Homelands Pt. 11 Ch. 03

Yvette's Libido didn't stop humming until they got back to the palace. And even then, that was only because Lance pushed her up against the wall, forced himself inside her eagerly awaiting vadge, and ravaged her wildly. With tooth and claw, he drew blood, but that hadn't bothered her at all. If anything, it had only intensified the experience. Yvette had never cum so fast or so hard as she did then for her big bad wolf.

That was what he wanted from her, was it? To embrace her darker side? Become Bad Yvette? Well, she could do that. Happily.

Granted, that hadn't come as a surprise. The guy hadn't been subtle about it. Nor had their mother, Lady Winter. But Yvette hadn't quite realized until that point that her brother had other reasons for wanting to see her earn the blue. That something more than loyalty to their queen compelled him to corrupt her.

When he'd pushed her face flat against the ice wall while handling his twin cocks, Yvette had felt something she'd never felt before. Something Zach would never give her. Couldn't, even if he wanted to. The kind of selfish, primal lust that kept a true man warm in the heart of Winter. A powerful need, utterly unconcerned with her own wants and desires, that her softer brother would never understand. Only it was more than that. Lance was a true wolf, and his hunger never truly abated. But it wasn't just the baseline animalism that led him to pummel her like that. No, Yvette had broken the chains shackling his inner beast, in ways only Daphne ever had before. Even Lena could not cause him to lose all sense of time and place, forget that he did not always have fur and a tail. Or so Yvette told herself.

When it was over, which it was far too soon, her knees buckled and Yvette nearly fell over. But she couldn't stop smiling. Her father had drained a lot of energy from her, but she still felt omnipotent. There was no force in existence that could bar her from taking what she wanted. Nor do her any harm she'd not welcome.

None save Lady Winter. Who'd tasted the sweet wine responsible for Yvette's intoxication more than a decade past. She was more than a little late to the party.

But she had arrived.

And she wasn't about to leave.

"We should go," her father growled through wolfish jaws.

"Mmm hmm," Yvette muttered. To say more would have meant moving her lips. But she couldn't. Not yet. They were frozen in the most blissful of smiles.

The spotted tail she'd just grown lashed at her brother's chest. Sharp claws sank into the icy walls as though they were made of soft wood and the purr in her throat couldn't have been more feline, and her whiskers twitched.

The change, incomplete thought it was, felt good. Yvette suddenly detected smells her mortal nose could never hope to process. And she felt both graceful and deadly.

But there was something that would feel even better.

He wasn't wrong. They really should get going. But she wasn't nearly done with him. The half-leopard Yvette spun around and pounced on her wolfish brother. Though he was far bigger and much stronger, the element of surprise favored her. Blood welled up against her palms as her claws dug into his shoulders and she growled into his ear before setting about licking and biting playfully. Or perhaps not so playfully.

That was more than enough encouragement for him. He wrapped both arms about her waist and pulled her down hard, impaling her on his oversized cock. It hurt, at first, but it wasn't long before Yvette was once again lost in ecstasy.

Their movements were furious and the sounds escaping their throats even more menacing. They tore each other up mercilessly, but that only made it more exciting. Yvette wasn't sure she'd have been able to handle that much pleasure without a little pain to distract her. Not that the latter ever lasted more than a few seconds, quick as her subconscious was to heal any wounds her lover inflicted.

When her brother whimpered submissively, she almost laughed. She wasn't sure whether to pity him or allow her mouth to return to that of a woman's so she could kiss him. As best as one might kiss a wolf's muzzle, that was. But she probably couldn't have followed through with it even if she'd wanted to. The primal fury driving her left no room for such tenderness and affection. She growled and pumped her hips faster and faster, using his hard cock to generate the friction she so desperately needed to get off.

At long last, a monster orgasm fell upon her. It sent her into wild paroxysms of pleasure and made her previous climaxes feel like mild shudders in comparison.

Finally, Yvette climbed off Lance. With a thought, she disintegrated the remnants of the outfit her brother had torn to shreds. Then she replaced it with a decadent black gown, all shiny satin and thick brocade, that revealed only a glimpse of cleavage. About her waist, she wore a string of black pearls. Her black patent leather boots had six inch heels. Black lace gloves covered her hands and a matching veil hung before her eyes. The blue choker encircling her throat was the sole bit of color.

