Chapter 3: Tempting the Flames
The sun on Themyscira was different. It didn’t just shine; it worshipped, bathing every leaf, every ripple of turquoise water, every curve of marble in liquid, adoring gold. Beatriz Da Costa felt it on her skin like a physical caress. She walked a path of crushed seashells, her bare feet enjoying the gritty texture. There was no hiding here, no strategic swirls of flame to preserve a modesty the spell had stolen. Just skin, acres of it, on display.
It should have felt stranger. But after the sterile horrors of Aresia’s cells, the open air was a baptism. The curse was an indignity, yes, but Beatriz had spent years exploding into a being of pure, naked plasma. This was just… a quieter, more vulnerable version of that. She decided to own it.
Amazons passed her, warriors with muscles carved from the same stone as their temples. Their eyes, however, held not leering ownership, but frank, appraising admiration. A woman hauling a net of silver fish gave her a slow, approving once-over, her gaze lingering on the flare of Beatriz’s hips. “The sun favors you, sister,” she said, her voice a low rumble, before moving on.
Beatriz laughed, the sound bright and unexpected. “It better, for the price I paid,” she muttered to herself in Portuguese, running a hand through her shock of green hair. Her body felt hyper-real. The breeze was a detailed artist, tracing the outline of her large breasts, tightening her nipples into sensitive points, whispering through the neat triangle of hair at her junction. Every sense was amplified. She could smell the brine of the sea, the dizzying perfume of night-blooming jasmine from a garden wall, the clean sweat of a squad of jogging Amazons.
The noise guided her before she saw the place—a cacophony of laughter, clashing wooden cups, and the vibrant strains of a lyre. The Amazonian Tavern wasn’t a building so much as a captured piece of the jungle. Under a vast canopy of woven palm leaves, long tables of polished dark wood were arranged around a central fire pit. Amazons in varying states of dress and undress lounged, argued, arm-wrestled, and feasted. The air shimmered with heat and the scent of roasting boar, spilled wine, and feminine musk.
Beatriz paused at the entrance, a smile playing on her lips. This was her kind of chapel.
She walked in. Conversations hiccupped. Eyes turned. A few heads tilted in curiosity at the green-haired, utterly nude stranger. Beatriz met their gazes, her chin high, a playful challenge in her eyes. She found an empty spot at a crowded table, sliding onto the smooth bench beside a massive Amazon with a shaved head and a scar that carved a pale path through her eyebrow.
“What’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?” Beatriz asked, her accent coloring the words.
The scarred Amazon looked her up and down, not with malice, but with the blunt assessment of a sculptor viewing raw material. A grin split her face. “You’re the fire-bird. Diana’s friend.”
“Beatriz. But Fire works.” She extended a hand. The Amazon’s grip was crushing, her palm a landscape of calluses.
“Nal,” the Amazon said. She jerked her head towards a bustling counter where a formidable woman was pouring steaming liquid from a clay amphora. “Tell Io you want the ‘Tears of Ares.’ But sip it. Unless you want to wake up tomorrow in a different century.”
Beatriz weaved through the crowd, acutely aware of hips and shoulders brushing against hers, the casual contact a constant, thrilling reminder of her exposure. She leaned against the counter. The barkeep, Io, had arms thicker than Beatriz’s thighs.
“Tears of Ares,” Beatriz said. “And make it a double.”
Io raised a brow, then shrugged, filling a heavy clay cup with an amber liquid that smelled of honey, pepper, and impending regret. “Your funeral, surface-dweller.”
Back at the table, Nal watched her take the first sip. It was fire in a different form, sliding down her throat to bloom into a warm, buzzing nucleus in her belly. “Gah! What is in this? Jet fuel and regret?”
“Fermented hydra honey, volcanic spring water, and the tears of a heartbroken Gorgon,” Nal said, deadpan. Then she laughed. “Or so the poets say. Mostly it’s just strong.”
The alcohol worked quickly, softening the sharp edges of her self-consciousness, fusing with the languid heat of the island. She and Nal traded stories—Nal’s of a skirmish with harpies on the eastern cliffs, Beatriz’s, sanitized and laced with humor, of battles in a world of skyscrapers and silly costumes. The tavern swirled around them, a symphony of boisterous life.
A group of Amazons began singing a rowdy, rhythmic chant. Someone beat a drum. The energy shifted, grew more visceral, more charged. Beatriz felt it in her blood, a pulse that matched the drumbeat. Nal’s leg pressed against hers under the table, a solid line of heat.
