SJM Sapphic Showdown

-----

Emerie didn't like the priestesses’ 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 maybe– 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.

“You again.” Merrill’s nose crinkled instantly. “Here to cause more trouble with those friends of yours?”

“Always,” 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 Merrill’s unblemished cheeks.

“If you and that Archeron girl continue to distract my priestesses from their work, there will be consequences,” Merrill snapped. “It'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.”

Emerie couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. Emerie knew that it was terrible how hopelessly cute she found Merrill’s 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 one’s throat with a triumphant giggle, one stops caring about that sort of thing.

“First of all, I know you know my friends aren't anywhere near me at the moment,” Emerie retorted. “So 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. I’m sure Feyre Cursebreaker would love to hear all about how much of a disgrace you find her beloved sister to be.”

Merrill’s 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.

“I–” Merrill began with a splutter. It was rare to find her at such a loss for words. “I did not just want a reason to talk to you. That's ridiculous.”

Emerie felt a surprised smile spread across her face.

“That's the part you're hung up on?” Emerie asked. “Well, they do say that truth hurts. Although, I hope I didn't sting you too badly.”

“Why would I want to speak to you,” 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.

“Legend says that Illyrians are born hearing the song of the wind,” Emerie crooned. “That's your magic, isn't it? Wind? Maybe you just can't help yourself.”

Merrill’s lips parted prettily.

“Or maybe,” Emerie continued, taking a step towards her. “Maybe the work you dedicate yourself to so fiercely has left you a little… high strung. And you want someone to help you relax.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Merrill breathed. Emerie merely tilted her head, waiting.

“My office is on Level Two,” Merrill relented. “Meet 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?”

-----

Or maybe– 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.

“You again.” Merrill’s nose crinkled instantly. “Here to cause more trouble with those friends of yours?”

“Always,” 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 Merrill’s unblemished cheeks.

“If you and that Archeron girl continue to distract my priestesses from their work, there will be consequences,” Merrill snapped. “It'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.”

Emerie couldn't help the laugh that escaped her. Emerie knew that it was terrible how hopelessly cute she found Merrill’s 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 one’s throat with a triumphant giggle, one stops caring about that sort of thing.

“First of all, I know you know my friends aren't anywhere near me at the moment,” Emerie retorted. “So 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. I’m sure Feyre Cursebreaker would love to hear all about how much of a disgrace you find her beloved sister to be.”

Merrill’s 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.

“I–” Merrill began with a splutter. It was rare to find her at such a loss for words. “I did not just want a reason to talk to you. That's ridiculous.”

Emerie felt a surprised smile spread across her face.

“That's the part you're hung up on?” Emerie asked. “Well, they do say that truth hurts. Although, I hope I didn't sting you too badly.”

“Why would I want to speak to you,” 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.

“Legend says that Illyrians are born hearing the song of the wind,” Emerie crooned. “That's your magic, isn't it? Wind? Maybe you just can't help yourself.”

Merrill’s lips parted prettily.

“Or maybe,” Emerie continued, taking a step towards her. “Maybe the work you dedicate yourself to so fiercely has left you a little… high strung. And you want someone to help you relax.”

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Merrill breathed. Emerie merely tilted her head, waiting.

“My office is on Level Two,” Merrill relented. “Meet 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?”

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. 

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 voice…it 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. 

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.

"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 things—by 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.

------

Feyre wasn’t exactly sure how she’d 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 next–

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 Feyre’s 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, “Okay there, Archeron?”

It took Feyre a moment to respond– 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 someone’s 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.

“I–” Feyre began, her voice humiliatingly weak. “Yes, I’m okay. Sorry about that.”

“That’s alright,” Emerie said, a devastatingly beautiful smile on her perfect face. “You wanna get up and try again?”

“Yes, but uhm–” Feyre cut herself off with an awkward cough. Emerie raised a questioning eyebrow. “I’m still beneath you.”

Emerie looked down to where her hips straddled Feyre’s, their bodies nearly flush, then back up to Feyre’s face, which was a mere few inches away from Emerie’s own.

“That you are,” Emerie chuckled. “I’ll tell you what. If you can get me off of you, we can be done for the day.”

Feyre’s face flamed impossibly hotter.

“That’s not fair,” she protested. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” Emerie’s voice had a taunting undertone that told Feyre she knew exactly why.

“Because you’re too strong,” Feyre reminded her. Emerie’s grin widened.

“I suppose I am,” she agreed. Her hands moved from their place beside Feyre’s head, and suddenly, Feyre found herself with her arms pinned above her head. “I could keep you just like this, couldn’t I? And you wouldn’t be able to do a thing to stop me.”

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. 

“Why would I want to stop you?” 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. Feyre– ever the competitor– gave it as good as she got, and she was rewarded with the loosening of Emerie’s 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. 

