The night they finally choose isn't after a victory.
It's after a stalemate.
The war has settled into an ugly, grinding stand-off: three forts still standing, three armies still snarling at their borders, the Crimson Crown king still sending smug, increasingly desperate letters that Seraphine does not bother to answer.
But for the first time in what feels like years, the reports from Vyrn, Verdant, and Highwatch all come in with the same word:
Holding.
Not winning.
Not breaking.
Holding.
It's enough.
Seraphine closes the last dispatch, seals it with a neat, practiced motion, and looks over at Fia across the table.
Fia is sitting upright without help.
Her breathing is a little shallow, but not ragged.
Her color is better.
The dragon coil in her chest feels…settled. Not dormant. Just watching.
They've been waiting.
She can see it in all of them.
Mira, with her hands folded too carefully on top of the medical notes.
Elira, in the way she keeps tapping the pommel of her sword like she's trying to drum away nerves.
Lyriel, pretending to review ward matrices while her gaze keeps straying to Fia's face.
Fia feels it too.
A low, coiled wanting that has nothing to do with draconic power and everything to do with the promises they made in a dark room full of blankets and not enough space.
Seraphine clears her throat.
"The generals can manage without us tonight," she says.
It's not really a question.
Mira watches Fia's reaction.
She doesn't look at the charts.
Doesn't talk about symptom logs or pulse trends.
"Your pain?" Mira asks softly.
Fia takes inventory.
Her chest aches, but not sharply.
The tether to Highwatch hums like an old bruise.
Her lungs feel…tight, but not any tighter than usual.
"I've had worse," she says. Then stops. Tries again. "I can breathe. I can walk. I can talk in complete sentences without coughing up interesting decorations. I'm…okay enough."
Mira's mouth quirks.
"'Okay enough' is not a recognized medical term," she says. "But I'll allow it for tonight."
Elira leans forward, eyes glinting.
"So," she says, utterly casual and not at all casual, "is this the part where we finally cash in that 'planning phase' we talked about?"
Lyriel's ears go faintly pink.
Seraphine's gaze softens.
Fia's stomach flips.
"This is a terrible idea," she hears herself say.
"Yes," Lyriel says. "We specialize in those."
Mira stands, smoothing her hands down her shirt front as if it'll help with the flush creeping up her throat.
"Ground rules," she says, lapsing automatically into healer voice. "We check in. We pay attention. We stop if your chest feels tight or your vision goes weird. We go at your pace."
Elira raises her hand.
"And," she says, "we are absolutely allowed to make her blush until she forgets how to say 'I should be responsible.' That's in the rules, yes?"
Fia wants to sink under the table.
She also very much wants not to.
"Fine," she mutters. "But if I die of embarrassment, you're telling the dragon."
"I'll send him a fruit basket," Lyriel says under her breath.
Seraphine pushes back her chair.
"Come on," she murmurs. "Let's get out of the war room."
Her private chambers are different tonight.
Fia notices it the moment they step inside.
The lamps are turned low, without the harsh, white clarity she's used to for examinations and late-night planning.
The light is warm, golden, pooling over soft rugs and the heavy curtains drawn against the winter dark.
Someone—Mira, by the way the scent is balanced—has burned a gentle, herbal incense that cuts the metallic tang of tonic and poultice.
The bed looks…huge.
And for once, not like a place to convalesce.
More like a place to disappear into.
Fia's throat goes dry.
"This feels planned," she says.
"Good," Seraphine says, locking the door with a soft click. "It was."
Lyriel moves automatically to the corner where the ward-lines intersect, fingertips brushing along the carved sigils.
"Privacy lattice active," she murmurs. "No sound out, no casual magic in. If anyone tries to scry, all they'll see is a very boring, tasteful blur."
"Describe me as tasteful again," Fia says faintly. "I dare you."
Mira steps in front of her.
Up close, Fia can see the fine tremor in her fingers.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
Something sharper.
"I need to ask this once more," Mira says quietly. "Not as your healer. As…me. Fia, is this what you want? Not because we've hinted at it. Not because you feel like you owe us something."
