The Silvermoon Embassy: Coming Together
Copyright© 2026 by SerynSiralas
Chapter 2
Fan Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Silendiel, prim and proper noblewoman of Silvermoon City, has found herself forced to move into the recently night elven embassy. Cryptic warnings of danger on the horizon from the ambassador and priestess keep her there, with her beloved, towering, massively endowed sentinel, Neryn, where they begin to strain against life among the other kaldorei. Soon, however, the past rears its ugly head. Silendiel must come to terms with her love, and against the consequences of her own past misdeeds.
Caution: This Fan Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa Consensual Lesbian Shemale Fiction Fan Fiction Futanari High Fantasy BDSM DomSub Light Bond Rough Sadistic Group Sex Interracial Anal Sex Exhibitionism Oral Sex Pregnancy Public Sex Size Slow
Afternoon rays of sunshine pierced the black, heavy curtains over every window here and there, little lances spreading light that Silendiel had once loved like nothing else. Having stayed with the nocturnal kaldorei for several weeks, now, somewhere at the back of her mind, she had started to waver, uncertain about whether or not the night elves had the right of it or not. Something she would have found preposterous, not too long ago.
Similarly, of course, she would have found the very idea of carrying water and food for someone, like a servant, preposterous as well. Nevertheless, that was what she was now doing. Ascending the stairs in the quiet of what, to the sentinels, was the equivalent of very early morning, balancing a tray with both a small, steaming basin and an assortment of food. Not a full meal, not for a kaldorei of Neryn’s size, but something to start the evening with. Enough for that, at least. Enough to demonstrate her commitment to serving her mistress, the Lieutenant.
Not for love of being a servant, but rather to ease Neryn’s position among the sentinels. Who, for reasons difficult to grasp, considered it a reflection upon Neryn, weakening her authority and perceived strength, when Silendiel did not carry water, and food, and did not demurely stand behind her beloved sentinel, and forgot to have her eyes downcast.
Idiots.
She had, mentally patting herself on the back, some skill when it came to opening doors with both hands occupied by the tray. Could have made a splendid servant, had fate decided to cruelly intervene so as to not make her Lady Flameborn. But some divine hand had selected her for her station, after all, and so she saw no point to trying to confuse matters. At the embassy, where her own staff would not see it, she could pretend. But it would stop once they were back home. No matter her ability.
Inside the chamber that was, technically, Neryn’s, but which she thought of with no compunction at all as theirs, together, Silendiel set the basin aside for later, and then arranged the food into twin portions. One for Neryn, the vast majority of the bread, and pears and blueberries and cheese and grapes, and a comparatively tiny selection for her. When she ate at all, she felt like a bird, next to her towering sentinel. But it took much to maintain Neryn, and, in truth, much of the time, she more or less fed Silendiel, too.
Not this morning. For once, she did not feel that possessive, uncompromising grip of her head. Her skull was not protectively cradled, her lips not straining, aching, stretching around her beloved’s monster of a cock. So, for once, she would eat. Experience a day closer to what Silendiel of three months ago might have considered normal – wake, get dressed and proper, eat, and then set to the tasks of the day. Collude with her political and social allies. Something she had not done since the priestess had called both her and Neryn to the embassy, but would now have a chance at. Instead of getting her stomach pumped full to the point of looking pregnant, more than pregnant, she was to appear proper, as Silvermoon City understood proper, in order to meet with and convince one of her political allies to cease harassing the kaldorei embassy.
Whether it was really not a little too depraved that the kaldorei of the embassy considered it perfectly normal to interact with small sin’dorei bulging with colossal loads of cum, bellies domed for large portions of the day as they near waddled to see to their duties that did not involve relieving their towering kaldorei, was something Silendiel idly wondered. Could not come to a conclusion about. A lifetime of propriety told her one thing, and she understood, as well, that some of what excited her about the whole deal was precisely that it was wrong. Still, why should it be more right to hide such things away than to wear one of the specially made garments she had made, which left much of her front open and free, so that she could wear it whether freshly finished getting fucked, or merely displaying her delicate, fine skin after a long day of processing the vast, sloshing gift of her beloved sentinel.