“I think that means we’re done for the day?” Feyre teased. Emerie watched with a blazing gaze as Feyre grabbed her water bottle and headed towards the door that led from Emerie’s garage to the house. “I’ll be in the shower if you need me.”

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 hair—dark as blood, and stuck across her pale shoulders and spine. 

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 that’s pouring in from between pale linen curtains. Her hair catches the light—glittering 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. 

Yellow rug, brown leather, and a queen of red and white. 

Wet, and bathing in sunlight to dry. 

It would be nice if she enjoyed her personal chambers with the same freedom—bare skin, and ease. It’s not been long here, you don’t think. Though this is the fourth time your queen has returned to her chambers steeped in blood. This time wasn’t even the worst of it. 

At least it was just blood, this time. 

Amarantha is facing away from you, reclining beneath the sunbeam when she calls for you. She sounds tired—exhausted. Her voice lacks that severity she usually carries. 

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 wary—wrapping 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 can’t reach. 

One dark eye slides open a fraction, marking your presence at the chamber’s perimeter. 

“Do you know where we are, pet?” 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 sun’s glare. 

You pull your legs to your chest, leaning over your knees. “Summer?” 

“Almost,” she murmurs. She crosses her legs. Uncrosses them. Shifts her arms. “It’s called the Summer Court.” 

You hum, peering cautiously through the stone balustrade that runs around the balcony’s 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 you’re cushioned within one of those scalloped shells. 

“And do you know why we’re here, pet?” Amarantha asks, saving you from the start of something dizzying. 

You turn to face her, mischief curving the corners of your mouth. “Because you miss the sun on your skin, and desire the freedom to be naked and warm?” 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. “It’s too cold for you, being underground all the time…” 

“I’m warm enough,” she counters, her sun-lit eyes gazing across the blinding white clouds speckling the sky. Her gaze slides to you. “Is that your guess?” 

You tilt your head, fondness in your lips. “Is it wrong?” 

“You’re not very bright, are you.”

“Not underground, I’m not,” you reply.

The High Queen’s 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 she’s not before her court. Her pale lips pursed, brows tight and drawn. 

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. 

It’s 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 chambers’ entry, “Go see what it is.” 

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. 

In the hallway beyond, blood has already been shed. 

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 male’s arms constricted, while another points a spear to his chest. 

There’s blood in his white hair. Blood on his hands, beneath his nails, staining the once-pristine fabrics he’s clothed in. 

“Let me see her.” 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. “Come out here, Amarantha,” he snarls, and the vibrations thunder through your chest. “I know you’re in there. I know you can hear me. Speak with me.” 

You glance to one of the soldiers who are stood to the sides of the double doors, its eyes hard, and hungry. “What is this?” You ask, “The Queen wishes to know what disturbs her.” 

“This lord thinks he rules the castle,” it snarls, eyes on the male. Red irises glitter. “This lord thinks he has a say in whose blood is shed.” 

“These are my people,” the male growls, features twisting further into fury. “These are my people and they will always-” 

The guard pushes the tip of the spear hard against the male’s chest, and blood bursts beneath, spilling fresh marks over already bloody clothing. The male’s eyes squeeze shut in pain, but his head doesn’t bow. He doesn’t 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. 

“These are my people,” he growls, lower now, “and they will always be my people.” Blood weeps from the centre of his chest, flowing through fibres down to his stomach. “Amarantha knows that too, or else she would not go to such lengths to weaken an already vulnerable citadel.” He bares his teeth, “why worry when there is no threat?” 

Fury in his eyes, but pain too. Anger, from hurt.

“Until you yield to me, Lord, Summer’s blood will continue to flow,” 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. 

“Am I not on my knees before you?” He asks, and there’s pain and blood and anger in his voice. “Do I not come here, to you, to beg for you to put an end to this bloodshed because I cannot?” His voice is rough, turned hoarse at the end. The male’s nostrils flare, and his chest heaves. Turquoise irises sear against his reddened eyes, “I have nothing left to give, nothing left to yield.” 

“If that is what you insist upon, then your people will continue to pay.” 

“What is there to give?” He asks, and the spear is again pushed to his chest. 

Another set of footsteps sound in the winding stairwell—hurried, heavy breathing. A second male—also dressed in finery, also bloody, also sweating and distraught—appears in the archway. His eyes find those of the kneeling male’s 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. 

The male on his knees shakes his head. “Return to the hall. You are needed there.” 

“No,” the High Queen declares. “Let him pass. I imagine our Lord may be too weak to stand. Better he has company.” She tilts her head, angling her jaw—how lucky you would be to press your mouth to such a throat. “Better he learn his lesson now, if he wishes to save his people.” 

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. 

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 male’s jaw tightens beneath the strain. 

The High Queen looks the two of them over: bloodied, sweaty, panting. 

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. 

The males eye the guards, the Lord giving you a cursory glance before following after her. 

