Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/395615.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M
  Fandom:
      Knights_in_the_Nightmare
  Relationship:
      Mimee_Madder_Browden/Aura_Alorna_Herzog, Mimee_Madder_Browden/Olson_Clyst
  Character:
      Aura_Alorna_Herzog, Mimee_Madder_Browden, Olson_Clyst
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Fusion, Pansexual_Character, Voyeurism, Sex_Toys,
      Fae_&_Fairies, Surreal, Sting's_Romanizations, Polyamory
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-05-01 Words: 1380
****** Myrtle ******
by feralphoenix
Summary
     A palette in every shade of jealousy.
Notes
     (your breathing changed as you kissed me in your sleep – and youth is
     forgiving and cruel)
                                 I (honeydew)
She is brazen and she is bold and she is beautiful, climbing up the ropes of
ivy to your bedroom window like a prince in a play. And even though she’s
strong enough to make the journey without any effort, she always hurries so
that she’s panting and sweaty by the time she alights on your thick carpets.
Grinning like a highwayman, flushed with victory.
She is poetry, pulling you out of your dress with almost enough vigor to snap
the buttons. Your breath goes perfectly tremolo when her hot full mouth falls
to your nipples, and her smooth fingers fuck you in impeccable iambic
pentameter.
 
                                  II (spring)
Your parents have scolded you every day since slightly before your thirteenth
birthday for sleeping past noon, and you haven’t the faintest intention of
letting them know why.
 
                                III (harlequin)
 “I want to take a bite out of his ass, Aura,” she tells you, lounging back on
your choir of heart-shaped pillows like a princess. “I want to tie him down and
fuck him, I want him to open me up and fill me like you do, and every time I go
into the bookstore I wind up getting so wet that I could just go crazy. It’s
the glasses, I’m sure of it. They are very unfair glasses.”
She looks at you as if she wants your input, and you control your expression
with all your might.
“Haven’t you ever wanted to have sex with someone so badly,” she says to you,
“that you just want to tie them up in a cage full of vines and keep them in a
closet all to yourself?”
“Yes, I understand that kind of feeling,” you reply. She smiles widely, surely
thinking that you have given her your blessing, and you tell yourself again
that she’s not the kind of creature you could keep all to yourself anyway.
 
                                  IV (apple)
The next night that she comes to you, her eyes already have a dizzied and
drunken look to them before you can do anything to her. And when she strips out
of her clothes and lets them drop like an impromptu chorus of cymbals, her
vulva and her thighs are dewy with something white and pearly. The soft mouth
of her pussy is open and pink and you can see all the way inside her like you
never have. When you tangle your legs together, the sensation is so sticky and
ticklish that you come gasping after only a minute.
She licks you clean of her previous partner’s semen, and you pick up a pillow
so that you can scream into it. The feeling of her tongue running over your
still-sensitive clitoris is so divine that you might faint.
Mimee is a law unto herself, and she is perverse: You know she returns to your
side because you have never made any effort to cage her for your own.
 
                                 V (shamrock)
Always, when you wondered what it would be like to have been born a man, it was
because of your parents’ strictness, their overbearing expectations. Surely a
son would be allowed to leave the mansion whenever he pleased; surely a son
would be looked at as more than livestock to be taken to the marriage market
for the sake of raising the family’s status.
Mimee asks you one night if you want to watch, guides you to a well-sheltered
spot outside the window where you can gaze through the gauze of the curtains.
The bookseller is a plain person in your eyes: There’s no real feature of his
that stands out to you. He is of average height and build, neither tall nor
short, neither thin nor stout. His hair is a bit disheveled, you suppose. His
glasses catch the light, but they don’t entrance you the way they did for her.
But she clings on to his shoulders and he holds her legs apart from behind her,
and the rhythm of their coupling makes you wonder anew. For she has not ever
made that expression in your presence. Her face is blank, overloaded with
pleasure; her eyes are glassy.
You wonder if she really finds it that fulfilling, to hold a man inside her. If
you were a man, how different would it feel for you and for her? You’ll know
one day what she is feeling now, but you are most curious as to what it would
be like to explore the inside of her with a penis rather than fingertips or
tongue. The books she’s given you vaguely term a man’s sex as all-encompassing,
blotting out every other sensation. But those same books’ descriptions of
everything you’ve experienced is inadequate. In this moment, you wish for the
power to discover for yourself.
You close your eyes and touch yourself when you hear her moaning voice
crescendo.
 
                                   VI (fern)
It occurs to you vaguely that you are inevitably going to catch hell for this
on the night when Mimee brings you the phallus, but you are too baffled by the
improbable design of the thing to care. It is carved in the streamlined shape
of a penis without the fine details. It has a finish like wood, but when you
touch it, its surface is mysteriously porous.
“I want to try it,” you say, and feel brave.
She wraps your legs around her waist and takes you mercilessly, in velveteen
hammering strokes. Her bare breasts and her masses of yellow hair undulate like
ripples in water, and you find yourself incapacitated by a number of vicious
orgasms that leave your vision all in sparkles.
Blood makes rivers and tributaries down the delta of your buttocks and back,
and in your giddy lack of pain you don’t even realize.
 
                                 VII (phthalo)
In high summer, she vanishes for all of a fortnight, apropos of nothing. (Your
parents laud your newfound ability to rise before midday strikes, even going so
far as to forget the incident of the missing bedsheets as a reward.)
You don’t dare ask after her, for fear that someone will realize;
unfortunately, her family is not a common topic at the grand dinner table.
Still, you bolt the bedroom door every night just in case, and when she fails
to arrive time and again you comfort yourself with clumsy fingertips and
fantasies.
It is August when a stage whisper calls you over to the window, and there:
In the mists of the witching hour, she sits astride a pure black stallion. She
is dressed in fine men’s regalia, the first time you have ever seen her in
trousers. Her hair is pinned back by ribbons, and her eyes are ghostly blue. By
the moon’s light, it is impossible to miss the ripe roundness of her belly,
weighty with child.
Mimee hisses at you once more, and you crawl down the ivy of the wall,
shivering in your nightgown.
“Pack the things you can’t stand to part with,” she says, and when your mouth
drops open, she explains: “I’m kidnapping you.”
“But,” you wheeze as your mouth flaps open. No further sound escapes.
“According to noble law, you can’t be anyone’s bride but mine. So I’m
kidnapping you to save a lot of drama and hassle from your family.”
Your family, you know, would never acknowledge the true circumstances no matter
what kind of explanation you gave, let alone understand. Their permitting you
your own choices is out of the question. More likely, if they found out about
the state of your virginity or your nights and secrets, they would simply lock
you in a place too deep for even Mimee to enter.
“But—where will we go? What will we do?”
“I’m going to take you to the castle, to Daddy’s place,” she proclaims grandly.
“And you’ll be my bride and consort, of course. And eventually I’m going to
have a baby, and we will live however we want.”
Olson the bookseller will likely never know his offspring. You fail to grieve
on his behalf.
“Is that—” You gulp at the boldness of it all. “Is it—allowed?”
She looks at you, archly. “Fairy queens do what they want.”
 
You leave the birdcage of your room forever on horseback, with two bags’ worth
of belongings, before the daybreak.
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