only TWO MORE DAYS (or one depending on where in the world u live) remain until the SJM Sapphic Showdown begins this Saturday!!! WHO will be coronated as the Maasverse's 2026 Carabiner Queen and receive this beautiful crown??
that's up to YOU đŤľđŤľđŤľ
here are a few helpful reminders before the event:
â¤ď¸ please tag the account @sjmsapphic and add the #sjmsapphic2026 tag on your submission post so we can find and include in the scoring and event masterlist! please make sure the names of the featured character(s) + ship(s) are clear in the post and/or tags. you can also add any ao3 works to the SJMSapphicShowdown2026 collection
đ§Ą please tag anything sensitive or potentially triggering appropriately <3 aside from what is outlined in the rules there are no restrictions on what you can submit
đ¤ this is a competition! for fun! the one (1) character who collects the most points during the event will be crowned our Carabiner Queen. how will characters gain points you ask? check out the scoring guidelines!
𩷠running late? we will not be able to accommodate any works submitted later than 6/1 in the scoring BUT we'll accept works for up to 1 week after the event ends (aka through 6/8) for inclusion in the master list and ao3 collection. WE WANT TO SEE YOUR SAPPHIC WORKS :D
đ looking for inspo? start here: prompts | pose inspiration | drabble + sketch ask game
finally! if you aren't planning to create anything for the event, you can still participate in the competition + cast votes toward characters of your choosing by commenting on fics! we love community! check out the scoring guidelines for more details
that's all for now! can't wait 2 see what you all create and đ HAPPY PRIDE đ
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Gwyn finally stands up to Merrill, one that leads to steamy confessions
Merrill sat at her desk in her office, writing away when she heard a knock at the door. A few seconds later, the office door opened, revealing Gwyn.
Merrill barely glanced up at her, but it was enough to notice how flushed Gwyn looked.
âWhat is it now, Gwyn? Have you come to annoy me once again?â Merrill asked, her tone as flat as ever.
Gwynâs face reddened at the question. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, as though debating whether responding was a good idea.
âNo. I just came to ask if you needed any help with your research. I did some digging in my spare time and thought I might share my notes with you,â Gwyn said as she moved closer to Merrillâs desk.
Without waiting for an answer, she took a seat directly across from her.
Merrill stopped writing midway through a sentence and fixed Gwyn with a hard, cold stare, silently asking who had given her permission to sit.
Gwyn leaned forward and stared right back into Merrillâs eyes. She pulled out her notes, a book, and a pen.
As she began writing, she asked, âDo you ever get tired of being a cold bitch, Merry?â
A low growl escaped Merrill as she bared her fangs. Rising swiftly from her chair, she moved gracefully toward Gwyn and leaned in until only a few inches separated them.
âI am your superior, not one of your little Valkyrie soldiers. Got it?â Merrill snarled. âAnd do not call me that ridiculous name ever again.â
Gwyn smiled slowly, her eyes drifting briefly to Merrillâs lips.
âHmm, I think not, Merry. I think Iâll call you whatever I want, whenever I want. Got it?â Gwyn replied, her tone both challenging and playful.
Merrill gasped as Gwyn stood, bringing them eye to eye.
Gwyn slipped an arm around Merrillâs waist and pulled her closer. Merrillâs body tensed as she searched for words, clearly intending to push her away.
Instead, Gwyn pressed a gentle kiss to her lips.
Merrill gasped into the kiss.
For a brief moment, she found herself pulling Gwyn closer, closing the remaining distance between them. Gwyn took advantage of the opportunity, deepening the kiss.
The moment ended when Merrill abruptly pushed Gwyn away, stumbling backward as though sheâd been burned.
âWhat the hell do you think youâre doing, Gwyn?â Merrill shouted, covering her lips and taking several steps back. âYou should know your place!â
Gwyn smirked and followed her until Merrill fell onto the couch in the corner of the office.
Now seated, Merrill glared up at her, her expression a mixture of anger, frustration, and something she refused to name.
Gwyn approached slowly, never breaking eye contact.
âWhat are you doing, Gwyn?â Merrill asked quietly, unable to look away from Gwynâs teal eyes.
Gwyn stopped directly in front of her and leaned down.
âI know exactly where I belong,â she whispered.
Merrillâs gaze traveled over Gwynâs face as silence settled between them.
âI am taking what I want,â Gwyn continued. âAnd what I want is you, Merrill. So, for once in your life, stop talking and let us have this moment.â
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Merrill let out a shaky breath as Gwyn remained close, their foreheads nearly touching.
Gwyn slipping her fingers inside of Merrill tight cunt, feeling her wetness around her fingers. The loud wet gushing sound of Merrill cunt filling the room.
The tension between them stretched tight as a bowstring, neither willing to retreat first.
âOh, gods, GwynâŚâ Merrill whispered.
Gwyn smiled faintly, her hand pumping Merrillâ cunt faster than the last strokes. Gwyn dropping to her knees and spreading Merrill legs apart, lifting her gown up and sliding her panties to the side.
Pushing her tongue deep inside Merrill cunt making her moan out loud, eyes watery from the pleasures Gwyn was giving to her.
Gwynâs tongue showed no mercy, drinking in every reaction from Merrill as she lost herself in the overwhelming pleasure.
âMmmmmm, please donât stop, Gwyn. Yes!â Merrill cried, her voice growing louder by the second.
Fingers pumping faster into Merrill greedy cunt, tongue flicking vigorously over Merrill clit, tongue swirling around the small bud. Seeing stars as Merrill is so close to a sweet release.
She hadnât expected any of this to happen. Without a second thought, Merrill cast a glamour over the room to keep the sounds from carrying beyond her office. Clotho was certainly going to demand answers later, but at the moment, Merrill couldnât bring herself to care.
Gwynâs relentless attention pushed Merrill over the edge once again. Overcome, Merrill grabbed Gwyn and pulled her into a deep kiss. Their tongues tangled as they moaned into each otherâs mouths.
Merrill took control of the kiss, refusing to surrender completely.
âI still hate you, and this changes nothing between us,â Merrill said breathlessly, staring into Gwynâs eyes.
Gods, she was beautiful.
Before Gwyn could answer, Merrill kissed her again.
Gwyn pulled away with a small smile.
âI donât think you hate me,â she said softly. âI think you like me, and you hate that. I think you want to hate me, but you canât, so you treat me terribly to make yourself feel better.â
She held Merrillâs gaze without flinching. Gwyn wasnât entirely sure how long sheâd had feelings for Merrill, but there was no pretending otherwise anymore.
To Gwynâs surprise, Merrill smiledâa genuine, beautiful smile.
âI rebuke that negative energy, little dove,â Merrill replied with a laugh.
Before Gwyn could respond, Merrill flipped them over.
âLies,â Gwyn muttered, pouting.
Merrill pinned Gwynâs arms above her head and leaned close to her ear.
âMaybe. Maybe not. The world may never know.â
Gwyn shivered.
âNow lie back and let me take care of you, baby. I want to taste that sweet sweet cunt of yours.â
The words alone drew a moan from Gwyn.
The tension between them finally broke as they gave themselves fully to the moment, neither willing to hold back anymore.
âGwyn!â Merrill gasped.
Merrill slurps as she sticks her tongue deep inside Gwyn tight rear hole, running the flat of her tongue through Gwyn slit and flicking her tongue slowly, as she plays with Gwyn clit on her tongue.
âMerrill, gods, yes! Donât stop!â Gwyn cried. Cumming hard and fast, Gwyn fingers digging in Merrill scalp as she pulls her closer in her cunt. Merrill cleaning Gwyn juices up, pulls herself up to kiss Gwyn deeply and slowly.
Gwyn and Merrill continue to pull orgasms out of each other for the next few hours.
Their names became a constant refrain, each lost in the other.
Eventually, they collapsed together, breathless and exhausted.
Gwyn reached up and captured Merrillâs lips in a tender kiss.
