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bite the hand

Summary:

At first, Navia tries to wait it out quietly. She doesn’t exactly hate Clorinde—or well, that isn’t the first word she’d use. Some sick part of her heart that will always beat with sympathy for Clorinde nearly can understand the burden of a lifetime of obligation to a nation, to her master, and to Navia’s father. But even that awareness is bitter on her tongue. How many nights in their relationship did she spend trying to get Clorinde to open up, to let herself be taken care of instead of always taking care of Navia? Clorinde never got it, and could never quite put down her endless vigil.

Even now, Clorinde still upholds that oath to something greater than herself, carving out her legacy in the name of something more important than any human life. Navia will never know that nameless something, but she still knows Clorinde, and so the thought makes her feel ill. What utter salt in the wound to spot her at the edge of her vision but never be afforded a proper ending to their saga. Clorinde never was good at goodbyes.

So maybe one day something in Navia just snaps.

Notes:

written for clorivia nsfw week 2024: day 6, hate sex.

they are the messiest versions of themselves in this one, but the care is still very much present.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Clorinde isn’t slick. 

For seven days and seven nights, the duelist has been trailing Navia, hovering just out of sight in the shadows like a stray cat. Silent footfalls have been following Navia’s outings across Fontaine, and really she almost wants to give Clorinde credit where credit is due for her dutiful stealthiness. She is as much of a skilled hunter as she claims to be

Too bad Navia knows Clorinde like the back of her hand, and could recognize the slip of her form out of the corner of her eye more than she could recognize her own reflection: in utter silence, in death itself. They haven’t spoken for three years and still, Clorinde is unbearably familiar to her, like a ghost of a lover who occasionally comes to haunt her whereabouts, except, with Clorinde that metaphor is a bit painfully literal. 

With every news of another death by the serial disappearances perpetrator, Clorinde hovers at the margins of Navia’s life with knightly loyalty, never making herself seen but protecting her from the shadows nonetheless. Navia is chagrined to realize that this would have worked on her in the past, that Clorinde’s naturally stalwart nature was one of the things she loved about her in more halcyon days. But those golden days of reverie, of stealing kisses in unoccupied corners, and of sleeping each night with her head buried in the crook of Clorinde’s neck are long gone. No undoing what has already been done.

At first, Navia tries to wait it out quietly. She doesn’t exactly hate Clorinde—or well, that isn’t the first word she’d use. Some sick part of her heart that will always beat with sympathy for Clorinde can nearly understand the burden of a lifetime of obligation to a nation, to her master, and to Navia’s father. But even that awareness is bitter on her tongue. How many nights in their relationship did she spend trying to get Clorinde to open up, to let herself be taken care of instead of always taking care of Navia? Clorinde never got it, and could never quite put down her endless vigil. 

Even now, Clorinde still upholds that oath to something greater than herself, carving out her legacy in the name of something more important than any human life. Navia will never know that nameless something, but she still knows Clorinde, so the thought makes her feel ill. What utter salt in the wound to spot her at the edge of her vision but never be afforded a proper ending to their saga. Clorinde never was good at goodbyes.

So maybe one day something in Navia just snaps. 

It happens as such: at the crux of nightfall, she is leaving Hotel Debord after another failed meeting to try and garner funds for the Spina. As she steps out onto the cobbled pavement, immediately she senses those keen eyes on the back of her neck. Call it a sixth sense—a remaining old part of her that had previously preened for Clorinde's attention that has since soured like milk. The feeling of that steady gaze that once made her blush prettily now makes Navia’s stomach drop.

She had tried to pay no mind. Navia knows that Clorinde only tails her when things are particularly dangerous in the Court, and if Navia didn’t feel so affronted that Clorinde still didn’t take her seriously she could almost see herself being appreciative of her concern. Clorinde’s set of values and rules remain foreign to Navia; and once were the subject of many heated nights of arguing near the end of their tenure, but she knows how dearly Clorinde holds them. Typically, it’s easiest just to ignore Clorinde and let her play her silly games of chivalry until the danger passes, and she leaves Navia alone again.

But this is the seventh night in a row of Clorinde keeping watch over her, and frankly, she’s getting a little sick of it. To hell with being tolerant.

