They call me Skee ♡

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

As the carriage carried them onward toward Waterdeep, the City of Splendors and its moonlit harbors that had once stirred boyhood dreams in his long-forgotten mortal heart, Olazor stole glances at Lady Dusath. He wondered how much of the world she had truly seen beyond Baldur's Gate's walls, how long her existence had been confined to the oppressive tapestried prison that Cazador disguised as luxury.

She had never accompanied Lord Szarr to any formal affairs at his own estate, always seeming tethered invisibly to their chambers. "I do not weary easily, Lord Damaris. If I'm anything, I'm resilient," she had said, and Olazor chuckled in kind, the sound of it rumbling like distant thunder in the dim confines of the carriage. "I have no doubts of your resilience, Lady Dusath. You have survived far worse company than mine," he replied, the words laced with veiled truth. It was an admission of his own shadowed appetites, the reputation tailored to him as cleanly as his well-cut coat, no matter how graciously he smiled. Yet he sensed the sinister edge beneath her own charm, that subtle darkness flickering like black silk through pale cloth, drawing him with the same cold fascination that had driven him to unearth forbidden artifacts and pry open ancient tombs. Elbereth carried her fractures like the many beautiful jewels he'd collected, and he, a connoisseur of the hidden and imperfect, felt that pull to add to his collection. He made no effort to hide his appraisal, just as she studied his broader frame–the powerful chest and shoulders honed not by spawn labor but by his own frontline endeavors, legs toned from centuries of action rather than indolence. He shifted closer, crossing one long leg over the other so his nearer shoulder offered a steady place for her to rest her head if she wished, the air between them thickening with unspoken hungers.

She could feel each time he looked in her direction. Could sense the rake of his eyes down her silk-covered form, starting at her wine-colored gaze and moving deliciously slow to the hourglass of her hips. In a nonchalant gesture, she leaned back just enough to expose more of her shape, one plush thigh crossed deliberately slow over the other to squeeze the two together, her raven curls cascading down snow-white shoulders dusted in freckles from a previous lifetime of sun and exploration. Every inch of skin bared was for him to admire, to appraise like the fine jewels and ancient relics he kept hidden in his own manor. Cazador would ignite at the thought of such gawking, and Elbereth relished the idea of his anguish each time she allowed the thin strap of her form-fitting gown to slither down the round of her shoulder, or the slit caressing her thigh to rise just enough to expose the feminine curve of hip.

"How you managed to convince him to let me leave with you is a miracle I fear my mind will never comprehend. I suppose I should sing your praises through the streets," she muttered, and that crooked smile of his deepened, dangerous and heart-stopping. "Sing if you wish. I've never minded being the subject of a ballad," he chuckled darkly, eyes flicking briefly to the passing landscape before returning to her. "Cazador is… predictable when one knows which strings to pluck, Lady Dusath. I merely played the tune he bends to–one you may yet learn to pluck yourself. Influence is an art, and I… I would not mind teaching you while you remain a guest in my hold." His hand lowered brazenly then, gripping the soft meat of her upper thigh through the silk, claws dimpling the yielding flesh in a possessive squeeze that tested its give and sent a clear message of intent.

Lord Damaris was temptation wrapped in velvet and poise and Elbereth was endlessly challenged to peel away the layers until she found the monster she knew lingered beneath. The very creature she'd locked eyes with as he devoured the beating heart of a woman at Lord Szarr's table, crimson staining the thin lips she so desperately ached to taste. The thought alone was enough to cause her to shift in her seat and by the gods there was a part of her that hoped he was still watching as she did so. Perhaps this yearning made her no better than Cazador himself - A lustful gaze for someone other than the man she was set to marry in a few months time. But Cazador had done more on a regular basis to shatter her than she could ever attempt in return. With that thought in mind, she allowed the faintest smile to cross her glossed lips and settled in for the long trip to Waterdeep. The days that followed blurred into a rhythm of nocturnal travel and careful concealment as the carriage pressed onward, the journey spanning nearly twenty nights under starlit skies and veiled moons. They spoke in low, intimate tones during the long hours, conversations weaving between shared histories and lighter observations: the architecture of distant spires glimpsed on the horizon, the subtle politics of rival lords, the rare beauty of a blood moon rising. Olazor shared fragments of his expeditions, tales of cursed relics and forgotten cities, his voice a velvet rumble that invited her to open in return. Breaks came sparingly: momentary halts for fresh air where they walked the shadowed tree lines, the cool night breeze stirring her skirts and his coat. Hunting occurred under cover of deeper darkness, Olazor slipping away with predatory grace to secure sustenance–swift, discreet feeds on lone travelers or woodland stragglers, ensuring they left no traceable trail that might alert patrolmen on the paths they travelled. He returned each time with a faint flush to his pale skin, offering her a share or the quiet companionship of satiety, their bond deepening in these stolen, vulnerable moments. The carriage became a world unto itself, shoulders brushing, legs occasionally entwining in the sway of the road, building a slow-burning tension that neither fully acknowledged nor dispelled.

