#non-female lesbian

[moonlovesskunks]

"whats a male lesbian?"

take a wild guess.

[redditreceipts]

the state of r/actuallesbians

"Whoa it's so gross that some men feel entitled and think that they can turn lesbians straight with their dicks" "Yeah, but also please don't forget about the even more entitled straight men who think that they are lesbians"

[ordereduniverse]

“For all our boyish clothes and mannerisms... we women did not pass as men or boys... our point was not to be men; our point was to be butch and get away with it... A dyke learns much of her social function from other dykes... Whether she ever has the chance to enter a Gay bar or not, she imitates dykes, not men. She may identify with traditionally dyke figures: Diana the Huntress, Beebo Brinker, Gertrude Stein, Bessie Smith, Natalie Barney, Queen Christina, Joan of Arc, Amy Lowell, Oya, St Barbara, modern athletes, and other leaders... the social message she bears and is delivering is not ‘I am a man’ but rather ‘Here is another way to be a woman.’”

-- Judy Grahn

[hecates-corner]

Even though there’s not a single myth on it, I’d like to think Aphrodite couldn’t give a shit about her sexuality.

She gets bored one day, and particularly curious, and heads down to earth. As she wanders around the markets in her mortal disguise, her attention is caught by a kind woman buying apples. Aphrodite wanders over, curious. She’s so beautiful, not so much that she challenges the goddess’ beauty, obviously, but she’s got these delicate features mixed with a sharp nose that stand out to Aphrodite. She likes how she looks.

The woman notices her, smiles politely, but seems captivated by Aphrodite’s beauty, even in her mortal state. She greets her, and Aphrodite likes that. Her voice.

She reaches for an apple, so Aphrodite picks it up and studies it, as if it’s at all interesting to her. She twirls it in the light, then looks up, and extends it to the woman, offering it.

As the woman takes it carefully, she twines her fingers in Aphrodite’s, for just a moment. It couldn’t have been an accident.

So Aphrodite, smiling softly, asks for her name.

The woman gives it.

Days later, Aphrodite is lounging on Olympus, twirling a strand of her hair and thinking about that woman she’d met. She was like no other, beautiful and prim and yet so powerfully attractive. Aphrodite bids her lover farewell on Olympus, Ares is gone to fight another war. A small one, but a war nonetheless.

She is bored. And roused. She wishes to go and have some sort of good time, but does not know what precisely to do. With Ares gone, and the others truly uninteresting, she huffs in annoyance. Then a thought occurs, perhaps she should simply go and find that woman again. Or attend some festival, who knows?

So Aphrodite takes the form of a dove, and soars through the air, searching. Her eyes land on a stream, sensing there is someone there she wishes to meet.

When she lands, she transforms into the same maiden she had been days ago. She tousles her skirts, and slinks out from behind the tree she used as coverage, and spies a woman with her back turned.

The woman is tying back her hair, perhaps readying herself to wash her face, or take a swim. It is awfully balmy that day, so either is plausible. She turns, and is surprised by the sight of Aphrodite, in disguise.

She blinks, but smiles a moment later. “I knew I had not seen the last of you.”

Aphrodite raises a brow. “You were so sure?”

“I would believe so, goddess. For you must know I was not finished seeking your company.”

Aphrodite is surprised. No one speaks to her in such a way, or calls her on her bluff so quickly.

“You are hasty to supplicate me, dear.” She says, just so.

“No, I am not hasty.” The woman replies. “I am bold.”

Aphrodite smiles.

“If I were a goddess, perhaps,” she begins. “Would you have me?”

The woman chuckles. “I think I am much too consumed by my thoughts of you to care whether or not you are a goddess.” She glances Aphrodite up, and down. “I would have you only if you sought me.”

And the line of the stream between them is much too large, suddenly. Aphrodite reaches for the pins of her dress.

“Come.” She says, a light smile playing at her lips. “Let us swim. It is much too hot to be standing here exchanging polite words.”

When all is said and done, and Aphrodite lays back against the bank of the river, her sweat and exertion mixing with the cleansing drops of water slipping from her locks of hair, she holds the woman close to her. Skin upon skin, tender and simple, for a moment. Pleasant. Just to be here, just to be. Just.

She cards her fingers through the woman’s hair. “I am sure you wonder which goddess I am.”

The woman hums, her throat making a sweet buzz against Aphrodite’s breast. “Perhaps. Only so I may call your name again.” She runs a finger down the goddess’ arm, from shoulder to wrist, then lingering there. “But I have my wits about me.”

Aphrodite smiles. “Oh? And who might you seek me as?”

The woman takes Aphrodite’s hand, now. “I shall love you no matter who you may be, Aphrodite.”

It is not the last time they meet, nor the last time they lay together. They dabble in fields, laugh over wine, and speak to one another late in the night. As it would occur, the woman is a poet, a good one at that, and writes hymns for Aphrodite in her lustrous love for the goddess.

The woman holds such court in Aphrodite’s heart for so many years, that Aphrodite soon fears, actually fears, her death. She laments the fact that the woman is mortal, and will die. The woman does not.

“I have lived a lifetime dappled with you. I do not weep for it, such a blessing.”

But Aphrodite still feels the knowledge gnaw at her. She knows she cannot make a god of the woman, but she may be able to place her judgement in the realm of the dead.

Decades pass, still enjoying one another. The woman ages, and she does not. But they still find each other in the darkness, in the light.

One day, decades and decades later, the woman dies. A peaceful death, a life prolonged by the proximity and life of a goddess. It would have surprised her to know she did not die of a tragedy, like all other lovers of gods. Perhaps that is why she is left out in history.

Aphrodite weeps for her, as she did Adonis, and select other lovers that were as golden to her as her own divinity. She carves a tomb, in memorial, that over time crumbles and breaks. She carves her name into it, but in centuries, it will be lost.

Her battle is not over. She composed herself, and urges her way to a field, near a crack to Erebos.

It is springtime. She may call for her.

“Persephone.”

At the invocation of her name, Persephone comes to the call.

“Aphrodite.” She greets, a mix of warmth and ice.

Aphrodite pauses, the request tingling on her lips. “You may not care, but we have had our moments, dear Persephone.”

They could not be called friends, no. But they could not be denied of the ways of the flesh they had once- twice, perhaps, shared.

She continues at the silence. “I come to request a placement for a soul.”

Persephone raises a brow. “I see.”

“She is virtuous, and a good woman, besides. I believe you should place her in Elysium.”

Persephone narrows her eyes. “Give me her name. I may see what I can do.”

Aphrodite gives it. Persephone returns a blank look. Then it shifts to an amusement.

“She has found her eternal rest, I confess.”

Aphrodite frowns. “I know. That is the reason for my request.”

“You misunderstand.” Persephone laughs. “She had drank from the river Lethe twice over. She has lived three virtuous lives, with this one her third.”

Aphrodite’s eyes widen.

“She resides on the Isle of the Blessed?”

Persephone nods, smiling still. Aphrodite does not know why.

But her heart leaps. There is that, she thinks. She has lived three virtuous lives.

Then a thought crosses her mind. “What made her virtuous, in this one?”

Persephone smiles. “She will write a history, in years to come. Perhaps all because of one lover she had in particular.”

[solar-wing]

⚣ ATLA/LOK: The Four Nations & Homosexuality ☀️

I'm planning to write for my favorite characters from the Avatar universe again. Any OGs from my first account know I started posting content about ATLA and LOK, specifically Bolin and Mako, WAAAY before I started posting DC and Marvel content among others.

So I wanted to talk about something I found really interesting about homosexuality within the four nations and their attitudes towards it regarding acceptance and whether they embraced or turned away from it. And since we are soon getting a new Earth Avatar series, we might as well start with the Earth Kingdom.

