This work is a gift for @MerrillLWrites, whose rare pair doesn’t get nearly enough love. May she have as much fun reading it as I did writing it!
Fire Emblem: Fates Fan-fiction || Miriel/Olivia || NSFW
You can also find this story on Archive of Our Own!
The lovely and sensuous dancers of Grey Waves, the area’s premiere establishment for the beauty and passion of motion, are poised to thrill your wanting heart and fulfill your aching needs. The only question is…
…what is it you desire?
The bass tones of Grey Wave’s music throbbed with expressive, primeval rhythm. All over the club’s floor, patrons flirted with dancers—and each other. The scent of passion filtered through the thick, body-warm air. The dim lights cast the open space into perpetual twilight in sharp contrast to the pulsing spotlights focusing their incandescent burn on the evening’s center-stage entertainment. Prickles of tension ran up and down Miriel’s skin as she hovered by the entrance, still as a stone sentry. In her functional, slate-grey blazer and pencil skirt, the alluring attire of the dancers on stage—and the hooting, awed interest of the crowd—had her feeling… overdressed, at very least.
She pushed her glasses up her nose, suddenly ungainly in her heels.
They’re new, you’re not used to them, she thought to herself. Besides, they’re all together too gaudy and too tall. No self-respecting professor would be—
“Welcome to Grey Waves.” A tall woman with long blue hair greeted Miriel. “What are you searching for this evening?”
“No.” On the spot, Miriel glanced anxiously about the club, scanning the faces of the seemingly innumerable strangers. “That is to say, I—”
A shorter woman, dressed in sheer, flowing white silks, touched the tall dancer gently on the shoulder. “Hey Azura, why don’t you take a break? I’m sure I can help… what’s your name, sweetie?”
“You know my—” Miriel cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “It’s… Miranda.”
“Well, Miranda,” Olivia said, her face a bit flushed, her voice a gentle alto. “I’m Olivia.” Regarding Miriel with a canny gaze, she toyed with one of the long plaits of her pink hair. “Do you want to know why I came over to you?”
With a knowing looking, Azura, gracious as any true hostess should be, melted back into the crowd.
Miriel blinked, drawing her eyes away from how Olivia’s fingers casually tickled through the long, gauzy silken wrap looped behind her back and over her arms. “I… suppose…” She focused her attention to the stage, where the dancers tormented and toyed at each other with multi-colored knots of silk. “Because…”
“Because…” Olivia’s hand touched gingerly down the arm of Miriel’s suit jacket. “You look like someone who knows what she wants, and it’s not what’s happening on that stage.”
Miriel fidgeted beneath Olivia’s touch, reaching up a hand to adjust her glasses. “Then what is it I want?”
“You…” Olivia paused for effect, mirth dimpling her cheeks. “Want a private dance.”
The feigned sternness that wrinkled Miriel’s brow quickly collapsed. “I-is it that obvious?”
Olivia spared Miriel a shrewd wink. “Only to perceptive girls like me.”
Capturing Miriel’s wrist with a touch soft as satin, Olivia led her through the throng of patrons, dancers, and service staff with practiced grace. She slipped and slid through minute openings in the crush of bodies as if she could predict where they would appear. At first, Miriel stumbled in her heels, unable to keep up with Olivia’s dancer’s poise—but Olivia’s fluid motions spread like an aura through her hold on Miriel’s wrist, imbuing Miriel with the shadow fraction of her grace, and, halfway through their arduous journey across the overpopulated floor, she felt as nimble as an adolescent sparrow.
Aura, thought Miriel. What a spurious, irrational idea.
Thick brocade tapestries depicting scenes of coy sensuality lined the rear of the club. Olivia lifted the closest one. It was a curtain, and as Olivia ushered her into the private nook, Miriel imagined herself as a heroic archaeologist, led into a hidden hoard of wondrous, time-forgotten artifacts by this alluring femme fatale.
An oil lamp flickered on a small end table by a maroon suede couch, offering welcome relief from the strobbing lights that lit the stage. Miriel blinked, following the blotchy afterimages of the lights in her vision. Would this be where the seductive dancer turned on her, revealing her nefarious ploy, when she was most vulnerable?