“Malanore,” Silendiel said, then, recalling her name for Neryn from when they had first met.
“Mmarrrwebacktothat?”
Neryn slurred, clearly still half-drugged by sleep, turning onto her back. After a moment, she raised both hands, examining them. When not called by the strict schedule of a sentinel, or by Silendiel’s excitation to carnal action, Neryn was terribly lazy in what was, for her, early morning. And much too big for Silendiel to pull or push her out of bed, if she decided that she was too comfortable to move.
“For today,” Silendiel said. “We have to get ready. To meet Lady Silversong.”
When Neryn did not react, having dropped her hands and seeming very likely to be trying to go back to sleep, Silendiel let out an exasperated breath and crawled onto the bed, covers creased and messy, in order to reach over and poke a small finger into Neryn’s flank.
“Up.”
“You are a harsh mistress,” Neryn mumbled, rolling again. To her side, face squished a little as she employed no strength at all to hold up her head. Cheek resting flatly against the mattress. For a long moment, her eyes met Silendiel’s, revealing that though she was emerging from sleep, she was not quite as dulled as she had let on. Eyes sank down over Silendiel’s comparatively petite frame, and then back up. Rested upon lips for a long while, before finally reaching up so that their gazes could meet once more.
“I know,” Silendiel said. “It is cruel to be confronted with beauty and nobility of such purity, and yet not be allowed to touch. But it is upon us to meet Surielle, and convince her to stop her madness.”
“Would it be that much harder if you were—”
“Yes,” Silendiel interjected, though she reached for one of Neryn’s hands, found it, took it, raised it to her lips with the aid of its owner. Pressed a kiss to the back of a few fingers. “You will last a few hours, o, depraved mistress.”
Neryn’s expression cracked, an amused puff of breath from her nose, the beginnings of a grin on her face. Not that Silendiel was allowed to enjoy it, her beloved sentinel choosing to use her great strength, speed, to lunge for and capture her, tackling her to the mattress where they bounced, together, briefly. Neryn used her momentum to keep them rolling, until they reached and then went over the edge of the bed, sliding and crashing to the floor. Silendiel safely cradled atop her sentinel’s body, arms around her midsection. She felt a stolen, swift kiss against her neck, and then the hands that held her fast released.
“How restrained of you, mistress,” Silendiel said, huffing once with pretend annoyance as she sat up, employing Neryn’s muscled physique as a throne for one glorious moment, after which she stood.
“Of course, I am the instigator. You care not at all for our unions, my pure, graceful maiden,” Neryn said. She remained on her back, on the floor, having turned her head just so in order to look at Silendiel. “Yesterday was but a fluke, a demonic invasion of your mind. Otherwise, you would never have asked me to—”
“If you stay on the floor, you and my ass will no longer be on good terms.”
“Fine, fine,” Neryn said, rolling once more onto her side, and then rising to her full height. Towering well over Silendiel. “For your sake, and mine, I will keep relations between me and it cordial.”
Silendiel rolled her eyes, though she still reached out to place a hand against Neryn’s chiseled midsection. Without thinking. Just to physically appreciate her beloved, possessed of no other impulse than to feel the sense of safety that Neryn imparted in her. It was easy to forget, when they fooled around, that there remained fangs in that mouth. That nails could just as well be claws. That Neryn could and, likely, already had ripped enemies apart equipped with no other weapons than those granted her by nature.
When she looked up at Neryn again, in the next moment, she saw, too, next to the pleasant, silly sentinel, the slight bumps of fangs hidden behind her lips. Saw how the piercing, white eyes might shine with fury, how the red facial markings would look all too much like fresh blood, should her expression contort into feral rage. It was all there, below the surface, no matter how many times Silendiel had observed Neryn not to be that savage. No matter how many times her trust had been shown to be true. Despite every moment in which Neryn had insisted that she decide for herself, even if it would be terribly easy to trample and rule with an iron fist.
“ ... what?”
Silendiel swallowed, exhaled through her nose while an oddly neutral smile spread her lips. Despite it all, perhaps because of it all, rather, she cared far more for Neryn than she should. In some sense, Surielle Silversong was entirely right in her shock at what seemed to have become of Silendiel, but it was a sensibility to which Silendiel no longer found herself tied.