Navia turns briskly on her heel and starts to walk in the exact opposite direction of the aquabus line to Poisson. Breath catches shallowly in her throat as she quickly exits the city, into the dusk of the outskirts of the Court of Fontaine. All the while as she goes deeper into the woods Clorinde’s gaze remains steady on her–the unbroken watch of a hunter.

That presence continues to trail her, and surely she is making Clorinde nervous with this behavior, but it doesn’t bring her any satisfaction like she’d expect; just a deep guilt that wells up in her despite the sick feeling of being followed.

The Court is now a bleary skyline that lingers behind them. They are isolated in the shadows of the new darkness of the forest, and Navia is ready for her plan to unfold. 

She closes her eyes and reaches internally into the deepest part of herself, refamiliarizes herself once again with her ambition; and lets herself resonate with the Vision that had been given to her at her birthday all those years ago. The golden light of her Vision guides her unceasingly like a compass, and grasping it brings Navia endless comfort.

And then she acts. In one rapid motion, Navia whips around to face behind her. Activating her vision she sends razor-sharp shards of geo flying in the direction of the hunter a few yards in the distance, the figure who looms at the precipice of the forest. Clorinde, always with sharp instincts, instantly flicks out her rapier and easily shatters the stone daggers into dust with the blunt end of the pommel of her sword, but Navia’s plan has succeeded. The champion duelist, her childhood friend, her father’s murderer, and her first love, has stepped out of the shadows and fallen right into Navia’s trap. 

Clorinde, slender and strong in her hunter’s garb only looks mildly shocked for a moment which irks her, but Navia shoots a bitter smirk at the woman nonetheless. How reminiscent of the days of their youth, of their sparring and hunting games in the mountains of Fontaine.

“Finally ready to talk? Or are you going to scamper away into the dark like a coward again?” Navia bites out, but Clorinde doesn’t even falter. The duelist steps forward into the clearing, seemingly abandoning any pretense of subtly.

“…You always were like this,” Clorinde mutters as she sheathes her rapier, inching forward step by methodical step. Lurking toward her all silent and foreign in the shelter of nightfall, Clorinde almost resembles a predator encroaching upon its prey. Never before has she seen Clorinde so deadly.

Idly resting a hand on the hilt of her blade, Clorinde continues. “As children playing tabletop troupe when faced with an insurmountable obstacle you were never afraid to alter the rules to your benefit.” 

Finally, Clorinde glances up to meet Navia’s gaze, and her violet eyes appear alien and merciless in the cold light of the moon. A chill—excitement or fear?—shoots down Navia’s spine.

“To put it simply, you never would think twice before flipping the game board over if the system didn’t work in your favor,” Clorinde says darkly, tone laced with something nearly resembling contempt, and Navia recognizes at once the rigid placement of the duelist’s jaw. 

This is work for her, another tally on her endless pursuit of duty.

To be regarded so impersonally makes Navia swell with fury.

“It's a bit silly to stalk me for a week just to reminisce on old times. You could’ve written me a letter,” Navia narrows her eyes as she continues, “or would even that be too close to closure for you?”

Clorinde sighs wearily and rubs her temple. She’s acting as if Navia is a petulant child who she has explained her reasoning many times to, and it makes something mean settle in Navia’s heart. All her life she has yearned to be taken seriously by Clorinde, and to still not be afforded that respect is insulting, to say the least.

“I won’t succumb to petty insults out of misplaced anger. Mr. Callas entrusted me with a duty, and I will see it through.”

“Don’t you dare speak of my father,” Navia says with derision and steps forward into Clorinde’s space. 

It’s meant to be an intimidation tactic but they are just shy of touching, and the proximity and the slightest of warmth from Clorinde’s body makes Navia ache. That single inch Clorinde gained over her in their adolescence taunts her, her hair like falling water rouses Navia’s age-old love and hurt until she can’t stand it any longer, and she shoves Clorinde until the duelist staggers a step away from her.

Clorinde, poised as ever, regains her balance as quickly as she loses it. Something bitter and angrier than Navia has seen her in years has settled over Clorinde’s face now, and before she knows it Clorinde has her pressed flush face-first against a nearby tree with her arm pinned behind her back.

“Let go of me!” Navia exclaims, writhing furiously in the hunter’s grasp, but to no avail.

