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Elena kisses just like she does anything else: a little clumsy and very enthusiastic, a self-deprecating giggle caught at the back of her throat. Isolde doesn’t know why she’s surprised, honestly, though the shock may just be from the fact that Elena kissed her at all.
(They’ve been dancing around each other for months, ever since Merlin introduced them, said he knew they were going to get on fantastically with a wink and a wicked grin, but Isolde always thought it’d be her making the first move and not Elena cupping her face in both hands and saying, very seriously, “Please don’t punch me,” before leaning down to kiss her.)
When Elena starts to move away, Isolde makes a noise of protest and yanks her back in again, one hand fisted in Elena’s t-shirt, the other curling around the back of her neck. Elena huffs a delighted laugh and murmurs, “That was okay, then?” and Isolde wants to laugh except Elena’s eyes are more serious than Isolde’s ever seen them.
Elena’s hands are still warm on either side of Isolde’s face, fingers pressing lightly into the skin below her cheekbones, and Isolde leans into the touch, not breaking eye contact for a moment. Elena gulps, her face flushing, but she doesn’t look away, either, and Isolde grins.
They meet halfway and it’s better, this time, because Isolde isn’t too shocked to kiss back. She skims her hand down Elena’s t-shirt – one Isolde complimented her on a few weeks ago because it makes her boobs look fantastic – and slips underneath, laying her palm flat on Elena’s stomach. Her skin is warm and so soft and Isolde presses in, a little, just to feel Elena jump.
(Or, well. Maybe not just because of that, but Elena’s skin really is so, so soft, pliant under Isolde’s fingers.)
“Sorry,” Elena mumbles, drawing back a little, and if Isolde couldn’t already tell she was nervous, the way Elena’s shaking, unable to look her in the eye, would give her some idea.
“Hey,” Isolde says softly, taking her by the wrist in a loose grip so Elena can pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t, but she glances up at Isolde, her eyes wide. “Hey,” Isolde says again, and then she steps forward, steering Elena back until she hits the sofa and goes down, lifting her head to stare up at Isolde like she’s waiting.
Isolde stares back at her for a moment, two, thinks about all the times she’s fantasised about doing this, about pushing Elena against a surface and fucking her until she screams, Isolde’s name echoing around her flat.
“Isolde?” Elena says, hesitant, and Isolde smiles, slow and dirty, because she knows it’ll make Elena blush and she looks so pretty with her cheeks stained red.
(Elena does scream, later, Isolde’s hands gripping her hips to stop her bucking up into Isolde’s mouth, keeping her exactly where Isolde wants her. She pulls back whenever Elena gets close, biting the inside of her thigh or thumbing over her nipples or kissing the fleshy part of her stomach, and Elena’s sobs of frustration get louder and more desperate each time until she breaks and begs, “Please, Isolde, please, I can’t- I need- please,” her voice utterly wrecked and Isolde just kisses the light thatch of hair above Elena’s groin and goes back down.)