“We should eat.”
“Silly,” Neryn said. Letting the quiet, tender moment pass, perhaps without even realizing that it had been there at all. She put on the trousers of the previous night, and then shuffled over to the table, where Silendiel had arranged the simple meal for her, already. Sat down, and took a decidedly ignoble handful of grapes, shoving three of them into her mouth.
It was possible, Silendiel knew in that moment, to both disapprove of someone, and love them anyway. A most peculiar feeling. She narrowed her eyes just so, a judgmental expression coming over her which she waited for Neryn to spot. The sentinel never even looked, of course. She picked up a handful of berries, instead, but thankfully ate them one by one. The unbelievable mess of blueberry juice everywhere was avoided. Silendiel, at length, joined Neryn at the table. Sighed, and yet, after but a few small mouthfuls, found her left hand resting upon her sentinel’s right knee. For no reason. She let out the faintest, still audible, huff. Considered withdrawing the hand, but decided against it. It was too comfortable.
Neryn but continued to eat. Did she know, at all? Did she feel similarly? The almost cloying warmth in Silendiel’s chest, tingling in her cheeks, flagged for only a moment. Resumed, then, its steady strength.
She was lost. Nothing to do about it, anymore. May as well continue down the road, though she knew not where it led. It was, theoretically, possible to turn back at any point, though that option, once a comfort, no longer seemed a relief.
They ate together, halting only when Neryn, still chewing a mouthful of cheese and grapes, reached up to curl fingers around Silendiel’s head, pulling her closer, into a kiss. From which she felt as if she gained fragments of what her sentinel was eating, and though she ought to be disgusted, she could summon only mild chastisement in the form of a raised eyebrow. Another afternoon might see her more combative. Not that one.
Once done, Silendiel took upon herself the role of servant and squire once again, first washing and drying Neryn, then assisting her in putting on her ceremonial uniform. The one thing Silendiel did not, leaving instead to Neryn, was the polishing and maintenance of the ensemble, which she knew very little about. Thankfully, near nothing needed to be buffed or cleaned, and so, within ten minutes, purple-haired, red-marked, towering Neryn stood before her in the black and silver and purple of her unit, strong, and imposing. Less elaborate than the most absurdly decorated noble and spire guards of Silvermoon, perhaps, but rather more dangerous.
Silendiel then, to the extent possible with what few tools available in the embassy, saw to her own getting ready. Applying sparse cosmetics, a little eye shadow, and then remaining still while, to her surprise, Neryn brushed her hair. Humming some unknown little ditty over, and over, as she did so, never stopping to explain what it meant, if it meant anything at all.
While immobilized so, Silendiel’s fingers settled on fidgeting with the thin little silver chain granted her by Iralis. Given to Neryn, who gave it to her, so that she would not get pregnant from her beloved sentinel’s titanic efforts and potency. It had laid against her skin for weeks, was the temperature of her body, and so, rarely noticed. But it was a kind of barrier between them, too. Something sensible. Imposed by her worries, and yet, even the quiet, pervasive warmth she felt when close to Neryn could not extinguish the thought which kept the necklace in place.
If she removed it, something she could not ever change would happen. Her lineage, her family’s line tracing back to the old empire, would become something else. Change. Disappear? So she would have thought, once, but that was no longer a recognizable thought. Her and Neryn mixing would likely be something more kaldorei than sin’dorei.
The old self that still occasionally clawed its way up out of the murk at the back of her mind roared to life, then, and reminded her of the destruction she would wreak upon her family. Of the damage merely contemplating the entire thing was doing. She should instantly reject it, if not for her own sake, then for the sake of the child, who would be something of both worlds, and likely at home in neither.
A knock at the door disrupted Silendiel’s thoughts, and, really, Neryn was long done with her hair anyway. Still, with unnecessary speed, Silendiel shot up. Stalked to the door. Why, she was not quite sure, as almost every piece of news that made it to their door was for Neryn, not her. Perhaps the sinking, disappearing warmth made her eager to create physical distance between her and Neryn, just then. She ripped the door open.
Liriel.