Fia meets her gaze.
The wanting inside her flares, bright and clean and terrifying.
"Yes," she says. "I'm tired of being scared of my own body. I'm tired of thinking 'later' and then nearly not having one. I want this. I want you. All of you. Tonight."
Seraphine exhales slowly, some tension she hadn't realized she was holding slipping from her shoulders.
"That's all the answer I needed," she murmurs.
"Same," Elira says.
Lyriel's voice is softer.
"Noted," she says. "And appreciated."
Fia laughs weakly.
"Good," she says. "Because I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing."
Elira steps behind her, hands landing lightly on Fia's shoulders.
"Relax," Elira murmurs against her ear. "Being adored is not a difficult job. You mostly just…stand there and let it happen."
"Lie there," Lyriel corrects.
"Later," Elira says.
Mira rolls her eyes.
"Bed first," she says. "Standing is hard on her lungs."
Fia lets them guide her.
Seraphine sits first, in the middle of the mattress, back against the headboard.
She holds out a hand.
Fia takes it.
Climbing onto the bed has never felt like such a deliberate act.
She settles between Seraphine's legs, her back to the queen's chest, knees bent.
Seraphine's arms come around her automatically, strong and careful, anchoring her in place.
Fia's heart—both of them—beat too fast.
"You're shaking," Seraphine murmurs.
"I'm aware," Fia says.
Mira kneels at the edge of the bed facing them, hands resting lightly on Fia's shins, thumbs tracing absent circles through the thin fabric of her night robe.
Elira flops down at Fia's side, propping herself up on one elbow, close enough that their shoulders brush.
Lyriel perches by the headboard on the other side, her knee touching Fia's hip, fingers drumming nervously against her own thigh.
Surrounded.
Hoarded.
For once, Fia doesn't mind the metaphor.
She feels like a coin in a dragon's nest, yes—but precious in ways that have nothing to do with shine, and everything to do with warmth.
Seraphine's mouth brushes Fia's ear.
"Breathe," she whispers. "We're not going anywhere."
Fia draws a slow breath in.
It stutters.
Seraphine's hands skim down her arms, grounding her.
Mira watches her chest, not with healer's anxiety, but with the kind of focused attention that makes Fia's skin prickle.
"You're beautiful," Mira says quietly.
Fia snorts.
"I'm a mess," she says. "My hair's everywhere, my lungs sound like a broken bellows, and I probably have ink on my face from Lyriel's notes."
"You are beautiful," Mira repeats, firmer now. "And you're allowed to hear it without arguing."
Elira's grin softens.
"Seriously," she says. "I've seen you covered in demon ash, blood, and soot, and you still made my chest hurt. In a good way. Mostly."
Lyriel tilts her head, studying Fia like a complicated spell.
"The dragon hasn't ruined you," she says. "It's…accented you. You glow, Fia. Inside. It's distracting."
Fia's cheeks burn.
"Can we…do something that doesn't involve me short-circuiting under compliments?" she says.
"Yes," Seraphine murmurs. "We can."
Her lips find the soft place just below Fia's ear.
The kiss is gentle at first.
A brush.
A question.
Fia tilts her head automatically, baring more skin.
Seraphine's mouth curves against her.
Slowly, she trails a line of kisses along Fia's jaw, down to where her pulse flutters desperately under thin skin.
Fia shivers.
Mira's hands slide up, fingers curling just below Fia's knees, tracing light paths up over her thighs through the robe.
The simple contact makes Fia's breath hitch.
Her body, so used to being touched only for treatment, only in clinical, careful ways, flares under the difference in intent.
This isn't someone checking for swelling or pain.
This is want.
Warm, deliberate, utterly focused want.
Elira leans in and captures Fia's hand, bringing her knuckles to her lips.
She presses a slow kiss there, eyes never leaving Fia's face.
"Tell us if it's too much," Elira murmurs.
"It's never been this," Fia says, voice thin. "I don't know what 'too much' looks like yet."
