#morlain

Elain threw the shovel to the ground and fell to her knees. She brushed at the remaining soil, exposing the ornate carvings. They depict a beautiful maiden—a goddess—the Morrigan.

Hauling the lid off with dirt-caked hands, Elain heaves, putting her whole weight into her shove. Air whooshes from inside the coffin as the seal breaks.

Power thrums through the dark cemetery as the body within is revealed—as beauteous as the day she was sealed inside. Silky tresses of gold flow from the crown of her head. A luscious mouth painted red like the forbidden fruit. Her eyes are closed; full lashes brush against porcelain cheeks. 

The Morrigan’s eyes fly open, locking onto Elain’s. Magic surges again, and graceful as a swan, she floats to her feet.

“Who frees me from my eternal tomb?” Mor asks.

Elain lowers her head, a small bow of respect. “Elain Archeron,” She answers. 

“And what is it you seek? Little lamb.”

“I seek to serve; if Your Grace allows it.”

Mor reaches forward, a gentle finger tipping Elain’s chin up to look at her. “Serve you may, Dearest.”

Lips of sin dip down to meet Elain’s, the taste smooth as wine. Mor’s tongue laps at the seam of Elain’s mouth. Elain gives herself over to it, her hands tangling in those strands of gold. 

Their mouths part, Elain pants softly and tilts her head back, granting access to her throat. Mor sucks on the soft skin beneath her ear, and a breathy moan flits from Elain's swollen lips.

“Please,” Elain whines.

“Who am I to deny such a beauty?” Both hands on Elain's shoulders, Mor pushes her against the towering headstone. 

She grabs Elain’s wrists, pressing her firmly against the stone, the coolness seeping into her back. Mor dips her head down to kiss the female; she takes her time exploring Elain’s mouth. Her tongue moves unhurried and precise. Elain involuntarily tugs against Mor's grip, writhing under her touch. Mor pulls away, lips glistening. Elain gasps as the weight of her is gone.

Mor falls to her knees on the disturbed earth and hikes up Elain’s skirts, parting her legs; beneath layers of cotton and silk is Elain’s offering to her goddess. With a sinful smirk, Mor rips through the delicate lace—the undergarments are shredded to ribbons. 

Mor inhales Elain’s scent, her warmth, before dipping her head down. Mor drinks the sweet honey pooling in her folds, and Elain cries out in pleasure. Mor licks up to the taught bud, nipping softly, and Elain writhes at her teasing. 

“Hold still, lamb, I want to savour this offering.” Mor wraps her hands around Elain's legs, pulling her tight against her mouth. Her tongue pushes deep inside Elain, relishing in the taste of her. Overwhelmed with sensation, Elain’s thighs try to clamp around Mor’s head, but Mor holds them firmly. 

Mor tuts into Elain’s cunt, she hovers just above, breath warm against the slick of her. Mor locks her gaze on the doe-eyed female. 

Elain clenches around nothing and attempts to grind, desperate to feel some form of friction again. Her eyes are pleading. She whimpers, desperate for more, more, Mor. 

Her prayers are answered as Mor slips two fingers inside, inching deeper. 

Slowly. So painfully slowly.

Elain moans loudly as Mor fully sheaths her fingers, palm brushing against Elain’s clit. Mor curls her fingers forward, beckoning. “Oh gods,” Elain cries, pure pleasure drowning out all her thoughts. 

“I’m the only god here,” Mor whispers, pressing firmer with her palm and moving her fingers. She pressed against that sweet spot again, and again, and again. 

“Yes, oh yes,” Elain chants, toes curling. 

“Good girl, offer yourself to me.”

“Oh, I—”

Mor beckons inside her cunt again, and Elain plummets over that edge.

Waves of bliss roll over her body, again and again. 

Elain’s breathing slows as the high subsides; like the ebbing of the tide, it falls away from her. 

Mor pulls out her fingers that are drenched with lust and puts them to Elain’s mouth. Elain sucks deeply, savouring the taste as her goddess shares her gift.

The haze of desire fades with each heavy-lidded blink.

“Come, my dearest,” Mor holds out a hand for Elain to take. She gives her a sly smile. “You are mine to shepherd now.” 

Elain takes Mor's hand in hers, and the goddess and her acolyte walk into the night.

Some random notes -

-I imagine her as being part Turkish and part Irish; I imagine the night court as the Ottoman empire, hence the Turkiye shirt, Lokum, and Ottoman inspired shield and slippers