Doesn't seem like it for long

Roisin laughed, a soft, proud sound that carried across the garden. She straightened up, brushing dirt from her hands, eyes bright.

“This is no hard task for a nature druid like me,” she said. “I know every plant, every root, every leaf like the back of my hand. The ‘master’ will have his perfect tea and we will move on without incident.”

She was already moving toward a low stone table near the center of the room. A heavy iron pot sat there, cold and empty, next to a wooden ladle and rows of jars, bowls, and small woven baskets. Dried herbs hung in bundles from a nearby trellis. Fresh cuttings lay on a cutting board, roots, petals, leaves, strange glowing berries. Everything looked innocent enough.

Genevive watched Roisin with a faint frown still lingering. Something about the task felt too simple, too domestic for a place that promised unpredictability at every turn. But she said nothing yet. Let the druid have her moment. If anyone could handle plants, it was Roisin.

Roisin moved with the calm certainty of someone who had never once doubted her own judgment when it came to growing things. She circled the stone table once, eyes scanning the spread of ingredients, then reached for a small cluster of pale violet flowers with slender stems and tiny star-shaped blooms. She lifted them to her nose, inhaled slowly, and nodded to herself.

“This one,” she said, voice soft and deliberate. “It carries the sweetest scent, clean, almost honeyed. If it smells this good, it will taste better. Nature does not lie about such things.”

She stripped the petals from the stems with careful fingers and dropped them into the iron pot. The flowers landed with a faint rustle. Next she spotted a small crystal vial on the counter, filled with a thick pink liquid that caught the light like syrup. Without hesitation she uncorked it and poured a generous stream into the pot. The liquid hit the petals and spread in slow, lazy swirls.

Roisin picked up the wooden ladle and began to stir, slow circles, clockwise, the way she always did when brewing healing teas back at camp. Steam rose almost immediately, carrying a perfume that was heavy and warm, clinging to the air.

She ladled out two portions into plain clay cups that had appeared on the table while no one was looking. One she offered to Genevive with a small, maternal smile.

“Here. We should both taste it first. Quality must be assured after all.” she said with a chuckle.

Genevive accepted the cup without comment, still watching the room with that faint air of suspicion she never quite let go of. Roisin lifted her own cup and drank deeply in one long swallow. Genevive followed a heartbeat later.

For a moment nothing happened.

Then heat bloomed low in their bellies. Roisin’s breath caught. Genevive’s fingers tightened around the empty cup until the clay creaked.

It wasn’t gradual. One second they were just standing in a garden, the next their bodies were screaming with need. Roisin’s free hand moved on its own, sliding down the front of her simple linen skirt, pressing hard against the seam where fabric met cunt. She rubbed in tight, **** circles, hips jerking forward into her own palm. A low whimper escaped her throat, soft, shocked, nothing like her usual measured tone.

Genevive fared no better. Her other hand dropped between her thighs, fingers digging through the white-and-blue fabric of her robes, grinding against her clit with the same frantic rhythm. Her knees buckled a fraction; she caught herself on the edge of the table. Her pale blue cheeks flushed red, eyes wide with something between outrage and helpless pleasure.

“Roisin–what–” Genevive managed, voice cracking.

Roisin’s tail lashed out once. She stared at the pot like it had betrayed her personally. Panic cut through the haze just enough for her to act.

“No–no, this is wrong,” she muttered. “I can fix it. There must be a counter–”

She spun back to the ingredients, snatched a thick, black root from one of the baskets. The thing looked wrong even at a glance, twisted, veined with dull crimson, smelling faintly of sulfur and rot. The root of something that had never belonged in clean soil. Roisin didn’t pause to think. She hacked off a chunk with the ladle’s edge and dropped it into the still-bubbling pot, then stirred faster, as if sheer speed could undo what she’d already done.

Elizabeth’s eyes went wide. She stepped forward, one hand raised.

“Roisin, stop–that looks like hellroot. You don’t just throw corrupted plants into–”

Roisin didn’t hear her. Or didn’t care. The steam was thicker now, darker, curling like smoke.

Genevive, meanwhile, couldn’t stand still. The ache between her legs was unbearable, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She needed relief, any relief. Her gaze landed on a small fountain set into the far wall, half-hidden behind a curtain of vines. Water trickled from the mouth of a carved stone basin, clear and cool-looking. Perfect to wash away the taste, to cool the fire.

She moved before anyone could stop her, quick, impatient strides that made her robes swirl. She dropped to her knees at the fountain’s edge, leaned forward and bent low to drink straight from the flow.

Golden hands erupted from the water.

They weren’t attached to anything visible, just gleaming, perfectly formed arms reaching up, fingers wrapping around Genevive’s wrists, her throat, her waist. She gasped, tried to pull back, but more hands joined the first, sliding over her shoulders, gripping her hips, dragging her forward. Her robes soaked instantly as her upper body plunged into the basin.

Before anyone could reach her, the hands yanked hard and Genevive vanished into the fountain with a choked cry and a final, wet slap of fabric against water.