Lady Dusath usually despised the chilling cover of night, cursed eternally to stick to darkness and shadow when she craved the heated kiss of golden rays on her pale, freckled skin. But at Lord Damaris's side, cooped up in the mostly comfortable confines of a carriage that bumped and wobbled over paths she'd never been given the opportunity to explore, she didn't quite mind the seemingly endless darkness that coated the atmosphere in a cloak of midnight blue and white hot glimmering stars. It was tolerable. Bearable. Might she even say enjoyable. Days blended into one another until she'd lost track of time entirely, their conversations soothing the antsy ache to stretch her legs and roam unfamiliar stretches of forest outside of Cazador's gates. When intimate mutters died down to comfortable silence, she'd chance a glance at Olazor's visage to take in the sharpened angles and softness he seemed to only allow her to witness. The breadth of his chest and shoulders casted elongated shadows beneath the dim lanternlight of the small cabin, bathing Elbereth's form in a darkness she found oddly comforting. Though he radiated no warmth, she still found herself cozying up to his side to listen to his stories of travel and relics and a life so wondrously free she almost felt a little jealous. They talked of life, death, vast expanses of cities Elbereth had thought she'd never have the privilege to explore, each story drawing her closer to Olazor's orbit, each uttered word solidifying her interest.

When it came time to stop and search for food, Elbereth lingered back by the carriage, both enamored by Olazor's speed and efficiency and discouraged by her lack of ability to contribute. Her meals, though few and far between, had been handed to her ever since her heart ceased its beating and her skin chilled to ice. She'd no skill in the hunt, no knowledge of when or how to kill cleanly. Still, Olazor offered his catch as if it were perfectly natural to share with the spawn, his own rosy cheeks and satisfied grin urging her to indulge until her belly ached and her own complexion took on a pinkish hue. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she felt truly and completely full. No uttered thanks could possibly compensate for such an offering, yet Olazor seemed wholly unbothered by the transaction, a gesture Cazador wouldn't be caught exchanging with the very woman he'd sought to bind to his name for eternity. Instead, she simply pressed in closer once they boarded the carriage to continue their journey, her head rested on his broad shoulder, one dainty hand finding the back of his own to trace the bulging veins there, the featherlight brush of a foot against his shin. Gentle acts of intimacy that, she hoped, showed even a glimpse of her immense gratitude for his kindness.

After several such nights, as fatigue and the road's monotony pressed in, Olazor directed the driver toward a modest inn nestled along the trade route, a sturdy, timber-framed establishment with warm lantern light spilling from mullioned windows and the scent of woodsmoke and roasting herbs hanging in the chill air. Ivy clung to its stone foundation, and the surrounding forest loomed protectively close, offering shadows for discretion. He paid for two separate rooms with the effortless grace of nobility, coin exchanged between hands without fanfare, though the weight of his gaze on Elbereth as he did so carried heavy insinuation: a gentleman's respect masking the deeper desire to draw her closer, to offer affections and touches Cazador's gilded prison could never provide. Escorting her up the narrow, creaking staircase to her assigned chamber, he carried her trunk with ease, the muscles of his arms and back shifting visibly beneath his fine coat. The room was simple yet comfortable–plush bedding on a heavy oak frame, a crackling hearth casting golden flickers across worn tapestries depicting forest hunts, a small window overlooking the misty woods. He set her belongings aside with deliberate care, then closed the curtains to obscure any daylight from peeking through the windowpane the following day, turning to face her in the intimate space.