âThere really is no going back now,â she whispered.
âYou ruined me, Merr. You really did.â
Merrill deepened the kiss before resting her forehead against Gwynâs.
âYeah,â she said quietly. âYou ruined me too, little dove.â
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Merrill smirked.
âWeâre not done yet.â
Gwyn groaned and covered her face with both hands.
Merrill laughed.
With a wave of magic, they disappeared from the office and reappeared in Merrillâs room, landing on the bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter.
âLetâs see how much sleep weâre willing to sacrifice tonight,â Merrill teased.
âThis time, Iâll glamour the room,â Gwyn replied, laughing despite the blush spreading across her face.
Thinking about the questions they would face tomorrow only made her blush harder.
For now, however, neither of them cared.
a/n: this is one of my first stories / lesbo stories at that so please be nice, comment and share let me know what you think :) more to come!
I need more of Feyre / Ianthe smutttt they fit so perfectly omg keep going đŠđ
I have never written for Ianthe and never thought I would! Thank you so much for this request. Yay for more toxic yuri <3 This made me a bit hot writing it, what is wrong with meÂ
Please accept this humble offering as a late submission to SJM Sapphic Showdown @sjmsapphic - Day 3: Identity
Punishment
Feyre x Ianthe
Word count: 1.1K
Warnings: pwp, this is utter filthâbrief mention of Tamlin, degradation, kinda pet play, use of âbitchâ, boot licking, spanking, leg humping, no aftercare sorryÂ
Ianthe would do anything to get in Tamlinâs good graces, and Feyre was sick of Ianthe shoving her nose in everywhere.Â
Ianthe had been picking apart Feyre since she arrived at the Spring Court.Â
What to say, what to wear, how to act⌠It was exhausting. Gods, sheâs been droning on for at least thirty minutes about the type of shoes that would most please Tamlin.Â
âYou know, Ianthe,â Feyre interrupted with a sickly-sweet smile. âIf you really want to impress the High Lord⌠A good word from me would do wonders in that department.â Every word dripped honey laced with venom.Â
âWell, of course, Feyre, but we must present ourselves in the proper manner.â
âProper manner, you sayâŚâ Feyre mused. âIn that case, you will refer to me as Mistress from here on out. Now come here.â She beckoned a finger towards Ianthe.Â
Ianthe took one wary step.Â
âNot like that,â Feyre barked, pointing to the floor. âOn your knees, crawl to me.â
Ianthe sunk to the ground, shame blooming in her cheeks. She slowly crawled across the room to where Feyre sat in the plush parlour chair. Feyre leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, exposing the pale skin of her toned calf. She smiled deviously as the priestess followed her command.Â
Ianthe stopped before Feyreâs feet, still on her knees beneath the female.Â
âBow,â Feyre ordered.Â
Ianthe lowered her head, looking at the veins of the marble tiles.Â
âLower.â
Ianthe dipped her chin down further.
âNot low enough,â Feyre said. She uncrossed her legs and lifted a heeled footâheels Ianthe insisted onâplacing it on Iantheâs head. She pressed down until Iantheâs nose touched the floor, cool marble biting into her skin.
âThereâs a good bitch, this is where you belong.â Feyre applied more pressure, and Ianthe whimpered.Â
She removed her foot, but the priestess didnât dare to move her head.
âMy shoes are looking a little dirtyâŚâ Feyre pondered. âYou should clean them for me.â
Ianthe started to rise but was quickly interruptedââUh, uh,â Feyre tutted. âUse your tongue.â She shoved her foot under Iantheâs mouth.Â
Hesitantly, Ianthe licks up the shoe, starting at the patent toe. The leather is smooth under her tongue. The act is not as unpleasant as sheâd thought, but to lower herself like thisâŚ
Feyre reached down, grabbing Ianthe by the hair. She dragged her head up, tongue scraping from her shoe, up her exposed calf. She yanked againâsharp pain shot through Iantheâs scalp.Â
Ianthe yelped.Â
âNo, no, we canât have that.â Feyre grinned, her smile not meeting her eyes. âStrip for me,â She ordered.
Ianthe started to object, but her words were halted as Feyre raised one finger in the air.Â
âDid I ask for your opinion? Do not speak unless prompted. Do you understand?âÂ
âYes, Mistress,â Ianthe said, eyes still on the floor.Â
âIâll have to teach you a lesson about speaking out of turn⌠Strip and come here.â
Feyre patted her lap.
Ianthe glanced upâhesitantâbut didnât dare disobey. Layer by layer, Ianthe peeled off her priestess robes. They fell in a pile, blue fabric discarded on the floor.Â
Iantheâs nipples hardened in the chilled air, her skin pebbled with goosebumps.Â
Ianthe was not usually one to balk at nudity; the female form was a divine gift from the Mother herself. However, in front of Feyre, like this. Ianthe shied away from her predatory gaze.
âGood, now lie across my lap here,â Feyre demanded.
Ianthe obeyed; she lay down across Feyreâs lap, bare ass in the air.Â
âI want you to remember this next time you dare to question me.â
Smack. Ianthe yelped as a biting pain stung her cheeks, the flesh heating as blood rushed to the surface.Â
She realised what sheâd done, but it was too late to take it back.
âWeâre going to count to ten, Ianthe. Do you think you can do that?âÂ
âYes, Mistress.â Ianthe struggled to keep the wobble from her voice.Â
âEvery time you make a sound other than to count, you get an extra one. Weâre starting again from one.âÂ
Another harsh slap found its mark. Ianthe bit down on her lip to muffle any cries.Â
âWhat was that?â Feyre questioned, voice sharp as a blade.
âOne,â Ianthe said.
âGood, only nine more to go.â
With each smack, Ianthe got more and more sensitive, and Feyre offered no soothing to the tender flesh. Ianthe knew sheâd have trouble sitting for a day or two, but nothing hurt her more than the bruise to her ego.
Smack. âT-ten. Thank you, Mistress.â
Feyre let Ianthe rise to her feet. When she moved, there was a wet mark where Ianthe had lain.Â
The slick was pooling between Iantheâs legs. She tried to rub her thighs together to relieve some of the tension that was building.Â
Feyre smiles with feral delight. âSo you enjoy being at my mercy?â
Shame coursed through Iantheâs veins like oil. She looked to the ground once more. âYe-yes, Mistress.â She stuttered, her desire burning in her stomach despite that oily, slick feeling inside.Â
Feyre hummed, âMaybe the lesson will sink in if we add in⌠a reward.â
Iantheâs legs trembled; Feyre yanked her forward. âSit down.â
Feyre grabbed Ianthe by the hips, making her straddle the already slick thigh.
âYou may come, only by using my thigh,â Feyre smirked.
âUhâhow, Mistress?â
With bruising fingers on her hips, Feyre moved Ianthe back and forth against her leg. The delicious pressure on her clit caused Ianthe to moan.
Feyre grabbed Ianthe by the chin and squeezed. She leans in close to her face, whispering, âNow, youâre going to hump my leg until you come like a good little bitch; you got that?âÂ
âUh, yes, Mistress.â Ianthe rocked her hips back and forth. Gods, she had become so wet already, her cunt glided back and forth with ease.
Ianthe was totally debasing herself, and she couldnât get enough.
Ianthe came undone with each motion. Pleasure was building and coiling deep within her gut. Sweat glistened on her brow as she kept rocking. Â
âCome for me,â Feyre ordered.Â
One final rock of her hips and Iantheâs climax coursed through her. She screamed out in pleasure, hips rolling again, and again, and again.
Slowly, that high subsided, her breathing slowed to heavy pants.
