Interlude: Hearthfire (2)

1 Heartfire, 4E205

We're not a normal couple. Never have been, never will be.

We're free to just be together now, without worry of dragons or the wrath of a god against all creation. We're free to bicker and argue over much more unimportant things, mundane things. We've beaten most of the other issues to death, though they still sometimes come up.

She's a murderer. She's a murderer several times over. Many of my closest friends lost their lives at her hand, and even though they weren't actually her targets, they died in defense of her target, in defense of law and order and fair combat. Tobias had been burnt beyond all recognition. I'd dug his grave myself.

One night, when Leon was watching Corinna for us, Amara offered, flat-out, to give me a list of every single one of her victims. She offered just because I wouldn't stop grumbling about it. She started writing it. Five names in, I grabbed her hand and told her to stop. Just stop. I didn't want to know.

She walked away from that life for my sake. She never talks about it. She never says she misses it and, really, I don't believe she does. She's different now and she wants to stay that way.

So I grabbed her hand that night, made her stop, swept the desk clear, and threw her on it.

I used to love this woman, then I used to hate how much I loved this woman… now I just love her more than could be considered sane. Amara Leone Aestus of Cyrodiil, ex-Listener, Dragonborn. She's arguably the most powerful mortal in Tamriel and has a legitimate claim to the Ruby fucking Throne.

I threw her legs over my shoulders and made her come three times in a row that night.

I guess it's the same for her. She didn't ask for me, and I don't even mean my lycanthropy. I mean getting paired up with the Captain of the Whiterun Guard, me, after having just gotten done killing all my friends. It's not like she could have told me the truth outright… not at that time, anyway.

Sure, she was in the wrong no matter what, but right and wrong don't determine matters of circumstance, and it was circumstance that had thrown us together. She'd even tried dismissing me and I'd refused. In hindsight it's kind of astonishing that she didn't just kill me outright.

She could have done it, and still can. She could do it easily, and that's even with my lycanthropy. Even with the animal violence I try so hard to suppress, the mood swings, the occasional slip-up, all my many dangerous imperfections.

She's the most powerful, deadly, infuriating, beautiful, fucked-up woman in Tamriel, and right now, as on that night, my face is between her thighs.

Neither one of us was expecting to fall in love, not like this. She's bent forwards and backwards and walked to the ends of hell to prove to me that she's sincere and guilty and sorry. Anything to prove that I could justifiably love someone who'd violated my trust so completely. And I do, I love this woman. I shouldn't trust her at all, but I do. Now I do, anyway. I trust her more than anyone else in the world. It's what happens when you forge a bond in battle.

She trusted me with her life. Me, after everything. Me, the werewolf. She trusted me with her baby. Me, who she had to break out of jail for accidentally going berserk and ripping a little girl to shreds. Me, though I'm technically a cannibal and have no real intention of finding a cure—making me a hypocrite twice over—and yet, my dangerous, hungry mouth is right where she wants it.

And she trusts me with it, that most sacred, most sensitive part of her body. Tonight, she lets me treat her like prey. I told her, once, that the phases of the moons affect me sexually. Circumstance never gave us the opportunity to explore this before now.

But now…

Now we're forced to use Illusion magic to soundproof the room, because there'll be a scandal otherwise. And probably a traumatized child.

There are nights when she and I make love, when we're sweet and gentle and take our time, and I let her touch me without contest, and such an intense feeling of love swells in my chest that I think I might burst.

Tonight is not one of those nights.

Tonight, she's pulling my hair hard enough for it to hurt. Tonight, I've got nail marks running down my back. I love the way she tastes. She comes for me, warm and wet, and I feel how all her inner muscles clench and flutter and suck on my fingers as I move up to kiss her and make her taste herself. But I don't stop. I don't want to stop until I draw her out again and make her say please.

It's about dominance, the pleasure brought about by captured prey. I tempt myself by grazing my teeth over the skin of her neck. I want to bite her, hard. Not to eat her or anything like that, but to mark her. I nip her flesh and she moans and throws her arms around my neck, pulling me in close. "Is that an invitation?" I growl against her jaw.

Her spine arches when I thrust deep and change my pace. Her hand wanders down my stomach. "A-Ah… let me…" I nip, she hisses. I thrust, she moans. "Lydia let me touch you!"

I want it. I can feel that easily enough: the empty, aching pull. Wanna rut and do anything to fill it, ease it.

Too exposed.

I force her hand back down to the bed and give her very little space to think up a countermeasure. But she's smart. Smarter than me, anyway. Even as my pace becomes punishing, there's something to be said about the wits and stamina of the Dragonborn. I'm on my back before I know what the hell's going on and she's suddenly riding me from above, giving me a full view and—gods—this woman is breathtaking.

But I want that… flesh. I pull her down: our breasts press flush, her neck and jaw are near my mouth again, and she's on her knees still, giving me enough leverage to keep thrusting. I taste her skin: sweat, salt, sex.

Do I dare?

But it's like she can read my mind: "Come." And she pulls all her hair to one side. "Come!"

Amara. My Amara. It was me who was first sworn to carry your burdens. I don't know exactly when you began carrying mine in turn. You'll be wearing scarves and high-necked robes for the rest of your life.

But every time you look down and see this mark, you'll remember how hard you came when I bit you.

As everything in me surges with the euphoria and thrill of such a bold act of possession, my Amara is writhing in pleasure and pain, grinding against my palm with complete abandon. Mine. She's mine. Her heart. Her body. Freely given—no, ordering me to take her, ordering me to bite down, thrust inside, rub up outside, taste her, love her and claim her. Mine.