Lance grunted. Then collapsed back into the form of a man. One who wore a black tuxedo with a blue vest and bow tie. He looked ready to attend a wedding.

Which was only fitting, Yvette supposed. But he had to know he couldn't keep her for himself. Not anymore. Not now that she knew what she was and was ready to accept it.

At times, Yvette had gone a little boy crazy. Once, when she was younger, and her breasts had just started to develop. She'd made out with lots of boys. And had gone further with many of them. But then the slut-shaming came, and she learned to keep her sexuality tied up. Then, a few months before the fateful trip into the mountains, she'd developed an alter ego, who was not at all concerned with the consequences of her actions. Who cared not what others thought. Even revelled in the thought of what they might say, if they knew.

Now she and that woman were one and the same. There was no more Bad Yvette.

Just Yvette.

"Ready?" Lance asked, offering her his elbow.

Yvette nodded and looped her arm through his.

There was no need to ask, "What for?" She knew. He would present her to the queen, for the second time in as many days. And not so he could offer his throat in shame.

The journey up to Quincy's tower took forever. Yvette's Libido had stopped humming, but that only brought so much relief. Her heart was still racing, her head felt like a helium balloon, and she was having a hard time remembering all the reasons why she shouldn't tackle Lance again and ride him some more. Yvette told herself over and over that no matter much it felt like his big dick needed to be back inside her, however desperately she wanted those strong hands to grab at her, or slap and choke her, or better still, pop claws to help her cum blood for him, there'd be time for that later. After she was proclaimed a snow leopard. Then she could kiss Lance with cold, blue lips instead of sugary pink ones.

When they arrived, they found the queen much as they had before, staring wistfully out the window while drinking wine and humming softly to the tune of Quincy's music.

At first, Daphne didn't notice their arrival. Or so she let on. Yvette wasn't quite sure which. It was hard to believe that a woman as powerful and universally feared as her mother could be caught unaware under any circumstances whatsoever. But then, neither would she have guessed that Lady Winter had a soft spot for music.

Though she had to admit that to describe her brother's work as mere music was almost a grievous insult. Pure magic flowed out of his golden fiddle. Yvette hadn't noticed it before, focused as she was on the queen. But she did now. The excitement she'd felt, agitating her energy til it raged against her Libido, quickly began to fade away. It bled out of her slowly, but the effect was still noticeable. Cliche as it was, his music soothed the savage beast.

"May it please Her Majesty," Lance said, stepping forward, "I present once again my sister, Yvette." He waited until Daphne's eyes turned on him. They lingered there for but a moment before turning to Yvette, whose calm shattered like an icicle.

No golden fiddle could still her nerves when those eyes fell upon her.

"Her blood is bluer and colder than when last she stood before you," Lance said. "I ask that you recognize her for what she is---a snow leopard. Worthy of your blue lips."

That nearly made Yvette faint. Did that mean he was asking Lady Winter to kiss her? Or grant her permission to wear the royal hue? Perhaps both.

Daphne regarded her silently. Inside her mind, Yvette felt cold fingers rifling through thoughts like a secretary in search of accounting files. Her nipples hardened as the air grew bitter cold. She could hardly breathe, though no external force constricted her airway. A shiver ran down her spine and it was a wonder that she kept her teeth from chattering.

There had never been a test she was more eager to pass. No man had ever looked her over and made her fear so strongly the shame of being found wanting. Her mother was the greatest woman who'd ever lived, and pleasing her was the truest of callings.

With the barest of nods, Lady Winter bestowed the highest of honors upon her.

And a split-second later, she followed it up with a kiss the likes of which Yvette had never savored. Though, in truth, that had as much to do with how unprepared she was for it as anything. The brief time she'd spent with Daphne earlier had been filled with pleasures she could not describe. The least of the queen's kisses left nothing to be desired. But that one in particular was long and sweet, infused with incredible energy, and caught her completely off-guard. The queen hadn't bothered covering the distance between them. One moment, she'd stood at the window, a dozen paces of translucent ice beneath them, and then the next she had one hand on Yvette's hip, the other buried in her black hair, and her blue lips pressed against Yvette's pink. Wave after wave of ecstasy rolled over Yvette, guiding her through one orgasm after another. She must have cum a dozen times in her queen's arms. Not one of them was the thrashing, screaming sort, but there was something to be said for small pleasures. Especially when there were that many of them experienced in so short a time. Besides, it wouldn't be good to accidentally kick the queen in the shins.

