#How she makes that comparison on touches of sacrifice

[astrxlfinale]

Few things beat the late night hours where Guinaifen got to cuddle up in clean sheets, fresh out of a shower, with arms around the frame of her own little universe. Him, the sole purpose of her paced heartbeats, and whose cheek would be grazed with several kisses, one warmer and sweeter than the next. Him, the one Guinaifen wished to offer the comfort and safety of her own arms for as long and often as Caelus would require or even ask of her, longer too if she so saw it as her right. To say that she loved him was simple, too simply even, for while she did love him there was so much more to it, appreciation and respect, admiration and pride.

She, indeed, was proud of him and the progress he had made throughout his journeys. With every story returning with him to the Xianzhou, the concern would drown in this overwhelming admiration for him and the choices he had gone through; " ... you do so many cool things, you know that ? I don't think I've ever met someone whose life has been as busy as yours over the past year..."

Tightening her embrace, Guinaifen would press her forehead against his, allowing eyes to examine his.

Warm. Beautiful. Something she, in return, wished to protect.

"... don't burn out your light fully, Caelus."

Indeed, he had done so many great things and fought so many great battles, some she had gotten to witness in person and where he found such bravery time and time again was beyond Guinaifen. Unlike Caelus, she'd easily cover at the mention of scary spirits haunting old grounds of the fleet, and she'd find her hands trembling around the weapon meant to fight evil. So how, when and where he found the time to gather all this courage was both admirable and a little concerning, for how long could he keep burning so brightly for others? How far could he go with such intensity?

In her concern, a hand would raise to his cheek, caress it gently. To think that within her hand laid both destruction and salvation of planets. It was still surreal; " You always rush to everyone's aid, and you do so with such compassion and respect that I... can't help but to admire you for it, but... I need to you know that if you ever need someone to come to your rescue, I'm in your corner. While I know that I'm totally just a pretty thing on your arm ~ I am capable of other things too, you know ?"

At least she would try to be.

For him, she would.

She'd lean over to steal a little, warm kiss from him, pulling herself closer against his frame with a whisper. "If needed, I'd carry you bridal style out from a battle ~ !"

Moments like these were true fields of reprieve during turbulent waves. Where the scents of fresh soaps and soft linen, where the familiarity of that bright coral hair was laid out in ways further emphasizing her beauty.

Times where he can simply be nestled in this warmth that forms a special brand of energy within him.

Caelus's expression couldn't resist melting into the peaceful stance its currently holding. Grand trials and unexpected turns would never transform these simple truths into something else. His hands locked with security around his Firekiss's hips, loosely held for any idle need of wiggle room as he stares ahead, silently marveling a view that just makes him comfortable above all else. It wasn't a matter where a look from here makes him merely forget about the world. The fact of performing Atla's feats simply becomes a cakewalk.

That could be his arrogance talking, but what's wrong with a little belief?

"Oh yea--- hmhm, hey!" He tried to counteract, but this certain offensive was determined to add this notch of victory. Loving kisses, each serving as an energizing plume, being a banisher of weariness and the sweet tide to empowerment all in one. What she brings to the table of thought leaves him mildly contemplative.

"Has it been?" The question warranted no answer. "If anything, it just felt like.. Another day that's supposed to be here."

It doesn't change the glimmering pearl of insight that she leaves. An important reminder made from someone who wants the best for him, who knows in an entirely different way about the value of managing that weight wisely. Truly drinking in her insight, silence briefly falls outside of a softer note, one that reveals her word reached just like those loving hands.

"Firekiss.."

Such silent awe melts with the tide of fashioned night upon the Xianzhou. A secret for the quilts, a declaration for the open air, for within those honeyed eyes he sees someone talking from the bottom of her loving heart. It makes him privy in just how often she extends this case, letting excess energy be placed in movements made to love, how she directs her words with a sword master's grace, holding a clarity that's in his opinion undervalued. How could his expression unveil anything else but a tender love that's continuously being fostered between them?

While the playful ideas ring and for a moment, his heart hastens in joy as he leans to her in kind, being lovingly lost within her gravity as a tender kiss would meet her lips in return. Caelus never hesitates in allowing that starlit heart of his from devoting to the moment. A touch of pressure, the way his fingers clutched and bundled up the back of her nightwear, these were the small signs in the power her love formulates.

"Guinaifen.." There's a pause while the amusing idea comes to mind. Briefly parting, that's when an abrupt switch transpires, leading to his forehead gently bumping her's with a gilded sense of challenge above all else.

"How about I tell you that I've never had a doubt about that to begin with? Calling yourself just another pretty thing would be disrespecting the cherished partner of this Nameless. I'm not taking that from anyone, especially you."

Was it strange for this thread of seriousness to bound him suddenly? Conviction was born anew in those golden eyes, a scintillating sort of flame that swims within his irises, and at this moment locked upon her face in a command for attention.

"If there's ever a pinch that can even get me on the ropes. I have no doubt that you'd turn this whole damn universe upside down to find me. ..I'm depending on that." Thrumming heavily in his veins was a measure of trust that can be felt, a border between pained and heavy, of light and liberating. Caelus can recall instances where this scale of sensation flowed in such a distinct way.

This was the grounds of a special strength that made him this indomitable force. Here it was, being shared.

"Can I count on you, the person that I believe in?"

@avaere

[fairuzfan]

I'm to the point where if I hear you're endorsing/voting for Kamala Harris and you're publicly getting mad at people for not voting for her, I'm not even going to listen what you have to say, you've made it clear you have to strong principles to guide your decisions beyond "what's worse for me personally?" I think Harris voters have no actual ideologies to live by, despite claiming they do, and I fundamentally don't respect them for it. It's one thing to be angry at people who won't vote for Harris, but it's another thing to pretend you're doing it because you have some sort of moral authority and not basing it off pure selfishness. You think that solidarity is posting about things and that's it. You refuse to make yourself uncomfortable, even momentarily. And you get mad at people who are willing to go through discomfort for the sake of others. You call them names, ans claim that THEY are the selfish ones in this scenario. You've given up on making a change in the world for the better, or maybe you were never interested in it. All of your arguments pale in comparison to reality, because Harris is actively funding a genocide. She has even refused to acknowledge a reality in which she does not fund that genocide. Has made such a thing clearer and clearer. All my problems here in the imperial core are secondary to that. I'm about to go through multiple personal issues that are made increasingly hard by political factors and I still think that's nothing in comparison to what Palestinians and Lebanese are going through overseas. You've placed yourselves as the ultimate victims in the world and to me it's laughable and completely out of touch with just how fucked everyone else is because of the imperial beast that is Amerikkka. And speak nothing of the way the victims of Amerikkkan imperialism on Turtle Island bear the brunt of societies' woes for your personal comfort and refusal to make any meaningful change. Not ev baby steps! You think trump is an accidental anomaly and not a product of a larger issue within white amerikkkan politics. Is it not shocking to you that so many people here are voting for trump so enthusiastically?

Seeing things like the weaponization of personal identity, like "Muslims for Harris," used so plainly is an insult to the ideas of internationalism that you all claim to follow. What use is solidarity with the victims of imperialism if you refuse to acknowledge the entirety of the imperial complex? That includes the democrats you hold so dear as well as the Republicans? What use is any of this if you only think for yourself?

You claim to be thinking of others, and that's why you vote for Harris... but what is so incomprehensible to me is the comfort in which you accept the inevitability of Palestinian deaths. Why are you so willing to accept that reality? Why are you comfortable with that reality? It shocks me and disgusts me in a way that I can not really describe. You lot argue and argue and argue, but in the end, the difference between you and me is that I refuse to engage in a reality where Palestinians must die in any case. You have yet to refuse that. In actuality, you all refuse the baby steps, the bare minimum, of refusal to engage in continuation of that reality. And because of that, I do not take you seriously, nor do I view you as being moral in your decision to sacrifice Palestinians.

[rafesplaymate]

The Other Woman

Rafe Cameron x Stripper!Reader

݁༉‧₊˚. navigation. ݁༉‧₊˚. masterlist.

warnings: angst. cheating (not on reader). substance use. descriptions of smut. dark themes / adult content.

a/n: there will be no second part

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

“The other woman has time to manicure her nails

The other woman is perfect where her rival fails.”

Her arms feel like the sun on a breezy day. Shining on him and encasing him in warmth while the cool winds prickle at his skin. Her scent like a pheromone that was designed solely to attract him. Her skin like expensive silk under his fingertips, delicate and smooth. Her lips felt like satin, brushing and sponging against his skin, lips and body in a way that was entirely addictive. She was entirely addictive; she was his haven. The luxury between her legs only he had access too. Her arousal was a flavor that could never be matched and that he yearned for when she wasn’t on his tongue. Slipping inside her felt like he had a taste of heaven, something he was entirely dedicated to worshipping. She was a deity he would willingly sacrifice his soul and life to.

“Baby… she keeps calling you.” Whispered out that voice that was like a sweet symphony to his ears and calmed down the ocean of complex emotions that dwelled in his heart. Rafe groaned in disappointment at his moment of peace being interrupted once more, burying his face deeper in the softness of her tummy while her manicured nails grazed his scalp. Feeling the soft pricks of hair under her smooth finger tips, touching him with a delicacy only she knew how to have. He sighed once more before bringing his head up and reaching a hand over to the incessant buzzing next to them in her satin sheets. Watching as Sofia’s contact showed for the 5th time that hour.

Rafe can’t exactly blame her, he promised her a nice dinner. Yet, he got to caught up in the girl who captivated his entire being and the one whose inner legs he finds solace in every night or day he can. Just seeing her glimmering smile or seductive gaze makes his knees buckle. He’s entirely fascinated by her, like a diamond in the rough of people who inhabit the island they live on. She’s unlike anything or anyone he’s ever known, the way she maneuvers her body on stage and glimmers under the club lights. The way he was entirely bewitched by the siren she was. He won’t ever forget the night Topper and Kelce dragged him out to a club he had no interest in being at. Small, yet no conviction in his claims of, ‘I have a girl, bro.’ He’s so entirely grateful he went. Topper’s convincing of, ‘what she doesn’t know won’t kill her, man. Trust there’s this girl there that will drive you insane. She’s got me and Kelce hooked.’ To which Rafe gave a small eye roll and scoff of, ‘any girl with her tits out has your attention.’ Topper only laughed and Kelce along with him before biting back a, ‘but hers are premium.’ As they all toppled into his truck.

That night was fate, and he knew that any woman he met or has yet to meet will pale in comparison to the goddess who’s enthralled his being and keeps him stuck in a perpetual state of desire for her and her alone. The moment he saw her glide across stage, in nothing but glimmering lingerie and wild hair. Her eyes packed on with glitter and pretty lips glossed so enticingly. Her body the kind of thing men carve into stone to keep as a recollection for life. The way she slithered across stage with her eyes set on him and only him. Singling him out while the cheers and hoots of his friends, other club goers and patrons faded into the background. Both of them fascinated with one another. The way she slung herself across his lap with her freed tits pressing into him and her intoxicating perfume swirling around him like an aphrodisiac.

“The other woman enchants her clothes with French perfume.”

He paid for a lap dance that very night and let her help him escape in the private room under glaring, neon pink lights. Running his hands over every inch of her beautiful body as scraped her long nails against his skin and moved sensually across him. That night sealed their fate, and it didn’t take much convincing to let him take her home to Tannyhill. Making out in the back of Topper’s truck while him and Kelce smirked as they watched through the rear-view mirror. Praising their friend and promising to seal their lips when they were dropped off. That night y/n and Rafe brought their bodies and souls together, all night long. Sweat sticking them together as her inner thighs dripped with their mixed arousal. Their lips not leaving any inch of each other‘s bodies undiscovered. He marked her that night with his possession and allowed her to rake her nails down his strong back, calculating in his mind how he’d hide it from Sofia.

After that night any thought of another woman aside from the one under him was gone, his girlfriend included. The unsaid energy bringing their souls together as if they were lovers destined to meet. He licked and snorted lines off her body as he rubbed the powdery substance against her gums. Pouring champagne on her as he licked it up and let it soak his sheets right next to her arousal. She was like an added substance he was quickly growing addicted to and he knew this was an addiction that would never end. He took her apart over the balcony under the stars of the night sky as she whined and whimpered into the warm air. He was king and she would be queen.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

Now months later their affair is still going strong, he more often than not finds himself entangled in her at her penthouse he put her into. Vowing to move her into his mansion next. He’s yet find a way to end things with Sofia, he knows y/n is the one he wants to settle with. He wants everything with her. Aside from the passion that connects them physically it’s the understanding of their minds that really links them together. She understands him, she loves him in all his dark glory. Allowing him to be himself without feeling the need to try and fix him. Her understands her, in all her shady grandeur. They’re just as fucked up as one another; she’s not ashamed of who he truly is. She doesn’t keep him from changing either, she grows alongside him as the learn to love one another beautifully.

Rafe tells her about his dad, the pogues, even the yearning he has to reconcile with his sister. He cries to her and lets her hold him as he sobs into her naked chest, feeling her kiss his tears away. She always whispers soft, ‘let it out, baby. it’s okay, I’m here.’ Consoling him with gentle caresses and kisses. He feels guilt, guilt for keeping her in the shadows of secrecy. Yet, he’s not ready for the universe they’ve built for themselves to come to an end. He doesn’t want to share her with the world, he’s selfish and wants her all to himself. He keeps her locked away in the luxurious penthouse he’s granted her and has even taken her out of the club by providing for her. She’s his hidden gem, he knows it hurts her. It hurts him too.

He finds it difficult to end things with Sofia. Her softness and kindness to him never forgotten. He’s still fond of the girl who was there for him when no one else was. Who listened to him cry and his grieving words as he spread his father’s ashes into the ocean. Sofia is familiar, she’s routine. She’s comfortable in a different way and he doesn’t want to let it go. He knows he deeply adores y/n, he loves her with every fiber of his being. But he loved Sofia first, she’ll always have a place in his heart for the kindness and love she granted him when he needed it most. That’s why he leaves y/n every morning to go back to her. He knows it’s cowardly; he knows it’s completely selfish. He can see the tears falling from her closed eyes as she pretends to be asleep while he softly walks around the bedroom as to not wake her when he leaves in the mornings. He always knows she’s awake. Especially when he presses a kiss to her forehead as he softly strokes her hair. Promising with a whisper to her skin that he’ll be back and that he loves her. He’ll always go back for her, he’ll always go back to her.

When he greets Sofia, she looks at him with those pretty doe eyes that are so different yet just as beautiful as the ones he’s grown accustomed to love. Natural lashes in comparison to y/n’s pretty extensions he pays for. They’re both so beautiful, yet so different to him. Especially in the way they hold his gaze. When he kisses Sofia it’s not quite as intoxicating, yet he likes it nonetheless. Her scent not as addictive but he still finds himself burying his nose into her neck as he hugs her. While Sofia is all earthly beauty, y/n is pure glamour. Sofia is soft, meek, not a touch of makeup kisses her pretty face. Whereas y/n is more resilient, durable and she has to be in the line of work she succumbed to. With the way of life she lived. Her gorgeous face accentuated by flawlessly done makeup. He doesn’t think she needs it, but he loves it nonetheless. Sofia’s nails are always blunt and rarely polished, y/n’s nails always have a nicely perfected manicure. Sofia loves sandals and sneakers, y/n loves wedges and heels. Sofia’s lips always moisturized with chapstick, y/n lips always glimmering with gloss. He likes how different they are from their personalities to their styles. They’re like day and night. Polar opposites so beautiful in their own right. He’s a selfish, selfish man. He knows one day he’ll have to choose, but for now….he holds both hearts in the palm of his hand. Only one of them is feeling the stabbing pain of abandonment and pining the other has the pleasure of not being subjected too. He knows it, yet he can’t help it. Sofia is pure routine, y/n is his passion. Being with her is like being inebriated. Like an adrenaline rush he always craves, that he loves. He lives for it.

“And when her old man comes to call

He finds her waiting like a lonesome queen.

‘Cause to be by her side

It's such a change from old routine.”

