Another odd poetic drabble thing, rather ambiguous and somewhat metaphorical.

Warnings: kink and femmeslash. No, these are not my kinks, nor is this meant to be porn. Shoo, fanboys.

(And sorry to disappoint the fangirls who were looking for slash. I'll make it up to you, lovelies; I finally managed to start repairs on a old slash oneshot -- humor, for once. Drama and horror are getting depressing, even for me.)

--

Arya lays motionless on the bed, still and silent in the fading light. Silken strands of black poetry lie stark against her pale shoulders and across the green sheets; golden candlelight flickers off it. She's adrift in a sea of emerald and ebony, lost and strange and ethereal. Perfect, although Nasuada knows Arya too well now to still think that.

Nasuada shuts the door behind her and the tiny 'click' has Arya opening her eyes. "My lady," Arya says. A title of respect, although Nasuada knows it's not. To Arya, it's less 'my lady' and more 'a lady who belongs to me'.

"Arya," Nasuada says. "You're here." She'd asked for Arya to come, but it had been only a request. More and more it seems Arya needs this – their little game – even more than Nasuada herself. "You want to… tonight?"

"Of course." Arya slips off the bedspread. "The middle of the room," she murmurs, gesturing for Nasuada to come forward.

Nasuada shivers at the simple command – oh, wonderful dominance, blissful surrender! – and does as she is told, arms unmoving from her sides. Wordlessly, Arya reaches to cup her cheek; an ivory hand against umber skin. "Stay still," she orders. Nasuada shivers again, and as Arya paces in a circle around her, she feels the heat of Arya's gaze raking across her skin and dress. The urge to turn and look at Arya is hard to resist, but Nasuada manages. Arya pauses behind her, and her fingers brush Nasuada's arms, brief and teasing.

"Do you trust me?" Arya asks.

Nasuada nods, because that's what Arya needs – someone to let Arya do as she wishes, someone to control when Arya can't control herself. Someone to be different with when Arya's still fighting the conformity of perfection and heterosexuality and everything an elf should stand for. Someone to be obedient when Arya needs to rebel.

"Tell me what to do," Nasuada whispers, voice tiny and vulnerable in the darkened room.

Everything and nothing and something they both already know – five words, a request for a command. Nasuada loves this. It makes her heart pound, her body ache and her skin tingle; relaxing, liberating, exhilarating. No more plans, no more ordering anyone around, no one looking at her and needing her to know what to do. No more thinking. Just soft commands, inflexible and holding her safe.

"Close your eyes," murmurs that lilting voice.

Nasuada's world goes black as she does, and a dark cloth is tied around her eyes. Delicate fingers trace across the shoulders of her dress, then slide to her neck and down. A tug on the laces, and the dress loosens. It slides to Nasuada's feet, leaving her in thin undergarments. The sudden chill is chased away as those delicate hands outline patterns across her bare stomach, sending heat tingling down her spine. Nasuada's breath hitches as those touches move higher, then across her sides to her back, where yet another lace is pulled. The clothing falls away, and Arya moves lower again, pulling the only remaining undergarment to Nasuada's ankles.

She bites back a groan of protest as the touches vanish, leaving her naked, blind, and defenseless. A rustle of cloth, and Nasuada realizes what Arya is doing. Delicate yet strong arms pull her back into Arya's possessive embrace and naked skin.

"Do you trust me?" Arya asks again, breath tickling Nasuada's ear.

"Yes," Nasuada whispers.

Arya guides her to the bed and pushes her down, and obediently, Nasuada goes. Her wrists are pushed above her head and tied with leather. Leather, yes, because it's Arya, and Nasuada thinks Arya's too perfect to be perfect sometimes. Not like other elves are, at least. Exposed and bound, Nasuada trembles, and oh it's wonderful. No thinking, just needing, just taking – as long as she gives Arya everything.

There's freedom in the leather than binds her, something she can only see when the blindfold's blinding her. No more pretending or hiding or commanding; the mask of control she wears falls away, and it feels like beauty.

"Arya, I n– " she says.

"Shh. Don't talk."

The command leaves Nasuada breathless as the blindfold is pulled away.

Arya stands next to the bed, ebony hair stark against ivory skin. In her blessed hands there's a white candle, orange flame flickering. Nasuada nods, and Arya tips the candle over Nasuada's bare skin, shining with sweat. Then all that's left is the

drip

drip

drip

of wax, melting away control.