The carriage slowed to a stop and the spawn lifted her head just enough to peer out of the small window, catching sight of the inn that sat shrouded by night and tree cover. Her limbs ached from the extended period of time in the small space and once she stepped out of the cabin and into the open air, a heavy sigh left her lungs as she tipped her head back to inhale the scent of pine and evening fog. Hearth smoke and ale traveled on the breeze to accompany the earthy tang of forest the closer they walked toward the swaying lanterns of the quaint inn. She'd never been more grateful for the sensation of dirt beneath her bare feet, the thin silk flats she'd packed in her trunk long forgotten. Gold was exchanged quickly and in a beat, they were making their way up the long staircase toward the upper rooms, Olazor carrying the bulk of her belongings while she kept the small silk pouch tucked close to her side. Her eyes wandered straight to the flex of muscle in Olazor's back, the weight of her trunk seemingly featherlight the way he carried it so effortlessly over one shoulder. Again, her mind began to traverse darker scenarios - Just how easily he could carry her over his shoulder, limbs limp and body pliant beneath his dominating hold. How effortlessly he'd toss her onto any surface sturdy enough to withstand the pent up fury they both carried in their souls. Breath caught behind her ribs and she swallowed thick around the lump that had formed at the base of her throat, her salivary glands gone haywire the more her thoughts twisted into filthy fantasies. Olazor led El into the small room designated just for her, his tall frame crossing the threshold to place her trunk down beside the decently-sized bed nestled against one of the walls before sauntering further into the space to close the curtains over the small window. If she any pulse, it would be fluttering at the sight of him now. She wandered into her quarters and took a moment to examine each piece of décor - Tapestries lining the walls depicting forest hunts, a hand-made quilt freshly washed and draped over the plush mattress that sat atop a deceptively ornate oak frame, pillows fluffed by the wrinkled hands of the old inn-keeper downstairs. On the opposite wall, a hearth crackled low, warm and inviting to bones chilled by much more sinister forces than the night air. Each aspect was far less lavish than she'd been accustomed to, but all comforting in their own quiet, simple ways. Olazor's voice cut through the silence, stirring El's mind once more

"We'll rest here for a day," he murmured, voice low and resonant in the firelit quiet. "Only five nights more until Waterdeep. Once we arrive, I'll ensure you have every comfort at my manor–far freer than what you've known. I would be honored to tour the city with you, to show you the bustling docks at twilight, the hidden corners where true nightlife stirs beneath the moon. And… Should you desire time to explore alone, the streets are yours." The words hung between them, laced with promise, as he lingered near the door.

The spawn's hands busied themselves with removing her jewelry as she listened to Lord Damaris speak, first the gold necklace with a single ruby teardrop pendant, her thin, delicate fingers carefully coiling the chain as she placed it in the small silk pouch. Next her earrings, rubies cut into facetted flowers, each one tucked safely into the pouch alongside her necklace. "Only five nights? Mm - I suppose time quickens when one is truly comfortable in their surroundings." Lady Dusath winked in Olazor's direction, playful and light, the pouch in her hands gently discarded on one of the small bedside tables. "As much as the idea of exploring anywhere alone sounds wonderfully tantalizing, I'd find it more enjoyable to traverse the landscape alongside someone that knows its splendors well," El glanced over her shoulder at the large figure stood in the doorway now, her shoulder dipping just enough to allow the strap of her gown to fall sideways. The other followed, and soon the garmet was barely hanging onto the swell of her breasts.

As he offered his final goodnight, his feet refused to carry him away. Instead, he stepped closer, an imposing yet magnetic presence that filled her personal space, not with threat but with an undeniable force of proximity and want. Towering above her petite, shapely frame, he drank in the oil-slicked curls framing her face, the delicate scatter of cinnamon freckles across her pale cheeks, and then raised one clawed hand, gently tilting her chin upward to force her wine-dark gaze to meet his own. "Sleep well, Lady Dusath," he said softly, the baritone in his voice threaded with dark provocation, "though I confess… the thought of leaving you here alone tests even my considerable restraint. There are far sweeter ways to pass these stolen hours… ways I would gladly demonstrate, should you wish to learn."