“Not until you listen,” Clorinde says, and her voice is oddly calm, nearly patient. Hearing the coolness of her tone makes Navia realize that she’s exhausted. Exhausted of fighting to restore the Spina’s reputation, of trying to clear her father’s name, even chagrined to realize she is exhausted of hating Clorinde. 

It’s just her luck to lose not only her father but her best friend in a month, and like the fool she is, Navia can’t figure out how to let go. Comprehending the idea of acceptance became an impossibility the moment Clorinde walked out the door without a word.

Navia slumps against the tree, and for the first time in years thanks Focalors for once being merciful enough not to let Clorinde see the tears that threaten to spill. 

“Are you happy now?” Navia asks with resignation. “I’m safe— you protected me, so let me go.”

Clorinde says nothing but steps forward slightly so that the firm expanse of her abdomen is pressed flush to the swell of Navia’s rear. Navia feels herself gasp and intuitively grinds back.

“…Your body still responds so eagerly to my touch,” Clorinde murmurs, and reaches up to drag a hand over the nape of Navia’s neck to part her hair, her voice edging between breathlessness and clinical observation. Navia can’t help but shudder at the contact. “You say you hate me, but you’ve been craving this, haven’t you?”

“No—I—"

“Then tell me to stop,” Clorinde says and stills her hand. “Tell me that you don’t want this and I won’t go any further. I’ll turn around right here and act as if we never encountered each other tonight.”

Navia bites her lip and cranes her head to glare back at Clorinde. It clearly does not have the intended effect because a sorrowful sort of smile pulls at the corners of the duelist’s lips. All previous animosity between them falters for a moment, and Clorinde looking so worn in her skin makes some old instinct in Navia want so desperately to kiss her. Oh, her traitorous heart.

“I really do hate you,” Navia breathes out, her heart once again breaking to pieces in her chest under the weight of the lie. “I’ll keep hating you for this—for everything.”

“And I accept that, Navia,” Clorinde says softly, her voice clouded with a melancholy that accentuates each syllable of Navia’s name on her tongue. “I have long since accepted your anger, but I must see my duty through.”

“Then for Archon’s sake just be quiet and kiss me already,” Navia says desperately, and Clorinde, just as easily as she maneuvered Navia into this position, flips her around so that they are face to face. Clorinde’s dark eyes have a wild undertone to them, a feral-tinted sadness and anger that only knowing someone simply to lose them can inspire.

There is a moment of hesitation where Clorinde’s momentum seems to falter as if she has lost her vigor and it pisses Navia off. Their collision course has been orchestrated by Clorinde’s own hands, and now, for some higher, nobler cause Navia will never understand, she wants to abandon it. Navia would rather bleed than starve.

Navia hastily grabs the collar of her shirt. “Are you going to make me do everything?” She sneers.

Clorinde’s face twists indignantly and Navia will never admit to herself how endearing she finds it as she draws her in. Fingers seize their grip on her hips as Clorinde’s lips find hers with equal fervor.

If kissing is an exchange this is a mutual game of roulette, each of them prying and biting as they ghost their finger over the trigger only to shoot a blank. Another round, another bullet spared. Safe for now but still hurdling headlong toward mutual destruction, emphasized by the way Navia catches Clorinde’s bottom lip with her teeth and tugs— not asking but demanding. 

Clorinde responds in kind, inching closer to danger when the wet surface of her tongue parts Navia’s lips to slide messily against her inner mouth. One of them moans lowly at the contact, but Navia isn’t sure who.

Years ago Clorinde was a notoriously gentle lover, someone who would press kisses reverently against her collarbone until Navia’s cheeks would ache from smiling, until her breath would catch as those lips met her center with featherlight precision. Those days have passed, and while Clorinde now isn’t quite cruel, she is altogether unrelenting; uncaring of Navia’s breathlessness or choked moans as she pushes her way through her mouth with her tongue, and Navia hates how thrilling it is. A still-gloved hand rests at the base of her skull, forcing with firm pressure Navia’s head inward until their lips are trapped against each other, unable to part the other’s harsh kisses even if one of them wanted to. 

All Navia can do is let her knuckles whiten as she anchors herself by grabbing Clorinde’s stupid, handsome cape. Always in that ostentatious uniform. Navia is suddenly struck by how delicious the thought of ruining it sounds, and so she brazenly uses her other hand to rip open Clorinde’s shirt. Buttons pop and fall to the floor until Clorinde backs away from the kiss abruptly and pins Navia with a disapproving look.