Y/n waits, she always will. She knows he’ll be back. She’s begged him to stay, but he never does. Just a quick promise of his awaited return as his fully clothed body steps to her naked one which is kneeling in the satin sheets. A representation of the vulnerability she’s subjected herself to just for his approval. Her long lashes clumped with tears as her chin wobbles. He thinks she looks so beautiful like this; the dark part of him liking the way she longs and whines for him. He always gives her chin a quick pinch as he pulls away from their kiss and steps out of the bedroom. Y/n always falls back into the sheets as the tears that watered in her lash line fall down her smooth cheeks. Listening to his footsteps farthering and ultimately the front door closing shut as he leaves her once more.

She knows why, she knows what she is. A secret, a mistress. His side girl. She can’t help it; the desire she has for him overcoming her self worth and respect for his girlfriend. She feels the grief that fills her body every time he leaves, only to disappear every time he returns. She can’t bring herself to end it. Can’t bring herself to leave him alone, or give him an ultimatum that it’s me or her. She knows it’s pathetic, yet she can’t bring that thought to overcome the undying love she’s developed for him. So she does as he wants, she waits for him. She always will. When her body lays back down, and she’s sure he’s gone. Only then is when she lets the overwhelming hurt leave her body in sobs of pure anguish as she lets sleep overtake her body. Succumbing to the fatigue of a heart that is continually broken.

“The other woman will always cry herself to sleep

The other woman will never have his love to keep.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

a/n: was feeling angsty tn ugh. i hope you all enjoy, pls let me know your thoughts! muah!

© 2024 | rafesplaymate

[strawbunni-shortcake]

SPF46 (Increased Sensitivity) | Rosquez | 4.4k | read on AO3

Another late prompt fill for RPF Summer Camp! This time it's week three's sunburn and week four's size kink. Thank you so much to all the lovely people who helped me write this thing, I couldn't have done it without you! This fic also features a brief mention of muffing, which if you've never heard about before then I suggest checking out Fucking Trans Women by Mira Bellwether, it's an awesome zine by a trans woman for trans women and the people they fuck.

Vale hisses as Marc gently touches the hot red skin that stretches up her back and across her shoulders. She prays that he doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t want to sit through another lecture about her health when she can feel a headache from the sun forming behind her eyes.

It’s just that she’s still not used to burning instead of tanning. Despite it definitely being on the list of side effects her doctor had told her about when she started taking the new medication, and Marc telling her again when he read over the little pamphlet she had immediately thrown in the trash. At the time, she had told him it didn’t matter to her and that having to get a spray tan instead of lying on a beach for a few days every two months was a small sacrifice in comparison.

Increased sensitivity was a mild way of putting it. 

She had been excited to spend the afternoon lying around, showing off how well she filled out the cups of the bikini she had bought last summer. Vale had put on some of the stuff they had boxes of lying around because of Marc’s sponsorship in the morning. Then she had forgotten about reapplying it somewhere between convincing Marc that he should come and do his post-workout stretches outside and joining him to cool off in the pool. 

Marc had noticed that she had started to burn before she did when the hand he was using to hold her against him in the water left behind bloodless white marks on her skin. 

Vale almost regrets it. Knows she definitely will the next morning when everything is thigh and peeling. But the smooth slide of Marc’s big hands against her back as he rubs aloe onto her sun-burnt skin is a nice consolation prize. 

She’s facing away from him, his naked thigh bracketing her’s as he works methodically at applying the gel all over her back. Vale can feel the water slowly soaking into the couch cushions from her shorts. They’re clinging to her and she can see as much as feel herself become blood-flushed as Marc’s hands skim over her ribs. 

“All done.” 

Marc shifts like he’s going to stand up, and she considers making a joke about how he’s leaving her in the wet spot. But Vale doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want Marc to leave her alone while she’s as hard as she gets these days.

“I think you missed a spot.” 

Vale lifts her hair to bare the back of her neck. Her curls are thick between her fingers like she’s 20 years younger. She hopes he understands what she wants without making her ask. Will know just from the sight of the thin ties that hold her top and how they beg to be undone. 

“I don’t see anything.” His voice is light and indulgent, and the smile in his voice is audible.

Marc drags a single calloused fingertip down her spine, pulling back when he snags against the knotted ties holding her top on. It pulls a low hissing breath from her, the sudden shock of sensation along her back walking the knife's edge between sensual and painful. 

“Maybe here?” He places his hand low on her belly, his crooked pinkie dipping low enough to brush the waistband of her board shorts. “Or is it higher?”

Vale gasps before he even touches her anticipating the aching almost overwhelming feeling of having her tits played with. She arches her back a little, pushing her chest up, putting herself on display. Vale worked hard for her tits and she wants them to be appreciated. It’s almost a disappointment when Marc stops at the last moment, letting his hands rest on her ribs, his fingers framing her chest instead. 

“Higher,” it comes out strangled, a different kind of high-pitched.

Marc leans in close enough that she can feel his breath against the aloe drying on her neck. It sends a shiver across Vale’s skin, and if he moved his fingers a few centimetres up he could feel how her nipples were pebbled under the half-damp fabric of her bikini. Marc being so close but not touching her prickles at the place in Vale’s brain that tells her when she’s being stalked on track or watched by a camera lens just outside her field of vision, almost a physical presence within her. 

“This high?” His hands are on her shoulders, pulling Vale close against his chest, “or maybe here?” 

Marc’s big mouth is gentle against the pink skin as he trails kisses up her neck, nipping at her ear before pulling back again. It’s not what she wants, and he knows it. He is playing with her. It’s a new game, one they never played the first time around. 

Vale still isn’t used to letting Marc decide, giving up control. She had spent so much of her life with an iron grip on everything and everyone around her, not able to trust herself with what she wanted. Knowing that she can trust Marc with herself and putting it into practice still feels very different. Learning how both of them have changed during the time in between then and now, even when sometimes it feels like they’ve never been apart, it’s still an adjustment. 

The game Marc wants to play might be new, but Vale is a quick study when it comes to getting what she wants.

“Ahh! Please, Marc,” She whines.

Voice training is a wonderful thing that she mainly uses for imitating the squeaky needy tone girls’ use in porn that makes them sound like pathetic and horny birds left out in the rain. Marc hides his in her neck as he snickers, and maybe she is laying it on a bit thick. 

“Please, please, daddy I-”

He’s laughing properly now. Cackling with his whole body so that Vale can feel it shake through both of them. Both of them remembering how she had reacted the first time Marc had tried out that title in bed without warning that she refuses to let him forget.

“Stop,” Marc struggles to breathe through the laughter, “Stop, okay. I said I was sorry.”

Vale can still feel him smiling against her neck, and she tips her head back against him so he can see the self-satisfied grin on her face in response. 

Marc rolls his eyes at Vale, “You’re awful,” He tells her, but he’s finally starting to move towards what she wants. 

Marc keeps his hands soft as he finally gets his hands on her tits. Vale thinks he’s still a little bit scared from the first time he had touched budding tits and how she had screamed when he sucked a nipple into his mouth as forcefully as she used to do to him. She’s still more sensitive now. Even as the growing pains receded the new found connection between her tits and her clit remained. 

Cupping her from below as he thumbs her nipples through her bikini top. Vale puts her hands over his as she pushes her chest up into his hands, letting him know that he can touch her properly. Marc responds with a pinch that makes Vale gasp from the pain and her clit twitch in her shorts. She fumbles for the ties of her top, wanting to feel his hands on her skin properly. 

It takes a bit of work. Now that he's got his hands on her, Marc is reluctant to let go of her again, but Vale manages to undo the bow at the back of her neck by herself. 

As soon as the cups of her bathing suit fall, Marc’s hands are on her again, his calloused fingers work over her nipples as he resumes mouthing at her neck in a way Vale knows will leave her with another set of marks to worry about tomorrow. Finally free of her top Vale sighs, letting herself lean back into Marc’s chest, and immediately regrets it. The burn on her back prickles sharply at the contact, and leaves her gasping in a very different kind of pain.

Marc lets go of her immediately, hands hovering over her breasts, awkwardly worried that he was the source of the pain. Vale probably isn’t helping as she’s curled forward with her shoulders up around her ears. The feeling of the tacky aloe sticking their skin together before being pulled apart is one she never wants to experience again. It had burned like salt in an open wound.

“It’s fine,” Even though it’s not. Marc’s worry feels like a physical force as he hovers, hypocrite.

“We can stop, and-”

There’s nothing she wants less than to stop. Instead, Vale crawls a little up the couch, pulling the tie at her back undone as she goes before flopping down. 

She has to bite back a hiss. The weave of the fabric feels rough against the tender skin on her back, but it’s not the same hot shock of Marc’s chest against her sunburn, and it settles quickly into something dull and manageable. It helps that Marc is quick to follow her, kissing his way back up to her tits to soothe her pain. 

Any lingering ache from her sunburn quickly disappears under his mouth as he licks a hot stripe across one nipple before switching to the other. His fingers rolling the pebbled tip before squeezing gently. He switches again, and the warm early summer air feels frigid on her skin once his mouth leaves her.

She’s happy to lay there and let him work her over, Marc’s cock is thick and hot where it’s pressed against her a sign that he is too. 

The thrum of arousal in her veins is back, and she can feel herself react to him playing with her tits. She was already struggling with getting hard, and starting estrogen had killed any dreams of things being exactly the same as before. Her shorts are still damp enough to hide the wet patch forming, but she can feel it. How the fabric rubbing against her as Marc grinds against her hip has taken on a different, smoother quality.

She rewards him by raking her nails down his back, pulling a moan from him that she feels against her skin more than hears. Marc pays her back by sucking a hickie on her chest, nipping at the sensitive skin before he lets her pull him away and into a kiss.

When he comes, he comes happily. Biting at her bottom lip, asking for access. She opens up for him. Marc licks into her mouth, eager and a little bit sloppy with want. 

Vale is the one to break the kiss too. Leaving her own mark high on his neck in retaliation before pulling back to look at him. She rubs a thumb across his cheek, tracing the shadows under his eyes. The sun catches the glittery stars and moons painted on the butter yellow background of her nails as she does, proof that they’ve both changed in the interim.

“What are you thinking about?”

“What lies are you going to tell everyone about how you got this,” She scrapes her nail over his neck to watch him shiver.

“Maybe I’ll tell them the truth, that a cougar got her teeth into me.”

Marc dips down, swallowing her laughter with a kiss, and Vale forgets about teasing him anymore as he grinds their hips together. She wants to feel him against her without the fabric barrier between them. But when Vale tries to wiggle out of her shorts, they get stuck around her hips, refusing to move anymore.

Vale wants to whine when Marc breaks the kiss to help her. But it takes both of them struggling together to peel her shorts off. She has to briefly contort herself into a position she wouldn’t have been flexible enough to hold before Marc had cajoled her into trying his yoga routine. When Vale lifts her hips to help Marc slide them off, she feels like the half-dry aloe on her back will leave her stuck to the fabric forever. And then finally they’re off. They make a wet smack when Marc drops them to the floor.

Vale locks her ankles behind his back, pulling him in closer. Only stopping when Marc is firmly in the cradle of her thighs. It destabilizes Marc enough that it forces him to pitch forward and catch himself on one hand or crush her. They're pressed together from hip to shoulder. He’s so hot against her cooler skin, hard where she's soft now. When she coaxes him into leaning down to kiss her Vale can't help the shiver that rolls through her as Marc’s dick rubs up against her. 

He’s big, he’s always been big. Long and thick, it was the kind of dick you see in porn. Obscene and only good for making girls cry as it splits them open. She's always known Marc to be waxed clean, even his fat balls and the tight furl of his hole were hairless. He was shameless about having everything on display. 

The first time she had seen his dick Vale had mocked him for it calling it useless. Even back when she could still get hard every time, the difference between them was visible. Vale was 16 cm, perfectly average, checked against an old school ruler and then rechecked several times with all the anxiety of a teenager worried about measuring up. When she had sized up Marc against her hand, wanting to see how many of her fingers it took to approximate his size, the sight of three of her fingers loosely pushed together had lingered long after she had left him well fucked and happily sleeping off his win in bed.

The thought sat within Vale all the way back home, stuck in her throat and tight in her chest. It wasn't until she was hidden away from the rest of the world with several locked doors and a few kilometers of hilly untilled land between her and the nearest person, an old race playing loudly on the tv at the end of her bed and the hair dryer plugged into the bedside outlet she let herself explore it. 

For all the noise outside the ensuite door, the sound of her breath, a little too ragged for a professional athlete, felt expansive in the relative quiet as she lay in the empty bathtub staring up at the ceiling. She hasn't brought lube, and had planned to use spit, half hoping that it might stop her prematurely. But there was already a tube perched on the edge of the tub from the last time she had jerked off in here. 

She hadn’t been fucked in years. Wouldn’t let herself be touched there if anyone was even brave enough to ask.

When Marc told her that usually he used two fingers instead of her suggested three Vale had laughed at the idea of anyone letting him fuck them with it. With three of her own fingers not thrusting just holding her open Vale had been harder than maybe she'd ever been in her life, leaking against her belly untouched like it wouldn't count if she didn't cum.

Vale had thought about how when she had fucked Marc he had been long enough that when she bottomed out the head of his dick would catch against her bellybutton and she was barely two knuckles deep, her hips has bucked instinctively. The sudden press of her crooked pinkie against the slick rim of her hole and the feeling of her body giving way to it had been enough to push her over the edge. 

Marc runs a finger along the seam of her ass jolting Vale back to the present. 

All he finds is just the normal dampness of skin after swimming. He still presses down, feeling how she gives way under him. Unlike Marc who stays ready and open for hours Vale needs to be opened up properly each time, and, she reminds him with a sharp squeeze of her knees against Marc's side that she wants to be fucked now . 

He tries to pull away, and she refuses to let him go.

“Vale,” Marc tries again, “Amor meu, I’m not fucking you dry.” 

She digs in harder.

“Use this,” Vale tosses him the aloe, which had rolled out from between the couch cushions at some point and ended up next to her head.

“That's not--it's water-based.” He reasons, but she’s still not giving in.

Vale was a bit of a snob about what kind of lube they used. “Silicon or nothing,” she had told Marc when he had tried to convince her to sneak off with him for a spit-slicked quickie after a victory he hadn’t thought he could win. At 46 she was too old to compromise about her comfort, besides she loved how it felt when Marc finally fucked into her where she was soaking wet, soft and open for him.

“Here,” Vale pulled one long leg back and swung it over his shoulder and pressed her knees together so her thighs touched, “You can fuck me here.” 

“Fuck.”

Her response of “that’s the idea” gets lost as Marc leans down to kiss her, licking into her mouth with newfound desperation. Vale's legs are pressed to her chest between them in a modified mating press and she can feel Marc's cock twitch where it's pressed against the shallow valley of her ass as she moans into his mouth. Marc fumbles to get his hand between them, but there's no space. When Marc pulls away to put more aloe on his hand, Vale leaves eight neat half-moon indents on his back.

She thinks that the pain she had endured after Marc had finally convinced her to let him wax her too might actually be worth it as she feels the smooth slide of Marc's wet fingers between her hairless thighs slicking the way for his cock. It feels different from when he usually preps her. The sensation is duller, but only just. She shivers as she feels the faint press of Marc’s fingers against her balls before he retreats completely. 

“Marc, please.” Vale is bordering on desperate now. 

“I don’t know, are you ready for me?” He rubs a knuckle against her taint that has her bucking against him.

Vale’s skin is like a live wire after being played with for so long, Her tits ache with the phantom feeling of his mouth and hands. She is so wet, a little pool has formed under the head of her dick like she's already cum. And every pass of Marc’s callused hands over her skin winds her even tighter. 

“I’m ready. Please, I’m so wet.” 

Marc must agree because he’s already fisting his cock and spreading the rest of their makeshift lube over his length. His hips twitch up, trying to follow his hand when he finally lets go, and Vale can see he’s already so hard the head is a gradient of purples and reds. She's not the only one whose wants are quickly becoming needs. 

Marc drags his cock up along the back of her legs through the excess lube that the heat of her body made run down her taint and over her hole. 

