The first kiss comes when Mira leans in to check Fia's temperature—or at least, that's the excuse she uses.
Fia feels the cool press of Mira's fingers against her forehead, sliding into her hairline. Then Mira's breath hitches, just slightly, and her thumb brushes Fia's cheekbone. Their eyes lock. The world narrows to the space between them—the scent of lavender and antiseptic, the faint tremor in Mira's lower lip.
And then Mira kisses her.
It's not soft. It's not hesitant. It's a scorching, gasping thing, like Mira has been holding her breath for years and only now remembers how to exhale. Her lips are chapped, her hands clutching Fia's face like she might dissolve if she lets go. Fia makes a muffled sound against her mouth, fingers twisting in the sheets, and Mira pulls back just enough to growl, "Don't you *dare* die on me again," before diving back in.
Elira is next, because of course she is.
She waits until Mira is distracted mixing tonics, then slinks up to Fia's bedside with a grin that promises trouble. "You're *awake*," she murmurs, dragging a fingertip along Fia's collarbone. "Good. I'd hate to waste this." Then she licks into Fia's mouth like she's mapping territory, and teasing, pulling back just long enough to whisper, "Next time you pull a stunt like that, I'm tying you to the bed *before* you pass out."
Lyriel's kiss is slower. Methodical. She sets her notes aside with deliberate care, adjusts her glasses, and then—without breaking eye contact—leans in. Her lips are warm, her tongue tracing the seam of Fia's mouth like she's cataloging the taste. When she pulls away, she murmurs, "Fascinating," like Fia's kiss is a spell she needs to study twice.
Seraphine is last.
She waits until the others are occupied—Mira arguing with Elira over dosage, Lyriel muttering about "biomagical resonance"—before sliding onto the bed beside Fia. Her kiss is deep, lingering, the weight of her body pressing Fia into the mattress in a way that makes her pulse spike. "You," Seraphine murmurs against her lips, "are going to be the death of me." Then she bites Fia's lower lip, just hard enough to sting, and adds, "But not today."
Fia, dazed, breathless, and thoroughly kissed, stares at the ceiling.
"...I might need to recover *longer*," she croaks.
Mira's voice cuts through the room: "*Absolutely not.*"
Fia blinks at her. "I didn't even—"
Mira's fingers are already pressing against Fia's ribs, checking her breathing. "Your lungs sound like crumpled parchment and your hearts is beating like a hammer. If you think any of us are letting you out of this bed before your fever breaks, you are *delusional.*"
Elira sprawls across the foot of the bed like a self-satisfied cat. "Also, *obviously* we're not stopping at kissing." She flicks a glance at Fia's flushed face. "Unless you're suddenly shy?"
Fia opens her mouth—to protest, to deflect—but Lyriel interrupts by sliding a hand under the blankets and pressing her palm flat to Fia's bare thigh. "Biomagical readings suggest elevated arousal," she says, deadpan. "For science, of course."
Seraphine, who has been quietly observing from the chair by the window, stands. The room stills. She walks to the bed with the same measured grace she uses when addressing court, but there's a heat in her gaze that makes Fia's breath hitch. "Turn her over," she says, soft and deliberate.
Mira exhales sharply—half exasperation, half anticipation—but she's already tugging Fia onto her side, shifting blankets, baring skin. "Hold still," she mutters, though her hands are gentler than her tone. "If you aggravate your ribs, I'm adding another week of bedrest."
Elira doesn't wait. She ducks under the covers, her mouth finding the inside of Fia's knee first—a teasing nip, then a lick that curls all the way up her thigh. Fia jerks, gasps, and Mira pins her hip down with a warning glare. "*Breathe,*" Mira orders, but her own breath is uneven. Then she leans in, her tongue tracing the crease of Fia's hip, slow and clinical, like she's mapping a wound. The contrast—Mira's meticulous focus, Elira's playful bites—makes Fia whimper.
