brush Rita's hair away from her face. It was even messier than the rest of the room, strands scattered every which way, but Estelle ran her fingers through it, undaunted by tangles and grease. The action was more relaxing than she expected, but that wasn't to say there had been anything wrong about it in the first place.

The space between her legs felt swollen and her lips felt like balloons and she was craving a shower, but ideally, simply laying in the aftermath of an act she'd ever only experienced through the writings lining her shelves in the arms of another was too nice of an opportunity to pass up. Either way though, she realized, it truly didn't matter. They were both older and wiser now. Opportunities were theirs for the taking. And this afternoon, in particular, was hers.

Absently, Estelle traced the curve of Rita's jaw. Eyelids flickered, and then, without so much as an angry, biting word for being disturbed, opened. Rita blinked and threw a leg across Estelle's waist. "Your blushing," she said in explanation. "Stop it."

Estelle smiled. "It's dark in here."

"You're not denying it."

"You would have just done that either way."

"True."

They both went quiet. Rita's leg was heavy, but it was warm, and Estelle curled closer still. A cold current was seeping through the window. Her nose felt frosty.

"What time is it?" Rita finally asked.

"I think it's the early evening... we've been sleeping for a while. I didn't want to wake you."

"Oh." Rita shifted her head until it was tucked in the side of Estelle's neck. "You could have. I know you weren't planning on staying all day. Things to do, right?"

Estelle sighed. It sounded a whole lot like something she would have done years ago. Years ago, she wouldn't even be here right now. Years ago only amounted to four and a whole lot of waiting. "That's okay," she murmured. "They can wait."

"You sure?"

"Positive. Not sure your stomach can, though. It's been growling for the past fifteen minutes."

"Hm." Estelle laughed. Carefully, she shifted out from under Rita's hold on her and slipped out of the sheets. Rita let her go, easily, though she stayed put.

Slowly, Estelle padded over to where her sopping wet clothes had been left. She picked them up and spread them out on the back of one of the desk chairs, knowing that while it would do little to erase the dampness, it would give her the satisfaction of not feeling like a complete animal. They'd been animals last night. Rubbing her arms, she glanced back at the bed.

Rita was watching her intently. Not intently like I'm suspicious intently, but like I'm seeing into your heart whether you think you have it locked tight or not and intently like I care and you should know this routine by now.

Estelle faltered under the heavy look. The lamp light illuminated Rita's upturned face. Age had seen that both of them shared the knowledge of the world. Age had seen that they both came to live in a world they'd built together that both could understand.

"There's something bothering you," Rita said. "You're fidgeting." As soon as the words were said, she sunk back down and pulled the covers up to her ears. And then, in a much softer voice: "Do you regret it?" It didn't sound like a question. Rita was already assuming the worst.

Sighing, Estelle tucked stray pink strands behind her ear and crept back over to the bed. Rita's eyes were still open, staring intently at the roof. Estelle leaned over and kissed her without so much as a warning. It felt good, just like it had when Rita had slid down between her legs, when lips trailed lines across her stomach and they'd giggled because they were both completely and utterly lost.

"You know," she murmured against soft lips that tasted a tad too salty, "I have a letter to write."

Rita hummed appreciatively. "Yeah?"

"Yeah... There's some things I need to settle that I've been meaning to do for a while now... I might need your help with this. Would you be kind enough to do the honors?"

Sighing, Rita ran a hand over her face. She was hardly exasperated. "I don't know why you always feel you have to ask."

.

.

Estelle, once comfortable, picked up her inkwell and carefully set the pen upon the parchment lining her desk, her cursive script short and brisk, the letters long and stream-lined from many afternoons spent perfecting her writing in the patio in the gardens. Apprehension was eating at her, but she willed it away. Her hand wanted to shake but she forced herself to breathe and soon that went away, too.

A palm, that smelled like fresh linens and soap, ran over the back of her head and she reminded herself why she had to do this.

She knew it would have come to this eventually anyway. She told herself there would be no better opportunity than now. She knew it to be true. That didn't make it any easier.

"You've got this, Estelle," Rita murmured.

The pen touched the parchment again and didn't stop.

Emperor Ioder, His Royal Majesty, The King;

I am writing this in hopes you will recognize that the court is not my home no longer. The three years we agreed upon in our contract has proven to be some of the most enlightening. I have traveled many places, seen many sights and given lectures on the benefits of unity among the Guilds and Union, the prospect of engaging in a positive relationship between the spirits and people of the continents. And thus, I will request, with the utmost respect for the kingdom of Zaphias and your good name and duties therein to upholding a most glorious city, that I, Estellise Sidos Heurassein of the Sidos given name, be granted the freedom to choose the duties that I will partake in from here on out, and be aided by my companion, Rita Mordio, and share my commitment to bettering the prosperity of the realm. To which you find this agreeable, I thank you for your commitment to upholding the sanctions with and without me. These years have given me much, but I am guilty to say that I crave more than what I can have under the current circumstances.