âGood girl⌠I hope you remember this lesson⌠Iâd hate to have to show you again.â
Yes, that would be terribleÂ
Ianthe clambered off Feyre. âYes, Mistress.â
Feyre stood up and looked down at the priestess with disgust. âNow, go clean yourself up.â
She stormed from the room, leaving Ianthe naked, still dripping, and trembling from her punishment.Â
Im back to support your emerie endeavor! (endeavmerie?)
how about âavoidâ for emerie x merrill (you know that one very pretty priestess)Â
MERRILL?? LMFAO i will give it my very best shot
Word Count: 675
Warnings: none, except for canon-typical Merrill slander. idk if Merrill has shooters like that but just in case you've been warned
@sjmsapphic
-----
Emerie didn't like the priestessesâ library very much. She knew it was strange, fond of books as she was, but there was just something about the enclosed, underground space that made her skin crawl. It was likely her Illyrian blood protesting at the wrongness of it.
Or maybeâ maybe it was her. It seemed that any time Emerie found herself in the library, whether it be for Valkyrie research or quality time with Gwyn or Nes, she always ended up running into Merrill. Merrill, who was cruel and spiteful and disgustingly attractive in ways that went beyond her pretty face. No matter how Emerie tried to avoid her, their paths always seemed to cross somehow. So, it came as no surprise to her when she chanced a trip downstairs to search for books containing information on female Illyrian warriors and came face to face with the priestess herself in record time.
âYou again.â Merrillâs nose crinkled instantly. âHere to cause more trouble with those friends of yours?â
âAlways,â Emerie shot back with a wink. Merrill was exceedingly terrible at hiding her feelings, and Emerie could tell how much it bothered her to see others unbothered. She couldn't help but appreciate the pink that spread across Merrillâs unblemished cheeks.
âIf you and that Archeron girl continue to distract my priestesses from their work, there will be consequences,â Merrill snapped. âIt's bad enough that you haul them upstairs to disgrace the title Valkyrie every morning. If your disrespect goes any further, the High Lord will be hearing about it.â
Emerie couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. Emerie knew that it was terrible how hopelessly cute she found Merrillâs pouting, especially since the priestesses were genuinely afraid of her torment, but she had long since stopped questioning the things that turned her on. Once one gets wet from Gwyneth Berdara holding a blade to oneâs throat with a triumphant giggle, one stops caring about that sort of thing.
âFirst of all, I know you know my friends aren't anywhere near me at the moment,â Emerie retorted. âSo it's starting to look like you just wanted a reason to speak to me. Secondly, feel free to tell the High Lord. And the High Lady, while you're at it. Iâm sure Feyre Cursebreaker would love to hear all about how much of a disgrace you find her beloved sister to be.â
Merrillâs face was fully flushed by the time Emerie was done speaking, and she had to resist the urge to reach out and feel the warmth of it beneath her fingers.
âIââ Merrill began with a splutter. It was rare to find her at such a loss for words. âI did not just want a reason to talk to you. That's ridiculous.â
Emerie felt a surprised smile spread across her face.
âThat's the part you're hung up on?â Emerie asked. âWell, they do say that truth hurts. Although, I hope I didn't sting you too badly.â
âWhy would I want to speak to you,â Merrill seethed.
Oh, this was not going the way Emerie thought it would at all. She thought her attraction to Merrill was an unrealistic fantasy her mind had created to get her through her drought. She never would have guessed that Merrill might actually be into it.
âLegend says that Illyrians are born hearing the song of the wind,â Emerie crooned. âThat's your magic, isn't it? Wind? Maybe you just can't help yourself.â
Merrillâs lips parted prettily.
âOr maybe,â Emerie continued, taking a step towards her. âMaybe the work you dedicate yourself to so fiercely has left you a little⌠high strung. And you want someone to help you relax.â
âYou don't know what you're talking about,â Merrill breathed. Emerie merely tilted her head, waiting.
âMy office is on Level Two,â Merrill relented. âMeet me there in four hours. If you arrive early, you'll have to wait outside. If you're late, I won't let you in. Understand?â
âAye-aye, captain,â Emerie mocked. Without another word, Merrill winnowed away, leaving Emerie shocked and so, so excited.
so feyre owns a studio in place called the rainbow (đłď¸âđ) and she collaborates with two women, ressina and aranea (insert lesbian flag) so there is definitely something going on there
List (mostly kinda toxic)
Ressina used to date Polina, the dead girl whose house Feyre bought up, lots of angst bc she's still haunted by the death, and yeah Feyre didn't cause it but also grief is illogical
Aranea is over men since her husband died so no she's figuring out she likes women too and it's a mess also bc she's also grieving and maybe she's also upset with Feyre bc she was brought back and Rhys was brought back, why not her husband?
Feyre is extremely guilt laden over the war and destruction and she needs to be comforted but maybe the other two need to express anger or grief? But she can't deal with feeling the guilt and she's their high lady so they have to please her, be happy, be nice and they do love her but how do you love a political persona? Drama
Anyway they all cover their bodies in paint and fuck on a canvas and then they make the result the national flag of the Night Court (dw ab rhys he's in spring rn)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is LIVE right now
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Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
by god's grace and a lack of sleep here's at least one fic for @sjmsapphic showdown:
Foresta, Caligo, Marea
feyre x ianthe x stryga, 3.5k words, explicit, more tags on ao3
Summary: Feyre hears a rumour that Ianthe is still alive and staying with the Weaver in the woods. She has to find out if it is true, she needs to know how or if Ianthe is faring â purely to avenge what she has done to Rhysand of course.
Im back to support your emerie endeavor! (endeavmerie?)
how about âavoidâ for emerie x merrill (you know that one very pretty priestess)Â
MERRILL?? LMFAO i will give it my very best shot
Word Count: 675
Warnings: none, except for canon-typical Merrill slander. idk if Merrill has shooters like that but just in case you've been warned
@sjmsapphic
-----
Or maybeâ maybe it was her. It seemed that any time Emerie found herself in the library, whether it be for Valkyrie research or quality time with Gwyn or Nes, she always ended up running into Merrill. Merrill, who was cruel and spiteful and disgustingly attractive in ways that went beyond her pretty face. No matter how Emerie tried to avoid her, their paths always seemed to cross somehow. So, it came as no surprise to her when she chanced a trip downstairs to search for books containing information on female Illyrian warriors and came face to face with the priestess herself in record time.
âYou again.â Merrillâs nose crinkled instantly. âHere to cause more trouble with those friends of yours?â
âAlways,â Emerie shot back with a wink. Merrill was exceedingly terrible at hiding her feelings, and Emerie could tell how much it bothered her to see others unbothered. She couldn't help but appreciate the pink that spread across Merrillâs unblemished cheeks.
âIf you and that Archeron girl continue to distract my priestesses from their work, there will be consequences,â Merrill snapped. âIt's bad enough that you haul them upstairs to disgrace the title Valkyrie every morning. If your disrespect goes any further, the High Lord will be hearing about it.â
Emerie couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. Emerie knew that it was terrible how hopelessly cute she found Merrillâs pouting, especially since the priestesses were genuinely afraid of her torment, but she had long since stopped questioning the things that turned her on. Once one gets wet from Gwyneth Berdara holding a blade to oneâs throat with a triumphant giggle, one stops caring about that sort of thing.
âFirst of all, I know you know my friends aren't anywhere near me at the moment,â Emerie retorted. âSo it's starting to look like you just wanted a reason to speak to me. Secondly, feel free to tell the High Lord. And the High Lady, while you're at it. Iâm sure Feyre Cursebreaker would love to hear all about how much of a disgrace you find her beloved sister to be.â
Merrillâs face was fully flushed by the time Emerie was done speaking, and she had to resist the urge to reach out and feel the warmth of it beneath her fingers.
âIââ Merrill began with a splutter. It was rare to find her at such a loss for words. âI did not just want a reason to talk to you. That's ridiculous.â
Emerie felt a surprised smile spread across her face.
âThat's the part you're hung up on?â Emerie asked. âWell, they do say that truth hurts. Although, I hope I didn't sting you too badly.â
âWhy would I want to speak to you,â Merrill seethed.