Vale holds her breath as he does, feeling light headed as the head of his dick presses against her hole. Marc doesn’t linger though, too eager to fuck into where she was wet and warm for him to keep teasing her. The first press of Marc’s cock against her has him bottoming out immediately. The fat of her thighs shiny with lube provide no serious resistance and his sharp hips slam into her ass with a sharp sound that surprises them both. 

Marc’s hips stutter against her, momentarily lost in chasing the feeling while Vale chokes on a gasp.

She hadn’t expected it to feel so good. 

There’s no slight discomfort as she adjusts to Marc’s size splitting her open, but when she flexes her thighs Vale can feel his length between them, solid and holding her open in an entirely different way. Marc must realize that too, because he doesn’t waste any time pulling out just to fuck back into her.

His hands are on her hips, holding her in place while he thrusts into her. Marc is just trying to limit any additional damage to the burn developing on her back, but Vale wants more, and it spurs her on in trying to meet his thrusts halfway. 

Every time he grids against her on the down stroke Vale can feel the head of his dick against the underside of her balls teasing at the hidden ring just beneath it. She has one hand clawed onto her knees, keeping her legs together, and the other tangled in Marc’s hair. Vale is strung so tight she can’t bear to let go or she would be pushing them back in and fucking herself trying to chase the arousal pooling in her belly to its peak. 

“Vale,” Marc chants her name as he thrusts into her, his smooth rhythm starting to falter. 

It’s so good and still not enough. 

She wants to be there with him, on the knife’s edge before cumming. Instead, her arousal keeps building. Her legs are trapped at Marc’s side, robbing her of even the faint pressure of grinding against her own thighs. Vale is leaking so much, every thrust focing a little more out of her the same way Marc cums when she fucks him.

His angle changes and it punches a breathy gasp out of her as he slides alongside the length of her instead of teasing at her cunts. 

“Vale, look.” His hips are pressed flush to her ass, still twitching. Marc repeats himself again staring at where his cock is buried between her thighs. She can feel the faint tremble of his core as he tries to keep still. 

She looks. 

Then, just as quickly, looks away. 

The sight stays with her when she does, all Vale can see behind her eyes is how his cock looked next to her’s. Laid out side by side, she looks so small in comparison. Whatever wasn’t covered by her thighs was still bigger than her entire length. She decides immediately, it’s not fair that Marc knows about the parts of herself she’s hidden for so long, she had thought they disappeared.

“You're taking me so well.” 

It's a dumb line, the kind best ignored, except for how it has Vale's core tightening as she clenches down around him. The feeling of cumming without touching her clit is a full body one. Vale can feel it in her nipples still pebbled in arousal, and how she can't feel her fingers or toes. It rolls through her in waves that are becoming more familiar than not. 

The first clumsy roll of his fingers over her pulls her back. Vale is sure she's still shaking as Marc carefully strokes her foreskin over the head of her clit mostly in time with his trusts. Her nails bite into her own skin as he keeps working her oversensitive clit. They've never done this before, and she doesn't even know if she can come again. 

“Your clit,” At least he sounds just as winded as she feels, “You’re so wet Vale.”

She doesn't have a choice between Marc's cock thrusting against her while his hand is still on her dick it's too much. The first one had been unexpected, but this one he pulls from her. Vale’s back arches off the couch pushing back into Marc, she can feel her clit kicking weakly in his hand as she cums again. 

Above her, Marc curses as she tightens around him one more time before collapsing back onto the couch. Her dick pulsing in time with the aftershock completely spent as he chases his own orgasm. He only manages a handful of thrusts more before he’s cumming between her thighs. One stray shot makes it as far as her collarbone as Marc jerks himself over her until Vale’s belly is covered in his cum and the tiny amount that she had managed has disappeared completely under it. 

Vale feels exhausted when she finally lets her legs drop back to the sofa. Her knees are still hooked around Marc’s side, and her balls are trapped between her thighs, but Vale doesn’t think she’ll move ever again. 

At least until Marc immediately tries to collapse on top of her, always wanting to be as close to her as possible afterward. She shrikes and tries to shove him off of her while he laughs. 

After some begging, Vale allows the cuddling, but only if he cleans her up first. It takes a failed attempt to use her shorts, which smears the mess on her stomach around, before he finally concedes and disappears back into the house for a towel. Vale watches as Marc bends down by the pool to wet a corner of the bath towel he had found. The naked curve of his ass, the strong line of his shoulders, but her eyes keep coming back to the pink scars that ring his right arm. He returns to her with the towel triumphant, running the cool, wet cloth over her belly before drying her off again. 

It's not perfect, and they'll have to shower soon, but she finally opens her arms to him. 

It takes them a minute to get situated, but soon Marc’s head is resting on her chest as she combs her nails through his curls while he plays with her necklace, the charms a golden sun and silver 93, catching the light and throwing little pools of light across his face. 

Marc drops the necklace tracing his finger over her chest, connecting the bruises he sucked into her skin or maybe drawing track maps, she's too tired to follow. She knows it will fuck her over tonight but she could happily fall asleep here right now. 

“Vale.”

“Mmmh?” 

“I think you got burned here, too.” He taps her chest.

Vale looks down, and there’s a crisp 93 between her breasts surrounded by rosy pink skin. She groans, screwing the heel of her palm into her eyes. It's barely 24 degrees out. 

“I'm moving back to London,” She tells him, “For real this time.” 

Marc just laughs at her misery as he reaches down to get the aloe again.

[the-dork-urge]

Raphael BG3 - Beneath

Just some fluff(?) Never wrote for Raphael so cut me some slack <3

He did it for her. Only for her. Allowing these humans to speak to him as if they were equals, to sit on the same crumbling barstools, sipping the same wretched liquor. It was beneath him, all of it. Yet he endured, suppressing the vast power that burned within him, lowering himself to their pathetic level—for her.

There was a sickly comfort in watching her laugh, oblivious to the sacrifices he made just to exist in this mundane world of hers. She should never have been able to make him question his own power. He was power—he was beyond this. He was Raphael, Master of the House of Hope. A being who could reshape worlds with a thought. And yet, here he was, caging his true nature, pretending to be nothing more than a man—for her.

His heart—if you could even call it that—ached with the realization. He had fallen for a mortal. A mortal. Someone so fragile, so fleeting. And despite all his arrogance, all his wisdom, he knew this would end in ruin. She would be nothing but a crushed memory. A footnote in the vast, eternal narrative that was his existence.

When he had first seen her, she had been nothing more than a broken adventurer, drowning her sorrows in bitter drinks, clinging to strangers as if they could offer her anything but empty solace. Her eyes told a story of too many battles lost, too many nights spent chasing the impossible. And he, well, he had been prepared to swoop in and take what was left of her soul, to claim the wreckage of her spirit as his own.

He’d done it before, countless times. Countless mortals, their weaknesses so obvious, so ripe for the taking. It was almost boring. But then something happened. He hesitated. He watched her, saw how she clung to that glass like it could anchor her to a world that had long since betrayed her. It was weak. Pathetic, even. And yet… there was something about her. Something that made him pause. Why?

For the first time in centuries, he found himself unsure, questioning the hunger that usually surged within him. The hunger to claim. To consume. To take. But then, something shifted. And for the first time, he didn’t want to take. No. He wanted to keep . A mortal. He—Raphael—wanted to keep a mortal.

So now there he was, sitting across the table, smiling awfully easily as she drunkenly joked, reminisced about old friends and stories. And somehow, he didn’t get tired of hearing them. And she clung to his every word in return, telling her stories, twisting his own experiences until they became something she wanted to hear... How utterly charming. How utterly beneath him.

She clung to him. She laughed at his words, leaned a little too close. She didn’t realize how easily she had tangled herself in his presence, in the web he had spun so carefully. How she hadn’t noticed how his every gesture, every touch, every gaze was pulling her deeper into his thrall was laughable. But, in her ignorance, she was beautiful.

She still hadn’t realized who she had fallen for. Who this man, once a stranger, now was. A being whose very name carried weight in realms far beyond her comprehension. And yet, here she was, completely unaware. She was so easy to get lost in, so obliviously charming in her simplicity. It made his chest tighten with something—something he couldn’t define, and it made him hate himself just a little bit more.

He could have owned her soul, could have shattered her entire being in an instant. He could have taken her from this place, from this world, and shown her a life she could never have imagined. A life she didn’t deserve. She was nothing in comparison to him. Nothing. He was a god in a world of insects. Yet, he stayed. And that made him furious, made him question his very existence in her orbit.

"Stay," she said, her voice soft, a touch of vulnerability leaking through. "I don’t want this night to end. Stay with me." An invitation.

He should have turned her down. He should have dismissed her like he had done so many before her. But no, he had stayed. And that simple, mortal invitation made something stir deep within him. A longing—no, a demand—for something more.

"I’ll stay with you," he heard hImself say, and the words felt foreign. He didn’t say them because he wanted to. No. He said them because he could. He had made the choice, as always, to do whatever pleased him. In that moment, he realized it was the only thing he truly wanted. To be here, with her. And it disgusted him.

She led him to her room in the inn—dirty, cramped, with bedding that scratched in all the wrong places, the air thick with dust and stale candlewax. The kind of place that was a disgrace to his senses, the kind of place only the weak, the insignificant, the mortal could endure. He was far above this. He could have taken her anywhere—anywhere far grander than this pit. But here he was, standing in her tiny, pathetic little room, watching her move about, blissfully unaware of the storm that churned inside him.

Her eyes met his, and she smiled—trusting, innocent, beautiful. And it made his chest tighten again, this feeling he hated, this thing he had never experienced before. A mortal, this fragile creature, had somehow made a mockery of him.

"You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to," she said, her voice light, but it wasn’t light to him. It was a command, and it made him want to disregard her, to laugh in her face. But instead, he found himself moving toward her. What was he doing?

His hand reached out, brushing against hers. It was a simple touch, but it was everything. He wasn’t staying because he wanted to. He was staying because she had no idea what she had gotten herself into. No idea how thoroughly he was about to claim her, mind, body, and soul. It would be slow, it would be excruciating for both of them. He realized something that made him sick. He wanted her to surrender. Willingly.

[raccoonfallsharder]

okok came up with something:

do you think that when/if MCU rocket hugs someone he gets a little nervous/scared as it reminds him of Lylla and how she died?

nonnie you sent this literally two weeks ago. i’m so sorry my bandwidth has been consumed by other shit, but i am super-grateful for this ask, and i hope you are having the loveliest of lovely days.

the short answer is: i think that rocket’s reaction to touch (and therefore hugs) is ALWAYS complicated.

but when have i ever settled for the short answer?

look. the first touch rocket remembers? it caused pure, splintering, white-hot pain. agony, in every muscle and bone. then he was tossed into a cage — taught that his body was not worth respecting and that his comfort would not be cared for, from the very first moments of his sentient consciousness.

and yet. that lesson was followed so closely by a kindness: lylla’s gentle, healing touch to his wounded brow.

i think about the high evolutionary, gripping rocket’s head like it was a geode he wanted to crack open. the veneer of his tenderness, layered thin and dangerous over a threat. i think of the flicker of recognition and wariness we see in young rocket’s eyes. while i suspect most actual surgeries were performed by the recorders, i am certain rocket has been hurt by these hands before: watched them dial up the voltage on an electric shock, perhaps. felt them scruff him and drag him back to his cage when he wasn’t performing up to expectations: too many extra -esses and -istics on his words, maybe. i think rocket craved the approval of his sire right up until those final few moments on halfworld, and a kind-seeming stroke to the crown of his head had meant the world to him.

and i think that first hug meant even more. he’d snuggled with floor in their shared cage but lylla is his hero: the first one to show him a kind touch, the one who understands him best. and i think he felt her death when she was shot in his arms.

i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again: so much of a raccoon’s brain is focused on processing tactile data. approximately two-thirds of the sensory perception area in their cerebral vortexes are dedicated to interpreting touch. by comparison — and wildly oversimplified — the average human brain relies primarily on sight, which only makes up about a third to a little over half of our sensory input. hearing is next, and finally, taste/smell/touch combined makes up only a tenth of our typical sensory perception. so all of rocket’s contradicting, conflicting experiences with touch are magnified — probably beyond the scope of our imaginations.

which makes hugs complicated.

he’s so touchstarved. he wants all the hugs. he doesn’t trust or like many people enough to want to want to hug them, though — at least not before groot, and that took some time. thank god the big guy’s persistent. and yeah, sure, there’s some ptsd — some painful flashbacks, some intrusive memories the first few times he lets pete hug him, or gamora, or drax. (not mantis, though. not yet. a hug from an empath is far too dangerous.)

but more than fearing an immediate replay of his first hug or a bright painful splash of nerves when he finally embraces someone — awkwardly, with a half-hearted pat-on-the-back — i think rocket is longterm-superstitious. he’d deny it, of course. but deep down, i’m afraid our poor guy believes his touch is poison — especially after groot senior dies.

sooner or later, the people who rocket attaches himself to — they all die. he is the common denominator.

i have a lil headcanon that on xandar, after the battle with ronan and groot’s sacrifice, drax’s gentle touch to rocket’s forehead reminds him of that first touch from lylla. i think that might be terrifying for rocket. i think that’s why he tries so hard to fuck everyone over on sovereign. he wants them to stay, and he wants them to leave. he wants to push them away — for their own safety, and for his. not consciously, of course — that guy’s a mess — but he’s got this uncontrollable impulse to sabotage any real chance at any real relationship that he’s got.

and then there’s the snap.

i don’t think the average person really notices rocket’s complicated relationship with touch and hugs — he hides it well under the mask of not bein’ a touchy guy and not bein’ a frickin’ sap. but it’s afterward — after the snap, when all his friends are safely returned — that we briefly see his fear, before he manages to cover it up again.

even his friends had forgotten, perhaps — just how reticent he’d used to be, how unwilling to engage in any sort of physical affection. groot probably doesn’t even remember that time in his father’s life at all, because rocket would have pushed himself to ignore it so he could better take care of his young son. and over the course of the guardians’ shared time together, rocket would have gotten used to the occasional backslap or headpat or hug, in a sort of exposure-therapy-way. craved them, always. feared them, still. but also, been sort of inoculated against the superstitious instinctive terror.

there are no booster shots over the course of the snap though — only a seeming confirmation of his worst fears.

i suspect there’s this heartbreaking moment off-screen, sometime in the aftermath of his friends’ return. it’s probably with pete. one night, late on the flight deck: just rocket and pete and nebula, staying awake deep into the sleep-shift and drinking to gamora’s memory. talking about her, and about everyone else’s five year absence. at some point, rocket will say something unintentionally revealing, and pete will get a glimpse of just how hard these past five years were for his friend — just how much pain and loneliness he’s been swamped in. and since pete is a very tactile guy — for a human, anyway — so i’m sure he goes in for a hug.

and rocket recoils so hard that he knocks his fucking chair over, spills his drink, and falls on his ass.

because he’s that afraid of hurting his friend.

there’s a moment, and then pete laughs — says something about rocket having become clumsier over the years, or that he can’t hold his liquor anymore. maybe pete’s too drunk or self-absorbed to put it together; maybe he’s not. maybe he sees the flinch for what it is, and elects not to embarrass his bestie by pointing it out.

yeah yeah, laugh it up, rocket will say, climbing back to his feet and righting his chair, brushing the alcohol off his jumpsuit and rolling his eyes.

but nebula knows. there’ve been too many drunk confessions between them over the five years of loneliness. and after pete goes to bed, she leans across the table, and laces her fingers through rocket’s. he still visibly flinches, but he’s used to this, at least: nebula’s silent reminder that she’s still here, through everything.

it sounds grim, i know. but don’t forget — we’ve seen the future. we know there will come a time, in only a few short years, when rocket will welcome hugs from his worried friends, from his son. when he’ll very tenderly hold little raccoons in his arms, and bring them home.

and he’ll realize, at some point — perhaps beyond the arête wreckage and the dancing, when the raccoons are grown and the star children aren’t really children anymore, and phyla is leading the next mission all on her own — that his touch isn’t poison at all.

