spreading my wings in virtual photography

I had so much fun making and pondering about these, and I hope y'all enjoyed reading!

It doesn't take long before Dammon catches sight of her from the corner of his eye. He glances at her, and almost drops the hammer and sword in his hands. She is breathtaking. Even in the light of the fire flicking around them, he can see she is wearing a sheer sparkling silver dress. It clings to her body showing off her voluptuous curves. He can see through the material that she is not wearing anything else. He gulps and says, "Ta..Tav, you…you look gorgeous."

His mind can't help but wander, as he takes her sight in, to embracing her in every possible way. He licks his lips and presses himself against his anvil. His cock in his black leather pants hardens more as he feels the metal against him. He discards the hammer and sword to the side. He can feel the blush rising in his cheeks. She is the only one that can make him feel overwhelmed with emotions, even after all this time together.

She says as she walks closer to him and says, "It's late."

He glances around his forge briefly and nods. "Yes, I was just trying to finish this one item for a client tomorrow." He grasps the anvil, trying to will himself not to rut against it. He shuts his eyes trying to keep from pouncing and devouring her.

She notices his restraint and smirks. "Is the outfit that appealing? Or is it me?"

He sigh softly as he opens his sparkling blue eyes, "Both." He takes a deep breath and continues as his eyes follow her, "You know you drive me wild."

She smirks again as she walks behind him. "Yes, I know." She runs a fingernail down his spine. "Definitely the reaction I was hoping for from you."

Dammon smiles before giving way to a gasp. He bites his lip. He wants to ravish her but he has learned pleasure in restraint too, the build up can make it more enjoyable. If he could, he would spend every night giving her all the pleasure she could handle.

She asks, "Would you finish working for tonight, for me?"

He nods and says, "Anything for you."

She smiles, stands in front of him and leans to whisper in his ear, "Good."

Shivers run through Dammon. He starts to back up, hoping she doesn't notice how hard is cock is. He should take a bath first before they…..

Tav steps closes to him and he says, "I'm filthy. I have dirt, soot and sweat covering me. I should…."

She smiles and wraps her fingers into the waistband of his black leather pants as she pulls him closer to her. She whispers, "Dammon, then make me filthy too."

His eyes widen briefly before they darken and a smirk slowly crosses his lips. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her against him. The material of the dress is soft and he rubs his fingers against her body in circles. He leans down and his lips brush against her ear as he whispers, "I'm going to make you so filthy it will take days before you are clean again."

Had you told Eryn he'd be spending his first college year with Dax as his bunkmate, he would've shrugged it off with that infuriatingly casual grace he always wore like a second skin. He would've leaned against whatever wall was nearest, thumbs hooked into his belt loops, and told you with an idle smirk that he could handle anything–especially Dax. Their animosity had been a constant throughout high school, a slow sizzle and burn of clashing personalities that had somehow become background noise to their daily lives. It never bothered Eryn; in fact, at times he quite thrived off it, poking fun at the other and nitpicking at his intelligence in that condescending way that made most students either hate him or cozy up to him in order to partner up for help on their group projects. The banter between them was much like a well-choreographed dance, each knowing the other's steps before they were ever even taken.

Had you told Eryn he'd be balls deep in his bunkmate months later, chocolate strands of beaded and twined hair twisted between his fingers as he tugged Dax back against his chest in order to force the other to make eye contact through their shared mirror and witness exactly who was taking him from behind, he would've laughed in your face–deep, genuine laughter that crinkled the corners of those impossiby rich, espresso dark eyes. "No fucking way," he would've said, shaking his head in disbelief. But here he was, pistoning his hips into what became his best frenemy doggy style, those eyes locking onto Dax's slack-jawed face with a grin that had mischief written all over it, irises whiskey bright where the sun beamed through their open window.

"Look at you," he gushed, though his voice held a low rumble that vibrated through Dax's back with a pressure that felt akin to distant thunder on the horizon. "All that fight you had for me in high school, and now you're just taking it." He punctuated his words with a sharp snap of his hips, watching with satisfaction as Dax's knuckles turned white where he gripped the bedframe. "Bet you never imagined I'd ever be fucking you like this, did you?" His fingers tightened in Dax's hair, pulling just enough to make the other gasp. "Fff~uck... That's it, take it. Every time you tried to one-up me in class, every time you glared at me across the cafeteria... this is what it was always leading to, huh?"

♡ Additional tags for all you lovelies: @cursed-nyxan, @wasteful-sam, @bhaal-battle-beer-bard, @bg3screenshotdump, @galedickarios, and @gortashsrighthand!

As always,

(This is a very early WIP stage)

We were drunk on mulled wine, laughter, and love.

Not merely intoxicated, but drunk in the deeper sense of the word—so saturated with happiness that the world itself seemed softened around the edges. Life felt impossibly sweet then, rich with wonder and possibility, and I had the extraordinary privilege of sharing it with two people I loved beyond reason.