EARTH KINGDOM

First, let's consider the element of the nation itself and what it symbolizes.

Earth is not just the element of strength, but also the element of endurance and rigidity. In simple terms, it's a tough and stubborn element.

Also, Earth is a hybrid element, meaning it can be used in defensive and offensive manners easily.

Concerning its nation, it can be shown how citizens of the Earth Kingdom would more than likely be very conservative and adverse to any change or diverting from societal standards in the norm.

They're stubborn and stuck in their ways, so they may not react the most positively to displays of affection between same-sex couples. But, it can work in both ways.

As mentioned, Earth-benders and citizens, in general, tend to be very stuck in their beliefs, meaning if one were to have a more liberal position on the matter of social and romantic relationships, they would be just as defensive and stubborn in that belief as someone more conservative and traditional.

This goes back to my saying that Earth itself is a hybrid element. A mix of defensive and offensive tactics. Just as much as people way attempt to push their beliefs onto others, they're just as quick to defend their beliefs and ideals.

I'd also argue region/location within the Earth Kingdom is a major factor. If we're talking places like small villages or cities like Omashu in the animated version, you may be met with pushback and intolerance. But, places like Kyoshi Island where its founder was a lesbian so likely had very liberal beliefs concerning such topics. Also Omashu from the live-action since that version portrays Oma & Shu as a lesbian couple, and even Ba Sing Se since big cities are proven to attract a more liberal-leaning population.

But, interestingly enough, in the comics, it's stated that the Earth Kingdom is the slowest to accept change, and their default is still heterosexuality. Obviously, this comes from the rigidness and stubbornness of the Earth element itself. So even if Ba Sing Se has a more 'liberal' or rather "diverse" crowd, doesn't mean that crowd is automatically open to homosexuality. Ideally, the only known place in the Earth Kingdom where you could experience the most acceptance and grace from others would be Kyoshi Island

In summary, on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the most accepting & embracing of homosexual relationships and 1 being the opposite, I originally was going to give the Earth Kingdom a 5, but remembering how it's stated in the comics that they are the slowest to accept change which checks out, they got bumped down to a 2.

It is a very big nation and thus has the potential to plant different seeds of belief and opinion, however, it's clear in the show how rigid and otherwise, unshakeable denizens of the Earth Kingdom can be. They have their beliefs, and they strongly stick to them.

Even with someone like Avatar Kyoshi who had to go and make a whole separate Island where she and her people could live in peace and prosperity without certain influences affecting them, they still have yet to come around to the idea that other people live with different interests and beliefs, and that there is truly no 'default' for even one person.

Acceptance Rating: 2/10

FIRE NATION

Starting with a focus on the element itself again, fire is the element of power, as described by Iroh. It can burn things in its path, but can also give life. In simple terms, it's an element of strong will and desire to expand and consume, literally and metaphorically.

Fire is also mainly an offensive element, with the capability of modifying certain offensive moves into defensive ones.

Its nation's citizens and benders heavily share these traits with their element. They tend to be willful and proud, and while that doesn't necessarily equal being close-minded, pride can very well lead to stubbornness.

This is evidenced strongly by the political government of the Fire Nation, with its monarchy power having complete and total influence and control over its citizen's lifestyles and choices. If one Fire Lord feels strongly about something and makes it into law, another Fire Lord can come two generations later and reverse and change it.

This is shown in the nation's history, where homosexuality was actually tolerated (I hate using that word) in the Fire Nation for a long time before Fire Daddy, ahem, I mean Fire Lord Sozin's rule. It was during his reign as Fire Lord that Sozin outlawed same-sex relationships and marriages among the Fire Nation and its citizens.

Some speculate it was due to the clear pressure he faced being the sole heir to the throne since his sister was born a non-bender, something that was frowned upon in the royal family. A potential heir to the Fire throne had to be a firebender, with no exceptions. Therefore, Princess Zeisan was allowed more freedom and control in her life than he was, as evidenced by her embracing Air Nomad culture and being confirmed as a lesbian.

It was common knowledge that Sozin and Zeisan had a very antagonistic and tense relationship with each other, despite them being siblings. They were pitted against each other from a young age which caused a rivalry between them. So, it's completely possible to speculate that Sozin implemented the law to spite his sister who fell in love with Sister Rioshon, an Air Nun.

it's also completely possible to theorize that Sozin harbored homosexual tendencies and feelings himself, especially towards his best friend, Roku we all know was the Fire Avatar before Aang. Again, his being a royal prince and next in line for the throne threw a wrench in this since Sozin was expected to marry a woman and produce an heir. So his potential feelings for his best friend could never be explored due to his duties and responsibilities to his nation.

So since Sozin couldn't have what or who he truly wanted, no one could, and thus, same-sex love and marriage were banned. And that didn't change no matter where you went in the nation unlike the Earth Kingdom where you could go from village to village and city to city and the rules would be completely different depending on where you were.

Again, fire is the element of power and will. And if it was the will of the Fire Lord to ban same-sex relationships in the nation entirely, then everyone had to fall in line. Meaning the door was opened for more conservative and traditionalist views to be voiced in opposition to same-sex relationships.

While some may have had differing beliefs and ideals, they more than likely had to keep it to themselves, especially among the nobility. This can lead to harboring feelings of anger and resentment, rather than love and acceptance, causing people to react harshly to any displays of such affection and behavior, just like Sozin.

As I said, fire as an element itself is primarily offensive in nature. Reflecting on its people, and especially its governing body, this is clearly shown by the notion that one person's opinion and belief can be pushed onto everyone around him if he or she so decrees it.

With that, the Fire Nation gets a 3/10 on the scale. Again, in the past, they were at minimum tolerant of it. which is not much if we're being honest. Tolerant actually is kind of insulting. But, after Sozin's rule, that tolerance more than likely dwindled and hasn't improved much following his reign as far as we know.

I'd like to think that Zuko as the Fire Lord, having seen much of the world and all its different dimensions and lifestyles people have lived, he'd at some point in his reign reverse the ruling, but that's a far-fetched hope knowing these writers and creators (no shade...mostly).

Acceptance Rating: 3/10

AIR NOMADS

Air is the element of freedom. It's flexible and lacks restriction, moving in any direction it desires. And because of its lack of constraint, it becomes easily adaptable in any scenario, whether it's evasion, offense, defense, etc.

However, the element of air is primarily and almost purely used as a defensive and evasive practice among its population, due to its nation as a whole choosing to live as pacifists. But, do not be misled. As mentioned, air as an element can be just as powerful offensively as it is defense-wise.

Just as their element, the benders of the Air Temples were very open and flexible people. As monks and nomads, they chose to forego many earthly and physical connections, seeking spiritual enlightenment. Because of this, there were never any non-benders in the Air Nomads.

Any child born from an Airbender was an Airbender themselves. Also, due to their style of life and spirituality, they were very adaptive to any situation they were placed in, making them very open to any and all change around them.

While they lived by the teachings of the monks and masters of the Air Nomads, they lived freely and openly, just like their element. The most restriction they had was as children or masters/monks that lived at the temples, males and females were not allowed to live together in the same space.

I'm not sure if this applies to temples as a whole as I've seen conflicting information. Some say the rule applies to temples as a whole, which would mean the Northern and Southern Temples were only inhabited by male Airbenders, and the respecting Eastern and Western temples were inhabited by female Airbenders.

But, I do remember a specific scene from Avatar, during the 2nd season when Appa was lost, and he had a memory of when he was a baby bison, and he and Aang met for the first time. I remember the monk facilitating this was a female Airbender, so that's why I'm not exactly sure what is concrete.