Lyriel, ever the scholar, watches for three seconds before murmuring, "Fascinating," and joining them. Her touch is deliberate, her tongue dipping into Fia with the same precision she uses to decipher ancient runes. "Noted," she breathes against Fia's skin. "Increased sensitivity here correlates with—"
Seraphine's hand slides into Lyriel's hair, not yanking, just guiding her aside. "Later," she says, and Lyriel—shockingly—obeys. Seraphine takes her place, her mouth hotter, her tongue broader, licking into Fia with a possessive growl. Fia arches, her fingers twisting in the sheets, and Seraphine pulls back just enough to say, "You are *ours.* Act like it."
Mira's lips brush Fia's ear. "Next time you risk yourself," she whispers, "remember *this* is what you're gambling with." Then she bites Fia's earlobe—sharp—as Elira's laugh vibrates against her thigh, as Lyriel's fingers intertwine with hers, as Seraphine's tongue drags another broken noise from her throat.
Fia surrenders. Gladly.
The blankets shift and tangle around her ankles, but she doesn't dare move—not with Mira's palm pressed warningly against her stomach, Seraphine's teeth dragging lightly over her inner thigh, Elira's fingers interlaced with hers, squeezing tight whenever she makes a particularly delicious sound. Lyriel has retreated slightly, glasses fogged, watching with academic fascination as Fia's hips twitch uncontrollably under the combined attentions of the other three.
"Observe," Lyriel murmurs, adjusting her spectacles with her free hand while the other traces idle patterns on Fia's hipbone. "Her respiratory rate accelerates predictably, but the dilation of her pupils suggests—"
Elira interrupts by biting the back of Fia's knee, making her jerk. "No science during sex," she chides, grinning against Fia's skin.
Seraphine's grip tightens—not painfully, just enough to remind Fia who's in charge—as she drags her tongue up in one slow, deliberate stroke that leaves Fia gasping. "You're lucky," Seraphine murmurs, her breath hot against Fia's damp skin, "that we're all too fond of you to let you die before experiencing this properly."
Mira exhales sharply, her thumb circling the sharp rise of Fia's hip. "And you will," she promises, voice low and dangerous. "Again. And again. Until you learn."
Fia tries to speak, but then Seraphine's mouth is on her again, Elira's fingers tighten around hers, Mira's teeth graze her ribs, and Lyriel—ever the opportunist—leans down to capture her gasp with a kiss that tastes like ink and something sweet.
She loses track.
Of time.
Of whose hands are where.
Of whether the shuddering pleasure curling through her is from Seraphine's tongue or Elira's nails or Mira's teeth or Lyriel's whispered, "Fascinating," against her collarbone.
All she knows is that when she finally breaks—arching, trembling—there are four pairs of hands holding her steady, four voices murmuring approval, four futures tangled inextricably with hers.
And, as promised, Mira doesn't let her rest long.
Not even close.
Seraphine's fingers slide into Fia's hair—not rough, but firm—and tilt her chin up just slightly. "Do you really think we'd let you win that easily?" Her thumb traces Fia's lower lip, pressing down just enough to emphasize the point.
Elira—ever the opportunist—grins against Fia's shoulder, her teeth catching skin as she murmurs, "You're *so* predictable."
Mira exhales sharply—half amusement, half exasperation—as she drags her tongue along Fia's collarbone in a slow, deliberate line. "Four mouths," she mutters, "and you thought we'd all aim for the same place?" Her breath is warm against Fia's throat. "Honestly."
Lyriel adjusts her glasses—because of course she does—before leaning in to press a kiss just below Fia's ribs. "Statistically improbable," she murmurs, her fingers tracing idle patterns on Fia's hipbone. "And inefficient."
Seraphine's grip tightens—not painfully, but enough to make Fia's breath hitch. "You want attention?" she asks, voice low and edged with something dangerous. "You'll get it."
And then—chaos.