"Then we'll find the edge together," Mira says softly.
Her hands slide higher.
Not to anything explicit—just up to Fia's hips, thumbs hooking lightly at the sash of her robe.
"Can I…?" she asks.
Fia nods, perhaps a little too quickly.
"Yes," she says. "Please."
Mira's fingers are deft but unhurried as she loosens the knot, the fabric going slack around Fia's waist.
Seraphine's breath warms the back of Fia's neck.
Lyriel shifts closer, her knee pressing a little more firmly against Fia's side.
Somewhere under Fia's ribs, the dragon coil stretches, interested.
We are very awake, Ardentis observes mildly.
"Stay in your lane," Fia thinks back frantically.
The coil rumbles, amused.
Mira eases the robe open a fraction, enough for cool air to kiss the sliver of skin at Fia's collarbone.
Seraphine's hand slips in from above, skimming along that newly exposed strip.
Calloused fingertips trace the curve of bone, the hollow at the base of Fia's throat.
Fia's breath catches.
She hadn't realized how starved she was for this—simple, slow, attentive touch that isn't about pain or power, but about her.
Mira leans in and presses a soft kiss just below Seraphine's hand.
Elira lets out a quiet, impressed whistle.
"This is highly unfair," Elira mutters. "You're not supposed to be this…reactive. It's going to go straight to my head."
"Everything goes straight to your head," Lyriel says, but her voice is softer than usual.
Fia can't quite focus on their bickering.
Seraphine's lips find the side of her neck again, this time lingering longer, teeth barely grazing skin.
Mira's mouth follows in their wake, trailing kisses down along the open edge of the robe.
Her hands remain steady at Fia's waist, thumbs brushing slow, maddening circles.
Elira shifts, propping herself higher on one elbow so she can lean in from the front.
She catches Fia's gaze.
"Hey," she says quietly.
Fia manages a shaky, "Hi."
Elira smiles.
"Look at me," she murmurs. "Not at what you're afraid of. Not at the door. Not at the ceiling. Just me."
Fia tries.
Elira's eyes are dark, pupils wide, cheeks flushed.
She looks hungry.
She looks…careful.
That combination does something to Fia's insides.
Elira leans in and kisses her, slow and sure.
The angle is strange with Fia half-turned against Seraphine's chest, but she doesn't care.
Heat flares through her.
Seraphine hums against her neck, the vibration traveling through Fia's spine.
Mira's mouth slips lower along bone and tendon, always a breath away from places that would shift this from suggestive into explicit—never quite crossing that line.
Lyriel watches for a moment, eyes dark and thoughtful.
Then she shifts again, reaching out.
Her hand settles, surprisingly gentle, over Fia's wrist where the faint dragon mark curls under the skin.
Magic brushes magic.
Her thumb strokes small, soothing arcs over the mark.
A quiet, private hello in the middle of the storm.
Fia gasps into Elira's mouth.
Her lungs protest the stolen breath.
Elira pulls back immediately, eyes searching.
"Too much?" she asks.
Fia shakes her head, breathless.
"No," she says. "Just…a lot."
"Good," Elira murmurs, and kisses the corner of her mouth, softer this time.
Mira lifts her head.
Her hand slides up, over Fia's ribs, pausing where she can feel the double thrum beneath skin.
"I've been touching you like glass for so long," Mira whispers. "I forget you're fire."
Her fingers press just a little more firmly.
Not hard enough to hurt.
Just enough to be felt.
Fia moans.
Quiet.
Helpless.
The sound shocks her as much as anyone.
"Saints," she breathes. "I didn't— I—"
Seraphine's arms tighten around her.
"It's all right," Seraphine murmurs. "We like it when you sound like that."
Fia covers her eyes with one hand.
"You're all going to make my dragon smug," she mutters.
"Too late," Lyriel says. "He's radiating 'finally' so loudly I can taste it."
There is laughter then.
Soft.
Breathless.
It breaks the tension just enough that Fia can breathe again without feeling like she's about to shatter.