One small, pale hand lifted upward to brush a strand of onyx hair away from Olazor's face, the bodice of her gown shifting to expose the thin red lace underneath. "Your restraint is admirable, Lord Damaris," El's voice dropped in volume, an intimate whisper shared between two unbeating hearts, her fingertips crawling toward the back of Olazor's neck in order to anchor herself closer to his chest, "Who am I to deny a teacher the opportunity to enlighten a willing mind?"

Every night spent reliving that evening in the rose garden, every moment lost to Cazador's cruelty when all she craved was Olazor's affections, led to this.

He held her there, suspended in the charged silence, the heat of his breath ghosting her skin, every inch of him radiating control laced with invitation, but he never closed the final gap. The choice, for now, remained hers still–ever since the night she left him wondering by the fountain of their moonlit walk.

Elbereth raised up onto the tips of her toes to even partially meet the vampire lord's height, the hand at the back of his neck gliding back down toward his chest before falling away entirely as she let a cool exhale coast past his lips. Then she took a careful step back, allowing the red silk clung to her form to slide downward until it pooled at her ankles to expose the red lace underclothes that left little to the imagination. She stepped out of the garment, each step calculated in their speed and precision, her small frame swallowed by the space around her as she stared back at him. A devilish smile tugged the corners of her lips upward as she backed herself further into the room, a flick of her gaze toward the lanterns extinguishing their flames, leaving only the orange glow of the flickering hearth to illuminate the space. Piercing orbs of red shown through the darkened room as she reached behind her head to let her hair down from its neat half-up arrangement, black curls cascading down her shoulders and back in a waterfall of oil slick and raven feathers. There she stood, bathed in shadow and hearth-light, temptation wrapped in red lace and desire that could be felt cities away with one palm outstretched to the towering man positioned statuesque in the center of the room. Sin and seduction. A serpant poised to strike, though blissfully unaware of the much larger dangers that lurked nearby. Words left unspoken only thickened the air around them and each breath grew more and more difficult than the last.

"Show me, Lord Damaris," El breathed, her gaze never faltering no matter how intimidating his shadow had become. "Show me what others cannot."

She sighed, and retreated into the light of the tower. Bare feet padding across polished stone she’d worked hard to scrub clean over the past months. Past the walls where once there had hung artwork she could no longer bear to look at. It was an ongoing process to make this cavernous building feel like a home.

Without thinking at all, Hesperia was drawn to the man who made it such.

Rolan was where he often was these days—sequestered in their shared study. Just to look upon him filled Hesperia with warmth. Even though his back was hunched, hair a little dishevelled and frown deep, he was a beautiful sight. He was so utterly immersed that he made no indication he was aware of her presence as she approached, not until her hands came to lay on his tense shoulders.

He almost jumped out of his skin.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Hesperia said with a smile.

Rolan swivelled his head and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers, but otherwise barely reacted. This wasn’t like him, she thought. Yes, he could become intensely focused upon his studies, but he had never before felt this distant. 

As if sensing her disappointment, he said, “I'm sorry my love, I'm just so busy.”

Hesperia huffed. “I'm busy, too.”

“I know. I know.” A hint of frustration and more than a little sadness.

“You're working yourself too hard.”

It was a testament to how hard Rolan was pushing himself that Hesperia herself could utter those words. She’d never met anyone who worked quite as hard as herself before she’d met Rolan, except perhaps her father.

“But look at these ledgers! Lorroakan left the place in such a state…there's suppliers he never paid, and contractors that are hounding us for money we simply don't have.”

Hesperia pressed a kiss to the top of Rolan's head. Even his scent, his warmth, his presence calmed her. “The vaults aren't much better,” she admitted.