Oh, this was not going the way Emerie thought it would at all. She thought her attraction to Merrill was an unrealistic fantasy her mind had created to get her through her drought. She never would have guessed that Merrill might actually be into it.
âLegend says that Illyrians are born hearing the song of the wind,â Emerie crooned. âThat's your magic, isn't it? Wind? Maybe you just can't help yourself.â
Merrillâs lips parted prettily.
âOr maybe,â Emerie continued, taking a step towards her. âMaybe the work you dedicate yourself to so fiercely has left you a little⌠high strung. And you want someone to help you relax.â
âYou don't know what you're talking about,â Merrill breathed. Emerie merely tilted her head, waiting.
âMy office is on Level Two,â Merrill relented. âMeet me there in four hours. If you arrive early, you'll have to wait outside. If you're late, I won't let you in. Understand?â
âAye-aye, captain,â Emerie mocked. Without another word, Merrill winnowed away, leaving Emerie shocked and so, so excited.
joy | Emerie x Elain for slice of life for @sjmsapphic
When the telltale sound of the cottage front door rattling shut makes its way to through the house, and out back through the open kitchen window, Elain smiles.
âIâm out here, Em,â she calls out. "In the garden."
Moments later, her wife emerges out the back door and through the trellis to where Elain kneels in the dirt.
"How was training?" she asks.
"The usual," Emerie says, working on the straps to loosen the leather cuirass around her chest. "I think I finally mastered that disarming technique."
Elain rises from the garden bed, and wipes the dirt from her hands off on her sundress before taking over cuirass untying duty. "With the longstaff?"
"That's the one," Emerie laughs. "What've you been up to this morning?"
"Transferring seedlings," Elain says. Finished untying the leathers, she wraps her arms around Emerie's waist. "We're going to have a colorful garden this summer."
Emerie holds Elain's face in her hands. "I can't wait."
But Elain is in no rush. Every day of waiting is another day by which to measure the time she's spent with Emerie. Every lazy morning, every mundane afternoon brings her joy. She never minds the moments in between. She never minds the wait.
The truth sat on her skin, crawling up her spine and digging into every pore and scar.Â
You will not see each other again.
But she refused it. She refused to believe it, to let it come into fruition.Â
Mor x Andromache moodboard and an old snippet from my abandoned backstory fic! Last minute submission for @sjmsapphic weekend đĽşđŠ
And The Wind Pushed Her Forward: Emerie x Jesminda
For @sjmsapphic Day 3
Thank you for this prompt omg I'm glad you are encouraging me to indulge in my Jes and Emerie parallels! As always, I ended up writing a bit more than a drabble đŤŁ
Rated Teen and Up || One-shot || 3,277 words
Main tags: Canon Divergence, Love At First Sight, Sexism, Making Out, Running Way
Summary: A stranger arrives in Windhaven, pulling at Emerie's longing for freedom and adventure.
Read on Ao3
Snippet below cut:
Emerie scanned the treeline, unsure of what, exactly, she was looking for. The gossipers accurately noted that the stranger did not take up residency in the town's inn, but she still frequented their market for all three days since her sudden arrival. She had to be in the woods somewhere, but Emerie could only guess where. In a log hollowed out from decades of decay? In a secret cavern, maybe, like some vixen nesting in her warm den? Or maybe she somehow made a home in the trees, no doubt one of the safest places to hide from the beasts of Illyria.
Deeper in the forest, she walked.
Then, amongst the whispering branches, a soft humming could be heard, along with the fluttering of insect wings.
With her heart dancing under her skin, Emerie gazed up, blinking at the bright morning light. The trees, forever dark and spindly in the formidable lands and barren soil, made for a terrible cover: through the thin canopy, a pair of bare feet and a golden dress dangled from the great arm of a chinar tree. The faerie leaned back against the trunk with her eyes closed, humming a deep, sultry tune that filled Emerie with calm.
She stopped just below the faerie's tree. With a clearer sight on the female, Emerie's heart suddenly quickened. With lust and intrigue, yes, but also of surprise.
Drapping on either side of the faerie's massive tree branch were two opalescent wings. Their shape and pattern resembled one of a cicada or a bee, but with colors Emerie had never seen in all her life, even in her home's most vivid autumns: deep reds of ruby and garnet, sweet persimmon and molten gold, yellow as pale and bright as the daytime sun. The vibrant wings fluttered gently as the female hummed, the noise harmonizing with the voice of the faerie and the surrounding forest alike.
Her presence seemingly went unnoticed: the stranger continued to hum with her eyes closed and head tilted to the canopy. Emerie worked up the courage to speak.
"The gossip is true, then," she called out. "You are a nymph or a harpy."
The humming stopped. Opal eyes flickered open, studying the skeletal canopy for a moment before gazing down at Emerie.Â
Emerie stared back, her eagerness faltering.
But the bow of the female's lip crinkled as she smiled down at her. "I have travelled very far, my love, and I have heard such boring rumors a thousand times over."
Gods, her voiceâŚit was of a pealing bell, tender and languid in the forest's cold expanse. An ache spread throughout Emerie's heart like warmth from a den fire, but she steeled herself. "There were more beautiful ones," she replied. "One of the warriors said you were a temptress forged from embers of the gods."
Even from standing on the ground, she could see the female rolling her eyes. She cocked her head down at her, shimmering black strands falling from her shoulders and dripping from her perch. "Any female is a temptress in a male's eyes, are we not?"
Emerie couldn't help but think of the potential truth in those words, however insulting they were. The faerie's dress hung loosely around her slender legs, uncaring of the skin that showed. As her eyes slid over the warm brown of the female's calf and the hem draping over her thigh, she thought of what the females of her village would say at such a display. What the warrior males would say, with sneers wide and eyes dark and staring. But then she thought of all the males who had come into her store to leer at any inch of her body, however hidden behind her counter or under several layers of furs.Â
Male temptation, Emerie reminded herself, was different from admiration and female reverence. And she had always felt ardor for the stranger, no matter how much skin showed. And gods, even her very smell was a lure in the river of air between them: the honeyed apple and spice wafted down, coating Emerie's skin like mist.
The faerie sitting in this tree was not a temptress, or some monster wreaking havoc on the Illyrian's quiet country life. She was simply a female, enjoying the freedoms of life Emerie so longingly wished to experience, even if such freedoms were a hiked-up dress to wade in a cool stream, or wind playing through undone hair.
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it certainly does please the court!!! under the cut for implied prelude 2 noncon
Quiet | Feyre x Ianthe for taste for day 3 of @sjmsapphic
"Quiet," Feyre says, and reaches into Ianthe's mind to force her mouth shut. "We wouldn't want anyone to hear you scream, priestess."
It feels good to finally be able to use her magic in the way she's been waiting to since she first returned to Spring. It feels good to watch Ianthe writhing against her bonds, mouth twisting but unable to open.
Feyre smiles. "That's better."
She steps forward through the forest, over the moss-and-leaf littered floor, until she's inches away from Ianthe.
When Feyre runs her hand along Ianthe's cheek, the priestess's teal eyes narrow indignantly. But that won't last long. Eventually, everyone breaks.
"Now that we finally have some time alone together," Feyre says, "I think I'll have my way with you."
This was the way Ianthe did thingsâby force, not choice. By whatever means necessary. She'd done it with Rhys, and Lucien, and gods knew how many others in Prythian.
"Stand," Feyre says.
Ianthe does.
"Part your lips," Feyre says.
Ianthe does.
She could lie and tell herself that this was vengeance for the others. That this is justice, doled out. But as she tucks an errant strand of blonde hair behind Ianthe's ear, and watches her cruel features shiver with fear as she leans in close to her pliant mouth, Feyre sees no need to deny the truth: This is for her.
She bites down on Ianthe's lips with teeth sharp enough to draw blood. It fills her mouth, warm with life and magic. Feyre swallows.