that it has saved so many things, and helped them grow.

headcanons & imagines | drax & lylla symmatry pt 1 | raccoon sensory perception | rocket’s love languages pt 2 (touch)

[ezlo-x]

NO LET’S TALK ABOUT IT BECAUSE i’m willing to come to botw defense in some cases because i feel that there’s some strong substance there but totk?! did me so dirty, i must be truthful. did me so dirty and left a lame smell behind it.

botw:

zelda characterization is actually something i love about this game; while she isn’t always the strongest/most depthful persona, the fact that her lack of agency and empowerment in that story is actually focused on as the central struggle is a great way to have the typical damsel-in-distress formula while not compromising the characterization of a main character. link’s memories of zelda are the sharpest evidence we get into how hyrule suffered from the calamity, both before and after it passed—we only learn about how hyrule has suffered in the scars of the calamity and the echoes of a dead kingdom, but zelda’s cutscenes turn that suffering into a personification. zelda’s struggle with unlocking her power was relatable, touching, and substantial, and the way the memories end up culminating to her sacrifice makes for an excellent and heavy-feeling conflict. her character is central to botw, and i only wish that they had characterized her much further, so that she had more of an arc in the past, and so that the time we see her would be more valuable.

mipha was done DIRTY. princess of a realm, successor to the king, skilled aquatic warrior, and pilot of a divine beast, and all we get of her is that she has feelings for link? NINTENDO. make it make sense for me, i beg of you. while there’s nothing necessarily wrong with only depicting her feelings for link, it does not really inform us to her character (because link is mostly more static and ambiguously characterized in relation to others), and fails to actually make the tragedy of her defeat feel substantial. still, the details of her character are fun, and the character traits we have of her are good material—it is such a shame that it wasn’t used properly.

urbosa is obviously is a very likeable character, and ostensibly the wisest of the champions. she’s a strong-woman in a sense, but but that characterization isn’t reductive to her persona. her role as a chieftain isn’t very thorough, but nor is daruk’s, so i wouldn’t necessarily attribute that fact to a misogynistic approach. the misogyny (and exoticism??) in the characterization of the gerudo kinda plagues every part of the story/every location that involves them (for example, how most wandering gerudo are on the search for a voe, which is an amusing gag, but not all that funny when we don’t have much else of gerudo culture, or a good sense of their society, in comparison to say, the zora. the rito don’t have it all that well either, to be fair). urbosa’s characterization as a fierce warrior and wise leader isn’t done badly, but it’s very one note, which is disappointing to say the least.

i have conflicting feelings on riju. she’s the young ruler of the gerudo, but it feels as though there’s not much else to her. the moments where her youth shines through (like the stuffed animals in her room, and the fact that the lightning helmet is too big for her) are very endearing, but we don’t really get a sense of how she struggles as a leader, or of how her history informs her person. she’s gerudo, and a later successor to urbosa, so she also exemplifies the same strong and wise traits, which isn’t a very honorable persona to the facts of her character. it is a shame that riju isn’t given as much depth as her character implies, especially when the timeline of the gerudo desert/vah naboris quest is so strong, and when it seems like she has so much potential substance that goes unrealized for the rest of the game.

impa plays the village sage, and is very fun in that role, but there isn’t much more to her than relaying the story of the calamity and offering short comments to things memory or sheikah related

of course, there are other female characters in botw, but none of them star (or enjoy cutscenes) like everyone mentioned above.

totk:

the characterization of zelda in this game is just… ruinous. calamitous, if you will. that person you met in the last game is dead and gone, and the zelda in her stead is heartbreakingly inactive in this story.her sacrifice to bring the mastersword to the present was so strong, and while i hate that it’s essentially a repeat of the damsel-in-distress setup from the last game, it’s technically a different type of conflict, one which i normally imagine wold set her up to take an active character role, but she is so very upsettingly passive in this story, just constantly in the backseat. not a single action of hers (apart from the eating-the-secret-stone bit) impacts the events of the past, which wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t have the power/knowledge to do so, but she does! her knowledge of the calamity, of the cave paintings, of the incident that brought her to the past are all pieces of information that should have impacted the events of the past! and the fact that they don’t is more than mischaracterization, it’s just a gaping plot convenience. it’s already dismaying to see her characterization from the last game discarded, but the fact that she isn’t recharacterized anywhere near to the same depth or complexity as the last game is just. a source of apathy, as a zelda fan. the events of the past do not expand on her much at all, but nor do they expand much on ruaru or ganondorf or sonia, nor anything related to the zonai, which is kind of a recurring thing in this game.

sonia was fridged, one and done. kind and caring mother character killed off for an emotional payoff. in almost every cutscene of sonia, she is consoling or caring for zelda, so that when ganondorf kills her, the moment carries emotional weight. her only role in the story is to be a tragic loss, and not in any poetic way, but in the storytelling 101 way. she’s quite depthless, and while her persona and design are quite likable, her characterization is undoubtedly poor.

mineru… doesn’t get enough time in the story. every aspect of her character is defined in relation to the conflict with ganondorf (besides being smart/techy), which is a conflict she doesn’t really have any personal stake in, besides her relation to ruaru. this wouldn’t really be a problem if we were given any insight into the relationship between the two of them, but we aren’t given much of anything. at all. so the fact that she’s a zonai and ruaru’s sister is doing a lot of the heavy lifting to sustain our belief in her personal investment and motivation in this conflict, which simply doesn’t make for a good story. her cutscenes outside of the past really isn’t all that different to the other sages, and the sages are so characterless that they don’t even have names.

purah being redesigned the way she is feels like… a choice by the developers. she has about as much of an active role in the story as impa did in the last game, so her actual characterization isn’t necessarily all that important, since she doesn’t feature much. nevertheless, it leaves a bad taste in the mouth that the essential leader of the effort to redevelop hyrule is given less characterization/character conflict than many npcs in that same location, not to mention in the whole game. the fact that she’s redesigned to be older and… modelesque feels less like a development of her character and more of like a cheap ploy by the developers to put a baddie on the opening of the game to appeal to the demographics of gaming who have, well, a typically misogynistic view of women (and their roles in stories), to say the least of it.

i haven’t actually finished totk and i haven’t seen riju’s arc firsthand, so i don’t know enough about her new character to reflect on it.

i don’t know if you can tell but. i don’t like the story of this game. i’m not saying there aren’t things to like (definitely a super cool gaming experience! even just the story itself, good king ruaru defeats bad king ganondorf is a successful trope), but i feel like the story is just incoherent. characters aren’t really given reasons, motivations, or interest for acting the way they do (at least, in any way that implies that these characters are multitudinous or complex), or they’re taking reactive roles to the events of the story. the main conflict of the story is how ganondorf is threatening hyrule, but we see nothing of his motivations, nothing of how his actions impact ruaru beyond separating him from sonia (what of his kingdom? the livelihood of his subjects? the history of the zonai?), nothing of how it impacts zelda (the most we get from her is her reacting to sonia dying and her sacrifice to become the light dragon. so. three cutscenes), and nothing of how it impacts link. the events of the present are entirely disconnected from the conflict of the past, and it doesn’t do justice by a single one of its characters.

i should have probably just made this my own post, it’s waaaay too long, but i had to. let it out.

yknow in animal crossing when you're fishing and you catch a big fish like a whale and one of the quotes says "THAR SHE BLOWS!!" feeling like I caught a big fish rn. This has to be one of my longest asks I've gotten!!

I REALLY DONT GOT MUCH TO SAY CAUSE YOU HAVE SAID IT ALL except for the TotK Riju part! If I recall correctly her arc is that she wants to master her skill in summoning lightning, after that she kinda plays as Urbosa 2 or the "wise one" of the group. Someone can correct me abt that but she pretty much gave me those vibes, but I can't really go off w botw cause we really don't know much abt her personality wise! So in TotK she's grown...and that's pretty much it

[backjustforberena]

Hi! It's me again (⁠◕⁠ᴗ⁠◕⁠✿⁠)

Has anyone asked you about "the poetry of her first shots in Harrenhal vs THIS"? Cause I will.

And just gonna include the screenshot of your tags because fucking hell, they need to be immortalized or something.

So, this has been languishing in my inbox for a good while because I really wanted to just sit and think but then also type it out on my laptop as opposed to doing it on my mobile. It's very specific that these are the shots that I picked to compare and that I personally find the most poetic: the moment when she receives the news that she will not be Queen and the moment where she knows she's turning back to fight against Vhagar, rather than fleeing.

I like those shots, as opposed to either the first or last we see of them in those scenes or sequences. The two close-ups of her where all we have to do is look in her eyes as the path in front of her becomes clear - for better or worse. Because I think they work best at contrasting with one another and truly demonstrating Rhaenys's arc and Rhaenys's fight, and her interaction with the broader theme of women under the patriarchal system of Westeros that the show likes to propagate.

Now, when I'm comparing things like this, my mind instinctively goes to parallels, opposites and really simple, bullet points of just what it makes me think of. I'll do that for this, and give a brief explanation on some of them and hopefully that's something you'll find interesting. A lot are going to be very similar to one another and it all comes together.

Life Sentence vs Death Sentence = both are sacrificial.

Both of these events in Rhaenys's life are monumental. They are moments of no return. What Rhaenys receives at Harrenhal is a life sentence to be something discarded. She will never be Queen and that isn't a fleeting fact or momentary experience. It's something that not only will she always have to live with but also something that changes how she lives: The Queen Who Never Was.

She makes choices based on the fact that she was not chosen as Queen and the Great Council creates wounds and walls and a distance to her paternal house that is, for the most part, never repaired. She was kept at a distance, she wore blue, she played the part. She is sentenced to be that sacrifice in order to keep the peace. Because discarding her meant peace and her inaction also meant peace. We can debate on how much was her choice - the verdict wasn't but how she conducted herself afterwards was, even if her choices were limited. She chose life within the moment of death: she chose survival at the cost of her dream.

The choice to go against Vhagar is also a sentence. It's a crucible moment. But, by and large, it's a death sentence - there's a limited chance of survival for her and Rhaenys knows that. She sacrifices herself for the realm once again. She turns around because she is giving everything she's got into taking down Aemond. She fights for a future. She chooses the dream at the cost of her survival.

I think there's also something in the heaviness and weight of that life sentence vs what her death ultimately comes to mean and feel like for her, which is light and peace. To go from one extreme to another is a heck of a life and a heck of a journey.

Surrender vs Fight

This is a pretty easy comparison to grasp. As touched on above, Harrenhal is a moment of surrender. Whereas Rook's Rest is literally a battle and she's choosing the battle. She's choosing the fight and she's choosing not to surrender this time. Not just in terms of the opportunity for war, but not surrendering to the idea of a woman sitting on the Iron Throne and the belief that she has that it not only will come to pass but should come to pass.

I love that we have this visual difference of her in her Targaryen colours but one is her dress and her ornate look that's regal and serene. She's frozen, she's a figure. And then we have her last look which is also in Targaryen colours but it's armour. She's a fighter. You can't ignore her. There's no turning away and no backing down this time.. It's like she's found something in herself.

Passive vs Active

One of the things that I love about Rhaenys's arc is we go from passive to active. We go from her at arm's length to being totally essential and totally central. We go from this shrewd, careful tightrope that she was toeing throughout Season 1 to someone who is running a lot of the show on Dragonstone and who is very clear in her allegiances. To go through what she did on Harrenhal was to be passive and she continued to be passive for a long time. She continued to choose the sidelines.

Going against Vhagar, and for that to be her own choice, on top of the fact that it was her choice to go to Rook's Rest in the first place, is massive for a woman who, when we first met her, felt constricted by the society around her, and condemned, and unworthy. A woman who would rather swallow her pride than draw attention, for fear of consequence; someone who is an overt player of the political game. This is the most consequential act - the biggest statement that she can make (fighting for her kin, defending a castle, doing the right thing as she sees it, honouring what is in her heart etc etc), and she does it, and she does it without fear and knowing the consequences.

And so this links again with surrendering to the patriarchal judgement or fighting against it. And it's about more than that, it's about Rhaenys actually being able to act or feeling able to act. Having that ability to choose for herself.

Imprisonment vs Freedom (also dark vs light)

In Episode 09 of Season 1, we have the metaphor of prisons with windows and the idea of freedom. This is a part of, be it small or large, all of the female characters' lives. It's present in Rhaenys. She's been ignored, abandoned, imprisoned, overlooked, sidelined, rejected. She's gone along with and promoted the system that denied her because that was the order of things. And to try and go against that, to her, was to only lead to pain and failure. That's what she was taught by Harrenhal. That was the lasting lesson. She was imprisoned and so a lot of her journey is finding her way to a place where she can be free, can exercise freedom and have freedom and just... be enlightened. See the possibilities and fight for it.

Dragons are associated with freedom. And that's so keenly the case with Meleys, who, of course, was Rhaenys's original ticket to freedom in Episode 09. Claiming her and escaping her was of paramount importance: she was literal freedom and it signalled an independence that Rhaenys possesses, in contrast to Alicent at that point.

The dark vs light is a big visual one and, honestly, it's the one that I keep coming back to when I just look at the shots. With these two shots, we have Rhaenys stuck, powerless, in a dark castle, reduced by the men around her, to being on dragonback, with the right cause, and the ability to do something about it.

We have her on the ground vs in the air. The cage of the man-made world around her (the castle, the court, the Great Council) to the freedom of the open air and a choice before her.

To be "in the light", to be "enlightened", to be "above" or "flying free" or to be anywhere within the realm of that type of terminology is gorgeous when we compare it to the frustrated and painful position she was forced into in Episode 01. To me, it's beautiful. And it's also spiritual.

Against Instinct vs Going With Her Heart

In the first shot, Rhaenys is going against everything she wants to do. We know, from Eve Best in BTS interviews, that Rhaenys's ultimate wish when hearing that verdict was to get on her dragon, burst through the ceiling and say "f*** you all". What we have in Harrenhal is, firstly, something going against Rhaenys's potential (her birthright to become a Queen), but also going against her instinct (she doesn't grab her dragon and tell them all to hang themselves), going against any sense of reaction (she remains composed, she doesn't storm off, she just takes it even though it's devastating). It's an alienating situation and she CANNOT, from its construction, do what she wants to do or change events. She can't fight the injustice, can't alter the verdict.

Comparing that to Rook's Rest, she's going with her heart. She's not indulging in her most violent impulses: it's not out of revenge or out of anger. It's instead, just what she feels she needs to do. And she's able to do it. It's about her honour. It's feeling something in her gut and being able to act on it. And there's no pressure, no audience, no force either way.

Rhaenys does what she believes should be done, this time. To change the outcome. To seek to rectify the mistake: the problem started with her. She goes back in because, for once, it's simple.

Also, to tie in with the previous point: Harrenhal being something that locked away a part of her. And Rook's Rest being something that used that part of her. Whether that's just her skill or grace or Targaryen-ness or the clarity of thought, or what, you can decide on that yourself. But it's there.

The idea of a "Queen Who Never Was"

Another part of Rhaenys's character that is with us from when we meet her to after her death is the moniker of "The Queen Who Never Was", and the legacy of that and the meaning of it. Its origins are the first shot: it comes from the Great Council, from Harrenhal. It's shameful and dangerous and it's used against her and it angers her: it's a mockery - it's hammering home her rejection, what she will never be, what she wasn't good enough to be (They denied you, Princess Rhaenys. “The Queen Who Never Was.”) and with her Targaryen colours, again, and the disappointment on her face, that is the first embodiment of that.

But it is not the last. THIS is the last. This is Rhaenys as "The Queen Who Never Was". The woman wearing red armour, aboard her dragon, fighting as hard as she could and taking on the largest dragon in Westeros with no fear, after she could have fled. An honourable, strong and courageous woman.

The woman in Harrenhal is not her legacy. The woman on dragonback is. This is the Rhaenys that Baela speaks of when she talks of "The Queen Who Never was" (She was a Targaryen princess. “The Queen Who Never Was.” And she flew to Rook’s Rest of her own will. In defence of her kin).