Olivia dropped the curtain. All sound ebbed away. The murmur of conversations, the piercing, higher-pitched strains of the music, the hustle and bustle of bodies, they seemed as distant as a mile. Stripping her wits back from her foolish daydream, Miriel marveled at the sound dampening properties of the curtain. She wondered if there weren’t some kind of noise-canceling—
A hand drafted along her thigh. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”
Miriel tilted her head. Such euphemisms often slowed her. “Do you—”
“Sit.” Olivia said.
Miriel’s rear sunk into the comfortable cushions of the couch. Timidly, she leaned back into the comfortable cushions. Scents of amber and jasmine filled the dense air.
“You’re wearing a suit,” Olivia said, securing the curtain closed with a tied tassel. “Did you come right from work?”
“Because you couldn’t wait to see me.” Olivia approached her with feline intent, placing one foot in front of the other like a panther on the prowl. “But you’re wearing perfume. I can smell it from here. Did you want to impress me?”
She couldn’t concentrate. Not as she watched Olivia draw her long, silken shawl slowly along the contours of her body.
“Well, consider me impressed,” Olivia intoned.
She drew closer. The sway of her hips would reveal the barest hint of flesh. “You were desperate.” The slightest slip of her clothing, the promise of her thighs. “To see what I’d do for you.” The sway of her breasts beneath her sheer top, visible for a moment, then stolen away by another shift of her outfit. “What I’d do to you.”
When she came in striking distance, Miriel’s hands groped eagerly for her, taking her by the hips, and feeling the slight give of her ample hips.
“Ah.” With the teasing murmur of a giggle, Olivia allowed one squeeze. Then, she took those questing hands by the wrists and place them at Miriel’s side. “But you can’t touch, okay?”
Grinding her nails into the suede cushion, her throat dry, Miriel nodded as if it pained her.
“But…” Olivia moistened her lips with her tongue. “That doesn’t mean I can’t touch you.” Her fingers touched down atop Miriel’s legs, squeezing into her knees. “Do you want me to touch you?”
Abruptly, Miriel nodded.
Miriel loathed the barrier of her stockings, that separated her from Olivia’s true touch. “Anywhere…”
Her hand cradled Miriel’s face. Her fingers roved Miriel’s cheek, and tickled at her earlobe. “Here?”
“Yes…” Miriel said, “But…”
“Oh, I know.” With a sashay of her hips, Olivia bent forward. Their eyes locked, their lips scant inches from each other. The wash of Olivia’s breath brushed Miriel’s face. It was strangely cool—and Miriel recognized the hint of sweat dappling her make-up. Olivia’s eyes were limpid by the lamplight. She had the smile of an over-pleased imp; albeit, an adorable one.
Olivia’s deft fingers stroked atop her skirt, along her waist, and up her sides, defining the contours of her breasts against her blouse as they traveled, finally hitting ground at the top button of her blouse.
It came open at the merest suggestion.
Miriel’s rump shifted.
Olivia undid one button, then another, then another, baring Miriel’s small breasts and the shivering plane of her stomach. Miriel delved her fingers deep as they would go into the luxurious cushion, the bristling friction of the suede against her fingertips a poor substitute for the giving plushness of Olivia’s hips.
“You’re enjoying this.” Olivia’s fingers traipsed along Miriel’s sides, enjoying the outline of her ribs. Her smoldering gaze flickered downwards, to the imprisoned rise in Miriel’s skirt.
Miriel quickly looked away as blush overcame her.
“Are you nervous?”
“Why should I be?” Not quite ready to meet the dancer’s gaze, Miriel’s nervous tic overcame her, and she pushed her glasses up her nose with two fingers. “It’s a natural biological—”
Olivia took Miriel by the cheek, aligning her gaze back to center. Subtle tinges of compassion tinted the smoldering power of Olivia’s voice. Her own cheeks were ruddy with the futile attempt at venting the steaming energy roiling inside her. “I’m nervous too.”
Miriel’s heart soared into a staccato beat. This close, the swell of Olivia’s breasts lingered in her peripheral vision.
Olivia, arched her back, presenting herself. Her breasts molded to her slender shape. “Do you like them?”
“Yes…” Miriel whispered, hands trembling at her side.
“Tell me what you’d do to them?”
“I would…” Miriel swallowed. “Hold them, kiss them.”
“You can’t touch…” Olivia stern reminder was mollified by the sensuality of her movements. Carefully, she straddled Miriel’s legs. A roll of her shoulders, and her breasts slipped free of their sheer enclosure. “But kissing isn’t touching.”
Fingers raked through Miriel’s hair. Olivia stood tall upon her knees, and guided Miriel’s lips to her waiting, generous flesh.