But, it does make sense as in many of Aang's flashbacks to his time at the Southern Air Temple, we mainly only ever saw male Airbenders. Thus, many have speculated that this specific rule would inadvertently encourage exploration and curiosity for these young Airbenders regarding their sexuality as they matured and eventually left the temples as adults and master Airbenders.

Also, on this, no child from the Air Temples was raised by their parents. They were only raised by the monks, enforcing that common belief and practice they all had. While they of course had their own identities, they were all taught the same thing from an early age, if an Adult Airbender met and had a child with someone from a different nation, that child likely being an Airbender would be sent to the Air temples to be raised by the monks.

All that to say, Airbenders would be the exact opposite of conservative. They technically wouldn't even be liberal since, again, they detach themselves from earthly limitations in favor of a higher spirituality.

So, since they don't subscribe to earthly practices or beliefs, they would be the most accepting nation of homosexuality and same-sex relationships. It's not in their nature or belief to judge others either so they wouldn't show any hostility or intolerance to LGBTQ+ people and relationships.

Just like their element, they practice freedom and adaptability to the world around them. And just as air is primarily used in defensive manners, they still will defend their beliefs and practices, they just avoid direct confrontation, preferring evasive maneuvers.

Just a quick note, the Air Nomads are what I like to think of as the example of how this world should have been. I read another column that detailed how the creators of the show ultimately created institutionalized homophobia because they couldn't imagine a world without it, and that's in large part due to the heavy influence of Western, colonial, Christian, and to be quite frank, European imperialism on the show's writing.

It's a fact that's becoming increasingly more well-known. Before European and Christian colonization/imperialism, many cultures and communities were not just accepting of same-sex relationships and LGBTQ+ identities, they embraced it! While there were definitely pedophilic relationships that were wrong and grotesque no matter what time period it was, same-sex relationships were just as normal as opposite-sex ones. There was no "default."

So in simple terms, the Air Nomads accept and embrace everyone, no matter who they are or how they live. As long as they don’t wrong and harm others, and even then, they see everyone as equal and deserving of respect and love. And that's what our society should be based on. Of course, they were killed off in an entire genocide, which, say what you will and think what you think, but the one culture that accepts and loves everyone as they are being killed off...ironic, don't ya think?

Acceptance Rating: 10/10

WATER TRIBES

Finally, water is the element of change. Like air, it adapts to its circumstances, but more fluidly and gracefully. Yet, unlike air, it relies on the flow of energy, turning its defense into an offense and back. In whatever scenario that sees fit, a Waterbender can change their liquid offense into a solid defense, or turn a solid offense into a gas defense.

This clearly makes the water an element suitable for either an offensive or defensive strategy. Its unique ability to change its form to fit its circumstances gives its user an extreme advantage in combat or any other risky scenario.

Now, even with this in mind, ironically enough, the people of the Water Tribe are not the most in sync with their element as far as when it comes to living standards.

While yes, in combat, they adapt and adjust accordingly to their needs and goals in the fight, in regular practice, they're more conservative and less open to change than you would initially believe.

Also, as confirmed in the LOK comics, while the Water Tribes are not openly homophobic, they are still lacking in accepting and embracing the concept that there is not one rule that applies to all when it comes to who they love. Which, when you think about it, checks out.

The Northern Tribe operated heavily off a patriarchal society as we saw in the first season, and it took Paku nearly getting his ass whooped by a teenage girl who was the grand-daughter of the woman he loved but refused to wed since it was arranged for them to start to change their ways. Even if the Southern Tribe was a bit ahead of their Northern counterpart in this sense, they still suffered from the restricting roles they placed on themselves concerning gender.

Giving props to Fire Nation and Air Nomads, they never had restrictive rules on who could fight in battle, even if the Nomads as mentioned tended to avoid conflict. However, the Earth Kingdom and Water Tribes both practiced and thus, were limited by their rules that men were only allowed to serve in the army and in the guard.

Of course, we've already discussed the Earth Kingdom is the slowest to accept change, but for the Water Tribes, this is a bit unnatural, and if this is how they act regarding gender, it says a lot about how they would react when it comes to same-sex relationships.

So, it's understandable why Kya advises Korra and Asami to keep their relationship to themselves. But, I personally don't believe they should. Creating change means people are going to be uncomfortable. Oh well, boo-hoo, they'll get over it.

But, this does at least check out with the hybrid offense/defense nature of water bending. People of the Water Tribe will stand their ground and defend what they choose to believe in and love. And while they may not openly go out of their way to push their beliefs onto others like those in the Fire Nation, it doesn't mean they don't still have ways have doing so. Like water, I imagine their approach to such a subject can vary.

With that, Water Tribes get a 2.5/10. They're ahead of the Earth Kingdom in the sense that they've realized excluding women from fighting hurts them more than it helps them. Also, it's highly plausible that if a woman can learn how to fight, a man can learn how to heal, but I digress. However, they're still lower than the Fire Nation since this is less of a government-forced ideology and more of a societal norm they place on themselves.

Acceptance Rating: 2.5/10

I like doing analysis like this. If anyone thinks of other topics to discuss and do a deep dive into, send it in my asks!

[widowsofchaos]

could you please do prompt 168 with carol x fem reader? if you’re comfortable writing that of course:)

𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐨𝐭

synopsis: Trying to find peace at your job’s gala, but a familiar haunting shadow finds you once more.

pairing: dark!Carol Danvers x brown!fem!reader

ao3 // modern au // 5k words.

warnings: dubious wlw smut (forced stimulation, vaginal fingering), stockholm syndrome, toxic established relationship, domestic violence, mention of childhood abuse.

a/n: Carol’s outfit reference. title is a reference to the song, Mary by Alex G. requested 168. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” from this dialogue prompt list. dog metaphors, because I must write pain. Channeled my inner amy dunne for Carol. I’m sorry that I’m just finishing this 2 years later, but I hope whoever requested this, I hope you see this! <3

“She became the parent, the lover, the friend you’ve always craved for—- and yet, here you are,”

The truth can sting, just the sharp tip of a knife, flickering at the raw flesh. Poking and prodding till there’s small plots of ichor forming.

“——broken…” Her index finger arched, halting her words, still a vivid memory, “…. but not beyond repair.”

A scoff escapes.

“What is love without hate, I guess.” Unconsciously it spewed from your lips, the vowels felt like acidic vomit. A pregnant silence arose.

That all knowing head tilt, with those observant eyes—- always earned uncomfortable tension within you.

“Love isn’t meant to be confused with hate.”

The cigarette burns slow between your clenched fingers, nursing three fingers deep. Brown liquor swishes against the carved rocks glass, its clear silver grooves twinkles under the gala’s vermilion hues.

Fragments of words compulsively knock against the walls of your brain; as you mull at the gala’s open bar. A scorned woman who just wants peace, and quiet. Lingering stains of hurt that can last a lifetime settles to silence for once in a long time.

Showered an ugly duckling with affections, and built the pillars of security. Growing up in a childhood filled with anxiety and fear of attachments, lingering stains of abuse from the very beings who birthed you into this world.

She cleaned you, bandaged the scars, and assured you that she was the only one who adored you—- persisted that she was the only one who would.

Now, fighting violently in the legal battlefield of divorce, these past weeks have been mentally exhausting —- all whilst handling the burdening responsibilities of your profession.

Your very mind and hands helped craft this sophisticated gallery.

Your boss, Mr. Laufeyson, opened a new exhibit in the National art museum—- Norse history, one of his niche fixations. A man birthed on Norwegian soil, but raised in the monarchal land of England.

An established man who often seeks to explore the rich culture of his ancestors with much sophisticated adoration, and esteem. The Norse exhibit is now the largest section of the institution, with vast collections of rare artifacts protected behind hard stainless glass.