This is the woman that Corlys had carved - for she wears her armour on the ship that has her name, not her dress. The crown is not there as something she is never allowed to wear. She holds it tight, protectively, to her chest.

With this act, Rhaenys rewrote her story. With it, she lived up to her true potential and her nature. She showed her mettle. It became about what she should have been, and the qualities that would have made her a good Queen, rather than about what she never got to be, and the rejection they dealt her.

[eta-volantis]

So after sitting with the story a bit, my biggest criticism for 1.7 would be that the story should have fully focused on Hugo's story instead of Vivian's.

(fully reasoning with SPOILERS under the cut)

1.6 heavily centres on Hugo and Lycaon. He is directly related to Hartman and the main plot, as well as the people we suspect to be the main villains we will be facing (Edmund, for example). The introduction of Dina feels really out of nowhere to me and she feels really weak imo. There isn't really enough set up for Vivian for me to warrant her taking over the ending from the characters that has been the star of the patch (Hugo and Lycaon). Imo, instead of Dina, it should be Sarah who has a hand in this and Hartman being the final boss or facilitated the final boss. While seeing Hugo destroying Hartman and the Ravenlock family was satisfying, it was also a good motivation for Hartman to lose his shit and go all out since he lost everything. It will also be a nice touch for Hugo to face the person he could have become (Hartman) to end the expansion with, especially with the contrast of the 1.6 where HE was the 'villain' at the end.

Dina fell really flat like for the first time, I was annoyed with a char and was rushing through her dialogue. I haven't done that with anyone so far from the beginning. Like even Hartman is more interesting to me considering how well they set up the Ravenlock family and how people can be shaped by their environment. And like, I'm very weak when the character is close to their dad and not to mention, lost their father, but I felt NOTHING with Dina and that's wild. Especially after we had Lycaon and Hugo in 1.6 where the arguments are nuanced, mature, and full of emotion. Dina felt so one dimensional in comparison and it really brings down Vivian's story. Her story makes a lot of sense for her. A religious group would immediately grab a girl that can see the future off the streets and exploit her. But the execution feels super one dimensional and flat. I feel like Vivian should have had her own agent story where we can really dive into her struggles and story while the MSQ should be focused on Hugo and the Ravenlocks. We don't even have to meet Sarah, just getting a whiff that she is involved as a segue into 2.x rather than have an NPC who just dies off. Dina is like Bringer lite, except Bringer's actually held weight and had lots of build up. I think Hartman waking up a sacrifice he managed to salvage to go fuck off at the city and we have to fight it, and Phaeton getting in the crossfire hence why the premonition would be a better ending imo.

[theladyofbloodshed]

Chapter 23

(Previous chapter ended on the cliff-hanger of Feyre and Nesta being ambushed in the library - Sorry for the super long wait)

Her skirts tangled with her legs as Nesta tried to match Feyre’s speed. Only their heavy breaths broke the silence in the bowel of the library.

‘Faster,’ Feyre commanded.

Nesta couldn’t. Her stomach cramped and her legs were already burning as they barrelled towards the pit in the library.

Feyre’s fingers gripped her arm then, from the inky gloom, two males stepped forwards. One dark-haired, one light. Both in grey jackets embroidered with bone-white thread and a crest of a far away kingdom over their heart. How were they here?

Something was blown towards her. She flinched from it to no avail. A cold slithered through her body, magic nullified. Beside her, Feyre spluttered and coughed from the dust. Nesta just kept gripping onto her sister’s arm in turn. Feyre would have a plan. Her High Lord would come. Somebody would help them.

‘So easy to get into their minds once our master let us through the wards,’ said the dark-haired one. ‘To make them think we were scholars. We’d planned to come for you… but it seems you found us first.’

Their words were not meant for Feyre, but for her. Nesta forced herself to stand her ground even though these were males of unfathomable age with powers that would not touch the surface of her own.

‘Who are you?’

The white-haired one smiled broadly on his approach. ‘We are the king’s Ravens. His far-flying eyes and talons. And we’ve come to take you back.’

This was her fault. All her fault. For meddling with the Cauldron and not going down quietly. Her eyes took in the blades at their side, the muscles of their broad bodies. She held Feyre’s hand tighter, breaths coming quicker. This could be the end, she thought.

The end and there is so much that I haven’t done.

‘You’re not taking her anywhere,’ her sister declared. She pulled out a knife – but it was pitiful in comparison to their swords. But she knew her sister and Feyre would fight to the end.

‘You are an unexpected prize too. But your sister…’ A smile showed off too-white teeth. ‘You took something from that Cauldron, girl. The king wants it back.’

Nesta did the calculation quickly. Two of them. Four blades. Magic. Her sister who’d be all in because that was who Feyre was. She couldn’t take another sacrifice. Not for her.

‘If he wants what I took, he can come get it himself,’ she sneered.

‘He’s too busy to bother,’ one male purred, taking a step closer.

Nesta rolled her eyes, feigning disinterest. ‘Apparently you’re not’

Feyre squeezed her fingers. They exchanged a sliver of a glance. And suddenly they were children again. Children about to be in big trouble because they’d climbed out of the window when a travelling fair had been in the town after father strictly forbade any of the servants to take them. He’d gone elsewhere and mother was preoccupied. His carriage rolled down the driveway as evening settled in – and Nesta and Feyre knew he’d make it home before them. They’d squeezed hands then. Squeezed hands and ran like the wind around the back of the house, tummies full of sugary food from the fair, through a window and up the servant’s staircase.

‘You made a grave mistake coming here. To my house.’ They sniggered at Feyre’s words. ‘And I hope it rips you into bloody ribbons.’

Her heart lurched as Feyre broke the hold and span. Nesta followed just as swiftly, feet pounding on the ground as they ran downwards, down to the eternal blackness of the pit at the heart of the library. And into the arms of whatever lurked inside.

The males’ voices were drowned out as they ran. The smell turned musty and damp, the air thickening as they delved deeper. They would run and run, buying as much time as they could. Somebody would come for them. Azriel would come for them.

‘Don’t stop,’ Feyre urged, as the lights around them flickered out.

A high-pitched scratching sounded like talons on stone. One of the Ravens crooned, ‘Do you know what happened to them – the queens?’

‘Keep going,’ Feyre panted even as Nesta stumbled.

‘Do you want to know what happened to those queens? The youngest one practically trampled the others to get in. But the Cauldron… Oh, it knew that something had been taken from it. It was furious. When that queen went in, it took what she valued most – her youth.’

Nesta staggered again, unable to manage against her heavy skirts in the blackness. It was only Feyre’s firm hand towing her along that kept her up. Her lungs were ready to burst, breaths ragged and sawing at her lungs.

‘The other queens refuse to enter out of terror. And the youngest one. Oh, if you could hear how she talks, Nesta Archeron. The things she wants to do to you when Hybern is done.’

How deep could they go? Their bodies were spending easier than the males who followed behind, bored of the chase.

‘Run toward the light,’ Feyre said.

A faint trickle was far away and high up.

‘I’ll hold them off.’

‘No.’

‘Run,’ she breathed, squeezing Nesta’s fingers so hard they’d be turning white. ‘Please. Nesta, please.’

***

Azriel had not breathed since the afternoon. When word came that he was to guard Elain, to give his life if needed, the alarm bells had began ringing. They hadn’t stopped since. He’d almost vomited when Rhys shared Cassian’s memories with them all. Nesta running into his arms, the bone-white face, the sheer terror emanating from her. Feyre curled in a ball while Bryaxis feasted on Hybern’s Ravens.

When they reconvened, Azriel tamped down on every instinct that demanded he surge across the room and haul Nesta into his arms. It was hard. The hardest thing he’d ever done. Nobody else seemed to notice that her hands still shook hours later or that her eyes frequently slid out of focus. On his orders, Nuala brought in tea and biscuits and he’d urged the wraith to thrust it into Nesta’s hands because she was too vacant to reach for it otherwise.

The only time Nesta seemed lucid was when Elain spoke. She was a seer. Azriel had suspected it for a while; her strange garbling only making sense with hindsight. They needed to get ahead – to understand her words before they came to fruition. To avoid situations like that again. Each time he closed his eyes, he could only see Nesta running for her life.

He toed the line. Followed the rules. When Rhys sent him off with Lucien to prepare the male for his trip to the Continent, Azriel squeezed his nails into the fleshy part of his palms leaving little crescents in their wake.

Once the night settled in, he knew he should return to duties. Despite the breach by Hybern, his spies still had threads to tug on elsewhere. Responsibility should have prevailed.

But Azriel would be damned if he put orders over his mate’s wellbeing.  

His knuckles were too loud, too desperate against the door.

It took only moments for the door to open. Shadows were smeared beneath Nesta’s eyes as she stared at him. Then she threw herself forwards. Her arms reached around his waist, knuckles grazing the base of his wings so he needed to bite down on his lip to keep from moaning at the sudden, intimate touch.

Would she understand why he hadn’t gone to her sooner? Hadn’t held her when she needed it?

Azriel lifted her a few inches off the floor to carry her over the threshold into her room. The door closed with the help of his shadows. He was torn between clinging onto her or checking Nesta from head to toe. She was fine, physically. The effects of the faebane were out of her system. Logically, she was not harmed. But there was so much more to it; so many layers to the day. Nesta had stolen from the Cauldron. It had spawned revenge not only from the Cauldron itself, the king, and a queen. It was a lot to handle. And to top it all off, Elain was a seer.

‘I wanted to go to you,’ he said. ‘Then everybody would know.’

The bond had burnt not with fire, but ice. It felt so cold that he wondered if that was how death was. A never-ending frost.

‘I know,’ she replied weakly. ‘I know.’

Her fingertips dug into his body, afraid to release him.

‘How can I help?’

Nesta swallowed. ‘I don’t know.’

The need to whisk her away from danger gnawed at his skin. He could do it. Pack a bag and the pair of them could run. Keep on running to the end of the world to keep her safe. And she’d hate him for it.

Azriel shucked off his boots then stripped down to the waist. The spring was already too warm, the heat sticking his leathers to him. He was conscious of Nesta’s eyes trailing his tattoos as if committing them to memory.

‘Come here,’ he murmured.

As one would carry the most precious goods, Azriel lifted Nesta into his arms then settled in the bed. She made no protests. The night wasn’t for bedding her. If the Mother blessed them, he’d have time to learn her body, to discover all the ways to make her moan and writhe beneath him another day. Tonight, Azriel wanted to hold her. The images from the library haunted him. Only the steady singing of her heart managed to settle the restlessness in him. He should have been there. It should have been him racing to the pit to find her, not Cassian.

It was a night that he would never forget. Azriel held his mate in his arms. Her face was tucked against his neck, his hand tracing patterns through her nightgown onto her back. He wished it could have been under different circumstances – but he’d take what he could get. Eventually, Nesta’s body grew heavier as her limbs relaxed and her breathing deepened.

There were spies waiting for him to pass on intel. A whole network that he had created through centuries of spinning threads. Azriel knew he should have gone. Should have slipped away into the night like he often did with lovers. But this was not a one-time lover, a name he’d forget, a face he’d never remember. This was Nesta Archeron – his mate – and he was not leaving her.

***

 Muffled footsteps trod past her room as the house awoke. Lucien Vanserra would be leaving that morning, an early start seized, for the Continent. Nesta didn’t know what effect it would have on Elain – whether she’d be better or regress without his nearby presence.

As for Nesta, she was still in Azriel’s arms. He had slid into a supine position, half-supported by pillows whilst still clinging to her.

It was the best sleep she had had in a long time.

His presence had been enough to chase away any nightmares about the library.

At her first movements, he was instantly alert, arms locking tight around her on an instinct. Slowly, ever so slowly, Azriel released his grip. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ she replied.

When she stepped from the bed, she adjusted her night gown, ensuring it was back in its rightful place without flashing too much skin. From the floor below, there was a slight murmur of voices as breakfast was taken.

‘Thank you,’ said Nesta, folding her fingers together over her abdomen. ‘For coming here.’

‘I wanted to come sooner. I had so many orders and-’

‘It is alright,’ she reassured him. ‘I wanted it this way.’

Perhaps. Nesta wasn’t sure. The desire for secrecy while she navigated the lure of the bond had been at her insistence, yet the idea of Azriel being there to hold her tightly in those first few moments when they returned to the town house was appealing. Far more appealing than the stiff drink that Cassian had jammed into her hands.

She gave Azriel no privacy as he pulled his clothes back on. Her eyes went to his tattoos again, trying to decipher the whorls of dark ink that wrapped around his muscles.

‘You’ll be well today?’

Nesta gave a stiff nod. ‘Now we know that I have stolen something and a whole country is hunting for me, Amren has more of guess on my powers. We’ll be working most of the day, I can imagine.’

His scarred fingers slid over his taut stomach to tighten his trousers and Nesta found herself mesmerised by the motion. She dreamed of putting her hands there, of feeling the muscles beneath.

‘Make sure to eat today,’ he said, touching her cheek. ‘Amren forgets others need to – so don’t be afraid to take a break. She’s a hard task master.’

Such a simple statement encompassed so much care. It was harder and harder to think about breaking a bond when his care underpinned it all. Away from the House of Wind, it was harder for them to speak in privacy. There were more bodies and less space in the Town House for quiet meetings.

As if picking up on her thoughts, he asked, ‘Do you need anything from the house? Have you read all eight of your books already?’

‘A couple more days,’ she said, fighting away a smile.

Again, Azriel touched her cheek as if that was all he’d let himself do while they were alone. ‘I have to go. Hope it goes well today.’

Nesta stepped closer with the urge to kiss him rising with courage – then she stopped herself. How could she encourage his hope when she was still undecided? It wasn’t fair.

‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

He slipped from the room in silence, his steps hidden by magic, then she departed not long afterwards.

The day was spent busy. Azriel hadn’t lied that Amren didn’t believe in breaks. It was only when Nesta’s stomach did not stop growling that she’d raised an eyebrow and asked if Nesta planned to do anything about it. But that didn’t mean a break. Nesta had to eat whilst reading because time was precious. The Wall was precious. She could cope with pushing through to try and protect the thousands of mortals beneath Prythian who’d suffer enormously as a result of an invasion.

At one point, Amren clutched the ruby necklace she wore, a look of concentration holding her features still.

‘Adriata,’ she said suddenly. ‘It’s under attack.’

Nesta remained in mute horror at the table as the house burst into a flurry. She saw no sign of Azriel or the high lord. There was a glimpse of Cassian surging into the sky, his massive wings leading him to Illyria. When Feyre rushed down the stairs, wearing her Illyrian leathers and strapping knives to her body, Nesta went cold. Her sister meant to go to war. Morrigan wore similar attire. Her long, blonde hair had been bound for once.

‘He’ll blame himself for not discovering Hybern’s movements last night,’ Feyre was saying in the hallway.

Mor gave a sigh. ‘Azriel always blames himself. If the intel hasn’t come quick enough, if he doesn’t exhaust himself gathering every scrap of information and examining it. He was busy on the Continent last night. He can’t do everything.’

At the mention of her mate’s name, Nesta’s stomach pulled tight. He had not been on the Continent. He had been in her room, comforting her. Azriel had sacrificed a night working to be with her.  

‘Let’s go,’ Mor said, holding out an arm.

Nesta stepped forwards. How different they were. She, in her pale blue gown and delicate hands, and Mor with blades strapped to every inch of her body, ruby-red lips on display for battle.

‘What would you know of war?’ Nesta asked, heart racing from her fear.

‘We know plenty,’ Mor replied with a cocky grin. ‘Don’t worry. We know how to handle ourselves.’

Feyre gave a nod. ‘Stay with Amren. You and Elain.’

With that, they were gone.

Despite attempts at trying to focus on the ancient tomes laid out on the table, neither Nesta or Amren could. The latter kept thumbing the rubies around her neck then made an excuse that she was examining Velaris’ wards to have time alone. Nesta found Elain in the garden, quiet and pale. One of the wraiths appeared with tea for them and sandwiches. She didn’t want a single bite, but Azriel’s words from the morning came back to her. She’d eat. He’d wanted her to eat. There was no good in being a worry for him here. She did all the worrying. For him. Feyre. The others.