She lets her hand fall away from her face.
"Is this," she asks, voice shaky, "what I've been missing out on this whole time?"
Elira grins.
"We haven't even started properly," she says.
Mira swats her lightly on the thigh.
"We start slowly," Mira says. "The last thing we need is you getting overexcited and her passing out halfway through her first kiss with her own shoulder."
Fia blinks.
"My what—"
Seraphine laughs, low.
"Let her find out in sequence," she says.
The night unfolds.
Not in a rush.
Not in some chaotic tangle.
In layers.
Seraphine keeps her anchored, one arm always around her, one hand roaming in slow, reverent paths along her collarbone, her shoulder, down the length of her arm.
Mira charts a careful territory from throat to sternum, mouth and hands following the curves and hollows, memorizing each hitch of breath and quiet plea.
Elira alternates between kissing Fia breathless and making shameless, whispered promises in her ear about everything she intends to do with her "once we're not medically supervised," earning herself glares and choked laughs in equal measure.
Lyriel stays near her wrist, her touch a cool counterpoint—fingers tracing sigils that never quite form, murmuring little affirmations into the skin there.
"You're here," she whispers once, when Fia's breath catches too hard. "You're not in a vision, you're not in a circle. You're here. With us. Stay."
At some point, Fia's robe ends up off her shoulders, pooling around her waist.
At some point, Seraphine sheds the last of her formal clothing, leaving her in a thin undertunic that does nothing to hide the warmth of her body pressed along Fia's back.
At some point, Mira's braid comes loose, hair falling around them like a curtain as she leans in to kiss the hollow between Fia's breasts, her whispered prayers dissolving into less holy words.
At some point, Elira's usually careful hands are in Fia's hair, at her hips, at the small of her back, mapping her like territory she intends to guard with her life.
At some point, Lyriel abandons theory entirely, leaning down to brush a soft kiss to the pulse in Fia's wrist, then another at the inside of her elbow, and watches with fascination as goosebumps ripple in their wake.
When the point comes where touch is about to turn into more, there is a pause.
A tiny, shared held breath.
Mira lifts her head.
Her hair is mussed.
Her lips are swollen.
Her pupils blown.
She looks wrecked and beautiful and very, very serious.
"Last time," she says softly. "Are you sure? Because if we cross this line, I promise you, Fia, we're not half-measuring it. Not now. Not ever."
Fia looks at them.
At Seraphine, steady as a wall and twice as protective.
At Mira, flushed and earnest and trembling with everything she hasn't let herself say.
At Elira, wild and soft and hopelessly, unapologetically in love.
At Lyriel, eyes dark with a feeling she doesn't know how to name, but will likely try to catalogue later.
Her hearts beat.
Her dragon coil hums.
She has been dying by degrees for so long.
It feels…right…that this is how she chooses to live.
"Yes," she says.
Fia's breath still hadn't steadied when Seraphine—ever the ruler, ever the lover—cupped her jaw, pressing their foreheads together. "Look at you," she murmured, her thumb tracing the curve of Fia's leg. "All fire and fury, melted down to *this*." There was no mockery in it, just awe, her lips brushing Fia's in a kiss so tender it burned worse than dragonflame. Fia shuddered, her legs flexing against Seraphine's back—*careful, careful*—but the princess only sighed into her mouth, her hands sliding down to cradle Fia's hips like something precious.
Then—because Seraphine *never* let tenderness linger too long—she slid two fingers into Fia without warning, her palm pressing flush against her clit. Fia's gasp was swallowed by Seraphine's tongue, her body arching into the touch, her hands scrabbling for purchase on the silk beneath her. *Gods*, Seraphine's fingers were long, *elegant*, curling just *so*—slow, then deep, then *twisting*—until Fia's thighs trembled around her wrist. "Too much?" Seraphine whispered, her breath hot against Fia's ear. "Or not *enough*?"