He breathed down your neck for long weeks, you had the task of restoring each piece that had been brought in, nearly breaking your damn back from all the hovering.

A gala bustling with a sea of middle-class folk, and self-proclaimed aristocrats of New York. You sought solace at the open bar, smoking a stogie—- and slipping into the whiskey.

It wasn’t a preferred choice, but it helps give a quick kick to your nerves. Seeking solitude away from pressures to gallant with faux professionalism, and an particular noisy friend, who should be presenting the Norse gods section.

Earlier, she was pestering with a thousand questions flying by the mouth —- if you ever gave thought to rekindling with Carol.

Dissociating into a mindless static, flickering at your clear square nails, as your cigarette burns slowly. At first, the mention of this exhibit with your boss months ago sent you into a frenzy of joy, but now—- it’s a dreadful experience.

All you long for is to start your weekend, to cuddle with your daug—-

“What an incredible scent you have—-”

Oh God, no.

“—- is that Histoires de Parfums, 1969?”

Fuck.

“I haven’t been around that perfume in a long time.”

It’s as if she can smell you a mile away.

A sensual, purring voice whispers near you. A shadowing silhouette eclipses the shimmering ceiling lights from your peripheral vision.

Your lips wrinkle, restraining the foreboding tears of frustration. Tightly nodding, swallowing a sob. Your breathing becomes heavier.

A hum, “It really smells wonderful.” With precision, the shadow sits onto the empty seat beside you.

“Thank you.” A forced smile curls at your mouth.

“With that scent, I’m surprised you’re not being hounded by the men here tonight.” A subtle wordplay, are you looking for anyone tonight?

As if your mind has forgotten all the bad, and reminisces on the good, all the fun, all the beauty that once blossomed.

“It’s not men I'm looking for.” You whisper, snuffing the cigarette into a provided ash-tray. A creamy hand strokes your knuckles, and your skin shivers under your blouse.

A jolt to your groin, and your breath hitches. All she can do is just touch you, and it’s as if you can get on your knees, and forgive her for everything.

“Why?”

You can see that pearly grin, from the corner of your eye, teasing and twisting.

“They’re too easy to hunt?”

You exhale a chuckle, eyes still trained onto the glistening counter.

“They bore me.”

“So—” Her voice lulls as a moan, “—- see anyone worthwhile?” Her fingers curl around your glass, twirling it by the rim. Your lipstick stain faces her direction, and bold as always, she lifts for a sip. Connecting the lip stain to hers, her eyes never leave yours.

It’s not tacky, nor forceful. How she moves is as if it is her nature.

Your eyes gaze over your shoulder, taking a full look. Finally, to drink in the force of nature that is your estranged wife—- Carol.

Her blonde tresses cascade on her shoulders, milky breasts on display. A pristine, black dress, that cuts and splits at the chest hem, polished nails, and clean skin. Her dress halts near her knees.

“Well, I have my eye on a blonde tonight.” You say timidly. Tenderly, your eyes glance fleetingly, a quick trace over Carol’s bodice, nearly losing your composure.

A pregnant pause.

That pretty pink mouth stretches smugly, as if the cat that got the cream. The hooks caught the flesh.

“You like blondes.”

Her tone lingers as an open question, guising the truth.

“Just one in particular.”

Sinking now, the hooks are tugging.

“Really?” Carol leans, her eyes hooded. “Which one?” Pretending to scan her eyes across the ocean of people.

But your eyes remain fixated on her. As if you were a lost puppy, just gazing at its human. Lucidly, influcating between the spaces of yearning, and guilt.

How at ease Carol is, as if nothing was wrong. The charming woman, the woman you thought she was. The woman she wanted you to think she was.

“The one in the black dress.” You say softly, and defeated brown eyes.

Carol’s eyes gaze back at you from the corner of her oculus, downcasting with a mirth, humming a chuckle. “Don’t get too close to that one, she’ll singe your fingertips and have you on your knees.” She shakes her head, an enticing warning.

A dangerous but delicious fruit hanging at your reach. She wants you to take the bait, urging you to—- to get you back in her grasp, and if she does, she won’t let you go.

This game, a cat and mouse play, is all too familiar. Playing as strangers, attracted together by lust, and curiosities—- the type of curiosity to feel the other’s flesh, subtle carnality. Act out, with playful words, pretend to be different people.

It slowly suffocates you, a twang in your chest, a reminder that this isn’t normal.

She isn’t normal.

Carol can be an array of personalities, she can be the doting wife, the whore in bed, the mother—- she can be the bitch with a violent mouth. Different faces for different folk, no one knows her true self, and she’s good at it —- real good.

So, when you tried to seek help from friends, they couldn’t believe it, nor did they want to. You’re not surprised that Carol snuck into the gala—- your co-worker, Maria, who you thought was a true friend —- the matchmaker from hell, let her in, unknowingly allowing the terror onto you.

But, that’s no surprise. Maria has been Carol’s right hand since their days in the Air Force.

None of your friends believe you—- and, it’s hurtful to admit, you’re too scared to speak about all the hurt Carol made you endure over the years.

Barely spoke of the discomfort Carol used against you, and all your shared friends thought you misinterpreted. All saying that Carol is just head-strong, and that you two are perfect together.

Carol feeds the fire with a ‘She’s just going through a tough time.’

Boundaries aren’t respected, everyone trying to push you back together, inviting Carol in social events —- to the point where you didn’t go out anymore, and just drowned in work.

“I like challenges.” Carol softly leans in, her breath fans the bare skin of your shoulder, “All the more fun when I win.” Her voice drops low, to a wispy whisper.

Her body heat engulfs you, and your eyes droop with haziness for a slick second. You can’t—- not again. No matter how intoxicating she can be, how delicious, it’s not worth your peace.

You’re too drunk for this.

“This cat is too tired to entertain.”

“Who said you were the cat?” Carol’s brow arches, halting you in your step. Carol’s infliction hardens, from the corner of your oculus, you can see the clench of her jawline. That pretty mouth morphed into a restrained frown, the same one you see before a punishment.

An offense has been made.

“I didn’t realize the roles were switched.”

The mask slips.

It’s always her way, her rules. Because no matter how clever, how coy the mouse can be, the cat always wins.

“You’re getting brave on me?” Carol asks.

And now the mask has been dropped.

“I think it’s best I leave.” You quickly collect yourself, a bit wobbly from the alcohol. Leaning against the counter to regain your composure, trying to stand upright.

Not this time. You won’t fall for her charm.

Carol sucks her teeth, “You’re seriously going to leave? Aren’t you tired of this childish bullshit?” Crossing her arms against her chest, lips wrinkling into a scowl. Carol talks as if scolding a child.

Your body twists in a haste, “My bullshit?” Your teeth are gritting harshly, hissing. Angry eyes pierce over the hill of your shoulder, fingernails digging into the leather of your purse; if not the leather, her eyes preferrable.

But this is a place of work, no matter how elegant the night is, you will scream if you have to—- just to escape her. You click your tongue, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I mean I’m usually amused by your brattiness,” Carol laughs sarcastically. “But, now it’s gotten too far.” Her fingertips graze your arm, toying with you, soft and playful—— her fingers grasp your arm in a clutch, earning a whine.

Her eyes are hooded, nearly tugging you downwards. A whine bubbles at the pit of your throat, too terrified to even move.

“You have to come back home.” Carol says, a strain to be sweet, but it’s as if a monster tries to be human. “I miss you.” She purrs, but her eyes … are cold, and agitated.

You remain silent, closing your eyes shut, gliding down in your seat. “Carol… have you signed the divorce papers, yet?” Your eyes stay glued to the sticky counter.