Long days and nights had taken their toll on them both, and with a sickening lurch she realised that it had been days since they had even slept in the same bed or ate a meal together. She was under no illusion that these early days of finding their footing as masters of the tower would be simple, nor their relationship resemble anything approaching domestic bliss so easily, but the time apart was taking its toll. Wrapping her arms around Rolan's neck, she held him tightly, trying to muster the courage to be vulnerable.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

Rolan finally stopped shuffling papers, turning to finally look at her. “I do, too. Truly. I just don't feel as if I can rest until all of this is dealt with. Piles of bloody paperwork, haunting me.”

Hesperia had expected nothing less from Rolan. She loved his passion, his drive, but he did have a tendency to prioritise everything but his own wellbeing.

“I'll help you, then,” Hesperia said, giving him a swat on the shoulder.

After a moment's bafflement, Rolan pushed his chair back from the desk enough for Hesperia to slip onto his lap. Even the slight contact was enough to warm her cheeks.

“Well I hardly think this is going to help,” Rolan grumbled, nevertheless pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

A woman of her word, Hesperia gathered a stack of correspondence from the desk. Rolan was right—it was a mess. Far from invoices, apparently Lorroakan had taken scribbled promises as contractual obligations. 

They sat like that for a while, reading and scribbling; Hesperia dictating what she could discern from the papers for Rolan to note in his immaculate new filing system. Dull work, only made bearable by the warmth of her love at her back, the delicately traced circle Rolan's thumb pressed against her waist.

Eventually, the comfort became a distraction.

“Two hundred gold owed to Cazador Szarr,” Hesperia muttered as her awareness of Rolan's tail pulled her gaze away.

Rolan huffed in amusement. “Well, he won't be needing that anymore.”

“Mmm, but the estate…I assume he had no heirs, but…from a legal standpoint…”

Her voice drifted off as Rolan's tail wrapped around her leg. The man himself didn't seem to be aware of the intimate gesture, or he was incredibly good at feigning innocence. Hesperia cleared her throat and turned back to the unread papers—Szarr’s debt could wait until they were more focused. The next was an itemised list of supplies that Hesperia could discern no practical use for, and that piqued curiosity managed to force another solid ten minutes of work from her, until Rolan shifted in his chair. Hesperia slid backwards, right into the crevice between his thighs (another subject that caused no end of distraction).

His grip tightened on her waist, tail contracting about her leg, so tantalisingly close to the soft flesh at their apex. A barely audible exhale caressed her right ear, and she noticed that Rolan had stopped writing, and so she repeated the last dictated item.

“Hm? Oh,” Rolan said, followed by the scratch of his pen.

Hesperia smiled to herself, dutifully carrying on their work, all the while focused on the hard planes of Rolan's body and the effect she had on him. Luckily, she had always been a gifted multitasker, and disciplined to a fault; and so too was Rolan. Even as he grew hard beneath her, pressed into her behind, they did not waver from their task.

What a fun little game they'd concocted, she thought. A smile curved her lips, and she imagined the same on Rolan's handsome face, a silent agreement that this was now a competition of wills. Judging by the state of his cock, it appeared that Hesperia had a head start.

“Mamzell Amira…oh, really?” Hesperia sighed in disgust. “Is this really an invoice for a brothel?”

Rolan chuckled, noting the exorbitant sum. On and on they went, Rolan's arousal never wavering but never escalating. All the while Hesperia's own lewd thoughts were becoming harder to ignore. How she'd much rather be bent over this very desk instead of sat toiling at it, Rolan's fist in her hair whilst he pounded into her tight, wet—

No, it wouldn't do to linger on that particular scenario. Hesperia breathed deeply, fingers idly toying with the ridges on Rolan's tail. Judging by his soft groan as she squeezed close her hand, he was enjoying it. The pleasurable sound slithered into her ear, tracing a path of heated desire right to her core. A pulse between her legs, a gentle ache as her body begged to be filled.

Hesperia gave a slight wiggle of her hips, partly for her own satisfaction and partly to tease more of those delicious noises from Rolan. She tilted forward, elbows resting upon the desk, and sighed as his cock pressed firmly where she needed it most.

“You'll be the death of me,” he muttered. “ If you will insist on this distraction, you might as well sit properly.”

Hesperia turned to find him grinning, all teeth, a delightful gleam in his eyes. 

A hand trailed up her leg, the crook of his finger beckoning the delicate fabric of her dress to follow until it pooled around her hips.