Elira didn't wait for an answer. She dragged Fia's hips up, her mouth replacing Seraphine's fingers with a groan that vibrated through Fia's bones. There was nothing refined about the way Elira *devoured* her—her tongue broad, her lips relentless, her teeth scraping just enough to make Fia's hands dig into the cushions. *Fuck*, she was *rugged*, her grip bruising, her pace *merciless*. Fia's tail lashed, her wings flaring wide—Elira didn't care. She just *took*, her tongue plunging deeper, her nose pressing against Fia's clit until—*oh*—
Lyriel's magic crackled against Fia's skin, binding her wrists above her head. "Focus," the archmage purred, her free hand tracing the scales along Fia's ribs. "Or do you need *more*?" The question was a threat. Lyriel's fingers pinched Fia's nipple, her magic sparking—sharp, electric—directly into the sensitive bud. Fia arched with a choked cry, her body caught between Elira's mouth and Lyriel's torment, pleasure fraying into *pain* into *bliss*—
But then—*suddenly*—Mira's hands, soft as prayer, cupped Fia's face. "Wait," the saintess murmured, her brow furrowed under sweat-damp curls. "Look at her—she's trembling." She brushed her thumb over Fia's lower lip, her touch impossibly gentle against the dragon-woman's hands. "Are you still *here*, love?"
Fia blinked, her pupils blown wide—then let out a noise, high and *tiny*, like the squeak of a hatchling. It was *ridiculous*, unbecoming of a noble-blooded half dragon, and her cheeks flushed molten crimson the moment it escaped. "I—*ahhhhh*," she hissed, but her voice cracked, her wings twitching against the cushions like ruffled feathers.
Lyriel flicked her wrist, dissolving the magical binds with a smirk. "Break time," she announced, stretching her fingers as if lost in her breathing that was just as ragged as Fia's.
After the Break
the Night blurs.
The lamps burn lower.
The curtains absorb any sound that might escape.
Hands find more skin.
Breath tangles.
Laughter sparks and dies against mouths.
The shape of the bed shifts: Fia on her back, then on her side, then half draped over Seraphine while Mira murmurs encouragement and Elira complains, half-joking, that there is not enough Fia to go around.
The dragon coil glows.
Not in violence.
In warmth.
In a claiming that has nothing to do with hoarding power and everything to do with keeping her present, heart still beating, breath still moving, even when it stutters.
Fia learns the edges of "too much" and discovers, to her amazement, that she is allowed to ask for more or less and be heard.
She finds out what it feels like to be kissed until her fingers curl in sheets, to be held down not in fear but in care, to feel four different kinds of desire converge on her and not drown her, but buoy her.
At some point, the world narrows to heat and hands and the sound of her own name on lips that have no intention of ever using it in a past tense.
And then—
the story looks away.
Morning comes in softer than Fia expects.
She wakes to light spilling over the curtains and a weight across her legs.
Her chest aches.
Her throat feels like she's been shouting.
Her muscles are a symphony of protest.
But she is breathing.
Slow.
Steady.
Her head is pillowed on something warm and solid.
Seraphine.
The queen-to-be is half sitting, half slumped, one arm crooked under Fia's neck, the other flung over her waist, crown nowhere in sight, hair a complete disaster.
Mira is curled against Fia's side, face tucked into Fia's shoulder, one hand still resting over her hearts like she fell asleep mid-check and forgot to move it.
Elira is sprawled across Fia's legs and half the bed, mouth slightly open, an expression of smug, exhausted satisfaction pasted on her face.
Lyriel has fallen asleep sitting up against the headboard, glasses askew, a notebook open on her lap with exactly three words written before fatigue took her: Fia alive. Good.
Fia lies there for a long moment and just…breathes.
In.
Out.
Her chest hurts.
Her body feels used in a way that has nothing to do with battle.
Her cheeks flush as memory filters back in flashes.
But the pain, for once, is not the main story.
Her hearts are steady.
Her dragon coil purrs.
Mira stirs.
Her fingers flex against Fia's sternum, automatically checking the rhythm there.
Her eyes blink open.