Carol chuckles, “You’re going to try to talk business to me, and you can’t even look me in the eye?” Her baby pink polished nails thump against the bar, thump thump thump.

“I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“And neither do I.” She sips her drink, smirking into the cup, “But it seems my wife likes to play games.” So light, so sarcastic, chastising you as if this was a running joke on your end.

“Carol, for fucks sake.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, “You made me go crazy.” You bite on those words, full teeth. Fingers curling into makeshift claws, vowels spilling as acidic vomit.

“Controlled me, like I was your puppet.” Your fingers curl and slither in gesture. “Manipulated me against the world, against our friends.” Your mouth opened again, the words weighing heavy against your mouth, but a hum interrupted.

“Look up at me when you talk.” Carol says, your eyes peer up through your lashes, owlishly. “If you’re going to lie, you might as well make it convincing.” She licks her lips, tasting the remnants of her liquor.

“I —- I—” you can’t find the words to even respond. You stare at her incredulously, she will never admit to it. Even now, she has you questioning your own sanity, if it was even worth fighting against her.

It’s not worth screaming about it. Not anymore.

“I have to go.” Swiftly, you stand up, with a bated breath.

“That’s how you talk to the mother of your child?”

Stiffening, as the hairs that align a cat’s spine, “Don’t you dare!” Your index finger pointing, shouting in a hush. “Stop using Kamala against me—” your voice wavers, throat nearly choking a sob, “You did enough of that in court.” Big brown eyes sheening wet, the last nerve shot.

Trying to maintain a level of calm, eyes fluttering back and forth around, seeing if anyone has witnessed your outburst.

“I don’t even have to do that,” Carol’s open palm gestures to your rigid stance, “she can see perfectly fine how erratic you’ve been.” Carol hisses, making your nose scrunch up.

Kamala adores — idolizes— Carol. So memorized by her strong, willful mother, since she was a waddling baby.

You haven’t dared utter a bad word about Carol in-front of Kamala, fearing to shatter the fragile bubble you curated as a shield for her. You wouldn’t let her witness the court meetings, especially the negotiations of joint custody.

By every fiber of your being, you’ve tried to make this separation as discreet as possible—- but Carol has been a devil, bulldozing those efforts. To make you appear as the bad parent.

You can’t stand her lawyer, Carol hired one who hails from Hell’s Kitchen—- fitting since he’s a thorn upon your rib. Subtlety bringing up your mental health, questioning your abilities as a mother —- no doubt, Carol was chewing his ear off about your past.

All Kamala knows is that her mothers are splitting up, with foreign lawyers, and that she now has to split weekends—- those pained brown eyes, her puffed cheeks, it kills you deeply—- all the guilt weighs on you, it feels as if you’re to blame for all the problems.

“You’ve taken so much from me, Carol.” You lean in, kneeling at her eye level. “My dignity, my peace— shit— even my sanity.” Your body anxiously fidgeting, breath quickening.

“But I will not, let you take my child away from me.” Your fingers dive into your purse, fumbling with irate, snagging the last cash you had—- with the finality of this conversation, slamming the money onto the marble countertop.

You carried Kamala, incubated inside you for nine months, fed her from your breast—- you will not lose her, not over your cold dead body.

“Goodnight, Carol.”

Sharply, you turn on your heel, leaving Carol without turning back. Walking with a gait, faking confidence, but truly at your core, a gnawing sense of uneasiness.

-

The corridor stretches as a miniature maze, the more you descend out of the gala, the less crowded it is. Turning left and right, trying to find the exit.

The ambiance is of grainy gray, the tinted blurred windows are foggy with the night’s shadows.

The echoes of clicking heels are faint, your mind doesn’t register, as your own feet and mind are stuck on auto-pilot.

“There she goes again,” an agitated voice snags your attention, brows furrowing, “always acting like the little victim.”

Not granted the chance to realize, in a flash, just as quick as you turned your head, rough hands grab you by the curve of your shoulders, throttling you against the chilled wall pavement.

Earning a hiss, and a gasp, stinging pain births and stretches along the muscles of your spine. Quickly, your fingers fruitlessly try to claw at Carol’s, but all it does is make her more enraged.

Carol thrashes you once more against the wall, and another for good measure; airy gasps of pain escapes you, tears beading at your lashes. That militant discipline seeps from her pores, it’s not a stranger to you, the rough edges of her touch is a familiar bruise.

“It may have worked with the rest of the world,” Carol barks in your face, nose to nose, “but it’s not going to work with me.”

Sniffling, your chin wobbles, trying to restrain a sob that burns your throat raw.

Carol hums, that tut of a sympathetic mother, “Look at us.” Her thumbs rubbing your shoulders, pressing on the blooming bruises. “I don’t like it when we fight.

Eerily, she influcates from predator to savior, “You always get erratic, and you know it upsets me.” Leaning in, her pink lips press a kiss on a falling tear.

“Where’s my special girl?” Carol whispers. Fear is beating inside of you, buzzing as tv static. Staring at Carol through your hooded lids, terrified, and confused.

Carol purrs, awaiting for an answer.

“I’m here.” Barely a murmur, you speak softly.

Carol thrives off of her aggression. But it’s not the traditional masculinity that some women possess in their personalities. She feels it’s the only gift her father ever gave her.

“It’s very cute that you try to fight me.” Carol mocks, her knuckles stroke your cheek. Carol hums, her eyes tracing over every facial feature.

“Let me see if she missed me.”

A string of no no no slip from you meekly.

One of Carol’s hands graze over your shoulder, twirling her fingers into your hair—- gripping between her fingers tightly. To then cup the nape of your neck, her thumb pressing slightly over your pulse point.

As she has you pinned by the scruff, her other hand flows down your cavlices, to your clothed breast—- she snags the collar to expose skin.

Groping a handful of your tit, she mutters still so soft, traveling down the path of your navel—- with a quick precision, Carol snatches your groin; more like clawing.

A sharp gasp escapes you, and all she does is laugh.

A quick glance at the end of the hallway, praying that nobody turns the corner. Carol snickers. “Afraid someone will catch us?” You exhale a huff, nose flaring.

“I remember you used to be quite adventurous.”

“That’s when I was young and stupid.”

Her eyes narrow, pinching your vagina in her hand even tighter. With her knee, she wedges her thigh between your shaky legs, spreading you more open.

Slithering her hand through the stitched fabric, her knuckles stroking your sensitive skin. Your breathing becomes heavier, and all she does is smirk.

Moving your panties to the side, Carol’s makes herself home to your body. Ashamed to feel yourself grow wet, and Carol moans.

“It seems she missed me.”

All unbridled frustration hits the hilt, you cry in a stretched whine, thrashing in her hold. In need to escape, you wanted to go home, away from her.

All these weeks of trying to flee from her, do the right thing to gain custody, to live a good life, give your daughter stability —- all of it goes down the drain by her simple touch.

Beating on her arms with fists, slapping and trying to knee her in a weak spot. Carol’s eyes darken—- as if she’s bored of the insolence.

Carol pushes her weight onto you, pinning to the wall. And her fingers don’t cease on her assault.

“I hate you.” You choke on a wail, your head tilting up as a child.

“I’ve saved you.” An expert circular motion of her fingertips, sending a jolt to your bundle of nerves.

“Who else can say that?” Carol leans in, her head tilting, as her lips meet your cheek.

Softly, she kisses you, caressing and grazing against the skin of your cheek.

“I took care of you, and you just want to leave?” Carol’s pink tongue slithers between her lips, licking and nibbling. Boldly, her fingers dove between your folds, playing with your wetness.