“How would you prefer me to sit?” she asked innocently.

Rolan huffed, gently teasing the hem of her underwear. “Preferably with my cock buried inside you. Take these off for me.”

Hesperia didn't hide her eagerness as she shimmied them down her legs. She’d prefer his full attention on her in their bed, but perhaps this would do.

Rolan soon followed suit, trousers shoved roughly to his knees. He sat exposed; lithely muscled thighs with a dusting of freckles, his cock finally untethered to lay heavy against his hip. Hesperia only had a moment to contemplate all the things she wished to do to him before Rolan's tail wrapped around her waist, and she was manhandled backwards. Only a cursory exploration to find her slick and willing, and suddenly his cock was inching inside her.

With a whimper, Hesperia sank into his lap. That painful ache ebbed, sheer relief flooding her body. Gods, he felt good. She shouldn't have been surprised, she knew his body intimately now; knew all the various ways he could pleasure her.

“Now stay still, we still have half a dozen of these to get through.” Rolan's stern voice cut through the haze. He was serious, after all.

“Fine,” she replied, her voice strained. She picked up the next paper and noticed her hand was shaking.

It annoyed her how calm and collected Rolan appeared. His script was as elegant as it always was, and though he kept a tight grip on Hesperia, he did not attempt anything more. She felt every ridge of him, hard and eager, temptation as she'd never known.

Her control wavered with every passing minute, blood pooling between her thighs until her body's urges were impossible to ignore. A tentative finger found her swollen nub, a shock erupting through her core at the slightest touch.

“Hesperia,” Rolan warned.

He should have known that tone would only spur her on. If she was doomed to failure, she would make sure he followed.

“I knew you would divert me,” Rolan muttered, catching Hesperia's wrist in a firm grip. 

He pinned her hand to the table, kissing apologetic kisses to her quivering shoulder.

“Rolan…”

“Only a few more minutes.”

“I can't,” Hesperia breathed.

What a fool she'd been to think she could resist him this way. Her hand pinned, the game lost, Hesperia decided all that was left was to take what she needed. What began as a gentle rocking to take the edge off only devolved into shamelessly riding his cock. Clouded by lust, their work lay forgotten, the desk's only purpose now to aid in her feral claiming of the man beneath her.

“Hesperia…,” Rolan groaned. “You promised you'd behave.”

He didn't try to stop her, however. The hand around her waist no longer held her firm, instead helping to push and pull, guiding him deeper inside with increasing urgency. 

“I can…stop…if you'd like,” Hesperia panted, timed with a roll of her hips.

She doubted the sincerity of those words the moment they left her lips. It really had been too long since they had defiled the furniture in this room. Hesperia vibrated with pent-up desire and tension from weeks of late nights spent working rather than indulging in life's pleasures. 

The answer to her suggestion was to be pushed upward with a creak and clatter of wood as Rolan's chair fell to the floor, and Hesperia was flung over the desk. She came face to face with their carefully organised accounts, hands scrabbling for purchase.

“Be careful with that,” Rolan chided, followed by a sharp slap to her behind that shunted her forward.

A thrill pulsed through her body, hips pushing back hard. She wanted—no, needed—him harder, deeper, to scream his name into their empty tower until every corner and crevice of it was scrubbed of its previous owner's influence. More than that, she craved his complete attention, and finally she thought she had it.

Hot breaths at her neck, teeth at her pulse. She arched her back and whispered—Rolan, Rolan—and her love answered with her name in the shape of a prayer, offered with unrepentant desire. A steady rhythm began that barely satiated the raging beast, but Rolan was ever so thorough in all things, her pleasure included.

The hard lines of his cock caressed her slick and sensitive core whilst his hands roamed, sweeping her hair away to trail a path of breathless kisses down her neck, teasing a peaked nipple between thumb and forefinger. Finally, he settled on gripping the base of her tail. 

“Getting a better view?” she teased.

Rolan only growled in response. Yes, then. In her periphery, she saw him intently watching where their bodies conjoined, face contorted with uninhibited lust. Fangs bared, eyes alight. Her nerves were on fire, consumed with a want only he could satisfy. Rolan stoked the flame, higher and hotter until he too was engulfed.