Miriel embraced that warm flesh, testing the heavy curve of Olivia’s breast with her lips. A suppressed squeal shook Olivia. Miriel’s tongue swept over the large, soft expanse of Olivia’s nipple, sampling the light patina of sweat. Olivia’s body fluctuated; she rose. With sharp inhale, her stomach graced along the contours of Miriel’s smaller breasts.
Olivia led Miriel into her waltz, moving against Miriel, but slowly, so as not to sever their connection. Deft hands, even blind, undid the clasp of Miriel’s skirt. Enraptured, sampling the earthy flavor of Olivia’s musk painted atop her skin, relishing in the soft crinkling of Olivia’s full nipple beneath her tongue, Miriel was barely cognizant of Olivia’s guidance, as her hips were raised—barely an inch—and her skirt slipped from around her waist. She didn’t notice until gravity took it, to pool at her ankles, until Olivia’s hands closed around her cock.
Miriel’s hips arched upwards, seeking Olivia’s hidden promise. Her palms ground into the cushion with all their paltry strength and she let slip a moan of unmitigated bliss.
“Be good,” Olivia warned, the bubble of mirth threatening to burst past her lips softening the impact of her stern words. “We’ll get in trouble if someone finds out.”
Olivia lowered herself. Her legs closed, and she leaned backwards, offering Miriel a show of her athleticism as well as her full breasts pooling against her chest. The muscles of her stomach knotted with sublime effort. Her arms swept upwards, sensually stroking over her face and neck. The long plaits of her pink hair dangled precariously towards the floor. She lowered herself, drawing ever closer to Miriel’s want. The heat of Olivia’s core was agonizingly distant in its proximity to her throbbing cock. Her eyes met with Olivia’s, her lips open in unconscious gasp.
“Do you feel it?”
Miriel’s lips began to quiver. She closed her eyes.
“Do you want it?”
Miriel’s vertebrae ground with her nod.
“Give me your hand.”
“But… I can’t touch…”
“Ah, ah, ah.” Olivia’s nose wrinkled with her playful chiding. “This is me touching you.”
Not waiting for an offer, Olivia took Miriel by the wrist, and led those shaking fingers between her thighs. The veiled space greeted Miriel’s fingertips with startling heat, and the surprising dampness of soft, wiry hair.
“You’re not… wearing any…”
“Does that bother you?”
“Of course not.” Miriel reflexively snapped her hand away. Again, she fidgeted with her glasses. This time, the motion brought the Olivia’s bouquet directly into her nose. Her eyes fluttered, and her brain did a stutter step.
“Then why don’t you show me how much it doesn’t?”
Olivia descended, and the weight of her embrace belayed Miriel’s mind as much as her body. As Olivia’s thighs stroked atop hers, Miriel shuddered. She felt the pressure of Olivia’s hips, the roll of them against her stomach. A familiar slickness, painted upon her flared head with the tickle of Olivia’s downy fur.
Captured by base instinct, Miriel thrust upwards, and they shared a subtle gasp of gravity and pleasure as Olivia’s warmth surrounded her.
“Slowly,” Olivia instructed.
With leisurely grace, Olivia glided into the hungry motion of Miriel’s surging hips. She shifted her weight atop Miriel—she was the dancer, and this was her control. Slow enough to be painful, painful enough to be rapturous, they united. Miriel eyes were slits, as the pleasure buffeted her, as more and more of her length surrender to the euphoric squeeze of Olivia’s velvet.
“Please,” Miriel gasped. Her nails ground into the cushion in abject mimicry of Olivia’s wax and wane of pressure around her.
Olivia took Miriel around her neck and drew her close, relishing in this incipient fullness. Her toned arms flexed with need, drawing Miriel into a close embrace. Miriel’s nose sunk into the silken valley of Olivia’s breasts. Olivia arched her back, fingertips brushing over Miriel’s nape in electric touches. She continued her agonizingly measured descent, filling herself with stubborn resistance, ensuring that both of them felt every inch of this meager progress as it came, and claiming Miriel as much as Miriel claimed her.
“Ahhnn…” Olivia moaned, their joining completed.
Miriel matched the sound with a moan of displeasure, as Olivia pressed her back into the cushions. Her lips groped at empty air, kissing the memory of Olivia’s breast. Her eyes opened with a flutter, and her heart skipped a beat, coming into focus at the display of Olivia granted her.