She squints up at Fia.
"Morning," she croaks.
Fia smiles, slow and a little disbelieving.
"Still here," she says.
Mira's eyes fill.
"Still here," Mira echoes.
Seraphine mumbles something incoherent into Fia's hair.
Elira stretches, groans, and then freezes.
Her eyes fly open.
"We didn't kill you," Elira blurts, relief and pride warring in her voice. "I mean—not literally—I mean—"
Fia laughs, the sound cracking on the edges.
"You did not," she says. "Congratulations on your restraint."
Lyriel snorts awake.
"I was going to write a full report," she mutters. "But I fell asleep halfway through 'subject did not die.'"
She peers at Fia.
"Still accurate," she says. "Excellent."
Mira pushes herself up on one elbow.
Her healer's gaze sweeps Fia's face, her chest, her skin.
"How do you feel?" she asks.
Fia considers.
Her body aches in places she didn't know she had.
Her lungs are tight, but not dangerously so.
The tether to Highwatch hums quietly.
She's tired in that deep, all-over way that feels almost…satisfying.
"Like I have been thoroughly and enthusiastically loved," she says.
Elira grins, bright and wicked.
"You are insatiable," she says.
"Don't start," Mira warns. "I am not clearing you for a second round until she can walk to the bath without wobbling."
Seraphine's hand tightens around Fia's.
"Later," Seraphine says. "We have…time."
The word lands differently now.
Not as a hollow comfort.
As a promise.
Fia looks at all of them, these four women who have somehow decided that a terminally ill, dragon-infested villainess is worthy of not just their loyalty and their strategy and their fear—but their want.
Her chest aches.
Her eyes sting.
Her hearts beat.
"I love you," she says.
It comes out rough.
Unpolished.
True.
Seraphine smiles like she's been handed a kingdom.
"I know," she says, and kisses her temple.
Mira leans in.
"I love you," Mira says. "Even when you're impossible. Especially then."
Elira presses her forehead to Fia's knee.
"I love you," she mutters. "And I fully intend to annoy you for the rest of your long, miraculous life."
Lyriel adjusts her glasses, cheeks pink.
"I am…extremely attached to you," she says. Then, after a beat, quieter: "I love you, too."
Fia lies there, surrounded by warmth and tangled blankets and the scent of shared skin.
The war is still out there.
The king still wants his dragon bride.
Fortresses still stand and bleed.
But this—
this night, this morning, this messy, tender, charged tangle of limbs and breath and whispered promises—
belongs to her.
To them.
To the version of the story where the villainess doesn't die alone, weapon in hand, but lives long enough to be greedy with love.
Her lungs ache when she laughs.
Her hearts hurt when she smiles.
Her dragon purrs.
For the first time since she woke up in this world, Fia lets herself believe—not just hope, not just bargain—that there will be more nights like this.
More mornings.
More arguments about blankets.
More kisses.
More breathless, reckless, carefully-measured "too much" that she chooses, instead of suffering that chooses her.
"Later," she whispers into Seraphine's shoulder, eyes drifting closed again.
"Yes," Seraphine murmurs into her hair. "Later."
They have a war to survive.
A king to stop.
A dragon to live with.
But first— Another Night of passion
Lady Fiametta von Ardentis—*Fia* to those she allowed close enough to burn—stretched lazily across the sprawl of silk cushions, her scaled tail curling around Princess Seraphine's thigh like a claim. Sunlight fractured through the stained-glass dome above, painting them all in fractured hues of gold and crimson.
The princess, ever-regal even when breathless, arched a brow. "Handle you?" Seraphine's fingers traced the ridges of Fia's horns, slow, deliberate. "Darling, I intend to *ruin* you."
Knight-Captain Elira Voss scoffed, rolling her shoulders until her pauldrons clattered to the floor. "Spare me the theatrics." She prowled forward, calloused hands already pulling at the laces of Fia's bodice. "You're all talk until someone pins you down."
Archmage Lyriel Neve, fingers crackling with barely restrained magic, smirked from the corner. "And yet, *I* was the one who made her scream last time."