THANK YOU also I uhhh got a little weird with it (because elain deserves to be a perv sometimes 2)
perfume | Morlain for taste for day 3 of @sjmsapphic
Lying on her side, hand tucked beneath her skirts, Elain breathes in the ambery spice of Mor's perfume still faint on her pillowcase. She hasn't washed it in weeks.
Not since the night that, after months of admiration from afar, Mor had finally come into Elain's bed.
She's preserved as much of it as possible. The sheets, naturally, cannot be washedâlest the scents she so enjoys be washed away. The blonde hairs that had remained on her pillow have been tucked neatly away in an envelope at her desk. The pair of silk panties that Mor had forgotten stay hidden in the far corner of Elain's closet.
And of course, there is the matter of her bedside table, the drawer of which contains a single gold earring and a kerchief smudged with red lipstick.
Only rarely, when everyone is gone, can she take them all out to arrange just so upon her bed and admire them for a while before returning them to their proper places.
Tonight, perhaps, when everyone else is out for dinner, she'll have her next chance. The thought makes her giddy. For now, she lays in bed, rubbing her aching clit, filling her mind once again with the memory of her mouth against Mor's perfect pussy, lapping up the taste.
âSo fucking pretty,â Manon murmurs. And smart, and infuriating, and young, though she is no longer a maiden. Nor is she mother or crone, yet still Manon is sure that she is holy all the same, and that she must drink of the divine.
âşââ§ â â§ââş
Or: Four gay little vignettes from Manonâs life ((or at least my extremely self-indulgent bisexual interpretation of it)) for @sjmsapphic!
for the ask game! "beneath" for a feyre ship of your choice <3
Feyre x Emerie under the cut!
Word Count: 628
Warnings: None, except for a slight CNC joke, but Emerie's just kidding
@sjmsapphic
------
Feyre wasnât exactly sure how sheâd gotten where she was. One moment, she had been holding what was, in her opinion, a truly impressive calisthenics pose while her trainer made borderline degrading comments about her form, and the nextâ
Well, the next, Feyre was toppling over on top of said trainer, knocking them both to the floor. Emerie let out a rough oof as her back hit the mat, and Feyreâs limbs were too worn out to do anything but land clumsily on top of her. Emerie, apparently feeling gracious, made no comment about their awkward position. She merely flipped them over with an amused, âOkay there, Archeron?â
It took Feyre a moment to respondâ both because she was still out of breath from the workout and the fall, and because she was momentarily stunned by the sight of Emerie above her. Feyre had known Emerie was beautiful from the moment she first saw her, of course, but being aware of someoneâs beauty and having that beauty hovering over you, dark skin covered only in sweat, tiny shorts, and a sports bra were two entirely different things.
âIââ Feyre began, her voice humiliatingly weak. âYes, Iâm okay. Sorry about that.â
âThatâs alright,â Emerie said, a devastatingly beautiful smile on her perfect face. âYou wanna get up and try again?â
âYes, but uhmââ Feyre cut herself off with an awkward cough. Emerie raised a questioning eyebrow. âIâm still beneath you.â
Emerie looked down to where her hips straddled Feyreâs, their bodies nearly flush, then back up to Feyreâs face, which was a mere few inches away from Emerieâs own.
âThat you are,â Emerie chuckled. âIâll tell you what. If you can get me off of you, we can be done for the day.â
Feyreâs face flamed impossibly hotter.
âThatâs not fair,â she protested. âYou know I canât do that.â
âWhy not?â Emerieâs voice had a taunting undertone that told Feyre she knew exactly why.
âBecause youâre too strong,â Feyre reminded her. Emerieâs grin widened.
âI suppose I am,â she agreed. Her hands moved from their place beside Feyreâs head, and suddenly, Feyre found herself with her arms pinned above her head. âI could keep you just like this, couldnât I? And you wouldnât be able to do a thing to stop me.â
Feyre was sure her face must be bright scarlet, and she looked up at Emerie hopelessly. In her eyes, Feyre saw a question. It was a question she knew the answer to.Â
âWhy would I want to stop you?â she breathed, sounding more besotted than coy. Emerie laughed, and Feyre thought, for a moment, that she was about to roll off of her and tell her to get back to work. Instead, she surprised Feyre by leaning down and pressing their lips together. Feyre made a soft noise in response, a noise that turned into a moan as Emerie licked into her mouth. Feyreâ ever the competitorâ gave it as good as she got, and she was rewarded with the loosening of Emerieâs grip on her wrists. Savoring the moment of distraction, Feyre wrapped her legs around Emerie and flipped them back over.
As beautiful as Emerie had been above her, it was nothing compared to the sight of her shocked and flushed and laid out on the mat. Feyre offered her a satisfied smile and rolled gracefully to her feet.Â
âI think that means weâre done for the day?â Feyre teased. Emerie watched with a blazing gaze as Feyre grabbed her water bottle and headed towards the door that led from Emerieâs garage to the house. âIâll be in the shower if you need me.â
Feyre barely made it two steps into the house before Emerie was surging after her and lifting her off her feet.
For @sjmsapphic ! So sad itâs coming to an end but so excited to be catching up over the coming days :3
a/n: another one for thqc! This one is set relatively early on in readerâs time under Amaranthaâs care, but is fine to be read as a standalone!! <3
synopsis: Summer Court, [?] years into Amaranthaâs reign.
Every bath the High Queen has taken since arriving in this sweltering land she has left dark, and heavy with blood. She swims in pools, and dries herself beneath the sunâbare and delightful. Youâve been double the use to her, as of late.
warnings: blood/canon typical violence; oral (Amarantha receiving); scratching; kind of d/s dynamicss; not proofread
word count:Â 3,678
~~~~
The High Queen entered her chambers soaked up to her lashes in blood. She exits her bathing quarters pristine, pathing a trail of wet footprints across the floor as she makes her way to the sunlight. The marks of her feet are interspersed with tiny droplets that have slipped from the wet length of her hairâdark as blood, and stuck across her pale shoulders and spine.Â
Without a word of greeting or acknowledgement, she settles her naked body along the leather-padded chaise that is positioned in the centre of a fattened sunbeam thatâs pouring in from between pale linen curtains. Her hair catches the lightâglittering like berries, or the seeds of sweetened jam as she lays it over the back of the chaise. Water continues dripping, dampening the butter-pale rug beneath her.Â
Yellow rug, brown leather, and a queen of red and white.Â
Wet, and bathing in sunlight to dry.Â
It would be nice if she enjoyed her personal chambers with the same freedomâbare skin, and ease. Itâs not been long here, you donât think. Though this is the fourth time your queen has returned to her chambers steeped in blood. This time wasnât even the worst of it.Â
At least it was just blood, this time.Â
Amarantha is facing away from you, reclining beneath the sunbeam when she calls for you. She sounds tiredâexhausted. Her voice lacks that severity she usually carries.Â
Lethargically, you roll to your side, tipping from the mattress but landing on your feet as you wind your way over to her. Brush against the cool stone pillars separating bed chambers from balcony. The balcony makes you waryâwrapping all the way around the tower, highest in the castle. You ease your bare back to the stone, sliding down to settle on the floor in her view, itching the skin you canât reach.Â
One dark eye slides open a fraction, marking your presence at the chamberâs perimeter.Â
âDo you know where we are, pet?â She drawls softly, arms lazing at her sides as she settles deeper against the chaise. Her hair shines with the movement, glowing like metal fresh from a forge where it catches the sunâs glare.Â
You pull your legs to your chest, leaning over your knees. âSummer?âÂ
âAlmost,â she murmurs. She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. Shifts her arms. âItâs called the Summer Court.âÂ
You hum, peering cautiously through the stone balustrade that runs around the balconyâs edge. Beyond, the sea is almost the colour of the sky, and the further out it goes the more you struggle to find the line where up and down meet. They seem to roll into one, ongoing script. Like youâre cushioned within one of those scalloped shells.Â
âAnd do you know why weâre here, pet?â Amarantha asks, saving you from the start of something dizzying.Â
You turn to face her, mischief curving the corners of your mouth. âBecause you miss the sun on your skin, and desire the freedom to be naked and warm?â You ask, crawling the short distance to her chaise, kneeling at her side. You cross your arms over the wet leather, laying your cheek against your wrist to peer up at her. âItâs too cold for you, being underground all the timeâŚâÂ
âIâm warm enough,â she counters, her sun-lit eyes gazing across the blinding white clouds speckling the sky. Her gaze slides to you. âIs that your guess?âÂ
You tilt your head, fondness in your lips. âIs it wrong?âÂ
âYouâre not very bright, are you.â
âNot underground, Iâm not,â you reply.