Looking back, I do not think I appreciated how rare such moments truly are.

We wandered through Waterdeep with no destination in mind, hands constantly finding one another, kisses stolen between conversations, a bottle of mead passed back and forth whenever one of us remembered we were carrying it. Around us, the city blazed with life. Lanterns hung above the streets like captured stars, music drifted from open tavern doors and merchants shouted over one another while children darted between crowds with sticky fingers and sugar-coated smiles.

And the smell.

Gods, the smell.

Only Waterdeep can somehow fit half the known world into a single street and make it fragrant. Roasted chestnuts and spiced apples mingled with evergold baklahva, monkey balls, niangao, grilled fish, candied nuts, fresh bread, snowbread, mulled wine, and a dozen other delicacies whose names I never learned because I was too busy eating them.

Lucia spotted something sweet being sold from a nearby stall and immediately declared it essential. Aron disagreed, or perhaps he merely wished to continue walking. I cannot remember. What I do remember is their good-natured argument beginning beside me while I laughed and surrendered Aron's hand.

The sensation arrived so suddenly it cut through wine and merriment alike. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, my smile faded and I stopped walking.

At first, I could not identify why. Only that something felt wrong. Not dangerous, not exactly, but familiar in the way old scars ache before rain.

I felt watched.

The sensation was unmistakable—as though someone's gaze had settled between my shoulder blades with enough weight to become physical. So immediate, so intense, that I turned before I consciously decided to do so.

The crowd moved around me in a blur of color and motion. Hundreds of faces, laughter, lanternlight swirled in music.

Yet my eyes passed over all of it.

Searching, seeking and finding. Across the street stood a small tent. Bright purple. Closed. Entirely unremarkable.

And yet the moment I saw it, something deep inside me tightened.

There was a pull. Not curiosity, not quite, but something stranger. Recognition without memory. A form of certainty without understanding.

I stared at the tent and felt the world around me recede. The music grew distant, the voices blurred and even Lucia and Aron seemed suddenly far away.

I vaguely remember one of them speaking to me, perhaps both. I recall myself nodding in response to something, agreeing automatically while my attention remained fixed entirely upon that impossible little tent, as I was already moving.

Crossing the street without thought, drawn forward by something I could neither name nor resist.

The tent stood waiting and before I could question my own actions, the entrance flap opened. Not by wind or a visible hands, it simply opened and I stepped inside.

The world vanished, the cacophony of sound and smell behind me fell away in an instant.

Cedarwood struck me first. Not the pleasant trace of it one finds in wardrobes or carved furniture, but something dense and overwhelming, thick enough to feel tangible. Then anise. Cinnamon. And smoke. And Incense. Dozens of scents layered atop one another until the air itself seemed alive.

I drew a breath and immediately regretted it.

The fragrance flooded my lungs so completely that my chest seized. My head spun, the floor shifting beneath my feet as though I had stepped onto the deck of a ship caught in rough waters. Hands settled on my shoulders—gentle, unexpectedly strong—and before I fully understood what was happening, I found myself guided into an impossibly soft chair.

The tent's interior was dimly lit, shadows dancing across richly colored fabrics that concealed every visible wall. Candles flickered from impossible corners, their flames strangely steady despite the absence of any obvious structure holding the tent upright. The scents lingered heavily in the air, bordering on suffocating.

"Good, good. Here you are, child."

The voice emerged from somewhere beyond the haze clouding my thoughts. Thinking had become unexpectedly difficult. Each thought felt slow, dragged through molasses.

"So kind of you to stop by. So very kind."

An old woman shuffled into view, leaning heavily upon a walking stick fashioned from twisted wood, its grain curling upon itself like frozen smoke. Her robe was surprisingly simple—a plain purple garment devoid of embroidery, jewelry, or ornamentation. It contrasted sharply with the extravagant surroundings.

Her hair caught my attention immediately. Far too red. Not dyed red or vibrant red, but the sort of red that seemed fundamentally unwilling to acknowledge age.

She lowered herself into the chair opposite mine and before I could react, my hands were in hers. I never saw her reach for them. One moment they rested in my lap, the next, she was turning them over beneath the candlelight, tracing the lines of my palms with weathered fingers.

"What do you—"

"Ah." The old woman cackled softly. "Ah, yes."

Her fingers stilled. A delighted smile spread across her face—the smile of someone finding exactly what they expected. It unsettled me more than anything else in that tent.

"Interesting."

"What is?"

"Something is coming." She tilted her head. "Not a person. A mind." Her thumb brushed across my palm. "There is a weight waiting for you. A very large one."

I laughed nervously. "I suspect that describes most people's futures."

"Oh, no." She sounded genuinely amused. "This one is different."

For the first time, she looked up. Her eyes were startlingly clear. Clear enough to make me wonder if she had ever truly been old at all.

"It will change the direction of your life," she added quietly. "And the lives of many others besides."

The smile faded slightly.

"I see difficult choices. The sort that leave scars regardless of which path is chosen."