Sincerely, your most beloved cousin,

Estellise

She signed it with a flick of a naked wrist, not really minding that the ink smeared blackness on the side of her palm, or that, had it been any other time of the day, the ink would have stained her dress instead of skin and she'd be chastising herself until exhaustion. But that was a different time, a different place, and it didn't matter. Rita's spare shirt was snug upon the expanse of her shoulders, loose on her chest and it tickled the edges of her thighs where the fabric trailed over the chair.

Satisfaction was still warm on her skin. And now, it gave way to a weary wonderment. The mug on her desk was still steaming with freshly brewed coffee Rita had brought up from the first floor, and the curtains, while closed, had been cracked to let in a warm ray of evening light across the beds. Right now, Estelle felt, nothing could touch her. Right now, she was invulnerable to the ugly words she might receive upon recognition of her request, and right now, they were words that hadn't yet glanced across her ears.

Beside her, she could feel the arms of Rita as she balanced herself perfectly on the side of her chair like she'd been there forever (and it had never been occupied buy a swordsman who cared too much, who cared too little about the demands of his own heart until she'd finally stated it wasn't him she wanted at all but the comfort of another like-minded like herself—even though, she always wanted more). Estelle used her free hand to trace circles along the side of Rita's hip where it dipped into the space between her pelvic and femur, where she'd so carefully settled her hands and drawn from that feeling her strength to write beforehand. It was a new sensation, new and beautiful, but she followed through with it because doing nothing was so much worse.

It was the sleepy movement of her own hands that caused Rita to move at last. She plucked the pen out of Estelle's fingers and slipped it back in the ink well. Estelle let her, because she was done with clever nuances anyway, and any more words would surely lend secret to how discomposed she was. Or perhaps, Rita already knew, and that was why she sat the way she did, turned outward while Estelle curled further in and stared at the curling parchment.

(Too many nights had been spent, wondering distantly, if the problem didn't lie in her suitors, but herself. Or was it a problem at all? Or maybe her heart had been claimed by another without her even knowing it and she'd been tormenting herself over nothing. Estelle didn't want to think about it now. Half a year ago, a swordsman told her of his reflection. In him, she realized he wasn't who she was looking for. His mirror was elsewhere. Hers was wandering still.)

She hid her face in Rita's side until she could see nothing but skin. It was too early for thinking, too early for disappointment, too early for extreme revelations, even if, somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice whispered that Rita Mordio never went back on her words and that Ioder cared more about her heart than his throne. "More seriously, how are you feeling?" she asked, because she wanted to hear her reflection in this girl who had loved her for four years and counting. It was the only way she knew, the only promise she'd ever made, that could lend proof to this thing between them. It was awkward, they were still so young, but Estelle wanted it. Badly. A queen-sized bed was meant for two. She was tired of sleeping alone and Rita filled that empty space perfectly.

Rita swung her legs and stopped when the chair swung with her. "A bit sore," she answered reflexively, and then, with more purpose, "but pretty good, too. The shower was nice. You?" She sipped at her coffee, even though it steamed and likely scalded her tongue to do so.

Estelle ran her hands up under the blouse Rita had slipped on upon retreating back to their room. Free, she thought. "A bit hungry," she said instead.

In the most amusing way, Rita's lips twitched and she leaned down to capture her lips. She tasted like coffee, like warmth. Like the rain outside the windows. Estelle curled a little closer. "We can fix that. If you want."

"Sounds great," she muttered, and Rita set her coffee aside before gently pulling her from the steady grounds of her chair. "What do you say to warming up a bit?"

Estelle could only smile. Lips found her own and Estelle leaned in to better engage her. Eager hands climbed the expanse of her stomach to rest at the curve of her breasts and Estelle shook at the awareness starting between her thighs, and later, of slick fingers and knotted hands and hair. This is what she'd been waiting for, she realized. The hands of another to pleasure her that didn't make her soul ache because she knew the hands already were claimed by another each and every night. Or hands, she knew, that would rival the enthusiasm she so clearly possessed.

Rita was hers, forever. Hers, and hers alone. She'd staked her claim in ink officially.

There would be no suitors, no more knights dressed in praise and dripping in the smell of perfume and flowers, no more princes known by the expenses of their cravats rather than the flat lines of their noses. And would there be any, any at all, they would have to find another mirror to settle with because Estelle had found hers and wasn't letting go. To identify with one with a like-mind and a fervor that could rival even their own—she had craved that, and now, at last–

She backed Rita into the bed until every expanse of her body was covered by her own. Every curve, every portion of her, was like a map she had yet to explore. And the way Rita's eyes reflected that—the eager, non-diminishing way her hands wandered and pressed in close against her, the way her fingernails dug into pearl white skin that had never seen the sun, the endearing, simply knowing look that flickered over her face when Estelle settled onto her with all the grace she possessed—she knew, right then, it was never a prince she had been waiting for.

The books had it wrong, she thought, and kissed Rita all the deeper.