The High Queenâs dark eyes study you, not a trace of amusement to be found. Her expression usually seems to be drawn in the direction of severity when sheâs not before her court. Her pale lips pursed, brows tight and drawn.Â
Her arm lifts, and fingers push hair from your face. Nails ghost down the outer shell of your ear, and you shiver. Lips part on a breath, and the rest of the world blends and blurs as she draws your focus. Like water circling a funnel, she inexplicably pulls you in.Â
Itâs not often she touches you without harm in her fingers.
Heavy footsteps thunder in the hallway, the sounds of a commotion ringing out as metal clangs, and the hiss of steal cuts through the air.
Amarantha tips her head back against the leather cushioning and sighs, her eyes falling shut for a moment of peace. Then she nods in the direction of her chambersâ entry, âGo see what it is.âÂ
Her fingers release the pinch they had on your ear, and her arms returns to rest as her side; her attention in you has been taken. You glance over her once more before gathering yourself to your feet, padding across the rug and back into the shadows of her chambers, unbolting the black-iron lock.Â
In the hallway beyond, blood has already been shed.Â
A male has been forced to his knees, teeth bared, lips curled. His eyes hold enough power to drown the castle and all of its inhabitants beneath the weight of the sea, and yet he shivers there on his knees, features contorted in rage. A soldier with warm red skin, clad in scaled iron keeps the kneeling maleâs arms constricted, while another points a spear to his chest.Â
Thereâs blood in his white hair. Blood on his hands, beneath his nails, staining the once-pristine fabrics heâs clothed in.Â
âLet me see her.â The male bellows, breathing hard beneath the oppressive hands and sweltering heat. His skin gleams with sweat, eyes wide and red. His turquoise irises almost seem to glow. âCome out here, Amarantha,â he snarls, and the vibrations thunder through your chest. âI know youâre in there. I know you can hear me. Speak with me.âÂ
You glance to one of the soldiers who are stood to the sides of the double doors, its eyes hard, and hungry. âWhat is this?â You ask, âThe Queen wishes to know what disturbs her.âÂ
âThis lord thinks he rules the castle,â it snarls, eyes on the male. Red irises glitter. âThis lord thinks he has a say in whose blood is shed.âÂ
âThese are my people,â the male growls, features twisting further into fury. âThese are my people and they will always-âÂ
The guard pushes the tip of the spear hard against the maleâs chest, and blood bursts beneath, spilling fresh marks over already bloody clothing. The maleâs eyes squeeze shut in pain, but his head doesnât bow. He doesnât cower, and when he lifts his head again, the storm has quietened in his eyes and manifested within the rest of him. A smooth-surfaced ocean with a raging tide beneath.Â
âThese are my people,â he growls, lower now, âand they will always be my people.â Blood weeps from the centre of his chest, flowing through fibres down to his stomach. âAmarantha knows that too, or else she would not go to such lengths to weaken an already vulnerable citadel.â He bares his teeth, âwhy worry when there is no threat?âÂ
Fury in his eyes, but pain too. Anger, from hurt.
âUntil you yield to me, Lord, Summerâs blood will continue to flow,â the High Queen announces, having appeared at your back. You step aside, parting the doors for her. A white robs wraps her figure, linen pooling on the floor, lace patterning the sleeves with a collar that slides up over her nape. Wine-red hair flows down her back, and she peers down her nose at the male on the floor.Â
âAm I not on my knees before you?â He asks, and thereâs pain and blood and anger in his voice. âDo I not come here, to you, to beg for you to put an end to this bloodshed because I cannot?â His voice is rough, turned hoarse at the end. The maleâs nostrils flare, and his chest heaves. Turquoise irises sear against his reddened eyes, âI have nothing left to give, nothing left to yield.âÂ
âIf that is what you insist upon, then your people will continue to pay.âÂ
âWhat is there to give?â He asks, and the spear is again pushed to his chest.Â
Another set of footsteps sound in the winding stairwellâhurried, heavy breathing. A second maleâalso dressed in finery, also bloody, also sweating and distraughtâappears in the archway. His eyes find those of the kneeling maleâs and he makes to run to him but the guard aim their spears to his chest, blocking his path. His skin, though flushed from heat and exertion, drains upon spotting the Queen.Â
The male on his knees shakes his head. âReturn to the hall. You are needed there.âÂ
âNo,â the High Queen declares. âLet him pass. I imagine our Lord may be too weak to stand. Better he has company.â She tilts her head, angling her jawâhow lucky you would be to press your mouth to such a throat. âBetter he learn his lesson now, if he wishes to save his people.âÂ
The male stares at her, and perspiration shines on his brow. Now there is something like fear in his eyes, contained in the smell of his sweat. Amarantha inclines her chin, and the guard removes his spear, the butt of the weapon clanging against the ground as the soldier returns to attention. Dark eyes flick to the guard holding the male in place, and he steps away.Â
Still knelt on the ground, the male does not plead for her to reconsider, but neither does he look at his companion as he slides a clean arm beneath a bloodied shoulder, helped to his feet, a fresh wash of blood dousing the heavily stained shirt. The maleâs jaw tightens beneath the strain.Â
The High Queen looks the two of them over: bloodied, sweaty, panting.Â
Amarantha tilts her head in silent command, then turns to you, murmuring an instruction for you to draw her another bath, before disappearing into her chambers.Â
The males eye the guards, the Lord giving you a cursory glance before following after her.Â
You observe the fresh blood on the floor, wondering if itâll be gone the next time you step out here, then move to return to your Queenâs side, the guards pulling the door shut at your back while you slide the bolt into place.
