#emorie

A final piece to conclude my little Emerie trilogy. I headcanon the Dawn Court as having a bit of a Victorian flair to it, and like I said, I really love Emerie’s (possible) Dawn Court connection. So whenever I see these Victorian - Gilded Age costumes I think of her. I focused in on an 1870s (costume) silhouette for this piece; scroll to see all my history dumping/thought process plus details on some of our other besties in the background!!

Also the entire time I was drawing this I was thinking of that scene in The Sound of Music when Maria and Captain Von Trapp are dancing outside the ball on the terrace hehe

21 weeks until we get more of the Valkyrie and the Dreamer 💜❤️💛

"And I've taken us to the exact place she described." Mor points an accusatory finger at Emerie, then pulls back her hand. "Sorry, I—" A flush blooms on Mor's cheeks. "I'm sure the camp is around here somewhere…" she trails off, nails tapping along her thigh as her eyes flit from place to place. A frown tugs at the corners of her mouth.

"She has no idea what she's doing," Nesta smirks at Emerie.

"Nesta," Emerie warns, then shoots her a look that says watch it.

Come with us, Emerie had suggested between breaths as they'd sparred the other day. I think you'd like her if you got to know her. Emerie had spoken of Mor with wistful admiration. She never talks about Nesta that way.

Nesta had laughed at that. A sharp, bitter thing to cover her hurt. She had no interest in being their third wheel. But when Emerie had asked, Try for me? with a pleading hope in her eyes, Nesta had caved instantly.

Well, here she is: trying.

And failing.

"Sorry, Em," Nesta says.

It isn't fair, she thinks, eyeing Mor's perfect golden hair with disdain. Even here, in the brisk steppe, it falls immaculately around her face. Even dressed in simple leathers, every generous curve of Mor's body is accentuated in flawless proportion. She's beautiful; Nesta has eyes. Warm and soft and golden—nothing like Nesta's cold, sharp steel.

If Mor is Emerie's type, Nesta doesn't stand a chance.

She'd thought, once, that something was growing between Emerie and her. The private smiles and jokes in the training ring; their bodies nestled comfortably against each other's at sleepovers; the countless offers to braid Nesta's hair, or help her stretch, or massage her sore muscles. Emerie always seems to look at Nesta like there's no one else in the world; it had been easy, for a time, to imagine.

But she looks at Mor that way, too.

"This is the right place," Emerie confirms as she bends over to squat beside a patch of bluebells. "I thought we could gather some for the villagers," she muses, plucking their stems from the earth. "This variety is highly sought after."

"Beautiful," Mor says, eyes widening with unfamiliar reverence as she takes one from Emerie, their hands lingering together too long for Nesta's liking.

Nesta digs her heel into the ground. "You've never seen them before? In all your years?"

That earns her two dirty looks.

"I'm not often this far north."

"Never made the time?"

"I'm sure you're busy in Vela—"

"—don't make excuses for her—"

"Why, you little—"

"Both of you, stop." Emerie throws her hands up between them, wings flaring behind her.

The wind picks up around them, the grasses soughing, the flowers swaying in undulating violet waves. The air grows hazy with pollen.

Nesta coughs.

Emerie looks at Nesta, then Mor. "Think you can get along? For me?"

"She's the one who…" Nesta stops.

It's hard to focus on her anger when Emerie is right there—in front of her, deep brown eyes and grinning full lips, gilded by the late afternoon sun.

Nesta nods. "For you," she murmurs. She'd do anything Emerie asked.

Emerie draws a breath.

Heat begins to spread through Nesta's body, warming her from her core and out to the rest of her.

Next to her, Mor is smiling pleasantly, all trace of animosity wiped from her face. Her scent, like cinnamon and citrus, wafts along the pollen-dusted breeze. It mixes with Emerie's juniper and fresh parchment, and Nesta breathes in until they both fill her lungs.

Overcome with a sudden need to be closer, Nesta reaches out her hand. Her fingers trace along Emerie's braid, down, down, down, smooth as silk against Nesta's skin.

Along the shoulder, her arm grazes against Mor's, and Nesta turns to find Mor similarly drawn in, one hand wrapped firmly around Emerie's muscled bicep.

Emerie looks at Nesta, eyes darkly dangerous, then at Mor, and then Emerie's hand is at the back of Nesta's neck, guiding her forward with a possessive grip until their chests are pressed trembling together. She holds Nesta against her as she leans across Nesta and kisses Mor.

A seductive, breathy gasp escapes from Mor. Her eyes are closed, cheeks flushed. It's not long before Mor is driving the motion of their kiss. Their kiss is impassioned, sensuous.

Nesta should feel jealous. It ought to fill her to the brim like a virulent poison. But her envy has slipped away—nowhere to be found.

