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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Grabbed a tag from darling @optimisticgrey, thank you!
Something very short and simple today, just to appreciate the softer version of Deia, who, still to my surprise, looks so different to her usual normal self. No dark mouth, no shadow around the eyes, no smirk sharp enough to cut. A version of her that only Gale gets to see.
Gale notices her before she notices him noticing. It is a small mercy. Deia stands beneath the pale spill of moonlight, her hair tied back from her face, black waves gathered without their usual silver chains and sharp little ornaments. No dark paint on her mouth. No shadow around her eyes. Nothing dramatized, nothing arranged to strike first.
She looks almost unarmored. The thought catches somewhere beneath his ribs and stays there, stubborn as a hook. He has seen her dressed in black silk and fire. He has seen her with blood on her face and a blade in her hand, with her horns crowned in silver and her smile honed to a killing edge. He has seen rooms bend around her simply because she entered them already knowing they would. This should be gentler. Easier. It is not.
“What?” she asks.
Gale blinks.
“Hm?”
Her eyes narrow, but there is no true threat in it.
“You are staring.”
“Yes,” he says, because lying seems both pointless and unwise.
Deia’s mouth shifts, reaching instinctively for a smirk and finding, perhaps, that she has left the sharper version of it elsewhere.
“Should I be offended?”
“No.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Possibly.”
That earns him a look.
“Gale.”
He steps closer. Slowly, though not with hesitation. He has learned the difference.
“I have seen you look like a queen of ruin,” he says softly. “Like a storm given manners. Like every warning in every old story decided to become beautiful out of spite.”
Her expression stills. His hand lifts, then pauses, asking the question without words. When she does not move away, he touches one finger lightly to the tip of her nose.
“But this,” he murmurs, “may be the most dangerous you have ever looked.”
Deia stares at him. Then, to his quiet triumph, color rises faintly beneath her pale skin.
“That was absurd.”
“It was sincere.”
“Worse.”
He smiles.
“I know.”
She looks down, briefly, as if the ground might offer her a weapon against tenderness. It does not. Traitorous ground.
“I am not dressed for anything,” she says.
“No.” His thumb brushes near her cheek, careful as the turn of a page. “That is rather the point.”
Her eyes lift again. There is something wary in them, and something painfully soft beneath the wariness.
“Do not make a holy thing of it.”
Gale’s smile fades into something quieter.
“I won’t.”
“You are about to.”
“I am about to be very brave and restrain myself.”
A small laugh escapes her before she can catch it. There they are: the dimples, sudden and devastating, appearing like two secrets the night has no right to keep. Gale’s breath leaves him.
“Gods,” he says, helplessly.
Deia points at him.
“No.”
“I said one word.”
“You said it like a man about to write poetry.”
“In my defense, I am suffering.”
“Good.”
But she steps closer when she says it, fingers curling lightly into the front of his shirt. Her smile lingers, shy and wicked and gone almost as soon as he sees it. Gale catches it anyway. He always does.