Olivia was flushed with deep concentration. With tremendous flexibility, she braced her feet on either side of Miriel. Her knees spread. Her bottom lip held beneath her teeth, a loose curl of hair fluttered in front of her face as her nose let slip a rush of air. She fell into a precarious balance atop Miriel, entrusting her weight to her hand around Miriel’s neck.
The coiling muscles of her thighs demarcated the route of Miriel’s thirsty eyes, guiding her to the bush of damp, pink hair crowning her sex. There, red hot, burning enough to steam, was the throbbing button of her pleasure. There, piercing her crinkled, glistening lips, was the thickness of Miriel’s root. Miriel furtive fingers bruised the cushions, but still she held firm.
Still, even huffing with this immaculate exertion, she forced Miriel to watch. Knowing the dizzying temptation of their joining thighs, Olivia acted the part of a cruel, uncompromising goddess as she touched two fingers beneath Miriel’s trembling chin, and drew the woman’s eyes to her face.
“Watch me,” she asked.
As if there were any universe where Miriel might disobey, Olivia took her by the back of her head. Clenched fingers in her hair provided the instruction. Miriel could look nowhere but at Olivia’s lips, parted, and slightly moist, with the energetic panting of her effort at containing Miriel’s passion inside of her.
Olivia displayed her fingers. Her tongue stroked out, over flesh, over knuckles, nimbly painting each slender finger, painting it to glistening. The fingers cleaved inwards, past her lips, running along the powerful, ready muscle of her tongue. Olivia’s muffled moan spilled around her fingers, and Miriel trembled with Olivia’s compression around her, the ripple and squeeze of her velvet, that accompanied the crushing exclamation of her pleasure.
Miriel hands twitched. How she yearned to grab this woman, to hold her close, to bury her nose into Olivia’s soft hair and be anointed with the scent of her body, her perfume, and her sweat.
A wet gasp, her fingers broke free. Olivia leaned back, using her grip at Miriel’s neck as counterbalance—and to Miriel, the dancer seemed light as a feather. Then, the trace of them downward, along her body, a glimmering trail slickness between her breasts, over her stomach, through that fetching thatch of tufted, wiry fur, and to the precious button secreted beneath.
“Are you ready?” Olivia asked.
Sweat burst upon Miriel’s brow. The persistent whine of pleasure that had been echoing in her chest for the full length of the dance—and long before, if she were being honest. Her hips writhed and squirmed against the impact of Olivia’s thighs, but she held
“Yes,” she begged. “Oh, Olivia, I—”
And then, the true dance began.
Miriel’s thoughts scattered to the wind as Olivia began the sensual writhe atop her captive body. She would’ve lashed out with her hands, captured and kept this woman, if Olivia had not already claimed her so. Olivia was a dervish, buffeting Miriel with the storm of her passion. Paralyzed, Miriel could devote no motion but to that squirm of her hips—she must seem so pathetic, inelegant, able to only clumsily buck her hips in greeting to Olivia’s practiced, dominant motion. She must be some creature of wretched weakness, hardly worth a glance. She was a lumbering beast, beneath this deific personification of grace.
But, beguiled by the glassy-eyed pleasure of Olivia’s gaze boring into her, feeling the riveted welts Olivia’s nails dug into her nape, shuddering beneath the silken stroke of Olivia’s thighs along hers, and reveling in the drenching squeeze of Olivia’s body folding in around hers as if it would never, ever left go, Miriel realized—
No, that wasn’t true at all.
Olivia was the dancer, but they were the dance.
The sweat dappling Olivia’s breasts and forehead shone out like a beacon at sea, calling for her touch. The silken massage of Olivia around her shaft cajoled her forth, promising such treasures, such experiences, promising absolutely everything, and more after that.
Miriel found her rhythm. Though she would never be a dancer, not like Olivia was, perhaps a dancer’s true skill is in how they lead. Again, in this blissfully tight, shared space, Olivia encompassed Miriel with the aura of her dance. Flesh whipped flesh with the syncopated beat of their bodies. Olivia danced atop Miriel, her fingers tangoed along her clit in jolting presses and furtive swipes, sometimes swiping towards, to trace the line of Miriel’s surging cock, painting her fingertips with the slickness of their joining.
“Oh, Miriel…” Olivia groaned.
“Miranda,” Miriel corrected, in a sharp hiss of panicked pleasure.