“You wanted a savior, baby, I’m it.” The bridge of Carol’s nose traces yours, humming at the wet sensation of your tears. “You were nothing before me—-” another finger plunging inside you, “—- and you will be nothing after me.”

“I — I — would rather be alone.” You say with a stammer, lips wet with tears. Mouth curling into a brave scowl, regaining some bravery, “I’ll be fine.”

Carol’s face leans a little back, tilting her head mockingly. “When I say nothing after me, I mean it—-” Carol’s teeth bare as fangs, “you’ll be buried six feet deep, before I let you go.” Her fingers grip the nape of your neck, tugging you in.

“No one can ever have you.” She whispers.

Your eyes are owlish, you don’t doubt her…. her time in the boot camp was extensive, you felt her trained strength many times—- she loves like a knife. Many bruises healed over the years.

Not brutal beatings, but very handsy.

A glimmer of fear suffocates you, your body keels as a leashed dog.

Her fingers slither against your peach fuzz, slipping between your mound, toying with your wetness. Splitting your velvety folds apart, Carol vulgarly strokes you with her fingers sloppily, staining the hem of your panties.

Carol grinds herself onto your thigh, you can feel a wet spot pooling at her silk panties. Your fingers are digging into her forearms. A rough dance of humping and grinding, both reaching for a high.

Your wet walls can’t help but suck her inside, clenching tight. Fiercely plunging in and out—— it’s been some time. Since the last time, you were touched. It’s bordering on painful, a bit tight.

You did entertain another for a while. A woman you met at a bar. Short dark chestnut hair, a soft posh english accent, a bold yet cheeky mouth. She said her name was G’iah, you never met anyone with such a name.

Despite the attraction, the idea of offering yourself physically was too overwhelming. But, the emotional energy was wonderful. It was a breath of fresh air.

You just couldn’t bring yourself to love another.

Skin screaming for touch, yet your heart is trying to fight back. The flesh only reminisces the good, but all the hurtful memories are chained to your mind.

Carol’s mouth ajar, hovering over the meat of your cheek. Your face scrunches, eyes tight, a whine boils at your throat. She breathes a chuckle. She always finds amusement in your misery.

Carol loves to play God—- the Old Testament God. In the carnal sense, and in spite. Worship her, and only need her, obey every command, but commit a sin—- and she shall see to it, that her pettiness will rule over your life.

Her fingers spread, your slick connects to her fingertips, flickering the gossamer thin threads between her expert fingers, diving into you.

Her teeth grazes your cheek, her warm breath cascading against your mouth. Torn between closing your thighs to stop her, or thrust your hips into her hand.

Carol’s tongue slips out, and kitten licks your parted lips. Her pink tongue licks your canines, inhaling your breath. Sweet scent of liquor coats your tongue, Carol suckles into her mouth, moaning at the taste.

A lewd pop comes from Carol pulling back on your tongue, as her fingers curl harsher. Bordering on pain, the pleasure is electric. Pulsing through you, as her thumb toys with your swollen clit.

Her moans are animalistic, you can feel her pussy splitting, a sensation of silk and waxed bare skin. Her clit is grinding fully onto your thigh. It feels so damn good.

A part of you wants her to cum on you. To use you.

Carol’s face tilts away from yours. Her brown eyes swirl with malice, narrowing for a split moment. A smile stretches.

“Kamala would be so hurt to lose her mommy—” Carol’s words earn a mean eye from you, but all she does is laugh humorlessly. “How could you abandon our child?”

Like a stab to your heart, Carol just twists the edge deeper. Her fingers still deep inside you, clenching in need for her to finish— to get you right at the precipice.

“I would never leave Kamala,” you speak with a strain, a rough slice at your throat. “I love her.” Bordering on pleading, your eyes water-sunk.

“Then why do you make her cry?”

“What?”

“Every night she asks why her mom isn’t home,” Carol leans more of her weight on your belly. Her fingers fucking you harshly, hitting that sweet spot so perfectly. Your juices are now soaking down her hand.

“She cries till she falls asleep. She thinks you hate her.”

Torn between rutting your hips into her palm, grinding and fucking her fingers as if it was one of Carol’s toys —- and the need for space, to free yourself from these clutches.

Salty tears fall to your wrinkling lips, shaking from silent tears.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Carol says, her voice smooth and affectionate. Her lips pouted, “We can be together again.” Her shiny blonde hair kisses her lashes, in the grainy city lights, she looks innocent.

“Don’t you want to be a family again?”

She pushes her fingers further, slowly playing with your clit— and then stops, edging you. She can feel your spongy walls nearly spasming. Carol knows how to play the strings of your flesh.

Damn her.

“I do.” Your voice gurgles in a sob.

You know she’s tricking you… and you enjoy it.

In some deep seeded—- an absolutely fucked —- part of you, relishes in it. Because it’s all you know. But, it’s that glimmer of tenderness, the kisses, and honeyed words that pulls you back in.

Back to mutilate yourself on her knife over and over again. And isn't that what love is? Carol would say, time and time again, after the dust settles from her fits of rage.

Wet squelching floods your ears, echoing throughout the empty hallway. Your hand trails to her waist, gripping her dress, roughly grazing the smooth skin of her waist.

Legs entangled, and Carol’s thrusts are getting faster, sloppy. Her moans are getting high-pitched, away from primal and more girlish.

You cling to her, in this moment, you just need to feel anything. And you know she needed it too.

A burst of euphoria, hanging onto each other, as if both would fall apart. Carol felt it, how you spasmed on her fingers. Clenching so tight, trapping her hand for a moment.

Bated breaths dance against each other, hair flying by the breeze of huffing. Yours are gasps of relief.

In a desperate plea, you reach for a kiss, but Carol pulls away.

“I hope you learned something …” Carol hisses, her fingers stroking between your slippery folds, agitating your over-stimulated clit. The meat of your thigh quivers, tailbone pinching as you try to mesh into the wall, far from her.

Carol takes her fingers out, leaving behind an empty feeling—- like a void. Without blinking, Carol unabashedly suckles on her two fingers, tasting you.

“I hope you make the right decision.” Carol whispers against her tips. Pulling her warm weight off of your bodice, a chill sweeps against the tepid sense of your belly.

Carol hums for a moment with a stony face. She tugs on the collar of your dress, the top of your bosom exposed —- it was a stiff gesture.

Without a word, Carol posed her spine, and walked away, a snide side-eye.

Leaving you behind with an ache between your thighs, love bites across your chest, and fresh bruises. Left behind in the chilled hallway, and in wrinkled attire —- as if you were a used whore.

Your head falls, crying into your chest. Your fingers pulling your dress down, your inner thighs tender. Your fingertips touch the wet spot Carol left behind near your knee.

A pause.

It’s wrong, but you crave her taste. Suckling your fingertips into the cave of your mouth.

You can still smell her fragrance lingering—- and yet, you crave it, hoping it clung to your dress.

-

Timid footfalls carry you through the high-end residential hallway. Bated breath, and in wrinkled clothes, you lift and loosely drop your luggage in your grip. Pacing back and forth, trying to salvage any scrap of courage to knock.

Your head is bowing down, chin to chest. A stop in-front of the door. The reasoning motivating your surrender blurs—- is it for Kamala only, or is it also that a loyal dog who always forgives?

A silent white flag has been waived.

A lonely dog always comes back.

Dull steps creep closer, syncing with the beat of your heart. One unlock, and another follows. Defeat seeps from your pores, a bone-rattling warning siren echoing in the rush of your ears.

The door knob slowly twists, as if she’s mocking you. But not a second more, the door creaks open. Green eyes blink back with mirth, and a smile.

No words are needed.