Somehow, Yvette managed to avoid slipping out of her body. But it was a close thing. She felt the window open behind her, so to speak, and some force tug at her consciousness.

When the queen finally pulled away, a translucent white curtain fell upwards, separating the two of them. It took Yvette a moment to realize that was her warm breath. That she was gasping for air. Fighting to regain control of her body and her senses.

The woman knew how to kiss.

She was tempted to ask if her lips had changed. But there was no need. She knew they had. It wasn't that they felt any different. They didn't, of course. But she did. Her mother had marked her as a favored daughter. One of her chosen. A snow leopard, worthy of the the most distinctive aspects of Lady Winter's visage. And the very air around her seemed to recognize it. She could almost hear the drops of water vapor crystallizing around her. Wherever she went, now, she'd bring snow and ice. Flowers would either wilt or turn blue, depending upon her mood and their beauty. Flames would self-extinguish, unless she gave them permission to continue existing in the wake of her passing. Men would either tremble before her or inside her, as she saw fit. Women would cry tears that would turn to ice upon their cheeks, hating her with all their hearts while quietly envying her as well.

Daphne leaned back, her slender hands planted firmly on either of Yvette's shoulders. She smiled and the air turned colder still, but the beauty of that gesture made Yvette wonder why anyone thought of warmth as anything but detestable. "We must celebrate."

Yvette nodded. A bit of her mother's sweet blue wine sounded perfect.

"I've recently acquired some pets I'd hoped might serve me well in the days to come," Daphne said, almost disinterestedly, though Yvette knew better than to fall for that. "Only one is showing any promise. At least, for the purpose I'd intended." The shorter-but-in-no-way-lesser woman let that sink in for a moment, and Yvette got the distinct sense that it was important for her to note how quickly Lady Winter could decide to dispose of those she had no use for. Or if not dispose, then find a way to repurpose. "The other two have a few redeeming qualities, perhaps, but I'd just as soon see them honor you."

"Meaning?" Yvette asked, head swimming. This was not at all what she'd expected.

If it was time for that, she'd rather have Lance. Maybe Quincy. Or the two of them at the same time. Not a couple of "pets" the queen was none too impressed with.

Daphne turned to Lance. "How long has it been since we had a duel?"

The rhetorical question was met with a wolfish grin.

#

The mountain winds being what they were, the sheet of snow blanketing the courtyard was uneven in thickness. Here, it swallowed little more than an ankle. There, it reached the knee. How men were to fight in such, Yvette didn't know. But that was their problem.

She sat at her mother's right atop a blue pavilion, wearing the same outfit as before, with the addition of a black shawl. Lance occupied a seat to Lady Winter's left, wearing the tux that made him look abso-freaking-lutely amazing. Quincy stood before them, playing a solemn tune on his golden fiddle, protected from the snow by no more than his usual leather breeches and a flimsy white top with puffy sleeves. His feet remained bare and the collar of his silk shirt was worn open. Yvette could almost feel sorry for him, if she didn't know that the queen's blood ran through his veins the same as it did hers.

Though, come to think of it, his eyes had looked more gray than blue when they'd passed out into the sunlight. She could almost think he wore an illusion of some kind to look more like his siblings. Or that he might not even be one of them. But that was ridiculous. What man could be worthy of Daphne save those to whom she had given birth?

As the first of the combatants joined them, marching dejectedly before an ice statue that held the steel tip of long spear a few inches from his back, Yvette forgot all about the parentage of the-brother-who-might-not-actually-be-her-brother. She was too stunned by the beauty of the lifeless guard and the rush of pity and disgust over its charge.