In its wake, there is only hunger.

She leans into Emerie's neck, bared before her, and lays her lips upon it.

Emerie's skin is warm, damp with sweat. Nesta kisses her way downward, from just behind Emerie's ear to her shoulder, applying gentle pressure as she does. She can feel Emerie's pulse against her tongue.

Emerie draws back from Mor, breathless.

A heartbeat. Thump, thump.

Then Emerie takes Nesta's mouth in hers.

Nesta had imagined this moment, had pleasured herself in secret thinking about what Emerie might taste like. She had envisioned all the details—the why, the how, the way they might fit together—had sorted and catalogued every wild fantasy.

But the images she conjured, though elaborate, are a pale flame beside the real thing.

It is searing, all-consuming, as their lips move together, as Emerie kisses Nesta with the same fervent intensity that burns through her. Emerie's lips are soft, though wind-chapped in places. She tastes like dawn and daring, something new and bold and right. Their noses brush against each other, and Emerie lets out a small laugh that darts along the skin of Nesta's cheek and sets her blood rushing.

Teeth scrape gently along lips. Hers, Emerie's, Emerie's, hers. Nesta's heart skips in her chest. It's dizzying. Hard to breathe. Quick, tumbling breaths, the air between them thick and hot as they drink each other down.

It's far too soon when Emerie pulls away, and it aches.

Emerie's thumb grazes Nesta's cheek. She smiles a small smile, bites her lip. And then Emerie's hand is at the back of her neck, pushing gently against the back of her head. Emerie, Nesta realizes, is guiding her to turn her head.

Soon, Nesta is facing Mor. Right. Mor's been here the whole time. Mor's mouth parts in a small circle as if she's just remembered Nesta is here, too. Nesta registers, blithely, that Emerie is guiding Mor's head as well.

And then Nesta realizes: Emerie is guiding the two of them toward each other.

Mor's swollen lips are approaching, closer and closer. The rouge she paints them with is smudged. She runs her tongue along them.

Nesta leans in.

Seamlessly, Mor meets her.

Where Emerie was frenzied, Mor is languid. Her kisses are long and thorough and thoughtful. She runs her tongue along Nesta as if to learn her shape. Nesta matches her pace, exploratory and curious. She can taste Emerie on her, something bold as winter wind, a trace of something sweet. Or maybe it was Mor she'd tasted on Emerie; she finds she can't tell where one ends and the other begins. As she deepens her kiss, she wonders if Mor can.

Mor's skin is doused in perfume, cherry and ambrette. Her cheeks are soft as cashmere. Nails rake through Nesta's hair. They find a rhythm, an eager push and pull, and Nesta loses herself in the bliss of their shared desire.

Because that's what this is. Desire. She wants Mor desperately, terribly. The taste of her, spiced and sweet with a hint of citrus, elicits a buzz beneath Nesta's skin. Intoxicating, it warms her from within, coaxes something long-dormant out of her.

Nesta bites her lip, and Mor moans. Emerie's sharp inhale sounds in Nesta's ear.

A shiver travels down Nesta's spine.

One hand is on Emerie, against her chest, feeling her heartbeat. The other finds Mor's waist, then traces the curve of her hip to her thigh. Nesta pulls Mor against her as her need burns through her. Closer, closer. The heat of it turns to an ache, deep and primal within her. Demanding more, more. Nesta needs to touch, to taste, to—

Mor pulls away, panting and flushed, eyes wary and confused but darkened undeniably with lust.

Nesta blinks. This is Mor. Her rival. Who she despises. "It's the pollen," she says, pulling back. "It's making us—"

"It can't make you do anything you don't already want to," Emerie says, voice dreamy, husky deep. "It just…removes inhibitions."

Mor starts laughing—a full, sultry laugh. "You little minx. You planned this, didn't you?"

Nesta tilts her head at Emerie. "Did you?"

"Sort of," Emerie admits. "I…didn't account for the wind."

Mor's laugh grows louder. Nesta hazards a glance in her direction. Her head is thrown back, gold hair gleaming where it catches the sunlight. She brings a hand to her chest, resting it just above her breasts, and Nesta imagines what she might look like beneath, leathers stripped away to expose her—

"The wind?" Nesta forces herself to look back at Emerie.

"I've never experienced such a powerful effect," Emerie says. "Even now, it's hard to think." Her eyes are dark as they meet Nesta's, and Nesta feels, again, that desperate want, urging her forward. "But I thought maybe with a small nudge, the two of you might…"

"Might what?" Nesta asks.

"Isn't it obvious?" Mor trails a finger down Emerie's cheek, letting it rest for a moment atop her lips. She smiles seductively. "You greedy, greedy girl."

Sheepishly, Emerie asks, "Think you two can share?"