“Was that truly necessary?” Clorinde speaks through gritted teeth, but all Navia can think is that Clorinde is stunning when partially exposed, with the ripe curve of her cleavage and the toned ridges of her abdomen primed for Navia’s taking. 

At least, that was the plan, until Clorinde gathers Navia’s wrists and traps them against the tree once more. Navia scoffs in disbelief.

“Utterly disobedient and impulsive,” Clorinde mutters in disdain, “like you always were—always following every whim you so desired.”

“You have some gall talking to me like that,” Navia says; and she knows she’s all bark and no bite, not even attempting to struggle. 

When Clorinde leans in to suck purpling marks into the flesh of Navia’s neck her body betrays her, and she thoughtlessly exposes her neck before realizing what she is doing. Clorinde just makes a noise of contentment and proceeds duly to lay claim to Navia’s skin, wordlessly and without asking as if they were still beholden to the other. Like old times. 

As Clorinde teeth pierce her skin Navia can’t help but gasp and wish distinctly that she had something to hold onto. But she is uprooted under Clorinde’s ministrations, helpless in a way that makes her heart beat faster despite everything.

Even still, there is the awareness that Clorinde wouldn’t seriously hurt her, and Navia can’t figure out if that makes her elated or endlessly frustrates her. Maybe both. Things were never cut and dry with Clorinde, and expecting them to be now of all times is a fool’s errand. She knows that, but it is all too easy to pick apart Clorinde’s behavior, to examine each slight expression and turn of her pretty face that has held a grip over Navia’s psyche for most of her life. Clorinde’s very presence is a haunted house.

But soon Clorinde lets go of her wrists. Those deft hands move lower across the plane of Navia’s body, undoing the seams and corset of Navia’s dress along the way, and Navia forgets about her regrets momentarily. The cold air makes goosebumps rise against her skin, but the way Clorinde laps kisses on every swathe of newly exposed skin is nearly tender—nearly like love.

Clorinde finally removes her gloves, letting the pristine white cloth fall to the ground, and all Navia can do is think of the diligent care Clorinde took of them before everything; now they will be soiled with dirt and mud in addition to years of blood debts. Something aches within her.

“I wanted you to see me,” Navia gasps out as those bare fingers work over her thigh, “I wanted to be more important than your cursed duty, than whatever ghosts haunt you at night,” Navia grimaces as she spits out one final insult, “guess that was naive of me, wasn’t it?”

A hand moves forward with lightning precision to grab Navia’s throat, and Navia feels her breath hitch as she falls silent. Clorinde’s hand is just resting rather than pressing down, but it is nonetheless firm and unrelenting. A harsh reminder for restraint.

“Be quiet,” Clorinde hisses, and some sick part of Navia thrills at the tone in her voice, at the fact that she is finally under her skin, “or I will make you be quiet.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Navia goads, momentarily discarding her grief to smile as she leans into the touch, “you never could say no to me. You were too much of a pushover.”

That hand snaps upward from her throat to grab Navia’s jawline and she moans. With measured strength Clorinde presses her fingers against the hollows of her flushed cheeks until Navia’s jaw pliantly falls open. Clorinde moves a thumb from her cheek to drag slowly over Navia’s lips, which instinctively part for her. A haze settles over her mind when Clorinde touches her like that, she shouldn’t go along with this, and yet—

“Suck,” Clorinde commands, shoving two fingers through Navia’s parted lips and Navia lets out a stifled groan.

Clorinde tuts impatiently. “Or do I need to further teach you obedience?”

Before Navia knows it her tongue is making testing licks over the ridges of Clorinde’s fingers, and as those digits begin to move back and forth slowly she lets her mouth fall slack and gives in. She doesn’t hate having Clorinde close like this, wretchedly she doesn’t hate it at all.

“Good girl,” Clorinde praises, pushing her fingers deeper and deeper into the back of Navia’s throat until tears well at the edges of her eyes, “you’re so lovely like this.”