Fiery, azure light blazed from the rune on her forehead. Her shirt was unbuttoned, her belly bulging not quite to the level of obscenity Silendiel had witnessed in the priestess’ chambers the night before, immediately after Tessa had finished, but not terribly far off. An unforgivable laxity in a noble home, but in the kaldorei embassy, practicality won out. Silendiel had had special garments made to accommodate just what Liriel was in the middle of, in that moment. One had to deal with the results of one’s kaldorei obsession.
“Liriel,” Silendiel said. “Seneschal.”
“Lady Flameborn,” Liriel said, straining somewhat as she tried to bow, but settled, after a moment, for a mere dip of her head. She raised her eyes from Silendiel, then, as Neryn came up behind her. “Lieutenant, the priestess asked me to inform you that ‘she’ is now on her way, though it will be some time until she arrives.”
At this, Neryn merely nodded. No further explanation was offered, no more cryptic words spoken on the topic. Instead, Liriel produced a single, already opened envelope, looking much like kaldorei nails had ripped it apart, as opposed to a knife cleanly severing the fold. Two pieces of paper were within, both clearly having been taken out, straightened and flattened, and then, later, replaced. This, at least, Liriel seemed content to offer to Silendiel and Neryn both. Silendiel took the envelope, snatched it from Liriel’s fingers, really, and pulled out the first letter to hand.
In it, Surielle – Lady Silversong – regretfully informed the embassy in general, and priestess Iralis specifically, that her tolerance of the kaldorei presence in Silvermoon was at an end. The cause was laid at Silendiel’s feet, even, Suri naming the priestess’ refusal to release the prisoner, Silendiel, as the cause. It was a brief and terribly infuriating read, one Silendiel imagined she found so distasteful precisely because it could have been something she would have written not all that long ago. Worse yet, it was unlikely that Surielle would be swayed by a single sentinel standing in her house. She had no experience of being held by a kaldorei prisoner of war to draw on, to feed the fire of an illicit fantasy.
The second letter, which Silendiel realized had to have arrived separately, was official. Written on the understated, officially decorated and stamped paper of city administration, it was not something that would merely be given to Lady Silversong to include in her little screed about a hostage.
A most generous three months had been allotted to Iralis to sell the mansion that had been bought to serve as kaldorei embassy, and to wind up the priestess’ ambassadorial activities, and then to vacate the premises and Silvermoon City as a whole. Not complying with this decree would result in forceful expulsion from the city.
Finishing the letter and handing it off to Neryn to be read again, Silendiel let out a forceful sigh. Narrowed her eyes, finding nothing worthy to direct her ire at – Liriel did not deserve it, no matter her status as a mere commoner.
“We should go, my sentinel,” Silendiel said. Her voice hard. The pretense of deference to Neryn as her superior momentarily forgotten, consumed by the same flame that she felt to burn so bright that her eyes shone with uncommon intensity. Dispelling, for a moment, the soft, gray-ish darkness within the embassy.
Once Neryn had finished with the second letter, Silendiel meticulously replaced them both in the ripped envelope, and handed it back to Liriel, who still stood there. Waiting. Stomach domed with the Captain’s efforts.
“Inform the priestess that we have left for our meeting with Lady Silversong,” Silendiel said to Liriel. She stalked off, then, Neryn soon catching up, and walking alongside her out of the embassy, out onto the city streets.
The trouble with nocturnal living in a city that disagreed was that one’s official, busy morning ran into the free time of those who sought to use it as an escape. In the streets. So it was that, having left the embassy behind and turned three corners, Silendiel and Neryn made their way past a small band of clearly drunk, aggressively bantering common people. And, the moment they were spotted, the three men and two women resolved that a noblewoman and an enormous kaldorei were, in fact, the perfect representatives of the rumored night elven invasion of Silvermoon.
“You!”
Neryn successfully ignored that first yell, though it was clearly directed at her. Silendiel, used to a higher level of respect about her person, and, if nothing else, accustomed to having people around her who would shield her from ruffians, halted for a moment. Looked around. Caught the faded, golden eyes of the man who had shouted, who now advanced on them from behind. His four friends, confident in their inebriated and constant fumbling for balance, followed immediately after, a glance making them seem more eager to see what their friend would do than antagonistic themselves.