She cries out, stiffens, loosens, then collapses on me, and there's blood on my tongue. I enjoy it, but I'll keep that to myself. No need to say the painfully obvious.

But then… at the same time, the part of me that feels more human is suddenly getting a little… squeamish. Usually there's no inner battle with this kind of thing, the need I feel to taste flesh and blood. But this isn't just anyone's blood. It's Amara's.

She makes to move after a minute or two, probably to kiss me and give me a turn like she wanted to do before, but she winces and grabs at the spot where her neck meets her shoulder. Her hand pulls away a little bloody. She could cast healing magic on it, but she doesn't… probably because she thinks it'll make me happier to leave the bite as-is.

Shit.

I'm going to regret this is the morning.

Swallowing thickly, I grab my shirt off the floor and press it to the bite. The bleeding's not that bad at all, so this is really more about the gesture than what little good the shirt actually does her. "You can heal it," I tell her quietly. "Actually, I want you to."

A flash of soft magic and the bleeding's gone when I pull my makeshift bandage away, but that's as far as it goes. The mark itself is permanent: a final warning to any werewolf bold enough to ignore the fact that Amara's covered in my scent. She traces it with the tips of her fingers, now sitting upright and straddling my lower abdomen. "Judging by the look on your face, I would assume you want the bed to open up and swallow you right now."

"A little, yeah," I admit, mostly just waiting to see what her real reaction will be.

Her hair is all mussed up from sex. She flicks it over her shoulder, for all the good it does her. "Tell me honestly," she says, smooth as silk, as her hips roll a bit forward and I feel her, warm and wet, against my belly. Really, there's something to be said about the stamina of the Dragonborn. "When you look at this, how does it make you feel? I want the truth."

"Hot," my mouth says before my head can catch up. I lick my lips. "And very bothered." Because it's true. Just to see and smell and taste how much and how thoroughly I've claimed this woman—this infuriating, complicated, stunning, intelligent, powerful, fascinating woman—is incredibly fulfilling. And arousing.

She leans over a little more and brushes one of her fingers over my lips. "Well, Lydia, the mark is not one-sided. I would lean forward and bite you back if I had no concerns about ingesting your blood." She kisses me while I shiver at the idea behind her words. Amara, a wolf like me? I'll admit I like the idea, but it also doesn't really… suit her. "Hmm," she hums against my lips, "I could brand you."

I sigh, a little relieved by her playful tone, and caress her lower back and whatever I can reach of her backside. "Why not just be extravagant and put a tattoo on my ass?"

"Is that an invitation?" She asks me, mimicking my tone from earlier.

"I'll think about it," I humor her, though I know I would go through with it if she really wanted me to. It's only fair, I guess. Besides, the issue here has nothing to do with fidelity: time and experience have proven that she's the only partner I'll ever want. I kiss her again. "So you're… alright?"

She smiles against my lips. "How easily you change from beast to woman and back again. And here I had assumed you would not need my reassurances until sunrise."

I ignore her tease and take a second or two to think. "You know they're not actually separate, right?" I finally ask her. "I mean, I know we talk about it that way because it's easier, but you know the animal and the human are kind of the same thing, don't you?"

"Of course I do," she replies softly. "You know I have been studying all that I can of werewolves. I understand, at least in an academic sense, what it means to be born with lycanthropy." She kisses me again, warm and loving, gentle and sweet in the way that all our other kisses tonight haven't been. Even now, when I'm supposed to be wild with lust under the full moons, she still manages to make me feel that tingly tight-and-swollen-chest feeling.

I smirk into the kiss. What a woman. "Then you know," I say as I tap the mark on her shoulder with a finger, "that I'm probably not going to try to cure it. I just…" I huff through my nose, at a slight loss for words. Right now probably isn't even the best time to be having this conversation, but I guess that's just another example of why Amara likes to tease me for my sense of timing.

"A cure might harm you in a way that curing non-hereditary Sanies Lupinus would not," she finishes for me. "As you have no way of knowing, you would rather not risk it."

"That's a way of saying it." I pull her against my chest. "Thanks for being so, uh…" I search for the right word again.

"Accommodating?" She offers.

I hum an agreement and tangle my fingers into her wonderful, fiery, sex-wild hair. I can still feel the press of her loins on my stomach and the demanding heat of her body. The familiar pleasurable haze comes back again and begins its inevitable, steady rise. I inhale: her scent is intoxicating. "Something else on your mind, love?" I provoke her.

She leans up and gives me a look that I can only describe as… indecent. I feel another shot of heat in response. "Perhaps there is," she purrs, gorgeous and sultry as she comes down again to kiss my neck and jaw. My fingers wander up her back and shoulders while she shifts and makes room for her hand to wander down my belly. I sigh with pleasure. "Oh yes, I think there is."

We're not a normal couple. A lot of people might say that our bond is actually pretty unhealthy, if not outright ridiculous, but we can support each other in ways that no one else ever could.

Author's Note:

I finally got to so something that I've wanted to do for a long time now: get inside Lydia's head and crunch through all the many complications posed by the plot of Brotherhood.

All things considered, this installment was an exercise in restraint for me: How could I touch on everything she felt and yet avoid rehashing the entire plot? As ever, I opted to combine pain with action. At the heart of things, Amara and Lydia are simply able to comfort one another in a way that no other lover could.

I would love to know your thoughts on this.

Until next time,

AE