Sure, part of her could tell that he was handsome. Or there'd been a time when he was, back when his shoulders neither slouched nor curled forward. He was a bit tall, and could perhaps use just a little more muscle on that long frame, but Yvette couldn't deny that he had one of the nicest faces she'd ever seen. He might even have been as handsome as Lance, what with those perfect features, big blue eyes, and chin beard. But however nicely he might potentially clean up, at the moment, he looked like a man marching to the headsman's block. One who accepted his fate. There was, so far as Yvette could tell, no fight left in him.

How could there be any excuse for that? What sort of man just gave up? Had Lady Winter done that to him, or had he willingly relinquished his survival instinct?

She suspected the latter. Her mother savored the taste of terror too much to crush a man's spirit so thoroughly. No wonder she'd sounded so disappointed in him.

It really was a shame. If he had some back bone, he could have been quite impressive. Had he strode in, back straight and head held high, Yvette might not only have felt some sympathy for him, but some lust as well. But no. He stared at Daphne without the least bit of defiance or even pleading in his eyes. This was a man who'd gladly give his life twice for the queen, if it were but possible. Anything to bring her the smallest pleasure. Granted, it wasn't hard for Yvette to understand how one might consider doing just about anything for Lady Winter. But there were certain lines that ought not be crossed, if only because Daphne could never respect a man with no sense of self-preservation.

His counterpart, just then entering the courtyard from the opposite side, couldn't have been more different in his bearing. He was unfazed by the glowing chains dangling from his iron necklace and bracelets, the spear at his back, and the fate that so plainly awaited him. If he felt naked or cold wearing nothing but a loincloth, it didn't show. His skin was nearly as white as his hair, but he stood up straight and proud and Yvette caught sight of nary a shiver nor goosebump. He had fine features that almost made him look effeminate, and his waist was narrower than Yvette's, but with shoulders that broad and muscles that glorious, no one would mistake him for anything but a painfully beautiful man.

"Who are they?" Yvette asked, leaning over to whisper in the queen's ear.

"Men of the fey," Lady Winter replied.

Yvette had no idea what that meant. A remote corner of her mind itched, telling her she'd heard the term before, but she couldn't remember where or in what context.

Their chains were struck off by their icy guards. Then stone daggers were placed in their hands. Then the spearmen went still, becoming no more than statues once more.

Daphne rose to her feet and Quincy immediately stopped playing. Bow and fiddle alike fell to his sides and he could almost have passed for one of the ice statutes. The wind itself went still, lest it besmirch her glory by trying to speak on top of her.

Blue eyes directed towards the younger man, who Yvette already knew would die that day, the queen said, "Cahill of Clan Walker."

"Oberon of Clan Dreamsmyth," Daphne said to the other.

The white-haired man acknowledged his name with a slow swivel of his head, tossing an almost indifferent gaze at the woman who held his life in the palm of her hand. Yvette had never seen such a shade of gray. It was almost like his eyes were entirely white save for the pupils. The effect was unsettling. But not entirely in a bad way.

Then it came to her---"fey" was another word for "fairy." The sort geeks who played Dungeons and Dragons used when no one normal was around. She couldn't stop giggling after that. They certainly were pretty enough, especially Oberon.

Oberon. Right! The king of the fairies, according to Shakespeare. She'd read A Midsummer Night's Dream in high school. Or the Spark Notes version, anyway. And now here he was, in all his slim-waisted glory, ready to battle to the death for her amusement. At least, she assumed that's where this was going. Not that it even mattered. The Oberon, King of Faerie, was her mother's captive. As was only fitting.

"What would you ask of us, Your Majesty?" Cahill asked, voice wavering.

So. There was a little reluctance there after all. Not much, but some. He would do as she bid him, without balking, but he'd hate himself for it. Yvette wasn't sure if that made him more or less pathetic. Probably the latter, but it was still sad.

Daphne smiled thinly, almost mocking his obeisance. Did this Cahill not see that nothing could have curried less favor with Lady Winter? That he'd have done better to follow the lead of the one called Oberon? Or was he just too hopeless enchanted by her?

"We're to fight to the death," the older man said. There was no emotion in his voice. No fear, no anger, no indignation. Nothing at all. Well, perhaps there was a trace of sadness for the man he'd have to kill, who appeared to respect more than Yvette did, but that was it. And not much of that. "I hope you know that brings me no pleasure," he said, with neither an abundance of sincerity or a trace of mockery. It was a mere statement of fact.