Clorinde is fighting dirty. Praise has always been a weak spot for Navia and she naturally knows this, just as Clorinde knows every other facet and groove of Navia’s heart as if it were her own. It’s hard to be angry at Clorinde when her eyes are fluttering shut and her cheeks are hollowing out to suck and lick, already so drunk on the intent of doing well by Clorinde, of showing how compliant and good she can be as if it’s the last thing she will ever do.

Those calloused fingers thrust in and out of Navia’s mouth, two soon becoming three, and it’s embarrassing how badly Navia wants to please Clorinde. That submissive fog Clorinde was always able to command so easily floods her mind, but it’s good, and practically affectionate the way Clorinde takes care to not hurt her even as she relentlessly fucks her mouth. Navia moans prettily, uncaring about the peaking drool that leaks lewdly from her lips. There’s just Clorinde, more immediate and real than she has been in years.

“You’re so good when you give in to me,” Clorinde lauds, their chests pressed together, “when you let me take care of you and use you.” She’s slowing her movements but she hasn’t ceased, and Navia finds that there is a base beauty in just being a willing hole for Clorinde to toy with, her back against the tree and at once liberated from her woes as Clorinde takes her.

Finally, Clorinde stops and removes her fingers from Navia’s lips . Navia can’t help but sigh shakily as Clorinde exits, her chest heaving. 

“Better?” Clorinde asks, and Navia has to stop herself from nodding dreamily at the question. She grasps at her remaining dignity like it’s a lifeline, and manages to weakly scowl at Clorinde.

“I should be asking you if you’re ready to hurry up and get to the point or if you want to keep wasting time fucking my throat for the next hour,” Navia says hoarsely, and Clorinde chuckles in amusement, oddly warm. The timbre of her low laughter is so nostalgic it makes Navia yearn for something unspoken.

“I ought to teach you, Navia,” Clorinde states as she leans in, her breath hot on the skin of Navia’s neck and her hands parting the layers of Navia’s skirts. Yet her tone is grave, unyielding.

“I ought to teach you what it means to be oathbound, to serve something greater than yourself.”

“But I don’t want to know,” Navia mutters and her head scrapes against the bark as she pushes into Clorinde’s touch, “about what is bigger than my father’s life, or more important than yours or mine.”

She grabs Clorinde by the hair and yanks until the duelist is looking straight at her, cheeks reddened and eyes dark. 

Navia hisses against her perfect lips. “I just want you to fuck me and take it all away, Clorinde.”

And Clorinde—who even in long-stagnated bitterness would follow Navia to the ends of the earth—terribly, loyally, pushes Navia’s underclothes to the side until a single probing finger slides across her folds. Navia gasps at the contact, burying her face into Clorinde’s neck so she can smell her: an intoxicating aroma of Lumidouce blossom, gunpowder, and sweat. 

Navia threads her fingers deeper into Clorinde’s locks, breathing her in, feeling small and sensitive as Clorinde moves that delicate finger to trace over her center. When she makes contact with her clit Navia’s hips jump desperately, overtaken by need. 

Clorinde chuckles darkly, the constant pressure of her fingers ebbing, only to return suddenly as she swats the head of her clit. Navia whines, feeling her hips buck in arousal, embarrassed in a heady way that makes the shame savored. The act in itself is crude, and vulgar in a way that simply gets her that much wetter.

“You’re dripping for me,” Clorinde says breathlessly, but Navia soon realizes it isn’t even meant to be demeaning. It’s just the truth. Her underclothes are ruined from desire and even as Clorinde maneuvers around her underwear without removing them to toy with her clit Navia finds that it’s far from enough, and she tugs at Clorinde’s hair wordlessly.

“Use your words, demoiselle ,” Clorinde husks, and Navia groans. The pet name is unfair, but Clorinde is long past playing fair.

“Get inside me already,” Navia tries to snap, but the words come out breathy and petulant. Clorinde just hums affectionately.

“As you wish,” she says, and with absolute ease, Clorinde pulls off Navia’s underwear to push past the folds around her entrance into the wetness of her cunt. One finger barely feels like anything, but there’s something exhilarating about having Clorinde inside her again, tethered like they once were. Navia moans open-mouthed into her place against Clorinde's neck, her teeth dragging against sensitive, salty skin until Clorinde hisses pleasantly.