Olivia was too far gone for that. Her hips writhed, her hips ground. and Miriel was consumed by the flowing tides of her body. Lapping so deeply at her shores that Miriel thought she might be sucked into the undertow of her body’s undulation one moment, then pulling away meekly the next, until Miriel’s greatest fear, her only fear, was that they might separate.
But no dancer of Olivia’s skills would ever permit such a thing. Her body was ever distant, yet ever close. Her warmth suffused Miriel. Miriel’s warmth suffused her.
Pleasure-blind, rules on touching distant as a false memory, Miriel embraced Olivia. Her fingernails drew deep, red paths over Olivia’s back as she scrambled for closeness, for support. It was like a dream, hearing Olivia shouted her name. Miriel! Miriel! The bass beat of the music surrendered to the soaring soprano of her cries. Miriel shuddered, begging Olivia closer, closer, as close as she could bear, and Olivia drove herself possessively down, seizing Miriel into her core with the final, climatic flourish of her dance.
As Olivia cleaved to her, Miriel’s groan of release buffeted the thick curtain and her outflow burst into Olivia like an unleashed wave, leaving both women panting for air, and noticing how suddenly humid the air in this small, cloistered-off niche seemed to have become.
They held each other for a long while, after that, sharing eager kisses and giggles of post-orgasmic nerves, but to Miriel, it hardly seemed but a moment before they were cleaned, and dressed, and composed. Before long they resumed their masks and sallied forth past the curtain, and were poised again at the entrance to the club, this time to say their goodbyes.
“Did you have a good time?” Olivia asked, curling a bit of hair around her finger in a way much different than how she’d greeted Miriel. Her eyes flicked towards the floor, briefly, and her face was flush with the spill of nervous tension through her body.
“It was… wonderful,” Miriel softly replied.
“Oh, Miriel!” Eager as an uncaged beast, Olivia leapt for Miriel and drew her into an expressive hug. “I can’t tell you how happy you’ve made me, that you tried!”
As Olivia threw her arms around Miriel’s neck and hugged her close, a simple gold band on her left hand glinted beneath the lights.
Miriel embraced Olivia with the scarcest hesitation. Somehow, somewhere, deep within her being, she was unburdened, unselfconscious. Despite the many eyes of the crowd around, she was safe in Olivia’s arms.
“W-well…” Unable to resort to her nervous tic with her arms around Olivia, she decided she would simply let her glasses sit where they may. “It is good, to try new things.”
Olivia giggled, nuzzling her nose at the hollow of Miriel’s throat. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Miriel pulled Olivia into her, nuzzling her nose into the crown of Olivia’s head and enjoying the smell of her hair, her perfume tinged with the lightest aroma of sweat. And as she pressed her hands into Olivia’s back, overcome by the warmth and love of this woman.
Gently shaking Olivia out of her reverie, Miriel indicated the newcomer, a youth with short, dark blue hair, hovering uncertainly just past the threshold to the club, only a few paces away.
Olivia buried herself in Miriel’s hug. “Oh, let Azura deal with that one. I’m enjoying this!”
But it was all too brief. Soon, the rumbling voice on the loudspeaker declared. “It’s almost midnight and you know what that means! Coming soon to the stage, the Blushing Beauty, the favorite of the Grey Waves—Olivia!”
“That’s my cue, isn’t it?” Olivia said, with some quiet remorse, tinged with her fondness—and the longing inspired by their shared moment of passion. Nuzzling skin to skin before produced one of those sublimely petulant pouts that Miriel had always found so fetching, all but puffing out her cheeks as she said. She took Miriel by the hand, tracing over the gold ring on Miriel’s finger, identical to hers. “I’ll see you at home?”
Staring into the limpid eyes and lightly flush cheeks of her beautiful wife, Miriel took Olivia by the hand, and squeezed it briefly. “I’ll be there.”
Watching Olivia glide through the crowd and onto the stage, Miriel found herself briefly paralyzed. It wasn’t that she was happy, nor was she sad. She realized, after a moment’s reflection, that it was something deeper. Watching her beloved wife disappear into the crowd, she was swept away for a moment, just as intensely as they had been when they first met, however many years ago. It seemed a shame to go without watching Olivia’s dance, but…
As Miriel slipped out the door, face still red and heart still aflutter, the young woman who’d originally greeted her at the door now did the same for the blue-haired youth. “Welcome to Grey Waves! What are you searching for this evening?”