~~~~
The bath the High Queen had requested is pool carved into the next chamberâs floor, tilted over and smooth. A slab of red-brown rock is placed beside the waterâs edge, dips and divots hewn for towel stacks and glass bottles. Each one smells more interesting than the last, and itâs a treat to know where these upper scent layers are coming from when you taste them in your Ladyâs skin.Â
Amarantha had bid you to stay with her, while the mess next door was tidied away. Flesh stuck beneath her fingernails, your mouth bloodied. The second male had managed to clasp his hands around your throat before Amarantha had torn him away, and promptly disabled him.Â
The Lord had watched, silenced and producing a stench.Â
Amarantha takes a palm-full of liquid and begins rubbing it into her hair, nails pushing at her scalp, grazing her nape, scratching behind her ears. You watch quietly from the poolâs edge, sat atop a cushion youâd lazily pulled from the cupboard. The High Queen tips her head back into the cool water and rinses out the suds, dipping her hair in and out of the pool. She catches something, and a frown tightens her brow as she examines her nails. Then she turns, and wades back through the water to pluck a clump of bristles stuck into a narrow block of wood from the stone slab, scrubbing beneath her nails.Â
You pull your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your knees and laying your chin atop your forearms. âFor how much longer are we staying here?â
Amarantha swaps the brush over, scrubbing the nails on her other hand. âAt most another week. Iâll see how the Young Lord handles himself.âÂ
You peer at the water rippling around her waist, the slightly iridescent bubbles littering the sweet skin of her stomach. âAnd how long is that?âÂ
âNot long,â she replies.Â
You lay down across the tile floor, hips cushioned by the pillow. Itâs soâŚwarm everywhere. Like there are invisible fires scattered throughout the castle that no one is talking about.Â
Itâs a nice change.Â
Dark eyes flick over you, and a flicker of excitement sparks to life beneath that appraisal. You push upright, resting your upper weight on your palms. âMy Lady?âÂ
Amarantha beckons you over, and you shift to the edge of the pool. âTake this,â she instructs, pushing the brush into your palm. âI wonât have you touching me with filth on your hands.â Her gaze lifts to your face, and her brows narrow. âYou cleaned your mouth properly?âÂ
You incline your chin and open your mouth, tongue laying over your lower lip. All the blood is goneâyou made certain. She wonât use you if youâre dirty.Â
The High Queen furrows her brows. âYou need better training.âÂ
You cock your head to one side, tongue pulling back into your mouth.Â
Amaranthaâs eyes glint. âDid I say âcloseâ?âÂ
Heat pools between your thighs and you press them close together, back curving as you incline toward her, exposing your throat as you open your mouth for her.Â
A sharpened nail points to the soft skin of your sternum, slowly scraping up. Between your collar bones, over the column of your throat, scratching the tenderness just below your jaw. Goosebumps brush up your spine, resigning yourself to her touch. She tilts her head, and huffs something like a laugh.Â
Her breath touches your lips like a kiss.Â
Something swells in your chest, but sheâs turning away, leaving your skin surprisingly cool.Â
âDonât close that mouth,â she warns, as she steps out from the pool onto clean, sun-warmed tiles. You peer at her patiently, but with need steadily liquefying between your thighs. Anticipation concentrating your growing arousal.Â
The edges of the High Queenâs eyes come close to a smile as she walks the poolâs edge, trailing back around to you. Fingers graze the top of your head, like sheâs preparing to sink her nails into your hair and guide you to where she wants you. Instead she licks her lips, teeth biting on the way back in. âKneel.âÂ
You obey without question, pulling your legs onto the cushion, pulling yourself onto your knees before her.Â
She strokes the crown of your head.Â
âNow, wait,â she instructs, passing behind you to unfurl a towel from its placement. âBe good.âÂ
The white fabric drags across her skin, touching everywhere youâd like to with your tongue, but drying instead of wetting. Her hair remains black as blood while its wet, but dripping clear onto the tiles.Â
An ache works its way up between your thighs, and you consider shifting your hipsâ centre to align with the heel of a footâsomething to grind on, to give release to the growing tension. Watching the fabric gently abrade your Queenâs skin isâŚitâs something more pleasurable than torture. Drawn-out, and teasing. Playful, in a way that she isnât Under The Mountain.Â
You canât resent pleasure being withheld when itâs for her benefit.Â
The sun has trickled across the pool tiles, warming the small of your back by the time sheâs doneâtowel pooling on the ground as she hold your eyes and walks forward. Slowly; lithely. Trailing wet footprints over the floor. Marks she could leave on your body if she walked her way up to your mouth.Â
Amarantha pauses, the tips of her feet settling just under your knees.Â
You peer up at her, mouth dry from having been kept open in waiting.Â
Once again her touch skims the crown of your head. âUp,â she instructs, lightly. You lift higher onto your knees.Â
Her arousal whets your appetite. Makes you eager, and desperateâmore so than before.Â
Amarantha takes a hold of you, and guides your mouth closer to her hips. Saliva pools below your tongue, eyelids growing heavy as you breathe her in. Close enough to nose at the skin of her inner thighs, her hips, her abdomen. Your fingers trail reverently up the backs of her legs, steadying yourself as your head goes a little light. Dazed. Robbed of sense.Â
She pulls you closer, and the undisturbed curls between her thighs deliver moisture to your mouth. Droplets soaking down across your tongue, and she holds you thereâmouth parted for her to use as she pleases.Â
Her scent is what you need, and right now itâs all around.Â
You wait for the order to come.Â
It doesnât.
Opening your eyes, you peer up the strong plane of her stomach. You canât meet her eyes from how close you are, but tilt your head upwards all the same. The sharp points of her nails rake through your hair, and your mouth waters, arousal gathering at the thought of her dragging them across your back. Itching behind your ears, scraping gently down the sides of your throat.Â
A whine builds in your chest, tongue ready to soothe the wet of her heat.Â
Amarantha slides her hand to the back of your head and, guiding one leg over the curve of your shoulder, presses you closer to the wet heat of her cunt. Her arousal brushes against the inside of your lower lip, so close to dripping into your mouth, and yet still the order does not come.Â
Instead the muscles in her leg flex, making it near impossible for you to move any closer.Â
The High Queen cants her hips, dragging her cunt higher, tilting your head back until she can almost sit. The combination of heat, and the resistance sheâs dealing with in this land seem to be drawing out something lazyâalmost indulgent in her.Â
A breathy sigh releases from above you as she gently rocks her hips.Â
Preoccupied; in her own world.Â
Itâs a pleasure to facilitate the trip. To be the thing her ecstasy hinges upon.Â
âBed,â she murmurs through a soft breath, unhooking her leg from your shoulder. A string of arousal beads from her cunt to your lower lip, and now youâre detached from her youâve the pleasure of swiping your tongue out, bringing that taste into your mouth.Â
Youâre swift to adhere yourself to her bed, pressing your bare back to the mattress, head near the foot, feet near the pillows.Â
The Queen trails closer, nails raking delicately across the beaded sheets, prowling up onto the mattress. Dark eyes glitter and gleam as they rove over youâthe facilitator of her pleasure. Nothing more, nothing less.
Amarantha settles one knee over your waist, seating her weight atop your hips. Youâre pinned to the bed beneath her, sinking down into the cushioning. Arousal smears across your abdomen as she rolls her hips, the wet curls between her thighs smudging slick across your skin. Her hands press to your sternum as she leans forwards, damp strings of hair swinging forwardâwine-red at the roots, black as blood at the ends. The scent of arousal mixes with the fragrances from her bath, cushioning you within the harmony of scents. Something light, and citrusy.
Heat simmers from the stone flooring, curtains fluttering as a breeze courses through the chambers, allowing the dark tips of her long hair to paint wet cuts across your skin. Nails curve into your skin as she drags her hips over your stomach, turning the expanse slick as she glides across. Teeth pull on your lower lip, need burrowing deeper into your bones.Â
âAmaranthaâŚâ you breathe, a pleading note entering your voice.Â
Dark, glittering eyes slide openâa knot in her brow.Â
She leans forward, her hand parting between her thumb and index finger to cover your mouth. It hurts your skin, butâŚ
A moan is caught beneath her palm, low and breathless. Pleading for more.
Your thighs press together, hips shifting atop the mattress.
Amarantha leans her weight forward, pinning you to the bed before pushing away, giving a final roll of her hips before languidly shifting further up your body.
Your mouth waters.
The High Queenâs knees settle a little higher than your head, before finally taking her seat atop your mouth. Arousal smears across your lips, chin, and cheeks, spreading across your skin as she rolls her hips, and push out your tongue to glide through the curling mess between her thighs.
Heat rolls from her skin in waves, soft and cushioned by her legs, pressed between the delightful comfort of the bed and the heaven of her skin, and scent. Breaths pant from her chest, and she is worked up enough to release moans through the room, unabashed and indulgent. Decadent sounds.
She flutters on your tongue, pleasure pulsing through her body as her hips buck, and youâve your eyes closed as you bask in her ecstasy. Nails rake across your scalp as she tugs you against her cunt, scratching through your hair in a way that sends shivers down your spine.
The smell of sweat and tangerine zest clings to her skin, heavy and blossomy as her chest rises and falls.
Another breeze sweeps through her chambers, playing with her hair as Amarantha crawls off of you, settling herself sweet and comfortable against a small gathering of pillows. Basking in the aftermath of her high.