Elain reached for her hand. ‘The thief will have his head.’

‘Elain?’

‘From the shadows, a blade willingly given. Then his head.’

Nesta clenched her teeth together to keep from crying out. ‘Elain. What do you mean? What is the point in being a seer if nobody understands you?’

Her sister just hummed softly to herself, brown eyes entranced by her cup of tea.

It was an agony. She kept Elain in her room that night although Nesta slept little. Her thoughts were heavy with the people of the Summer Court – and its proximity to the Wall. How had Azriel been holding her in this room only a night earlier and now, Nesta could not say where he was. Bleeding out on a foreign battlefield. If he returned, what then? To be with Azriel was to hold the hand of death. It would go with him everywhere. She had heard what he did for his court; he’d die for it – kill for it. And Nesta would forever worry.

At dawn, she found Amren holding a vigil in the living room. The hazy light seeped through the clouds, casting Velaris in hues of copper.

‘Any word?’

‘No.’

That was all she would say on the matter. In silence, Nesta paced the living room until the sun clambered up into the sky. With no admonishing from Amren, she was free to do it. Indeed, Amren had not touched a book either, but sat with her knees curled to her chest, cat-like and silent.  Unperturbed by it all, Elain glided down the stairs. Her hair was twisted from her temples and pinned back. Without a greeting, her sister slipped into a seat in the dining room where one of the wraiths added dishes to the table. It was not the usual massive spread for all of the inner circle’s mouths, but her sister did not seem to notice.  

Nesta stared out of the window, willing the world to send her a pair of sprawling wings on the horizon. A sign that Feyre was well too.

Three of them arrived while Nesta paced the foyer. She felt Amren leap up from the chair behind her in greeting.

‘What happened?’

Mud flecked Rhysand’s leathers, but his face had been hurriedly cleaned of grime, the evidence still on his neck. ‘There was a battle. We won.’

‘We know that. What happened with Tarquin?’

At Amren’s question, Morrigan sucked in a breath. Before she could speak, Feyre cut in. ‘Well, he didn’t try to slaughter us on sight, so… things went decently?’

Rhysand shrugged. ‘The royal family remains alive and well. Tarquin’s armada suffered losses, but Cresseida and Varian were unscathed.’

She did not care about the Summer Court. They were names she’d never hear again. Faces she wouldn’t know.

Her mouth pulled thin. If Azriel was injured, she’d see the grief etched on their expressions. ‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’ crooned Rhysand.

Under his stare, she blanched. Her and Azriel had been so meticulous to avoid interacting in front of such nosy eyes. He hadn’t said anything. He wouldn’t. Only Cassian knew through his heavy-handed prodding.

‘Cassian,’ she lied.

With narrowed eyes, Morrigan replied, ‘He’s busy.’

There was such ice in her tone. Such jealousy. Nesta believed it was old news. That was what had been said. Perhaps not for Morrigan. Was this how she would be with Azriel? Threatened that another female grew close to the males that she so fiercely guarded and kept.

Nesta held her stare, not yielding an inch.

Morrigan was the first to look away. ‘When he gets back, keep your forked tongue behind your teeth.’

She was a snake defending her nest. Already, Nesta had visions of the venom that would spill from her when Nesta laid a claim on Azriel. Perhaps she wanted neither male, but she wasn’t prepared to give them up.

‘Mor,’ warned Rhysand. His voice was enough to turn her head. ‘We now leave for the meeting in three days. Send out dispatches to the other High Lords to inform them. And I’m done debating where to meet. Pick a place and be done with it.’

With hardly a blink, Morrigan vanished into thin air. She would be a problem. A big problem.

Feyre went to turn, to likely wash herself and rest, but Nesta took a step forwards. ‘You’re well? Not hurt?’

‘I’m fine. Tired,’ said Feyre, with a longing look towards the staircase.

Rhysand lay a hand on the small of her back to guide her.

‘And Azriel,’ blurted Nesta. Her cheeks scorched. ‘Azriel is safe too?’

Feyre nodded, but it was Rhysand who watched her closely, too intimately to be polite. ‘He’s tying up the loose ends in Summer,’ replied her sister. ‘Cass is in Illyria. Fine for now.’

Nesta stared at the grit beneath her sister’s nails, the grime around her neck where it hadn’t been cleaned properly, the blood staining her boots.

‘You went off into battle. Without a second thought. Why?’

‘Because I had to,’ she replied. ‘Because people needed help.’

***

One day, Azriel would hold his child in his arms and the horrors of war would not clench him so tightly. He’d feel joy and love and forget about the lives he saw ended – the lives that were ended by his scarred hands.

It took the best part of three days to assist in Summer Court and to assist Cassian in Illyria during the aftermath. His brother was better received by the families of the fallen. But Azriel was there for his brother to lean on after speaking with grieving families.

They’d been young – too young – in the last war. Eager to prove themselves, almost excited at the prospect of being heroes. They’d been bolstered by the Blood Rite. Three Carynthians striding into the battlefield together. Until they saw the horrors of it. Despite knowing what to expect now, it was not any easier. He was older, felt the wounds more gravely, knew what they cost, how heavy they were to carry.

He thought often of Nesta. No news from Velaris was good news. After the High Lord meeting in Dawn, he’d steal a moment to hold her. If she let him. If word hadn’t come to her that his failure meant they missed the intel that Summer would be the next victim of Hybern. They’d got there in just enough time. But they should have had more time. If he hadn’t forgotten his duties. Nesta had needed him that night. His mate or his duty. He knew which was more important – and it was not the latter.

‘I don’t think I can fly,’ said Cassian, face thinner from the last few days.

‘I’ll winnow.’

‘Hold my hand tight,’ his brother teased.

Azriel hooked his fingers in Cassian’s collar like he was a mutt and pulled them to the House of Wind. Cassian’s wings splayed out to slow his fall then he landed with a thump. ‘I hate winnowing. It’s not natural.’

‘You say that because you can’t do it.’

They were under pressure with time so he had to cut short his shower although standing under scalding water seemed the best way to spend his morning. Neither of them had bathed properly in days and had only eaten scant amounts here and there. As soon as they had pulled on fresh leathers, Azriel reached for Cassian to winnow back to the Town House.

In the foyer, Rhys was waiting for them. He wore his usual black jacket and pants. He waved a hand to use his magic to polish their siphons. Mor smiled to them both; she wore a gauzy gown of midnight blue with slits up both thighs, exposing her legs as she moved. More panels were cut from it, exposing parts of her midriff and back.

‘Couldn’t you afford the whole dress?’

She stuck up a middle finger at Cassian’s question.

Feyre fiddled with her dress. He recognised it from Starfall, all sheer silk and glittering starlight to embody the light of the Night Court. She touched her hair again then vented at Cassian, ‘What are you staring at?’

His lips twitched. ‘You just look so…’

‘Here we go,’ Mor muttered.

‘Official.’ Cassian said, waving a hand at his high lady. ‘Fancy.’

‘Over five hundred years old,’ Mor said, shaking her head, ‘a skilled warrior and general, famous throughout territories, and complimenting ladies is still something he finds next to impossible. Remind me why we bring you on diplomatic meetings?’

Even his shadows couldn’t hide his chuckle.

‘I don’t see you spouting poetry, brother,’ shot Cassian.

Azriel crossed his arms, smiling faintly. ‘I don’t need to resort to it.’

That was a lie. He’d try every trick in the book for a smile from Nesta.

They fell into a silly camaraderie which helped to lift the weight of the last few days. Cassian leaned over Mor to block her view of the mirror so he could preen instead then he started picking at Feyre’s dress.  

‘I thought you were leaving,’ Nesta’s voice cut in from atop the stairs.

It took everything in Azriel not to go to her. The gown she wore reminded him of the darkest depths of the sea. It swirled around her legs as she took the stairs. No adornments were needed, no jewellery, no make-up. She was enough as she was. Beautiful as she was. His heart gave an excited leap when her eyes met his. He felt the bond growing and pulsing as both of their feelings flooded it.

She turned to Feyre. ‘You look beautiful.’

‘That, Cassian, was what you were attempting to say,’ Mor crowed.

A blush dusted Feyre’s cheeks at the compliment. ‘Why are you dressed so nicely? Shouldn’t you be practising with Amren?’

‘I’m going with you.’

[bewiiitched]

⟩ Sexdoll (chapter eight)

• Autor's note: I had a hard time getting inspired the last few days and this isn't what I planned at all but then it did come to my mind how is supposed to be two Logan's (and two Laura's) in Deadpool timeline since Logan is still alive in 2024. And well, things are gonna get bittersweet.

Warnings: none.

/////////

It's no small victory that Logan has decided to sleep next to her again. And the mutant can't ignore how, in small steps, the alcohol in her life is diminishing.

There was no part of him that would have dared to broach the subject, not when the amount of alcohol she ingested was minimal compared to his own, but being aware of the inferior healing factor in her was a constant torment, so he is caught completely off guard when the bottles are not replenished in the wooden display case where she kept them. The pack of beer she bought was only replenished on Tuesdays, and now her extra pay was only based on money. Nightmares are cured by the warmth of his chest instead of the burning in her throat from cheap liquor. The same bottle of Vodka remains half full for weeks even though she can't sleep, and when worries plague her, they take a backseat as her fingers wrap around his hair and the tips of her fingers make small circles on his scalp.

However, it's not the only achievement, since despite her initial reluctance, Logan ended up accepting to work with Wade on some of his missions. The idea was not foreign to her, since she had received the same offer from the mercenary in the past and could count on the fingers of one hand the times she had accepted, given that she refused to use her powers on others and although the type of criminals had varied considerably, in her case she always focused on attacking organized crime gangs, getting some information and letting Wilson finish the job.

The sound of the hands of the clock hanging on the wall is her only company when cleaning, and she unconsciously hums a song to motivate herself, that is until she hears a light tapping on the window that faces the street. She doesn't need to look to know what it is about him since his smell is enough, and when she turns to see him over her shoulder, his grumpy expression makes it clear that he is rethinking his decision.

“Has it gone that badly?” She asks, trying to hide the hint of amusement in her tone. Her last “job” had been half a year ago, but she couldn't blame the mutant for getting exasperated when Wade didn't take the situation seriously. Her hand goes to a bottle of Jack Daniels that is on top of the shelf, when his hand grabs her wrist, stopping her from standing on her toes to grab it.

“No need. ” He answers, his tone is a little rougher due to tiredness, but his touch is just as gentle as ever as his hand positions itself on her lower back. “I thought he wasn't serious during our time in the void. In comparison, I was wrong.”

He growls, and can't help but laugh at it, he breaks off with a light hum and his hands position themselves over hers, gently pushing them away as he turns around, both of them face to face, she can't help but glance at his suit.

“ So you're the hero of the city now?” She murmurs, her hand runs down his chest, and Logan clenches his jaw with his hand closing on her wrist, stopping her.

“ I'm not hero, doll. ” His response is instantaneous and she gives him a guilty look, but that doesn't mean she agrees, she had believed that they had gotten out of that pit of guilt and rejection, but obviously she was wrong. “ Even if I saved your timeline, it's the least I could do. ”

He adds, his expression more tense than before as he sees the challenge in her gaze, but she doesn't answer. His brow furrows more and more as the seconds pass and the words are on the tip of her tongue. “He told me how you were about to sacrifice yourself, not just anyone is willing to die for strangers.”

She emphasizes, and his wrist twists free of her grip to wrap both hands around his neck. His brown gaze darkens as he remembers the event, how Wade had cataloged him as the best Wolverine shortly after and yet, the events of his past still haunted him.

She is not the best example to get him out of that pit of darkness, but she tries to move the subject away.

“You know how Wade wasn't born mutated...” she begins, only to stop when he sees her expression, and realizes that in reality, he didn't know that detail. Her lips turn into a line as she senses that this isn’t territory she needs to be talking about, so despite the confusion on the mutant’s face, she continues speaking, putting a finger to her lips when he opened his mouth to interrupt her. “Well, now you know. None of the victims did it, actually. There was this whole process to create a mutation, and I spent months sabotaging the creation of new mutants.”

Something clicks in Logan’s brain and she can see the understanding in his expression, it’s almost adorable how she can see the gears in his head turning and connecting the dots. “He told me how you took over in the torture.”

She hums in response, a look of regret crossing her face. “I didn’t always do it because I could get caught, but in the absence of a regenerative factor, I would turn off the nerves so they wouldn’t feel pain and interrupt the whole process, but they always ended up dying…”

The dismay is written on her face and hee lower lip trembles slightly at the memory. Even worse when she has the shadow of Francis’ hands on her neck after discovering what she had been doing.

“You had good intentions…” Her snort cuts him off.

“Hell is full of good intentions.” She answers dryly, brushing the hair from her face. “If I had never been taken out of the base and sent on all those missions, everything would still be the same, I would still be torturing innocent people or sabotaging their progress, but I would be still killing people.”

But it would all end the same, with death or dozens of supersoldiers. They learned from Stryker, controlling mutants is deadly, but mutating humans is unstable.”

The frustration is obvious, but her small outburst doesn't let the mutant's flinch go unnoticed at the mention of Stryker. And although Wilson had vaguely given her details of the multiverse, she hadn't been able to help but wonder if all of its variants got the adamantium claws and ended up being a heavyweight through the same process.

They both try to get rid of each other's wounds but it's like putting out a fire with gasoline. “I'm not like you, or Wade. I brought on everything that happened to me.”

She finishes, and silence is all she finds from the mutant, his gaze goes to his own suit, the only memory he had of his own universe, he remembers the screams in the same way that the young woman remembers the only two times she fought against Francis.

“I lost control when I got back to the mansion. “He starts, but his voice shakes. “All I could focus on was the smell of blood, I could still smell the traces of fear and worry that were in the rooms, and they were all gone.” He says through gritted teeth, his gaze filled with helplessness as he continues. “They were still looking for more mutants when I killed them, every single one of them… I started losing control more often.”

His voice sounds thick, and he sees her nod slightly, understanding written all over her face as she looks away, a shaky sigh. “Alcohol was the only thing that could keep me distracted, I needed to drown that rage, but I could barely contain it. ”

Looking up, she swallows, confirming in that instant how he had followed her in her attempt to quit alcohol, although theirs had been a gradual process, part of her was tempted to tell him that there was no need for him to join her sobriety but she could barely imagine the frustration it must be that his regenerative factor would eliminate the alcohol in his body when he wanted to forget the memories and she only used it to fight a few nightmares. “Don’t do it…”

She murmurs without hiding her concern, her gaze focusing on one of the many bottles that had been left on the bar, and despite the bitter taste in their mouths that they both shared from their experiences, his expression softens in understanding and a growl rumbles in his throat.

It had been about two months since their first meeting, but that's when Logan realizes how his heartbeat is pounding in his ears at the gleam in her eyes, a mix of guilt and devotion as if he were worthy of something more than perpetuating the path of violence he had always followed, as if she had decided to stay with him despite everything, as if her hands could be used for something more than getting blood on themselves. The faith he perceives from her dries his throat, although the sensation is not entirely unknown, he had felt the same rejection with Laura and Wade at their expectations, how they believed it could be something better than what it was, as they knew it was from the beginning.

He keeps thinking about how little he really knows about the situation, how Wade barely detailed how Ajax and her came to confront each other at some point, being the background of her being removed to external missions and in turn, the little he knows about his own roommate, it's not that he completely trusts the mercenary's versions when she had made it clear that there were certain aspects that she was hiding from him. And he can't help but think of the scene as Wade had told him, how it had been a matter of time before it was discovered, so being present in the fight alone was like watching two divorced parents argue.

It had happened days before his escape, Wilson was no stranger to what the female had been doing for weeks, and it had become a sort of silent pact between them that she was relieving him of torture even after he had mutated. So she found himself visiting him more often, gravitating around him and ignoring his jokes and questions, being more like a puppet that appeared and disappeared for nothing more than trying to repair the damage she helped to create.