Hesperia felt his loss of control in the shaking of his legs, the urgency of his thrusts. He took her with wanton abandon, just as she'd craved. Face pressed into their precious work, claws dug deep into the worn wood desktop.

“Hesperia, gods—look what you—you've done to me.”

She smiled at that, at his complete loss of composure. As if she, too, wasn't a complete mess quivering beneath him.

“I've missed you,” she said again, this time choked with emotion. 

“As have I. So very much.”

Rolan found her lips through some contortion of their bodies, kissing her again and again before growing disgruntled. When he pulled his cock free, Hesperia made a small whine at the loss of him, but Rolan had no intention of leaving her wanting, guiding her to face him with all the gentleness he could muster. Deftly picking apart buttons until her dress was but a scrap of fabric to discard. His eyes blew wide at the sight of her laid bare, legs parted, chest heaving. As if perusing the morning edition of the Gazette, his eyes skimmed where his hands roamed, committing every curve to memory.

“You’re so beautiful. Gods. What have I done to deserve you?” he muttered, before planting a firm kiss upon her lips.

It was a romantic notion, that he thought himself undeserving of her, even if it was the furthest thing from the truth. Hesperia's reply was lost in his lips; instead she let out a long moan amongst a twist of tongues, made louder the moment Rolan swiftly reentered her. Legs braced tightly around his waist, heels digging into his back, she would not let him free again. Hesperia drove him deeper, until their sweat-slicked skin was flush, if only for the briefness of a chaste kiss before Rolan began his steady rhythm again.

She traced the ridges of his back, fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard; he cupped her face with his hand like handling a precious jewel. And their tails moved as if they possessed their own needs, finding each other in the tangle of limbs. So much friction, an endless bombardment of touch. She was close to breaking, and hoped that Rolan would hold her together when she did.

“I'm going to—”

“I know,” Rolan said breathlessly, reaching a hand between them.

Fingers slid between her lips, hot and slick. The gentle strokes against her swollen clit sent an overwhelming pulse of pleasure through her core, tension winding tighter and tighter. Rolan read her like one of their myriad books, assessing every twitch of her body for the moment when he could shatter her with a command.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he said.

Not an easy task, when every brutal thrust of his cock made Hesperia's eyes roll into the back of her head. But she did—kept gazing into those beautiful golden suns with all the ferocity of their celestial counterparts. She knew she was primed, then, as her chest swelled with such affection she almost sobbed. Rolan tightened his grip on her hips, the slap of skin the only sound to fill the anticipatory silence.

Until—

“Now, let go.”

His tone twisted her stomach, and Hesperia burned; a conflagration of body and soul. She lost herself in that heady climax, clinging tight to Rolan. Riding out her orgasm with the ceaseless bucking of hips, all without averting her gaze. He came a few moments later with a guttural moan and the sharp sting of nails against the soft flesh of her thighs.

Hesperia reached down to where they joined, felt the throb of his cock as he filled her, the thick excess coating her fingers. She was dizzy, her skin burning. The feral tangle of animalistic instinct only quietened as Rolan slumped against her, leaving her full and sated.

For a while they simply breathed the stale, heated air. Affection bloomed in the scant gap between their bodies. Rolan kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips. She returned them twice over until finally they devolved into laughter, as giddy as their first time. It was a relief, truly, to know she hadn’t lost him.

Rolan looked down at the clothes haphazardly tossed to the floor, the mess upon the desk; papers scattered and crumpled, not to mention the bodily fluids.

Surprisingly, he simply shrugged. “Oh well.”

“Such a positive outlook. A little distraction was all you needed.”

Rolan grinned, throwing a pair of lace undergarments at her. Hesperia dressed with a smile upon her face, but even in the afterglow, a faint anxiety still needled at her. But if part of her expected Rolan sat down to his work again, it was proven wrong the moment he scooped her up in his arms and marched towards their bedroom.

Depositing her on the bed, he crawled up the length of her body, pressing reverent kisses here and there until he drew level with her face.

“Thank you for reminding me there are things much more important to attend to in this tower than old books and unsettled debts.”