Something cold settled in my stomach.

The old woman continued studying me. "Two influences." She frowned. "No. Not influences." Her eyes narrowed. "Two men, perhaps." The words sounded uncertain, as though she disliked them. "They are important." A pause. "Powerful in their own ways." Another pause. "And very different from one another. A man and an elf."

I swallowed. She seemed not to notice.

"Neither will walk your path for you. They cannot." Her grip tightened slightly around my hands. "But both will change it."

The silence stretched as she studied my hands.

Finally, the old woman released them.

"Be careful whom you allow to guide you, child."

I rubbed my palms automatically. "I thought you just said they couldn't."

A crooked smile returned to her face. "People have a remarkable talent for convincing themselves that their choices were entirely their own."

For a moment, neither of us spoke, my hands still caught in her grip.

"Neither of those men — nor your father — can choose for you," she laughed as if I had told the funniest story.

"Oh, but that is tomorrow's problem." She waved a dismissive hand. "Tonight is for mulled wine, bad decisions, and whatever handsome fools are currently wondering where you've wandered off to."

I blinked — and found myself outside.

The noise hit me first, music and laughter and the warm chaos of a city celebrating itself. Then the smells. Then Lucia's voice, sharp with relief, and Aron's somewhere close behind her, both of them calling my name through the crowd.

Show us what you are working on!

“I’m beginning to suspect you enjoy this,” Gale muttered from beneath her boot for the second time, eyeing the sword at his throat.

“The wizard discovering he’s not immediately good at something has been entertaining to watch.”

Truth be told, she’d been waiting for a moment to put him flat on his back since he’d rather confidently informed her he'd practiced fencing in his youth and had lately become intrigued by the idea of weaving swordplay and magic into something graceful. As though a few half-forgotten lessons and an over abundance of confidence would somehow bestow upon him an innate ability with a sword.

And, annoyingly enough, as much as she enjoyed watching him hit the grass again and again, she found herself looking forward to these lessons each time he mentioned them - which had been often lately. Perhaps too often for a man supposedly interested only in improving his form.

But perhaps Gale simply enjoyed having yet another thing to excel at.

At the moment, however, the only thing he appeared particularly skilled at was developing an increasingly intimate relationship with the ground.

“You’d think I’d be used to this by now,” he mused, catching her offered hand and hauling himself back to his feet with considerably less dignity than he would have preferred. “You above me with a knife at my throat does seem to be a recurring theme in our relationship.”

“Our tactical alliance,” she corrected quickly, already stepping back into stance.

“Right. How foolish of me,” he replied lightly, though she swore she could hear a smug little chuckle behind it.

She was going to enjoy wiping that annoying look off his face again.

Steel rang sharp through the clearing once more. But this time, the wizard didn’t yield ground.

The movement happened faster than she thought him capable of. He caught her wrist, twisted cleanly, and her sword vanished into the grass. Before she could calculate her next move, she was pulled flush against him with a startled inhale that she immediately hated him a little for hearing.

"There,” he said with a breathless triumph. Far, far too pleased with himself. “I believe that counts as improvement?”

And perhaps she would have finally given him the praise he’d been seeking all evening if she hadn’t suddenly become aware of him all at once.

The solid warmth of his chest at her back. The arm locked around her waist. The sharp rise and fall of his breathing after nearly an hour spent circling each other. And his voice near her ear, different enough that she was unsure if it was real or something other than simple victory or if it was simply her imagination.

"Yield,” he murmured.

Ellie swallowed once before forcing herself to scoff. “You’re very smug for a man who still favors his left side.”

"And yet,” Gale replied, softening despite the way his arm tightened at her waist, “you’re the one with a blade at your throat now.”

For one terrible moment, she could feel the satisfaction radiating off him.

Then with a flick of silver in the moonlight, he was suddenly met with a dagger just below his jaw.

Gale went very still.

"Where the hells did that come from?”

She smiled sweetly, the look of a woman who could never let a man…much less a wizard…get the better of her.

"Never assume the rogue only has one weapon.”

Ok, so, this photo is a part of the broader line of storytelling VPs, but it looks badass, so I wanted to edit it in a more brooding, sinister way, I guess xD

The WIP story itself involves Nim practicing fighting with daggers while Rolan watches and is very normal about it. You know, “couples’ things.” This, inevitably, leads to knife play - like I said, “couples’ things.” 🥴

But honestly, I dunno when all these photos will be done, I am always intimidated by editing multiple-photo sets. x)

No-pressure tags (also sorry for double-tagging/if you've already been tagged): @cursed-nyxan @the-shadowfell-darkroom @optimisticgrey

@smokepotgivetop @mogruith @litsenn @burnt-by-marigolds @mercymaker @aristenfromwarsaw @judasiskariot @vakariansyndrome @rdekarios @twilight-sanctuary @inrin @purpleasters-inseptember @alstromeri-a @thecampjuicebox @onlytavs @faeriiefire