“You!”
“Keep walking,” Neryn said, not even turning her head. Quietly, in the hope that the man would get tired, and leave them alone. She tried very hard not to react, but then had to ruin the pretense a moment later, placing a hand upon Silendiel’s shoulder in order to direct her forward again. Clearly, it was noticed.
“Yeah, you! Purple shit!”
“Most eloquent,” Silendiel said, over her shoulder. Trying to dismiss the man with an icy, if fairly sedate, barb.
Responding, however, engaged them in conversation, and the man rushed up next to them, and then stood before them, blocking their path. His friends came around both sides, standing to either side of him, a pace back.
“Shut up,” he said, not even bothering to register Silendiel’s sneer of deepest discontent. Instead, he turned his attention on Neryn. “Get back in your house, and piss off.”
“Remove yourself,” Silendiel said. Summoning, trying to summon, every ounce of noble scorn and authority she had at her disposal. Unfortunately, all the petty drama and the weeks of living in the embassy had somewhat sapped her of her previous, venomous power. That, or the drunkard simply did not care for what she said.
“We’re trying to rescue you, you stupid bitch,” the man said, sparing Silendiel a look that told her that he figured she ought to be grateful for his mere presence. His breath smelled like the cheapest possible cherry wine. He turned, again, to Neryn. “Let her go, and fuck off, and there won’t be any more trouble.”
“I am not in need of rescue. I need you to leave,” Silendiel said. Her flagging authority turned her tone almost conversational, falling just short of pleading. What had the embassy done to her?
“Shut up. Stupid bint. We’re trying to help,” another of the drunkards said. A red-haired, red-bearded man. He slurred his words only slightly, finding his balance as he moved forward first one step, then another. Not in Neryn’s direction, but in Silendiel’s.
Frozen as the man advanced on her further, Silendiel only registered what happened, unable to react. A terribly swift, sinking weight manifested in her stomach and pulled her towards the ground as she realized that the man was coming for her, not for Neryn. Even that, she could not move to react to. That he was approaching with violent intent at all was incredulous.
The next moment, in a movement so fast that it felt as if her brain had to process it in parts, a second later, the man crumpled to the ground. Something clattered against the smooth, large stones of the street – a thin, metal cup, not a weapon – and rolled away. He seemed as surprised as Silendiel had been at his mere approach, though his surprise manifested in his tumbling backwards, falling down to sit on his ass. Curling arms around his stomach, he turned, and was almost demonstratively sick, a watery mess, probably more ale than anything, spreading on the stones. He held his stomach, and then held the wrist in which the cup had been.
Neryn, in a fluid, incredibly swift move that seemed to Silendiel impossible, her stature taken into account, had stepped in, using the back of one hand to knock the cup from the man’s hand. And, the attack against Silendiel parried, she had, perhaps not in one move, but in what seemed a practiced one-two, instantly punched him in the stomach with her right hand. Neither he nor Silendiel had processed what happened, and already, then, the drunkard was slipping, falling back. Neryn, for her part, did not draw any weapons in response.
Instead, as if to reinforce Silendiel’s earlier thoughts about the growling saber beneath the often placid surface of her beloved sentinel, the one she had invited in and, somehow, felt safe around and in the arms of, had emerged. Lips curled back from fangs, white eyes narrowed to slits. Arms extended, nails seeming suddenly rather more like claws again. All of this could be seen for just a moment. Then, seeing no immediate reaction from the four friends of the drunkard, Neryn closed her mouth again. Packed the fangs away, her nose scrunched in disgust as she observed the man, wiping his mouth, and his companions.
“Fuck you!”
Perhaps not terribly eloquent, Silendiel thought at the excitable shout from one of the four still standing. She remained largely unable to move. At least Neryn had taken a step closer, such that she stood partially in front of Silendiel, allowing her to complete her useless, arrogant, practiced thoughts of the commoners.
The message came across just fine, even if the drunkards seemed to have been taught a lesson. None of those that still remained standing seemed eager to have their wrist potentially broken, nor to get punched with the amount of force leveled at the seated drunkard.