Not that it was any different that time, entering the basement where they kept him she barely gave a nod to greet him, but she still found it difficult to adjust to the idea that his body did not show the signs of torture to which they continued to subject it. Sometimes she was tempted to answer him, but she always kept silent since she knew how constant Ajax's presence was on both of them, and the special interest he had developed in testing his limits.

A syringe of her blood preceded the familiar tickle on her fingertips, how they wave through his body, noticing the previous pain under her touch only to see the spasms in his body as she forcefully calms it, his muscles relaxing, his skin tickling and his breathing regulating.

“I’ll be back in a bit.” is all she says, but she can barely get out of the place and into the hallway when a hand closes on her neck, lifting her up, the figure of Ajax stopping her in his iron grip giving her no room to speak.

“Of course you will.” he hisses, everything in him screams danger and Wilson’s voice in the background reaches her ears, but she can barely pay attention to it when Everything around her sounds distant. And then she feels it, the burning in her body that makes her fingers curl, every muscle in her body tensing and like an electric current, she hears him growl, his grip losing strength as her powers take over. Panic won’t let her think clearly, and she goes all out when her hand closes on his arm, the spasms in his body beginning and her feet hitting the ground again. Years of holding back makes losing strength in her senses and reflexes feel like sinking into quicksand, and it only makes her more alert, since the only advantage she has is that she can paralyze him, that not hurting him.

“Don’t even think about telling them,” she threatens, and her tone is relentless, her hand traveling to her lower back, pulling out a gun that she places on his forehead. “No feeling pain and no having nerves are two different things.”

She reminds him and there is a dangerous edge to it, one that makes her see how the cornered animal she is and that she won’t stop once she snaps, but it’s not just the certainty in her words that creates fire in his gaze, but how even though he wants to tear her apart, his body is numb and it only gets worse, his legs ending up giving out.

Despite the situation, she is reluctant to kill him, making it obvious that she feels pushed to do so so even when she puts the safety back on the gun, her powers still affect him, and the look he gives them both from the floor when she leaves the room is promising.

(...)

“Logan?” Her voice, shy and worried, brings him out of his thoughts, and he clears his throat. She doesn’t realize it, but he remembers the mercenary’s words and there is no past destructive enough that can make him think of her as nothing more than a victim of circumstances.

“You held back. “He murmurs, more to himself than to her and she sees his brow furrow in confusion. His tongue moistening his lips as she sits up and her arms leave his neck.

“with who?” she asks, a slow blink that could be almost comical.

“Him.” He answers seriously, and the tension in her body is immediate, no need to name his original version. But he is not wrong and she gives a slight nod in response as she waits for him to continue, to make his point clear so when he doesn’t, it is she who falters in her speech.

“It’s different.” Her words come out halting but she is defensive as she looks at him. “I didn’t want to hurt him, I guess I subconsciously didn’t go all in. Francis, though…”

The last time she faces him, she can't recognise herself, blood boiling at the recent news and both aware of each other, what their actions had meant for the project, both on a tight rope as Ajax was seen as the one esponsible for the escape of the now called Deadpool and the burning of the former lab.

Her comings and goings to the base are becoming more and more spaced out in time, the missions becoming more constant and she tries not to think too much when her main purpose is based on attracting more helpless people who can mutate while Francis cleaned up the mess.

So when her new purpose reaches her ears, everything around her explodes. — AJAX!

Her scream echoes, the sound of her heels resonating on the floor as she searches for him, door by door and hallway by hallway, ignoring how the rest of the staff evaporates as she walks, everything in her trembles and she sees red when she finally finds him coming out of a torture room, his white coat splattered with blood.

She advances towards him in giant steps before launching herself at him, fueled by fury, helplessness written on her face that only grows when he dodges her fist and grabs her wrist only to receive a kick to the stomach that sends him against the door frame and drags her with him, in response her wrist creaks, but there is no scream that follows the breaking of the joint.

His gaze darkens as a satisfied smile grows on her face, the understanding that they both feel no pain now, so forcing her damaged limb, she twists it free of his hold but Ajax is faster and grabs her hair, slamming her face into the wall, again and again, the crack of her nose preceding the shudder that indicated her control over her own body was failing so she doesn't even consider using her fluids. The third time he goes to hit her, her foot hits the wall hard creating distance as she pushes her body back, her hand grabbing the one that was pulling her hair and they both give in, for different reasons, taking a while to process that he has frozen behind her, a moan escaping her lips as her power returns to its original state. And when she finally recovers, the tension in her body is evident, the pain being fuel for her burning gaze.

She turns sharply, still holding her hair in his hand, and pulls a knife from her thigh sheath, stabbing his chest until all her frustration comes out, she just growls and gasps, seeing his body covered in blood as they both fall to the ground, her power over him and her fury only growing at the thought that it doesn't hurt him.

She registers Angel’s voice screaming her name, but when she looks up seeing her approaching from the end of the hallway, the bloodlust written on her face makes her stop halfway. The wariness in her gaze because it’s clear her powers have been unleashed if Ajax is like this.

“Back off.” She grunts, not stopping herself from attacking him, abandoning the knife and hitting the back of his head over and over again like moments before he had broken her nose. Out of the corner of her eye he sees her approach, and her expression turns condescending when the mutated woman’s hand closes on her forearm.

“Wait for me there, sweetheart.” She murmurs to Francis in disgust before focusing on her new problem, watching her squirm listlessly and her touch abandons him to focus on her, grabbing her arm and making her feel nothing but pain until she finally passes out, falling with a thud.

“I thought you’d like the new position.” He scoffs, spitting blood and her foot slams into his stomach in anger, the tip of her heel digging into his flesh.

“I’m not a fucking whore.” She hisses, still shaken by the thought of having to face the damn wolverine. And the laughter that follows lets her know he doesn’t agree, but it’s cut short when she grabs him by the neck, kneeling down and lowering herself to his height as his body obeys her. “I don’t know how you convinced them but you better get this shit sorted while I’m gone. Because if I die, you’re Wilson’s whore.” ”

(...)

To this day, she still blamed the mercenary for not having recorded Francis' death but it was something she had learned to live with until her birthday came around and she remembered it again.

“ That was the last time I lost control like that, and well, you know the rest.” She speaks, but she can't hide the satisfaction she felt at having unleashed on him after so long. “ The only reason we didn't kill each other was because we were both crucial...”

His expression is unreadable as he looks at her, but his gaze softens as he remembers the incident that had occurred at the bar during his absence, understanding the reluctance to lose control, and he can't say he disagrees, the murderous rage he had felt after the death of the group had shaken him to the bone.

“ Let's go home. ” She whispers, her voice vibrating low as she tries to ignore how her heartbeat is racing, the discomfort she felt after having opened up to him like so many other times and him still not judging her, not seeing her as the monster she felt she was, the one she had become after activating her powers having isolated herself from all physical contact at the risk of harming others, how she had stained her hands with blood for never being able to control herself, how even after managing to suppress herself her powers were still a danger, despite being studied by the project as if to conclude that her fluids could be useful even if she wasn't involved, specifically, her blood.

/////

Taglist: @bontensbabygirl @twinky-wink

[hannahp0calypse]

Falin?

something i really like about falin is her existence for the majority of the story being entirely via what other people tell us about her. i'm pretty sure that's classic well-written "haunting the narrative" type stuff, but it still really appeals to me. it's fascinating seeing the various facets of a character represented almost entirely by how other people remember them - with the character themselves having little to no input on the way they're remembered and talked about.

an obvious point of comparison, to me, is rose quartz stevenuniverse - a character whose death and absence defines the narrative, presented as almost ridiculously perfect initially, and is slowly revealed over time to not be the simple, perfect "loving damsel" deal. obvs falin's deal isn't about slowly being revealed to be a very harmful person and the cause of almost all of the pain in the setting, but you see the comparison.

one part of falin's flavour of "haunting" that stands out to me is the way that the two characters who know her best - laios and marcille - both knew completely different parts of her life. this is part of why i bring up rose quartz - in SU, we learn about her the same way steven does. everyone else has mostly complete information about her, though obvs not 100%, and it's almost entirely about steven's discoveries. meanwhile, laios and marcille both have very incomplete pictures of falin because they both knew her at completely different stages of her life. they learn more about one of the most important people in their lives from each other, and grow closer to each other (and her!) as a result. it's really cool.

there's another element to it, but it touches a bit on endgame dungeon meshi spoilers, so

particularly interesting to me is how falin has an entire character arc while spending the majority of the story being dead (literally or spiritually). and that arc ties into the entire idea of her being this dead character, absent from the narrative and from her own agency.

falin's arc is about learning to take up space, to want and to need, to be open about her desires. it's kind of similar to how the inciting incident of the story allows laios to be open about his desires and interests in a way he hasn't been before, but stretched over the story's timeframe. part of why the characters learn about falin from each other is because she lived her life closing herself off from people to make herself more palatable. it's why the inciting incident is her own self-sacrifice for the people she loves!

but so much of dungeon meshi is about learning to open up to others, to share parts of yourself, and to share in parts of others. it's about eating, and choosing to eat, and how eating is living, and choosing to eat is choosing to live, and choosing to be eaten is choosing to die so something else can live.

it's why at the end of it all, falin revives because she chooses to eat, and chooses to live. chooses to take up space, and to make herself a presence in the world. just think about how she dresses and carries herself at the start of the story, vs how she does so at the end/in post-story materials.

i like falin :>

[egg-emperor]

Predicted to see the "I'm not calling you a good girl, that was shit" meme or whatever with Eggman and Sage done inaccurately compared when done with Metal and yup lol. Y'all really don't remember the canon dynamic and how conditional his praise of Sage is, to think he'd still praise her like that if she didn't succeed in doing what he wants

He only praises her and calls her a "good girl" if she did exactly what he wanted the exact way he wanted. The scene where he yells at her suggesting something that'd benefit him but not with a method he approves of, working with Sonic, shows that he doesn't care about intent or give an A just for effort, if there isn't any success

It has to be to his exact desires/terms/standards. The times he praises her and says he's proud to her is only after she literally saves his life,

and saves the world he wants to rule.

He calls her a "good girl" only after she does all that lol (and even sacrifices herself in the og ending), not just because She Tried. It wouldn't be enough. She literally had to save his life and the world and give everything (including her life in the og ending) to get that kind of praise

How he acts when she has good intentions and tries her best to appeal to his desires in a way he doesn't like vs when she does so in one of exact ways what he wants, for comparison:

Second is literally the next scene and you can trigger it to play immediately after the first btw

Plus wouldn't overpraising her for every small thing take impact away from the rare cases he finally does anyway? Whether it's to show how conditional and manipulative he is or even for the surprise of being genuinely proud and praising (but still always in a self-centred self praising way as her creator of course), it'd diminish the meaning if it was happening constantly and so easily

Eggman absolutely overpraises his ingenious creation to himself all the time to stroke his own ego, and speak of it highly once proudly when introducing it to enemies. But not to its face in direct interactions anywhere near as commonly, the particular occasions would be when he's especially proud and wants to let them know to keep it up

He keeps his standards high to keep them working hard for those very rare moments of praise. It creates a stronger drive when it's a rare and hard to get reward. He *programs* creations with this desire, even

Recieving his praise is one of those rewards. It most certainly is in Sage's case because it touches her the most and she clearly works so hard in being loyal and efficient to receive

Thanks for coming to my ted talk and yeah I got a lil petty over a silly meme my bad :P But I always love more opportunities to talk about their dynamic and how it's a lot more unique and nuanced than people are acting like it is.

Sage may be the golden child compared to Eggman's other creations and something to boast and take pride in by him, which is very appealing to his ego- but he's also very calculative in where and when he actually openly shows it, especially in front of/to her directly. The nuance and complexity makes it super interesting and compelling!

[atefingersdagger]

Scrapped Cato + Clove WIP

"Pulses."

*

To remember she’s alive, she has to press her fingers to her pulse. Pointer and middle, feeling the pump under her skin. Clove does this often, counting the beats, never finding a murmur. She’s lucky.

Next to her, Cato does this, too. For himself, and for her. A simple way to grasp where they are now; District 2, home, safe. There’s no more wars being waged. Or high sacrifices to be made.

They sleep in the same bed, comfortable with each other’s presence for many reasons. It’s easy to tell when he is being plagued in his sleep, brows threaded together, creasing his forehead, and the cold sweats. Waking him up, even past midnight, was only natural.

She takes his shaking hand, large in comparison to her own, and presses it to her chest once he’s registered where he is. Not at the swell of her breasts where they both liked, but right above her heart. Clove holds his palm there, closing her eyes in slight rapture, thankful he’s still here to touch her at all.

Which is ironic, as when she first met him, she had plans to kill him. Formulated in that very moment on stage. To make a good show of his demise. But that rule revision during their Games changed them into something more intimate than competitors in a fight to the death.

Her thumb absentmindedly caresses the back of Cato’s scarred hand, an act she wouldn’t have been caught dead doing five years ago. She breathes in deeply with a pause for inhale, letting him feel the rise and fall of her sternum.

“Clove.”

He whispers his name in the dim room, never pitch black because he sees shadows of muttations in the dark. Cato’s voice is rough, a bit scratchy like gravel being grazed under heavy, moving weight. The sound stirs her insides into being somehow warmer.

Nodding, Clove pats over his knuckles. “I’m still here.”

“So am I.”

That’s what they say each time. A rehearsal that never fails to bring them back into the present. It’s moments of solitude and the secrecy of the thick, silent walls of their house that allow them to be like this; vulnerable with no strings attached.

To her neck, Clove slides his hand up, catching the instinctual twitch to pull away. Cato can snap her spine so easily. He knows from the Games, and he still has trouble touching her there for it. They haven’t truly wanted to kill each other since the arena where they had every chance to but simply didn’t. Their greatest act of mutual mercy.

“It’s okay.” She soothes, adjusting his two fingers into the position to feel her pulse. And the one he’d use between her legs. “I trust you.”

Clove watches him, how he looks at her like a puppy wanting attention or how his blonde hair has darkened in its dampened state. With a teasing movement of her digits down his muscular arm, she whispers a crude joke, liking the way that smug expression of his occurs then.

“I’m real. I’m not going anywhere.” Clove says, free hand brushing away the sweaty strands that have stuck to his forehead in his tossing and turning.

He repeats her name, a habit of his she quite enjoys. The soft, bumpy back and forth of his callused thumbs tickles her jaw, but she’s trained in holding back any girlish giggles. So she’s quiet besides a satisfied sigh.

“Your pulse is quite sexy.”

No, that gets her. Clove barks out one loud laugh before it trails off into chuckling. Her sound is a rev of a purr at the end. One she knows will turn him on.

“Color me seduced.” She holds his hand harder to her throat. How her flesh gives at the adored tension has her spine tingling.

Except Cato glides his palm to the back of her neck swiftly, securing her to his lips.

*

[niklausie]

I hate how unwatchable tvd gets after s4 bc of elena fr and I don’t mean bc nina leaves but bc the show becomes ONLY about elena and damon having the same goddamn fight over and over again and her psychologically torturing stefan by not wanting to be with him but getting batshit crazy if he shows interest in anyone else.

like the part where she’s touching all over him and about to kiss him after he loses his memory bc she simply cannot accept him not remembering how much he loved her and that she cheated with his brother who’s she’s about to cheat on now with stefan unbeknownst to his smooth-brained ass… ooh girl.

and i HATE that the show refuses to delve into how similar elena and katherine are and instead makes katherine the fucking devil ??? to position elena as saintly in comparison when post-vampirism (and arguably pre-vampirism but y’all don’t wanna talk about that) elena is incredibly similar to katherine. she too picks a brother but refuses to let go of the other.

she too delights in the hold she has on both of them and the knowledge that both would kill and sacrifice anyone else for her. elena may hide that better than katherine in her teary-eyed monologues post-s4, but it always rears its ugly head when she feels her sway on either salvatore waver. and it would’ve been SO good to explore that deeper, to show her and katherine side by side and to see if elena wants to continue down that road or if she actually wants to be better like she (and the writers) pretends she is.

but no instead we have retcons to push the narrative that delena was written in the stars and the first two seasons weren’t really elena and stefan ok it was the doppleganger curse she never loved him she’s nothing like katherine!!!! (mind you the curse doesn’t mean every silas and amara doppleganger fall in love, just that they meet, AND it breaks once either one turns into a vampire like it did to katherine so it has nothing to do with stelena being in love).

oh and my fave brainworm take: elena only liked stefan bc he reminded her of her humanity after her parents died and made her wanna live again. by that logic….. elena only liked damon bc he made her wanna live again after she turned into a vampire AND bc she was sired to him, which is an actual problem in their relationship but everyone likes to pretend it never happened 🧍🏽‍♀️

[xxxxkathleenxxxx]

Love Confessions

Pairing: Shadowheart x f!reader

Summary: After fighting mercilessly at the Goblin Camp, f!reader builds up the courage to confess her love for her seductively beautiful Shadowheart.