“Another,” demands Navia, and Clorinde hums and slips her middle finger smoothly inside Navia until it rests beside her index. When Clorinde begins to curl those two fingers against that spot that makes her see stars Navia grits her teeth, letting her eyes close from excess.

It’s been just shy of three years since they’ve touched each other like this or at all, but Clorinde still knows her body like they’ve been sleeping together regularly. Their old youthful escapades come to mind, of fucking like rabbits in any quiet corner they could find, and in moments of vulnerability, of Navia’s lips latched around Clorinde’s clit until she came with a cry.

But this Clorinde seems reluctant to let go of the tenuous power she’s worked to claim, which is typical. Navia wants to unmake her with her nails and teeth until Clorinde transforms into someone who will stay.

However, at the moment, release feels infinitely more important; especially when Clorinde twists her hand that is pistoned inside her so her thumb can rub haphazard circles against Navia’s clit as she fingers her. The pace of her fingers is deft and quick, but Navia still aches for more.

Clorinde senses this. “Does the president need even more? How selfish,” she whispers, teasing but not cruel. Navia groans from frustration or lust.

“You owe me this much,” Navia says between gasps, “don’t mock me.”

“And I’ll gladly fulfill my debts to you. But,” Clorinde kisses the shell of Navia’s ear, “I’m going to have my fun too.”

Navia isn’t sure what that means until Clorinde begins to withdraw her fingers so that she is once again empty and yearning. The ache of having nothing inside her is consuming—Navia wants nothing more than to devour and be devoured—but Clorinde is just hovering three fingertips against her slick entrance, waiting.

“Why did you stop?” Navia demands. Clorinde moves away from her ear so that they’re face to face once more. Clorinde pins Navia with a look she can’t quite place, her violet eyes searching.

“Ask me for it, Navia.”

“Ask you for what? ” Navia snaps.

“Ask me for my entire hand,” Clorinde says casually, coolly, and Navia flusters. “Ask nicely for me to fill you up.”

Clorinde places her free hand over Navia’s abdomen possessively, her mouth quirked upward with the most subtle smile. Like this, pallid under the moonlight, Clorinde looks almost frenzied. Navia’s face burns under the scrutiny.

“You can take it,” Clorinde says, “I know you can.” Her fingers begin to move again, ghosting over her entrance, sweeping up to tease her clit again before trailing back down.

Navia knows she can take it as well, that her body can instinctively make room for each of Clorinde’s slender fingers until she is desperately full of her. Their absence from each other’s lives has made Clorinde bold, and Navia can tell from the feverish glint in the duelist’s eyes that Clorinde wants to unmake her too. Tonight Clorinde is uncharacteristically greedy, but so is Navia, and she finds that mutually assured destruction isn’t the worst way to go.

“Give it to me,” Navia manages to bite out, “give me everything you have.”

“I believe you’re forgetting a word,” Clorinde says, punctuating the sentence with a pointed pass over her throbbing clit, and if Navia wasn’t so embarrassingly turned on by everything about this situation how pedantic Clorinde is being would make her roll her eyes.

Please ,” Navia gasps and roots her fingernails into the still-remaining fabric on Clorinde’s back, wishing she could dig marks onto skin instead. “Please fill me up, Clorinde.”

“Good, that’s it,” Clorinde praises, and the words soothe Navia’s addled brain even as Clorinde pushes back inside without remorse. Three this time and the stretch makes Navia moan gutturally. 

But it’s still far from enough, even as Clorinde begins to thrust against that deep spot inside her. Navia craves the absolution that only the total self-annihilation of an orgasm can bring—a complete undoing—because if things are going to be messy, fuck , let them be messy.

“Give me another,” Navia demands, and she hears Clorinde scoff but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters but the easy way her cunt opens up for Clorinde’s fourth finger sliding inside as if it were nothing at all. 

The feeling is overwhelming, utterly intoxicating to have Clorinde reckless and close to her again. Clorinde has one of her legs propped up over her hip, leaving Navia fully exposed and at Clorinde’s mercy.

Moaning, she drags her fingernails down Clorinde’s back, and even though she knows it won’t mark through the fabric, the satisfied sigh Clorinde lets out fans her desire.

“You’re tight,” Clorinde hisses, brought to simple speech. “Are you certain you can take another?”