“You hold yourself well,” Nal commented, her voice lower now, meant only for Beatriz. “For one who is so… openly offered to the world.”
“It’s not an offering,” Beatriz countered, swirling the dregs of her drink. “It’s a fact. Like the color of the sky. Might as well enjoy the view.”
Nal’s eyes darkened. Her hand, resting on the table, moved. Her callused index finger traced a slow, daring path from the inside of Beatriz’s wrist, up her forearm. The touch was electrifying. “I am enjoying it.”
Beatriz’s breath caught. This wasn’t the complicated, tragic hunger she saw in Diana. This was simple. Elemental. A spark meeting tinder. She turned her arm, allowing Nal’s fingers to skate over the sensitive skin of her inner arm. “Is this Amazonian hospitality?”
“It is a prelude,” Nal said, standing. She offered her hand. “The music is better in the grove.”
The grove was a tucked-away clearing behind the tavern, strung with glowing lanterns. The drumbeats were muffled here by thick ferns and the sighs of the wind. Other couples and trios were nestled in shadows, the air thick with the sound of low moans and wet, rhythmic kisses.
Nal didn’t hesitate. She backed Beatriz against the broad, smooth trunk of an ancient tree, its bark cool against her overheated skin. “No flames here, fire-bird,” Nal murmured, her body a wall of muscle and intent. “Just this.”
She captured Beatriz’s mouth in a kiss that was all conquest and skill. It tasted of hydra-honey and pure, female demand. Beatriz moaned into it, her hands coming up to grip Nal’s powerful shoulders. Her nudity, a vulnerability a moment before, now felt like a weapon, a seamless interface with the world. Nal’s hands were everywhere, owning the swell of her ass, gripping her thighs, palming her breasts with rough reverence.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Nal growled, her mouth leaving Beatriz’s to trail down her neck, sucking a mark that would bloom purple tomorrow. She took a nipple into her mouth, her tongue circling, her teeth grazing with just enough threat to make Beatriz cry out and arch her back.
Beatriz’s head swam with drink and desire. Her hands fumbled at the simple leather tie of Nal’s breeches. “These. Off. Now.”
Nal chuckled, a dark, warm sound, and shoved the leather down her powerful hips. She was bare underneath, a thatch of dark hair between legs corded with muscle. Beatriz didn’t wait. She slid her hand down Nal’s stomach, her fingers diving into wet heat. Nal was soaked, her folds swollen and slick. Beatriz curled two fingers inside her, and Nal slammed her forehead against the tree with a grunt.
“That’s it,” Beatriz whispered, her lips against Nal’s ear. She began to finger her with hard, driving strokes, her thumb finding the hard nub of her clit. “You like that? You like the surface-dweller’s touch?”
In answer, Nal hooked one of Beatriz’s legs over her hip, her own hand plunging between Beatriz’s thighs. There was no finesse, just pure, blunt need. Her fingers were thick, demanding, filling Beatriz in a way that made her see stars. They fucked each other against the tree, a grinding, frantic rhythm of hands and hips, the slick, obscene sounds of their coupling lost in the distant drumbeats.
Nal came first, a sharp, choked roar against Beatriz’s shoulder, her body clamping like a vice around Beatriz’s hand. The violent clenching of her muscles pushed Beatriz over the edge. Her own orgasm ripped through her, a silent, breathless explosion that turned her limbs to liquid and her vision to white light. She sagged against the tree, Nal’s heavy body keeping her pinned.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Nal slowly withdrew her hand, bringing her glistening fingers to her own mouth, then to Beatriz’s, sharing the taste. It was salty, musky, primal.
“Adequate hospitality?” Nal breathed, a lazy smirk on her face.
Beatriz laughed, a weak, sated sound. “Getting there.”
They disentangled, leaning against the tree, shoulders touching. The reality of the curse settled back over Beatriz, but it felt lighter now, almost irrelevant. This was just bodies. Beautiful, powerful, hungry bodies.
From the path, a figure emerged into the lantern light. It was Diana. She stood, cleansed but seeming more exposed than ever, her eyes holding a storm of new shadows. She took in the scene: Beatriz’s flushed skin, the fresh mark on her neck, Nal’s state of undress.
She took in the scene: Beatriz’s flushed skin, the fresh mark on her neck, Nal’s state of undress. A complex shadow passed behind Diana’s eyes, a flicker of something between understanding and a deep, private ache. She didn’t speak.