Warnings: 18+ Explicit Smut, Porn With Minimal Plot, f!reader is a visual person, f!reader likes femme women, oral (f receiving), v fingering, some dirty talk. No definitive top or bottom. Baldur's Gate 3 universe.

Wordcount: 3.2k

A/N: this was originally in my scraps, so it may not be the best, but i'm sure someone out there might like this! maybe... lol

I liked Shadowheart. It wasn’t fair of me to admit this post-battle with the goblins. It was a long, hard fight; trying to bring Halsin back to Emerald Grove proved to be the greatest challenge on our adventures towards Baldur’s Gate. Shadowheart, Lae’zel, Karlach, and I were atrociously exhausted despite the celebration taking place at our campsite with the tieflings. We had an obvious victory, what with bringing Halsin back in one piece, but we desperately wanted to hide away in our tents, sleep the treacherous battle off, and pray to the gods for what was to come in our future quests. 

As I finished conversing with Halsin, I leaned against a nearby rock, sipping on the only wine I found remotely tasteful. The tieflings surrounded me, the party leader, in a roaring victory as they raised their glasses of cheap, dry wine we looted from the goblins.. 

“You are so brave. So strong…” One of the tieflings boasted as she rested her hand on my shoulder, nails grazing my campsite clothing; a simple white shirt with puffy sleeves and an adorned black corset to hold everything taut, with black trousers; way more comfortable in comparison to the armor I hung to dry, which was previously coated with stench-smelling goblin blood. 

“What is your secret?” A young, tiefling man cried in a drunken haze. “How is it possible you defeated them within a day? My, my. I must worship you now.” 

One beautiful, young tiefling woman placed her hand over mine as she licked her lips, smiling. She was radiant, what with the perfect, healthy build every tiefling seemed so fortunate to be born with.

“Goodness,” she let out a low, flirtatious laugh as her heterochromic eyes bored into mine. “I could keep you to myself tonight if you’d be willing to have me? I’d be happy to reward you well for saving us,” she whispered in my ear, and I shivered. She did not quite have the effect on me like a certain half-elf.

.

I watched her from across the campsite. Her hair was still up in that cute, long braid as it swayed from side to side. I wanted nothing more than to touch it. I bet it was soft. It smelled amazing. I guiltily took in a whiff when she tended to my wounds one evening. As I hissed past clenched teeth when she treated my wound with alcohol, I lost all self-control and could not resist the urge to inhale that lovely night orchid scent she emitted. 

My eyes trailed further down as I took another sip of my wine. Her monochromic tank top hung low, and I wasn’t complaining. She had a lovely figure; her tight, leather pants hugged her in the right spots. She was quite literally perfect. And these were all nothing compared to her charismatic personality that first drew me in on the nautiloid. Her panicked, beautiful blue-green eyes looked at me with a curiosity as I saved her. Her willingness to make the right decision, even if it proves to be a sacrifice to Lady Shar’s commandments. She was everything I ever dreamed of and more. 

“So?” the tiefling woman pulled me out of my trance. I turned my attention towards her, slightly annoyed. She smirked at me, biting her bottom lip. “What will it be?”

“I think I will be turning in now,” I dismissed her as I made my way towards Shadowheart’s tent, isolated from the others, paying no mind to the tiefling who scoffed, but immediately played it off by turning her attention to a tired Wyll. 

As I made it to her tent, her lovely smile grew on her face when she noticed me. My gaze softened as my demeanor changed from the tiefling who was coming onto me. Shadowheart had my complete and full attention now. 

“It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?” Shadowheart’s soothing voice radiated as she smiled at me, raising her glass of wine in the air. “Though, I quite like having my tent over here; isolated from the rest. It’s peaceful.”

“You fought well today, Shadowheart. I couldn’t thank you enough for tending me my wounds,” I stood in front of her sort of awkwardly. I grew overly self-conscious. I wanted to tell her how I felt, but her faith in Lady Shar was all too powerful; I just don’t think I could quite compare. 

“Don’t mention it. I would do anything to keep you safe and protected.” Her gaze softened as she took another sip of her wine. I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol, but I could have sworn she was moving closer to me. Very slowly.

“May I ask you a question?” I blurted out. I mentally face-palmed. If I’m so damn terrified of confessing to her, then I will do so in a roundabout way, so she doesn’t suspect anything. 

She moves closer. I glanced up at her piercing eyes, but they gazed into mine as if her full attention was on me. Not anyone else or anything. “Fine… What’s on your mind?”

“Let’s go away from camp. I need to do this with you. Preferably alone. If that’s alright with you.” While I recognize many people were drunk in celebration, I wanted this moment to be sacred between the two of us only. 

“Sure. Lead the way.” We both head to the outskirts of camp. I leaned against the bark of a tree as she stood in front of me, crossing her arms as she was giving me an expectant look, awaiting my confession.

C’mon. C’mon. C’mon. Think. “How am I holding up to your estimations?” I pursed my lips shut after blurting out this atrociously weird question. 

She began to chuckle, covering her mouth as she let out a loud, hearty laugh. I felt my face redden as I furrowed my brows. “S-Shadowheart? W-Why do you laugh?”

She let out a few more snorts of laughter until she composed herself. Her breathing slowed as she placed her hands on my shoulders, leveling with me. “You silly girl…”

My breath hitched as her gaze pierced intensely into mine. The way she laughed was enough to absolutely drive me mad. I awaited her to continue what she had to say. I was hoping it wouldn’t be a rejection, but by the way she was within close proximity to me made me feel like this night would be in my favor. 

“Y-Yes…?” I squeaked out.

She leaned in even closer, resting her forearms on my shoulders as she was still eye level with me. “My little night orchid…” She breathes out, closing her eyes; I can feel her breath hit my face ever-so-lightly. “I’m listening… Go on…” She urges me. 

I took a deep breath as my heart was literally pounding through my chest. I bit my bottom lip and looked up at her, seeing her eyes glisten along with the stars in the night sky. “I- I- like you…”

Her face darkens a bit. I felt my face burning up to a crisp. I was prepared for her to ridicule me.

“B-But i-it’s not that b-big of a deal, so d-don’t even worry. You can l-let me d-down. I c-can handle i-it-” I babbled on and my eyes widened when she pressed her lips to mine. I stood there in absolute shock, my hands stiff to my sides. 

Once she pulled away she chuckled. “There. Now you can hear what I have to say to your confession.”

She takes her arms off of my shoulders, and I feel a sense of emptiness as she stands up, looking down at my shorter stature. “In all honesty…”

“From rescuing me aboard the nautiloid, when you could’ve easily abandoned me. You quite literally could have, and I would have died, but you rescued me. You not only willingly had me stand by you as a companion, you confided in me when I needed to talk to someone about my past with Lady Shar. You never once made me feel bad about faith and journey to becoming a Dark Justiciar. You were always there when I felt the horrors and trauma of not remembering my past. How I was agonizing in pain from being forced to keep all of these secrets, so I could please Her. I know my faith might not make sense to many people; they might find it weird, unsettling, and do everything in their willpower to make me change my mind, but you have been there every step of the way, aiding me into doing what I want. You’ve never once stood in my place to speak for me. So…” She leans forward and rests her hands on either side of my head, propping herself against the bark of the tree, trapping me. Her gaze was intense. “For you to ask me… ‘How am I holding up to your estimations’?” She shakes her head as her eyes narrow into a smirking expression. “You have got to be the most modest fucking person to even question the amount of affection I have for you.”

“What I’m trying to say,” she began. “I love you.”

“Right. I’m a good friend to you-” She placed an index finger to my lips, shushing me.

“No,” she said in almost a commanding tone. “I love you, like I want to be with you. I want to be your partner. I want you to hold me. I want to protect you from any harm that comes in your way. I want to kiss you. I want to-” I cut her off by extending my head up, pressing my lips to hers. She stood there in a daze for a split second, but then, she melted into the kiss.

Her plump lips moved in a melodic rhythm with mine as she slipped her tongue into my mouth. Our tongues danced with one another. I felt her hands grabbing mine, placing them on her hips. I sighed against her lips, loving the silky touch of her clothes; the feel of her curves was enough to make me feel hot. I wanted more of her. 

I pulled her hips into mine close. She gasped and reached up, caressing my face gently as she never once broke our kiss. She grabbed my chin, lifted my face up so she looked down at me with these gorgeous doe eyes. 

She didn’t even peep a word out. She grabbed my hand and stuck my digits in her mouth as she coated them with saliva. She stared at me seductively and I practically groaned at how she teased me. She slowly moved my hand into her taut pants and I threw my head back, letting out a sigh as my fingers ran over her wet folds. 

She propped her hand up on the bark of the tree as her other hand was holding my wrist, guiding my hand against her as I curled my fingers over her juicy pussy. She bit her lip as her brows furrowed. She let out whines in almost a sing-song voice and I loved every second of it. It was way better than any stupid music box. I could listen to this for eternity.

She bucked her hips forward as she moaned, resting her head on my shoulder and I shivered as her breath hit my ear and neck, making goosebumps arise on my skin. “C’mon. Don’t be so gentle. Fuck me with your fingers,” she moans in a husky whisper into my ear. I gulped as I felt a lump in my throat. She had me incredibly wrapped around her finger. Literally.

I curled my digits up into the cavern of her vagina, pumping my fingers in and out as I looked up at her for reassurance that I was doing it right. She pulls back and nods as if she can read my thoughts. “Yeah… Oh, fuck. You fuck me so good. Don’t stop. Right there…” She moans as her lucious hips roll into mine in delicious figure 8s. I was rendered speechless. No words came out of my mouth as I was entranced by the sexiness of her voice and movements. I took my other hand and reached up, touching her hair and she sighs in satisfaction, sending her over the edge into a body-shaking orgasm as she presses her lips against mine roughly, moaning at her release. 

She pants a few more times, coming down from her high as she pulls back, looking at me with half-lidded, lustful eyes. She reaches down and pulls my hand out of her pants. She puts my fingers up to her lips and licks them clean. Her eyes were much darker as if she was in heat. She chuckled darkly. 

“My, my. That’s quite the expression you have on your face.”

My thoughts snapped back to reality and I spoke up quickly. “W-What expression?”

She laughs. “You look like you’re in shock. Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes, Shadowheart…” I was quick to nod as I hesitantly reached up to tug at her shirt to aid her into taking it off. She shook her head, halting my hands. “Another time.”

I frowned but my eyes widened as she leaned in again, kissing my lips gently. She then leans into my ear, whispering hotly, “Right now, I wanna make you feel good…”

My breath hitched and I felt myself growing more bold over time. I looked up at her daringly as she looked down at me as if I was her prey. “Do whatever you want to me. I’m yours.”

Her jaw clenched as she pushed me up against the tree. I gasped and let out a squeak as she crushed her lips into mine, reaching up and wrapping one of her hands around my neck gently, holding me in place. It was hot as fuck. I completely submitted to her as I leaned against the tree, taking whatever she gave to me as her lips trailed along my jaw, down to my neck as she nibbled it, sucking until she left a perfect hickey.

She reached up and caressed my breasts. I threw my head back as she looked up at me in reassurance to take my shirt off. I nodded and was shocked as she tore it off, ripping the material up. “You’re so amazing. Every inch of you is perfect.” Her eyes raked over my body hungirly. I felt my body flush nervously and she took each breast into her mouth, taking her time as her tongue swirled around each nipple until they were hard. 

She reached up, gripping the top of my pants as she pulled them down quickly, the breeze of the night air making me shiver. She looks up at me darkly. “No underwear?”

I shook my head. “N-No… Is that a problem?”

She chuckles, kissing my thigh and I bit my bottom lip, shivering. “No. Just took me by surprise. I’m not complaining though. It’s definitely a sight from here.” 

What she did next absolutely blew me out of any impression I had of her. She leaned in and inhaled my pubes, pressing her lips to my skin as her tongue flicked out and ran over my folds, sucking in all of my juices. I stood there in shock as my eyes widened, trying to escape. “Shadowheart. You don’t have to do this. Please don’t feel obligated. I feel bad. It’s probably gross…”

She grips her hands into my hips, holding me in place. “It’s not gross…” She murmurs against my pussy, leaving pleasurable vibrations against me. My legs shook as her tongue flicked against me in many directions. 

I felt myself throwing my head back, groaning, holding my hands up, unsure where to place them. She pulls back, looking up at me. I glance down at her and my heart skips a beat at her puppy dog eyes. “Grab my head. Make yourself feel good. C’mon.” She urges me almost commandingly and I felt my folds grow even more wet by the sexiness and huskiness of her simple words that could alone throw me over the edge. 

She leans back in, licking my pussy in a consistent rhythm, and I finally built up the courage in reaching down, grabbing ahold of her braid as I guided her against me. I bucked my hips forward and she accepted me gracefully, digging her fingers into my thighs as she pressed her face in further, never ceasing the speed of her tongue.

“Shadowheart… I’m gonna… I’m gonna…” I was panting, my chest heaving up and down as lights were practically dancing in my vision. I felt my knees buckling slightly from the intense pleasure she was giving me. 

“Let go. Let yourself feel the pleasure, my little night orchid…” And with that, my body released the most intense orgasm I have ever had in my life. I let out a harsh breath, hissing as I threw my head back. She stood up quickly, moving her hand over my pussy sensually, allowing me to ride out my orgasm against her palm as she kissed me eagerly. I felt myself shiver from tasting the salts of my juices on her tongue. 

Once I came down from my rush, I let out a deep sigh, looking up at her as I laughed. “Jeez. You’re insane. I almost fell.”

“I would’ve caught you,” she quickly responded very seriously as she looked down at me tenderly, never once taking her eyes off of me. 

As she helped me clean up, I adjusted my clothes and I put them back on. I felt a question burning, and I didn’t even have to mention anything until Shadowheart spoke up. 

“What’s plaguing your mind, my love?” She gave me a look of utter concern as we both headed back to camp, lying in her tent next to each other. She leaned her head on her hand, propping herself up with her elbow as she looked down at me.

“Is there a reason why you didn’t take off your clothes? I was worried that maybe you weren't into it… I’m sorry I couldn’t do better to please you.”

She laughs and her eyes widen. “You worried you didn’t please me?” She grabbed my chin so I looked into her mesmerizing eyes. “Listen to me.”

“You made me feel so incredibly good, I almost saw Lady Shar herself. I just…” She averts her eyes for a moment. “I just don’t feel comfortable showing myself yet…” 

I felt my heart skip a beat. So that’s why. I reached up, running my fingers through her hair. “Then we will take as much time as you need. There’s no rush. We have forever.”

She smiles at me, lying down next to me as her hand rests over mine, grabbing it firmly. 

“And that’s why I love you. You respect my boundaries and never push me to where I feel uncomfortable. I’m grateful for that.”

“I will always respect you, Shadowheart. Always-” I began, and I looked over at her as her eyes were drifting off. 

“Shadowheart?” I whispered.

“Mmm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you more.”

“I love you most.”

“Not possible.”

“But it is!” I spoke up and she grabbed me, pulling me into her chest.

“Keep at this right now and we’ll go another round,” she spoke lazily; no shot she was going to do anything now. She was almost into a dead slumber. 

“No way! You milked me dry!”

“You sure know how to turn a girl off.”

“Whatever,” I groaned, resting my head on her chest and feeling her chuckle as she pressed her lips to my head.