“Are you saying you can’t make it fit? What a pity,” Navia chides through clenched teeth, trying to incite, only to feel the round edge of Clorinde’s thumb sliding imprecisely against her dripping entrance. How pleasant to see Clorinde so rarely indulgent she’s reduced to clumsiness–it practically makes Navia fond enough to forgive her.

“It will fit,” Clorinde murmurs, and methodically slots her thumb inside to meet the rest of her hand. All Navia can do is cry out far too loudly into the night and anchor herself against Clorinde’s back and hips, drawing her in close, closer. It's still not close enough. Even at her breaking point, Navia wants to be consumed.

“Fuck,” is all she can say as she grinds her hips in time with Clorinde’s rough thrusts. Tears that threatened to prick at her eyes earlier now well without remorse, without consideration for Navia’s still-remaining sense of dignity that she clings to fiercely. But it’s alluring to be pinned open, to be willing and spread under Clorinde’s attention.

That feeling in her stomach is building, her muscles tensing as she holds onto Clorinde for dear life. 

“Clorinde—fuck, I’m going to cum,” Navia says, burying her face into Clorinde’s shoulder.

“Do you deserve it?” Clorinde says conversationally, nonchalantly; still not stopping her relentless movements. “You’ve been so disobedient, do you deserve to cum?”

Navia’s brain short circuits at those words. All previous vindication leaves her. 

“I—yes, Archons, please, I’ve been good, I’ll be good, just for the love of god let me—”

Clorinde stops.

The tension cresting higher and higher in her abdomen fizzles out to polite pressure as Clorinde stills her thrusts and withdraws her fingers and Navia could sob from the release she’s been deprived of and yearns to smack that self-satisfied grin off of Clorinde’s stupid, handsome face.

Please! ” She gasps, her hips grinding pitifully against nothing as Clorinde watches her intently.

“I don’t believe you’ve earned it,” she says coolly. Navia shakes her head, body and mind desperate to chase the glorious promise of fulfillment that is now slipping from her grasp.

“Please…” she tries again, grasping at Clorinde’s shoulders, “please, Clorinde. I’ll be good, I swear. Please, let me cum—please…!”

Mercifully, Clorinde yields and enters her again with renewed vigor, as if to make up for the lost momentum, and Navia cries out in relief.

“Cum for me, Navia,” Clorinde says and it’s an order, not a grant of permission. She thrusts inward once more with the strength of her arm, her whole hand stretching Navia out, and Navia whines, feeling something leak from her as her knees buckle and she lets go. 

She’s certain she’s being too loud now, but she’s surrounded by the feeling, overwhelmed by the orgasm that overtakes her like an unfeeling tide, but oh, how lovely to drown. Crying Clorinde’s name she throws her head back, loud enough that Clorinde sets down her leg as she fucks her through her orgasm to put a hand over Navia’s mouth. It probably doesn’t do much, but it somehow makes Navia cum that much harder to be shushed, to be enveloped in and held by Clorinde even in spite, even in loss.

The last thing she remembers before darkness overtakes her vision is Clorinde’s arms steady around her shoulders, holding her up and softly saying something Navia can’t decipher. But then the feeling ebbs, and Navia blacks out.


Navia awakens to embers illuminating the darkness. 

All around her is night, except for a crackling campfire that must have been lit earlier. She blinks, returning to herself, feeling the weight of fabric around her, and momentarily begins to panic. Is she alone? She can’t see anyone around her, did Clorinde leave her by herself in the wilderness with scant more than a cloak wrapped around her and a dying fire? Would she truly stoop that low?

Then a low voice from just outside of her periphery at once extinguishes those worries.

“You’re awake,” says that voice Navia would know anywhere, even alone, at the end of the world. “I was beginning to get concerned.”

Navia pushes herself up into a sitting position by her elbows, feeling her body ache in protest from the exhaustion of the long day and the liaison they had prior. 

She turns her head. Clorinde is to the left of her, seated on a rock and busy polishing her rapier in silence. 

That elegant sword had always been like an extension of Clorinde, and Navia knows that, but Clorinde now cleans it with such prudence that her unbroken focus on it seems notably forced. Likely, she is afraid to look at Navia.