Beatriz grinned, pushing off from the tree. “Diana! Join the party. The drinks are lethal and the company is… very hands-on.”
Nal gave Diana a respectful nod, pulling her breeches up. “Princess.” She glanced between the two surface-dwellers, sensing a tension that required privacy. “My watch begins soon. Fire-bird,” she said, slapping Beatriz’s ass with a crack that echoed, “until next time.”
Diana watched Nal disappear into the shadows. The sounds from the grove seemed to swell in her silence—a moan from a nearby thicket, a low chuckle, the wet sound of a kiss.
“You’re judging me,” Beatriz said, the smile fading. She leaned back against the tree, completely at ease in her skin.
“No.” Diana’s voice was hoarse. “I am… envying you. Your simplicity. It is a clean hunger.”
“It doesn’t feel clean,” Beatriz snorted. “It feels messy and wet and fantastic. You should try it. Get out of your head and into your body.” She gestured at Diana’s oil-slick form. “Looks like someone already started the process.”
Diana flinched, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement was defensive, instantly contradicting her words. Beatriz saw it—the war inside her friend. The immortal warrior, reduced to a trembling nexus of need and shame. It pissed her off.
“Stop thinking,” Beatriz said, stepping closer. The air still hummed with the energy of her recent climax. “Just feel. You’re on an island of goddesses, Diana. Not a monastery.”
“I did feel,” Diana whispered, the confession torn from her. “In the temple. With my mother’s hands on me. It was not… clean.”
Beatriz blinked, absorbing this. A slow, understanding smile touched her lips. “Ah. So that’s the storm in you.” She reached out, but didn’t touch. “Then feel something else. Something for you.”
Beatriz closed her eyes. She took a deep breath, and the air around her shimmered. It began at her core, a warm, golden glow pulsing beneath her skin. The green of her hair brightened, becoming luminous. Then, fire.
It wasn’t an explosion. It was an unveiling. Living plasma, controlled and precise, wreathed her form without consuming it. She was a silhouette of brilliant, dancing amber and gold, her body composed of contained sunlight. The heat rolled off her in delicious waves—not the scorching blast of a furnace, but the deep, penetrating warmth of a tropical sun on naked skin, or the flush of arousal spreading through the belly.
The flames licked the air around her, harmless, seductive. They traced the outline of her large breasts, caressed the dip of her waist, swirled around her thighs like a lover’s hands. The light painted the grove in shifting, sensual shadows, gilding the sweat on Diana’s skin, making her blue eyes look like deep, stormy pools.
The effect on the grove was instantaneous. The murmurs and sighs halted. Amazons disentangled themselves, sitting up, turning. Dozens of eyes, previously focused on private pleasures, were now fixed on the living flame. The warmth touched them, a physical promise. It didn’t burn; it beckoned. It seeped into muscles, loosened knots of tension, and settled low in the abdomen as a heavy, throbbing heat.
An Amazon near the edge, her lips swollen from kissing, let out a soft, wanting sigh. Her hand, which had been resting on her companion’s thigh, crept higher. Another, sharpening a spearhead, let the whetstone fall, her gaze hungry and fixed. The air grew thick, charged with a collective, breathless anticipation. The scent changed—ozone and cinnamon and the unmistakable, coppery scent of deep, gathering want.
Beatriz opened her eyes. They were full, fiery orbs. She looked directly at Diana, a challenge and an invitation. “This is just heat, Diana. Simple, honest heat. What does it make you want to do?”
She took a step forward, a goddess of benevolent fire. The wave of warmth that hit Diana was profound. It sank through the oil on her skin, into her pores, melting the cold knot of shame in her gut. It pooled between her legs, an immediate, aching response. Diana’s breath left her in a shudder. Her arms uncrossed, falling limp at her sides.
The controlled flames were the most erotic thing Diana had ever witnessed. They promised pure sensation without consequence, pleasure without the complicated chains of history or duty. Beatriz was giving her permission in a language older than words.
From the crowd, a tall Amazon with braided hair stood. Her eyes were dark with desire, fixed on Beatriz’s fiery form. She began walking toward them, her movements deliberate, a hunter drawn to a beacon.
Beatriz saw her approach and smiled, the flames around her flaring playfully. She kept her eyes on Diana. “See? It’s easy. Just let go.”
Diana’s lips parted. A single, desperate word formed there, silent.