Carol hums, stroking your hair, fingers gliding down the terrain of your neck, guiding you inside by the nape of your neck.

-

Awaiting on the bed is a silk nightie, and skincare, curated by Carol’s choice. Pristine, wrinkled-free silk. Not one flaw in sight.

She knew you would come back. A cocky woman, and yet she’s never wrong. A stir of irate coils in your belly, but it’s snuffed before it can disrupt.

-

In the dark, you tip-toe down the hall. Elated and relieved, it felt like a century crept by, but it was only a week of separation.

Weekends weren’t enough. You needed to see her everyday.

Brown fingers slowly grasp at the knob, twisting open. The white walls are adorned by the flash of a night light that glows small stars glimmering against the ceiling.

A room of action figures, anime, music posters and a wall dedicated to her drawings. That familiar scent that never really went away, that baby smell that clung to her as an infant.

Kneeling into her bed, curling under the blanket. Legs curling underneath you, knees bent, as you caress Kamala’s scalp, furling her hair behind the shell of her ear. Your brown fingers melt into the onyx shine of her tresses.

Her sleepy cheeks puffed, she looks like a sleeping cherub. Silently, tears cascade against the hill of your nose, staining the pillow sheet.

For months, you’ve tried to conjure ideas on how to run away from this life with Kamala, but all your ideas end up in the possible reality of being arrested with charges of kidnapping, and never seeing your daughter again.

The truth of the matter is -— you will crawl skin bare in the deepest parts of hell just for her. Suffering silently in these marital ruins, for the sake of being able to raise your only child, is what you will do.

You don’t know what you want with Carol —- you don’t have anything else to offer as a wife, besides submitting your entire being as a sacrificial offering.

It’s all she ever wanted. Wholesome love is seen as a defect in Carol’s eyes, a trait taught to her by her father. Control over everything is what brings her peace. And being cared for is what brings you solace.

The only person in the world Carol doesn’t unleash her wrath upon, who she adores entirely, is Kamala. Never once has Carol raised her voice, nor her hand at Kamala.

It’s disturbing, to see Carol be so genuine in her affections.

But, you’re ever so grateful. Despite being a masochist, under all the rubble harboring in your cavity— is a little girl suffocating for tenderness. For anything, just for someone to hold her.

Carol is a peculiar creature, and yet she has driven you to the brink of madness over the last stretched months, because she can’t bear to lose you —-- that has to mean something, right?

But as you lay here, wallowing in the dead silence, staring at Kamala slumbering —-a thought came to you; a lingering fear. Paranoia gnawing at you, chewing away bit by bit.

You wouldn’t want Kamala to suffer like this one day.

[monstersandmaw]

Female knight x lady - part one?

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

I've had this knocking around for ages, and I don't know if I'll continue it, but I fell in love with all the characters anyway and figured someone might enjoy it. It was based on a prompt that I can't find now, but ran along the lines of: "Female knight looking for a Lady to serve. Experienced in monster slaying."

Wordcount: 4149 Contents: Buff, tough, butch knight seeks employment from a local lady, featuring the ugliest horse in all the land, a dog named Muffin, and a brother who just wants his sister to be happy and safe... Fleetingly suggestive moments, but nothing super nsfw.

“Here goes nothing,” she sighed as she drove the nail into the village noticeboard with the pommel of her dagger and stepped back to look at her chicken-scratch writing. “Fuck,” she added as she glowered at it and saw the way her hand had smudged the bottom of it.

“Female knight looking for a Lady to serve. Experienced in monster slaying. Find me at the Bleeding Goat until the day after the Spring Equinox.” At least, if she squinted it still looked like ‘Spring Equinox’. If she didn’t, it looked like ‘Stink Jurybox’ or even ‘String Fairyfox’.

“Fuck,” she said again, and turned away. It would have to do. She didn’t have any more paper anyway.

And with that, she led her enormous war horse down the road towards the Bleeding Goat inn. Maggot was a vile mare by anyone’s estimation, but Vika loved her dearly. Built like a brick shithouse, with a shaggy, yellow-ish white coat, pink eyes, and a propensity for biting anyone who came within a three yard radius of her, the mare wouldn’t have won an equine beauty contest if she was the last horse in the land, but she was loyal to Vika, and could keep up a steady trot for days without breaking a sweat. She made a great windbreak too, if the need called for it, and her hooves were the size of a large buckler shield. Once iron-shod, they were lethal when she reared up or lashed out.

The ostler at The Bleeding Goat almost didn’t take her.

“Size of that beast,” he muttered as Vika led her into the fresh stall. “Looks like it might eat one of my donkeys whole if I turn my back!”

“She won’t trouble the others if they don’t trouble her,” Vika growled down at him.

“If you say so,” he said, giving her the once-over too as he looked back over his shoulder at her.

At six foot three, with broad shoulders, thick, wild, dark brown hair that resisted almost every attempt at combing, a jaw like an anvil and a glare to make a dragon nervous, Vika was only distantly aware of the little man, the way a lion might briefly take note of a mouse in the grass.

“Like horse, like rider,” he muttered as he shut the door on Maggot’s stall. He reeled backwards and tripped over his own heels when Maggot lunged for him, teeth bared, red eyes rolled to show the whites and her lopsided, wolf-bitten ears pulled right back against her matted mane. “Fucking hell,” the ostler yelped as he scrabbled to his feet. “Look after it yourself!”

“Suits me,” she said with a shrug. “You never gave me the chance to offer.”

“Bitch,” he spat as he slunk out of the stable yard, nursing a bruised backside and a wet patch where he’d fallen on the muddy ground.

“That’s ‘Dame’ to you!” Vika yelled after him. When he stopped and lurched back around to goggle openly at her, she offered him a cold, feral grin and tapped the pattern of embroidered lilies and swords on her padded brigandine with her thumb. “Dame Vika of Sharkshoal Point.”

“Right. Sorry, m’lady. Ma’am. Dame…”

She snorted and turned away just as Maggot whickered in a way that meant she was thoroughly amused with her own antics. Vika poked her in the chest and she stepped back from the stable door to let her owner in, and with practised movements that felt almost meditative, she had untacked the horse and rubbed her down with a handful of straw. The bran mash and oats she’d paid for were brought to her by a trembling stable lad who had stared up at her from over the stable door with wide eyes until Maggot had neighed with soft, enquiring interest and he’d practically flung it over the door and bolted for the kitchen door of the inn. Anyone might have thought Maggot was a roaring dragon by the way he’d reacted, but it was a common enough occurrence that neither mare nor knight paid it any mind.

Vika spent three days at the inn.

She took the time to sharpen all her numerous blades, not just the greatsword she usually kept sheathed on Maggot’s tack, and she even managed to acquire a needle and thread to darn up a few slashes in her padded brigandine. Her needlework wouldn’t have passed muster in the house of a lady, but delicate embroidery wasn’t the goal. She could make two pieces of fabric meet and stay together well enough, and that would have to do. She could also sew up a person if push came to shove, and she bore the scars of her own neat stitching in a number of places about her body as proof.

On the fourth day, while the lively little town was setting up for the Spring Equinox celebrations, a man entered the tavern’s common room and looked around, asking for the ‘female knight’ who’d placed the advert on the board.

She tensed but let the scene play out, watching as the cute serving girl flushed and pointed across the room at her.

The man turned and cocked an eyebrow when he looked Vika up and down, but he thanked Ella and wove his way carefully between the tables. He was wearing the practical garments of a labourer, with a long tunic that covered his hips and a belt around the waist, but the fabric was far finer than any Vika had ever clapped eyes on, and his fur-trimmed cloak looked soft enough to swaddle a baby. His boots were worn to the point of comfort, but not falling apart, and at his hip he carried a slender sword with a silver pommel.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said with a polite incline of his head and an accent that betrayed him as nobility as surely as the gold stitching on his scabbard. “But are you the knight who placed the advertisement on the noticeboard? You’re looking to serve a lady?”