Elira's mouth finds Fia's thigh—sharp, playful—while Mira's tongue traces the curve of her ear. Lyriel's teeth graze her hip, and Seraphine—never one to be outdone—dips her head to nip at Fia's collarbone.
Four points of contact.
Four distinct sensations.
Four women determined to unravel her—methodically, mercilessly—until she's gasping and writhing and utterly at their mercy.
Which, Fia realizes with a shuddering breath, is exactly where they want her.
And she's *more* than willing to surrender.
Fia arches off the bed with a gasp when the first synchronized flick of tongues hits—four points of contact, four strokes of liquid heat dragging up her soaked folds in perfect, devastating unison. It's too much, too good, too *coordinated*—like they rehearsed this, like they plotted her ruin between Mira's scalpel-precise licks and Seraphine's slow, possessive laps. Elira's playful nips bracket Lyriel's analytical exploration, tongue tracing patterns as if mapping Fia's reactions for future study. The combined sensation is overwhelming—wet, slick, relentless—and Fia's thighs tremble violently, her fingers fisting in the sheets as she chokes out a plea that dissolves into a moan.
Lyriel hums—*fascinated*—against Fia's clit, the vibration ripping another broken sound from her throat. "Note the muscle contractions," she murmurs, then dips lower, licking into her with clinical precision while Seraphine growls her disapproval. "Later," Seraphine repeats, nudging Lyriel aside to claim Fia's throbbing clit with her own mouth, sucking gently before sealing her lips around it and—*fuck*—Fia sees stars. Mira's fingers dig into her hips, anchoring her as Elira laughs against her thigh, breath hot. "Tell us to stop," Elira taunts, dragging her tongue along the same path Seraphine just abandoned. "Go on. Try."
Fia can't.
She *won't.*
Not when Mira's tongue joins the rhythm—flicking in tandem with Seraphine's, Lyriel's, Elira's—until the wet, hungry sounds drown out thought entirely. The bed creaks beneath them, blankets shoved aside, tangled around limbs as Fia writhes. Every nerve sings, every gasp punched out of her lungs as their mouths move—now together, now in staggered succession—until she's sobbing their names, begging for mercy or more, she doesn't even know. Seraphine's palm presses flat against Fia's abdomen, pinning her down as Lyriel murmurs, "Fascinating," against her inner thigh, and Mira—always watching—leans in to lick the proof of Fia's pleasure from Seraphine's chin.
Elira grins up at her, breathless. "Still think you deserve *less* attention?"
Fia's laugh is ragged, wrecked. "Point taken."
Mira's teeth graze her hip—*promising.* "Good."
Elira's fingers curl inside—*deeper*—crooking just so. "*There?*"
Fia's answering gasp is wet, shattered. Lyriel's tongue drags up her slit—slow, savoring—before Seraphine's thumb smears sticky arousal in tight circles around her clit.
The orgasm crests like a breaking tide—inevitable, relentless—spilling over with a slick gush that paints Elira's wrist, drips onto Lyriel's waiting tongue, soaks Seraphine's fingers as they stroke her through it. Fia arches off the bed, thighs trembling, toes curling, her cry dissolving into whimpers as Mira laps greedily at the mess, humming approval against overheated skin.
"Fascinating," Lyriel murmurs, lifting her chin—glistening—to observe Fia's twitching cunt with academic fascination. "The viscosity, the—"
Seraphine kisses her silent, licking the taste of Fia from her lips before turning back. "Again," she orders, sinking two fingers into the dripping mess between Fia's thighs.
Fia sobs—half protest, half plea—as Elira's thumb joins the torment, rubbing tight, relentless circles while Mira's mouth seals over her clit, sucking hard enough to drag another orgasm from her already-spasming body.
"*Too—*" Fia's protest dies as her body betrays her, cunt clenching around Seraphine's fingers, fresh slickness spilling down her thighs.
Elira laughs, breathless, victorious. "*Exactly* enough."