You observe the fresh blood on the floor, wondering if it’ll be gone the next time you step out here, then move to return to your Queen’s 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 chamber’s floor, tilted over and smooth. A slab of red-brown rock is placed beside the water’s edge, dips and divots hewn for towel stacks and glass bottles. Each one smells more interesting than the last, and it’s a treat to know where these upper scent layers are coming from when you taste them in your Lady’s skin. 

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. 

The Lord had watched, silenced and producing a stench. 

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 pool’s edge, sat atop a cushion you’d 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. 

You pull your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your knees and laying your chin atop your forearms. “For how much longer are we staying here?”

Amarantha swaps the brush over, scrubbing the nails on her other hand. “At most another week. I’ll see how the Young Lord handles himself.” 

You peer at the water rippling around her waist, the slightly iridescent bubbles littering the sweet skin of her stomach. “And how long is that?” 

“Not long,” she replies. 

You lay down across the tile floor, hips cushioned by the pillow. It’s so…warm everywhere. Like there are invisible fires scattered throughout the castle that no one is talking about. 

It’s a nice change. 

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. “My Lady?” 

Amarantha beckons you over, and you shift to the edge of the pool. “Take this,” she instructs, pushing the brush into your palm. “I won’t have you touching me with filth on your hands.” Her gaze lifts to your face, and her brows narrow. “You cleaned your mouth properly?” 

You incline your chin and open your mouth, tongue laying over your lower lip. All the blood is gone—you made certain. She won’t use you if you’re dirty. 

The High Queen furrows her brows. “You need better training.” 

You cock your head to one side, tongue pulling back into your mouth. 

Amarantha’s eyes glint. “Did I say ‘close’?” 

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. 

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. 

Her breath touches your lips like a kiss. 

Something swells in your chest, but she’s turning away, leaving your skin surprisingly cool. 

“Don’t close that mouth,” 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. 

The edges of the High Queen’s eyes come close to a smile as she walks the pool’s edge, trailing back around to you. Fingers graze the top of your head, like she’s 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. “Kneel.” 

You obey without question, pulling your legs onto the cushion, pulling yourself onto your knees before her. 

She strokes the crown of your head. 

“Now, wait,” she instructs, passing behind you to unfurl a towel from its placement. “Be good.” 

The white fabric drags across her skin, touching everywhere you’d 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. 

An ache works its way up between your thighs, and you consider shifting your hips’ centre to align with the heel of a foot—something to grind on, to give release to the growing tension. Watching the fabric gently abrade your Queen’s skin is…it’s something more pleasurable than torture. Drawn-out, and teasing. Playful, in a way that she isn’t Under The Mountain. 

You can’t resent pleasure being withheld when it’s for her benefit. 

The sun has trickled across the pool tiles, warming the small of your back by the time she’s done—towel 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. 

Amarantha pauses, the tips of her feet settling just under your knees. 

You peer up at her, mouth dry from having been kept open in waiting. 

Once again her touch skims the crown of your head. “Up,” she instructs, lightly. You lift higher onto your knees. 

Her arousal whets your appetite. Makes you eager, and desperate—more so than before. 

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. 

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 there—mouth parted for her to use as she pleases. 

Her scent is what you need, and right now it’s all around. 

You wait for the order to come. 

It doesn’t.

Opening your eyes, you peer up the strong plane of her stomach. You can’t 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. 

A whine builds in your chest, tongue ready to soothe the wet of her heat. 

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. 

Instead the muscles in her leg flex, making it near impossible for you to move any closer. 

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 she’s dealing with in this land seem to be drawing out something lazy—almost indulgent in her. 

A breathy sigh releases from above you as she gently rocks her hips. 

Preoccupied; in her own world. 

It’s a pleasure to facilitate the trip. To be the thing her ecstasy hinges upon. 

“Bed,” 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 you’re detached from her you’ve the pleasure of swiping your tongue out, bringing that taste into your mouth. 

You’re swift to adhere yourself to her bed, pressing your bare back to the mattress, head near the foot, feet near the pillows. 

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 you—the facilitator of her pleasure. Nothing more, nothing less.

Amarantha settles one knee over your waist, seating her weight atop your hips. You’re 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 forward—wine-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. 

“Amarantha…” you breathe, a pleading note entering your voice. 

Dark, glittering eyes slide open—a knot in her brow. 

She leans forward, her hand parting between her thumb and index finger to cover your mouth. It hurts your skin, but…

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 Queen’s 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 you’ve 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.

There’s 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 touching—she doesn’t like to be touched when resting.

It’s only recently she’s allowed you to stay at all, not immediately being returned to your own dark quarters.

Maybe one day she’ll allow you to stay watch as she sleeps, too.

~~~~

She, the mysterious stranger, was a little like the famed angels in myths Elain had grown up reading – and dreaming – 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 – 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.