Saintess Mira Solenne, demure as ever, pressed a kiss to Fia's collarbone—soft, reverent. "Let's not fight," she murmured, though her teeth grazed skin right after, a contradiction in silk and sin.
Fia laughed—low, smoky—and tangled her claws in Seraphine's hair. "Oh, do your worst."
And they *did.*
Lyriel's magic twisted into invisible bonds, holding Fia's wrists as Elira bit her way down the dragon-woman's spine. Seraphine claimed her mouth, all tongue and teeth, while Mira's hands—pious, *wicked*—found the heat between Fia's thighs.
"*Suddenly*," Fia gasped against Seraphine's lips, "I'm feeling *very* handled."
Elira's grin was pure conquest. "Told you."
And then, no one was talking at all.
Princess Seraphine went first—of course she did—her tongue dragging slow and proprietary up Fia's slit, savoring the taste like vintage wine. She hummed against her, fingers spreading Fia wider as if inspecting a conquest. "Mm. Divine," she murmured, before diving back in with a hunger that belied her regal poise. Fia's hips jerked, her tail thrashing against the cushions.
Knight-Captain Elira didn't ask. She shoved Seraphine aside by the shoulder, her mouth replacing the princess's with rough efficiency. Where Seraphine had been methodical, Elira was *ravenous*, licking into Fia with the same relentless drive she brought to the battlefield. Fia's groan was half-laugh, half-moan. "Fuck—*yes*, just like—"
Then Lyriel's fingers twisted in Fia's hair, yanking her head back as the archmage took her turn. Magic crackled at the edges of her lips, sending tiny, electric shocks against Fia's clit that had her back arching off the cushions. "*Gods*—Lyriel, you sadistic little—"
Mira's touch was last, reverent and slow—until it wasn't. The saintess pressed her mouth to Fia's soaked folds like it was a prayer, then *sucked*, her tongue flicking in wicked, practiced circles. Fia's claws shredded silk. "Mira—*fuck*, don't stop—"
Elira's laugh was a dark thrill against Fia's inner thigh. "Who knew a saint could lick cunt like a whore?"
Mira's only answer was to do it harder.
Fia came with a snarl, her wings flaring wide enough to eclipse the sunlight.
And then—because they were *never* done—they started over.
Seraphine's tongue, slick and aristocratic, traced the *shape* of Fia first, slow circles around her clit like she was mapping a kingdom. "Mm. Still dripping," she purred, punctuating it with a nip to Fia's inner thigh. "Someone's *greedy*." Fia's laugh was ragged, cut short when Elira shoved two fingers into her mouth—*distraction*, while the knight's other hand pinned Fia's hips down. "Shut up and take it," Elira growled, before lowering her head. Where Seraphine had been deliberate, Elira was *brutal*, licking into Fia like she wanted to carve her apart, her tongue broad and relentless. Fia arched, her tail lashing against the cushions hard enough to tear seams—*god*, Elira's mouth was a *weapon*—
Then Lyriel *pushed* her aside, her smirk sharp as a blade. "My turn." She didn't bother with preamble—just dragged her tongue flat up Fia's slit, humming as Fia jerked against her. "Tastes like lightning," Lyriel murmured, before flicking her tongue *just* so, her magic buzzing against Fia's clit in tiny, punishing shocks. Fia's breath hitched—*fuck*, she was *close*—until Mira, ever-patient, ever-cruel, *stopped* her with a hand on Lyriel's shoulder. "Let me," she whispered, and oh, *oh*, the saintess's mouth was *heathen*, her tongue lapping at Fia's arousal like it was sacramental wine. She swallowed her down like communion, her fingers *finally* sliding inside, curling *just* right—
Fia came with a shout, her wings slamming against the floor, her claws raking grooves into the marble.
Elira laughed, rough and satisfied, licking Fia's spend from her lips. "Told you we'd ruin you."
Fia—panting, wrecked—grinned back, "*Again*."
And they *did*.