Thereâs a faint trace of smoke in the air, and the sharp tang of blood brought in from the outside. Able to reach you, even so high up.
You crawl to the top of the bed, settling close to her side but not touchingâshe doesnât like to be touched when resting.
Itâs only recently sheâs allowed you to stay at all, not immediately being returned to your own dark quarters.
Maybe one day sheâll allow you to stay watch as she sleeps, too.
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synopsis:
What happens two people who have squashed their own identities for other people's sake and remained kind throughout it all find each other? In which Elain and Yrene fall in love.
word count: 1283 words
notes: ... this was meant to be a moodboard. I had procrastinated writing this until THE LAST DAY OF THE EVENT. so if this feels rushed, you know why!! anyways it felt a bit sad not to write gay fic on pride month so these two are my very beloved, chosen subjects :)
for: @sjmsapphic day 3 - slice of life
(bit of identity as well, to be honest)
divider by olenvasynyt
The first time Elain saw Yrene, it was in the Dawn Court, the renowned abode of the healers. Her breath had caught and stuck in her throat at the indubitable beauty of the woman (the term Elain was most accustomed to using at the time) and the delicate arch of her neck as she threw her head back and laughed.
She, the mysterious stranger, was a little like the famed angels in myths Elain had grown up reading â and dreaming â of.
Perhaps it was no surprise that the patient nearest to her, wincing a moment ago because of a headache, had perked up, as if Yrene's light, airy laugh had found a way to brighten the people around her.
Elain's gaze wandered to the scar on her neck â and caught there. A slashing across her throat, so brutal that Elain could see it even from afar.
That woman knew what was it like to endure inconceivable horrors and endure. Trudge forward, plaster a smile on your face and sometimes, pretend that it was real, even when it was not.
Elain felt a spark of kinship (and something else that she did not yet examine) towards her, towards someone who understood what it felt like to persist through adversity, retain that hope, clutch it to your chest. Even when it weighed on you. Even when it felt easier to let hope go into the awaiting night.
As Yrene left her patient with a squeeze of their hand and a promise to be back soon, Elain somehow felt the touch too, a phantom prickling in her hand. The book she was holding teetered in her unsteady grip, as if it were placed on the edge of a cliff.
(Elain, on the other hand, was already falling.)
As Elain swallowed the feeling down and made her way past the crowd of healers, all she could see was that stranger: the brown curls cascading down to her waist like a waterfall; her dark eyes that sparkled like stars, two pinpricks of light piercing through a sea of black. And most of all, the scar and all that it represented. Elain felt her presence even more acutely as she passed the stranger: though they were on opposite ends of the room, her heart thrummed like a bird set free from its cage.
Elain willed herself not to look, not to stare for any longer than she had. But she felt Yrene's imaginary, achingly warm hand lingering in hers all the same. She could not shake off the feeling of being a sunflower, drawn eternally toward the sun.
Elain made it out of the hall, breathless, and squeezed her eyes shut.
She dearly wished that it was her who had fallen ill today.
Three years had passed since then.
Elain smiled sleepily as her eyes fluttered open. Like the unfurling of a tulip through the seasons, Yrene mused, a smile tugging at her own lips.
Elain awoke in a perfectly ladylike manner, quite contrary to how Yrene herself woke. According to Elain, Yrene waking was more like the languid stretching of an annoyed cat. On paper, Elain was completely at odds with Yrene herself, born in the furthest corner of the Dawn Court to a mother long gone.
What an odd, and strangely complementary, pair they made.
The flicker of grief about her mother (accompanied by the smell of smoke) wore away as Elain threaded her fingers through Yrene's, something that Elain had dreamed of doing for so long and was now the first thing she did every morning. Her hand radiated blissful warmth.
As Yrene slipped her fingers a little lower, to Elain's wrist bone, Yrene felt and heard Elain's pulse beating erratically underneath. Even as she drew her fingers away, Yrene could hear the heart beating beneath Elain's ribcage, as if it were her own.
"I can hear it. Your heartbeat," Yrene said softly, gently.
Elain only smiled and brought her lips to Yrene's cheek, which tinted ever so slightly pink. The first time Yrene had wondered aloud about how she could hear Elain's heart, Elain had stopped still, and then laughed, a sound that was like spring personified.
Elain had said, a little awe-struck, "I've always been able to hear⌠others' heartbeats. I don't knew how, but⌠they could never hear mine." In that moment, Yrene could picture what Elain had been after the Cauldron: leached of all colour; weighed down by sorrow; mourning the loss of her human body and soul. With no one there to pull her out, or see her, or hear her. The hope Elain had worked tirelessly to carry for so long, through smiles and tears, at risk of vanishing entirely.
Sometimes, Yrene knew, it was harder to be hope-bringer than any other role: what happened when hope slipped out of your tenuous grip and shattered into pieces on the floor?
Who drew you out then?
"But you can hear mine," Elain had said slowly, blinking away tears from her lovely, doe eyes. Then, like she was declaring it to the world, "You can hear mine."
Yrene had smiled and kissed her, Elain's steady heartbeat echoing in her ears. It could have been the last thing in the world that Yrene heard, and she would have loved it all the same.
That had remained true for the three years after it, to this very moment, in which they lay, sprawled in their bed. Yrene doubted the fact would ever change, not as Elain's arm slipped around her waist to hold her. Not as Yrene plucked two rose petals out of Elain's light hair and held them up, almost admonishingly.
"This happens every day," Yrene tutted. "Some flower or the other dirtying your lovely hair."
"What more do you expect of a gardener, healer?" Elain replied back, a smile in her voice. "This is no different from when you tumble into bed well past midnight because of a late healing."
When she had first talked to Yrene, she hadn't been nearly as assertive. But Yrene certainly had, armed with a quip to go with every one of her sentences. And so, Elain had learnt. Learnt how to speak, instead of whisper; how to consider her own desires, instead of the quiet pressuring of those around her. (Later, Elain would learn that Yrene had once been just like her, too small and too shy to retaliate.)
Yrene laughed. "Well, there's nothing I can say to argue against that." She buried her face in the crook of Elain's neck and inhaled the sweet scent of saplings and spring. They rested in companionable silence for a while, before Yrene said, "I have an early meeting that I need to go to..."
Elain asked, with a soft yet teasing smile, "Is it terrible if I want you to stay, despite what they might think?"
Yrene's brows rose. "Well, I thought we had eschewed what others think of us a long time ago." First on an individual level, unlearning years of letting others dictate their choices, and then, when they had decided that what they felt for each other was far greater than what a mating bond or the wider world thought.
Yrene let go of the rose petals in her hand and the pair of petals fluttered gently down to the floor. Carefree. Unbothered by the gusts of wind rushing in from outside.
So Yrene did stay.
Elain and Yrene remained in bed as the morning light streamed in from the window. Bathed them both in yellow, the brilliant shade of a sunflower. They stayed there for a long, long while.
Just as they had a thousand times before. And would do for a thousand more.
This was a really fun event 𩷠Before working on my pieces, I was fairly neutral about Gwyn and Elain tbh and mostly interested for aesthetic reasons (soft colours! flowers!) But during the painting process some new headcanons formed, and now Iâm quite attached to them.
Day 3: Taste
what (or who) is being tasted? what are the sensations like? flavor, texture?
I really, really wanted to do a sketch with Gwyn in fighting leathers sitting on a horse and Elain thinking, 'Oh, who's that girl?' because they are the perfect princess x knight. Also, On Parade by Electrelane is my favourite sapphic anthem and has some very sexy lines that may have influenced me. Alas, the compositions and horses did not come together at all but princess x knight Gwynlain stayed with me. They should go on a quest together.
Divider by olenvasynyt
Inspo below
Provided to YouTube by Beggars Group Digital Ltd.On Parade ¡ ElectrelaneOn Paradeâ 2004 Too Pure Records LtdReleased on: 2000-10-23Associate