Navia feels the smooth material of the cape draped around her body. Clorinde’s cape. That’s self-explanatory, but she has half the mind to ask where Clorinde procured camping materials while she was out, before she remembers that it’s routine for any apt hunter to be prepared for a night in the wilderness. Yet when Navia glances over, in the unsteady light of the fire there is a hesitant shadow cast over Clorinde’s face. 

This Clorinde is a step removed from the undefeated duelist, the keen hunter, the oath-bound warrior that Navia had grown begrudgingly accustomed to. Surrounded by night and feigning focus, this Clorinde seems small.

All Navia can do is sigh. Existing in the margins of whatever is going on between them like they are now is excruciatingly uncertain and vulnerable; everything Navia has sought to banish from herself ever since her Papa passed. Navia is chagrined to realize that she too has prideful pretenses she clings to.

Still, she doesn’t know what to say. Navia begins to chew her lip and is about to resign herself to tense silence before Clorinde speaks up again, not looking up.

“Do you still have it?”

Navia furrows her eyebrows. “Have what?”

The anxious way Clorinde adjusts her jaw is clear even with Navia’s bleary vision. “Never mind,” Clorinde mutters, lacking any of her earlier bravado. “Forget I said anything.”

A memory clicks in Navia’s mind then. An ornamental dagger given to her a day after that duel, pushed into her palms from white-gloved hands as the whole sky wept the earth sodden. 

That day, a few beats from midnight, the door of her house had opened to Clorinde, silent by flickering candlelight, soaked from rainfall and eyes steely. The weapon had been placed in the empty space between them, into Navia’s reluctant hands that wavered like a boundary line, like a guarded fence. 

(Navia had spent the night rotating it through the sallow luminance of her bedroom’s gas lamp and watched the heirloom sparkle and shift beneath long shadows; mesmerized, breathless, and heartbroken like a grieving child. It was all that was left of her previous life and more than Navia deserved.)

In the present, once again illuminated golden, Navia swallows nervously and wraps Clorinde’s cape tighter around her partially nude body. All Navia can think of is how cruel of a woman she must be, to once again take from Clorinde the few lingering remnants of her master. 

Clorinde has lost family too.

“Yes. I still have it,” Navia whispers, heart in her throat. For the first time since she woke up, Clorinde turns to look at her and sees her. This time Navia is the one who can’t look her in the eye.

“I thought you would have gotten rid of it,” Clorinde mumbles.

“Never,” Navia states, courageous despite looking down. “Even if we never spoke again, or only spoke to yell and sling insults at each other, it would have remained safe on my dresser until I could return it to you.”

Navia adjusts herself nervously. “I never could understand why you’d give me the last thing you had of her.”

And Clorinde, despite her grief, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, just says: “I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else having it.”

An epiphany strikes her, and Navia realizes she is incredibly small in the maws of the wilderness; in Clorinde’s worn cape that holds and surrounds her in the crux of hard-earned honesty. It’s humbling. 

But above all else, the early dawn sun is beginning to crest over the horizon, and dewy, newborn light hits her eyes. They have been out all night, and Navia will surely be falling asleep at her desk in Poisson for most of the coming day.

They’re not quite out of the darkness yet, but fresh light bathes the woods and turns brambles into comforting leaves, and Navia looks over to Clorinde and feels familiar fondness. What she would give to be a child again, her wooden sword meeting Clorinde’s parry with a grin.

Clorinde looks back at her, and Navia cracks a small smile. When she is rustled and worn into sincerity like this Clorinde is unbearably handsome, but the thought no longer pierces Navia’s heart in the same way it did earlier. She still hasn’t quite forgiven Clorinde, but in the morning light, she can’t help but wish for a gentler ending for the both of them.

“Will you walk me home?” Navia asks, and Clorinde blinks before standing up from her seated position.

Clorinde steps over to Navia, easily broaching the space between them, over that boundary that once shielded them both. Quietly, slowly, she reaches out an ungloved hand.

“As you wish, Navia.”

Notes:

i had a lot of fun writing this one! bummed i didn't get to do more for both clorivia weeks but what can you do. thanks as always to my partner for the extensive editing job that made this one readable, and i hope you enjoyed this if you read this far. i added some things fairly indulgently so if anyone liked this that is very meaningful to me. it was a lot of fun to explore a messier side of their dynamic!

as always, kudos and comments mean more than i can express. find me on twitter where i talk about clorivia regularly: florabats