Given time, two of them convinced themselves, and each other, to clumsily help up their fallen comrade. Pulling him inelegantly to his feet, each holding a hand, so that he could not use them to balance himself, nor even support himself. It might have been both tragic and comedic, had Silendiel enjoyed misery as a form of entertainment. Had they not just tried to attack her.
“Piss off, tree-fucker,” one of them, helping their stricken friend along as they slowly left the scene, said.
“Fuck you,” another said. Halfheartedly flinging an empty cup in their general direction. It did not travel far enough.
Not realizing she had been holding her breath, Silendiel exhaled, and rapidly took a new breath. Wet her lips, and blinked, and tried to make her sluggish limbs and mind react. Do something. She had been entirely useless. What could she have done, even if she had moved? She was trained for another arena than this, the streets. She would have gotten in the way of Neryn, had she tried anything. Just as Neryn was apt to get in the way of anything to do with sin’dorei politics.
Neryn.
Silendiel looked up at her guardian, her beloved, who still stood straight, tall, still looked after the five friends, who seemed to have forgotten the altercation already. Based on their now jovial shouting and incomprehensible internal negotiations about which awful bar to go to. Neryn seemed still intent on showing any of the five, should they look back, that she was aware of them. That she was still ready to fight. That she despised them.
Without thinking, Silendiel took a step closer still to Neryn, raising her right hand. Finding, to her surprise, that it trembled slightly. She stilled it by placing her fingers on her sentinel’s forearm, near the elbow. To calm Neryn, who seemed to instinctively be taking some sort of superior, combative position which made no sense in Silvermoon City. To be closer to her protector.
“Thank you,” Silendiel said, after a while. She could think of no other words in that moment, though the bile rising in her as she began to process what had happened would no doubt turn into several extremely vehement and expansive entries in her diary. Or perhaps a long rant to Neryn, once they were back in the embassy. Perhaps, even, should things go well, a confession to Surielle.
Neryn did not respond, though her shoulders sank just so, signaling some small measure of relaxation.
“We should go,” Silendiel said. “We must go and meet Lady Silversong.”
The response was a slow nod. A great, measured exhalation of tension from Neryn, after which she turned softened eyes on Silendiel. A faint smile. The sentinel seemed to think little of what had just happened, Silendiel realized.
Disgust grew in her chest. A thick, choking rage that made Silendiel struggle not to scrunch up her nose. Made her struggle, for a long moment, to put on the always untroubled, dignified, ever composed mask she had trained herself to wear in the presence of anyone at all. Save her closest confidantes, save Neryn.
It was not the attack itself, nor even that the fool and drunkard had stumbled in her direction. He represented a part of public opinion she had inflamed, true, but something that had always been there. Something she had comfortably ignored, when it was easy to do so, when it was possible to remain in the murk of indecision. So comfortable were those waters that she had not even been aware of needing a push to move on from them – not until the push had arrived in the form of that idiot. And his four friends.
Again, Silendiel looked up at Neryn. Breathed out a slow sigh, still trying to dispel tension. Her beloved’s white eyes returned her gaze, calm once more. The growling huntress once more tamed, and packed up. Below the surface, safe. Seemingly thinking nothing of what she had just done. Of having just been put in danger for the sake of Silendiel’s desires. For her mistakes. And with this woman, who did not stop to consider putting herself in danger for the sake of someone who had but a few months before been a disrespectful stranger, Silendiel dreamed and illicitly hoped to have a family. A child of two worlds, though undoubtedly more kaldorei than sin’dorei, born into a city who would view it forever as a symbol of her uncontrolled, shameless passions.
“We should go,” Neryn said, repeating Silendiel’s words that neither of them had acted on.
Silendiel nodded, at last.
Other than having, once, had broadly similar goals and stances on political matters, Silendiel and Surielle’s loose alliance, she realized now, had been based on similarities simpler still. They were both the last of their lineage, following the Scourge’s decimation of the sin’dorei. They both inherited grand mansions, miraculously spared in the assault, and came to head families of considerable power, with considerable assets, at a young age. Having never been expected to or, really, trained to shoulder such responsibility.