#thqc

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.

~~~~

A smile tugs at your lips, and you lean forward, tapping your fingers against one of her knees, drawing her attention. You pause, basking beneath her gaze—revelling in the eye contact—before settling back into your sprawl. “Shapes,” you repeat the words she’d shared with you, that first time she’d tried to paint after her return, “colour; light?”

Feyre’s lips purse, blue-grey eyes flitting to glance over the fruit scattered between various porcelain bowls, their interiors glazed in an array of pale pastels—something Amarantha would have been fond of.

“You look offended,” you murmur, spine curving to allow you to better peer at her. “Do you not like the fruit?” Her jaw tightens, surveying the food so carefully displayed before her: berries in a shallow bowl made of pear-green glass; peaches’ quarters tessellating in a flat honey-brown dish; chopped plums and spliced nectarines piled into two bowls either side a small crystal jug filled with cream. Cinnamon-dusted apple slices lay temptingly on the citrine plate closest to you, raisin and walnut spiced cake cubes just beyond.

It all smells wonderful.

“People are starving,” Feyre whispers, her eyes lifting to the tree line in the distance, marking the border of the woodland. “People…humans…” She speaks so softly her words are almost swept away on the breeze.

You tilt your head, pulling into a sitting position just to her side, minding the plates. “People will always be suffering somewhere, Fey.” Her brows narrow, and she pulls her knees to her chest, arms keeping her limbs together, bare feet pushing out from beneath the light frill of her pale blue dress. The fabric flutters in the breeze, daring to lift the hem higher, exposing the creamy skin of her ankles, the lowest parts of her shins.

Blue-grey eyes peruse your features, the lower part of her face obscured by her crossed arms, and you take the time to examine the freckles on her nose. “Lucien said you never suffered Under The Mountain,” Feyre murmurs into her arms. After a pause, her eyes lock with your own, “is that true?”

You consider her tone—superficially indifferent; aiming for neutrality, but you could spot the cool glint of resentment from a world away.

“Should I have?” You ask in return, leaning forward on an arm, close enough your noses would touch should she lift her head. Her brows narrow, and curiosity simmers like caramel in the pit of your belly—soft and gooey.

Feyre straightens, lifting her chin, “how old are you?”

You hesitate, “…you’re nineteen, aren’t you?” Feyre nods her head once in confirmation, and you peer about her face—she looks similar to you, but that’s of no relevance when she’s aged as a human up until now.

“I’m…at least thirteen…” you answer, considering the time you spent Under The Mountain carefully. Amarantha had mentioned a few annual celebrations to you, but years are still…foreign.

Feyre frowns, and you perk up, sensing her interest. “You don’t know how old you are?” She inquires, and you shake your head, close enough to catch her scent whenever the breeze offers it to your direction. “I had a… I don’t know how long I was around for, before Amarantha found me. But I was with her for at least thirteen years, so, there’s that.”

“Were you already grown? By the time…” She trails off, but you give a wicked little smile, playfully nudging her, “Certainly grown enough. She had no interest in fostering small creatures of her own.”

Feyre hums, but she seems more relaxed now, and you ease yourself back into the blanket, splayed across on your stomach. Eyes dance across the tapestry of food, “you’re not going to eat anything? Forcing yourself to starve won’t fill any other person’s belly.” You consider the pear-green bowl, plucking it from the display, glancing at the pile of berries within.

“I’ve not had some of these before—are you familiar with them?” You ask, offering Feyre the shallow glass. Blue-grey eyes pick apart the contents, peering back at you, “which are you unfamiliar with?”

“Hmm…these ones.” You pluck a black raspberry from the bowl. It’s more prickly than you expected, its skin less furred. Feyre’s nostrils flare in a rare show of amusement, lips twitching as she unfolds herself, pinching the berry between her fingers. She takes a few, piling the odd raspberries into the palm of her hand.

Feyre puts one in her mouth, and there’s something about watching one another while she’s feeding that has your toes curling.

“These are blackberries,” Feyre tells you, reaching for another. “They were a treat in summer, though ours were never as sweet as these.”

“Blackberries…” you echo, peering at the purple-ish residue colouring her lips.

Feyre extends her palm to you, offering to share her collection. There are three left in her hand.

You swallow, lifting into a sitting position.

She lifts her palm to match your height.

You watch her, chewing, eating, swallowing. Clean her lips with a few short swipes of her tongue, dark pink.

You lean into a crawl, holding her eyes as you lower your mouth to her skin, pulling two of the berries between your lips.

They’re surprisingly sweet, and you recognise the flavour from a jam you’d tried long ago. You steal the last one from her palm, tongue tasting the surface of her skin, and her lips part by a fraction.

You retreat, slowly. Pulling away.

“They’re good,” you murmur, running the pad of your finger over your lips, licking the flavour from them. Would the flavour be staining her mouth? Could you taste it there, if you tried?

Feyre’s throat rolls, and she remembers to lower her now-empty palm. A thrill shivers across the surface of your skin as she licks the lingering taste from her palm—juice from the berries.

Her eyes are heavy on you, and the space around her begins to tunnel.

Blue-grey eyes twinkle, before looking away.

There’s a faint smile on her mouth as she says, “your tongue has turned purple.”

~~~~

Haha I’m crying at these dramatic dialogues

I’ve honestly not actually thought a ton on how Feyre would be feeling at that point? I’ve considered what a dynamic with the three of them might look like but not from her perspective.

I think for sure Rhys and reader would end up tolerating one another for Feyre’s sake, but before each has figured out that Feyre isn’t going to pick only one of them, I imagine there were/will be more than a few moments where they try to turn Feyre against the other, which makes those initial steps pretty difficult.

I don’t think I’ve actually yet written a scene featuring those three all in the same room? Maybe that’s an idea for another drabble, since I’m getting pulled away from that series 🫠