“I am,” she said, blunt and direct as ever. “Vika,” and she stuck out her hand to him.

He shook it without hesitation and revealed a strong, firm grip. “Lord Roland. Brother of the Lady Elayne Drummond,” he added with a friendly twist of his lips.

He was attractive, for a man, with big, brown, puppy-dog eyes and russet brown hair that fell in easy waves around his ears to brush the fur of his cloak. He had a short beard that was well-maintained, and his skin had the healthy glow of one who had never missed a meal a day in his life and spent much of his time out of doors.

“May I sit?” he asked, eyeing the chair opposite hers across the table.

She glanced down at the throwing knife she’d been in the process of sharpening, and at the black grime that coated her fingertips and around her nails from the oil and the whetstone, and felt a touch of shame beside his immaculate appearance, but she nodded all the same. “Sure. Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something to drink?” she offered.

He smiled at that and nodded. “The ale here is the best in town,” he said, looking over his shoulder and beckoning over the serving girl with dark eyes and curly, black hair.

“M’lord?” Ella chirped and then shot Vika a smile. She’d flashed her the same smile on Vika’s first night, and again when Vika had made it clear in which room she was staying, should the young woman feel like joining her when she’d finished work. Ella had, and she’d fallen apart with the same glorious light in her eyes under Vika’s mouth and with her fingers buried deep inside her. They’d not met since, but they’d been easy in each other’s company ever since.

They ordered their drinks, and Roland turned back to Vika, resting his forearms on the table. “I suppose I should ask the reason you’re placing advertisements on public noticeboards instead of serving with the king, or even the knight who gave you your title to begin with.”

“A fair enough question,” she shrugged. “He died. Of old age, mind you. I served Gwilym of Sevenoaks from the time I was first raised to the order until two years ago. After his death, I decided to travel. Found myself here, and decided it was time to find myself a new place to roost.”

 “Your advertisement said you’ve slain monsters…?” he asked just as their tankards arrived.

“Thanks,” Vika murmured to Ella as she slid it across the table to her, and then looked up at Roland and shrugged. “Yeah. But nothing that didn’t deserve it first, you know? There was some sick fuck who was kidnapping maidens to feed to a dragon, so I went to the dragon and found out what was really going on, challenged the fuck to a duel, he ran, I put an axe through his skull before he’d cleared the trees. Then there was a vampire that had gone feral back near Reaver’s Canyon, and she refused to let me chain her up til the bloodlust faded. Went into full shift, came at me, and went for my neck —” she bared the side of her throat to Roland where the skin was puckered. “Near tore me open with her fucking claws, but I staked her and that was that. Cauterised it with my own dagger. Nearly fucked up the temper on it too,” she added as an afterthought.

Roland cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, and she wasn’t sure if he was impressed or uncomfortable. Again, that wasn’t an uncommon reaction for folks to have to her.

“Right. Well, you clearly know what you’re doing…” he said in his clipped, aristocratic tone. “I do have one more question.”

“Ask away,” she said and drained a third of her tankard in one go. “Ah, fuck me, you’re right. That is good.”

“Right,” he chirped again, shuffling slightly in his seat. “My sister is… Well… She’s… She’s a lady… you understand…”

“Sisters of Lords usually are,” Vika growled. “What’s your point?”

“Quite, but… while your… um… your deeds are certainly impressive — and if you say you served with Sir Gwilym, I can’t argue that he knew good character when he saw it — I must say that your language is… uh…”

“Unbecoming of the knightly order?” she said. “Don’t worry. I can hold my tongue when I have to. I’m just tired and a bit run down. I apologise. I can watch my mouth, if it offends the lady.”

Roland blushed. “You know, it probably wouldn’t offend ‘the lady’, if I’m honest,” he sighed. “It’s just… Well, you understand. Decorum and all that.”

“Yeah, I get it. So is there an opening at the castle or not?”

He nodded. “I think you’ll fit in just fine, but as a formality, I’d like to extend a trial period to you.”

“Oh, Roland,” she grinned over the rim of her tankard. “Never give a knight the challenge of a trial.”

His answering smile went all the way to his big brown eyes, and he raised his own tankard to her. “I look forward to meeting you in the lists, Dame Vika.”

She snorted and drained her ale. “Ready when you are. Just need to grab my horse and my gear.” Roland slid two coppers onto the table and she frowned. “Thought I said I’d pay?”

“I’m the one interviewing,” he shrugged as he stood and made his way past Ella to the door. “You can leave a tip if you like.”

“Oh, I already tipped her,” Vika purred, sliding a silver coin into Ella’s palm while the young woman blushed prettily and tried to hide a smirk behind a dip of her head. “Bring my saddlebags down to the stables, love? They’re all packed up in my room,” she asked before following him towards the stables.

A magnificent black palfrey, still wearing his gleaming tack, stood in the stable next to Maggot’s, staring wide-eyed and stock-still at the mare with a look of abject horror on his face so comical that Vika guffawed when she saw him.

“That’s…your horse?” Roland asked as he saw Vika hang her arms over her mare’s stable door and dangle her hands in a ‘come here’ gesture at the mare.

“Yeah,” she sighed. “I know. Before you say it, we’ve heard it all before. But she’s everything to me, alright? Wouldn’t trade her for a high-stepping prancer like that for the world.”

Roland’s horse snorted, offended.

“Fair enough,” he said, and swallowed thickly. “Come on, Lancer.”

Vika rolled her eyes and hefted her own saddle off the rack near the door and slung it over the stable door. She tacked her mare up in silence and led her out into the yard to mount up after Ella brought out her saddlebags and Vika winked at her just to watch her blush again. “Thank you, love,” she said. Damn, but the girl was pretty.

Ella rested her hand boldly on Vika’s thigh as she looked coyly up at her and said, “It’s been a pleasure, m’lady.”

The ride to the castle took twenty minutes, and passed through some of the loveliest countryside Vika had ever seen. Deer scattered from a nearby field into the oak and beech trees on their right, and as they urged their horses into a canter, Maggot threw in a little buck of happiness and Vika laughed, patting her neck as she sat it with familiar ease.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Roland said as they continued to canter, his palfrey slightly in the lead and looking wary about the lumbering beast a pace or two behind him, “But how did you come by a horse like… that?”

Vika looked down at her mare’s boulder neck and shoulders and sallow, flaxen mane, listening to her dragon snorts as she heaved up the hill. It sounded like a hell of a lot of effort, but she could outlast any fancy racer once the quarter mile marker had been passed. She wasn’t fast, but hell, she had endurance.

“Saved her from a slaughterhouse,” Vika called above the wind in their ears. Her own long hair streamed behind her, probably tangling into an even worse bird’s nest, but she couldn't have cared less after days cooped up in the tavern. She’d expected to have her advertisement ignored, and simply to move on while the town celebrated equinox, but this was infinitely more attractive.

Roland’s horse put on a sudden spurt of speed, nudging from canter to a ground-chewing gallop, but Maggot just ploughed on at the same stubborn canter, pounding her great hooves into the soil until Roland sat back in the saddle and his fancy prancer slowed with a frustrated toss of his head. “A slaughterhouse?” he asked.

“Yeah. They thought she was far too ugly to make a destrier, and too mean to make a carthorse. I took one look at her and bought her. She was a year old at the time, and already built like a siege engine. She could teach mules about being stubborn too.”

“Something I sense you two have in common?” he said, and because he said it not unkindly, Vika laughed.

“You got me there,” she said with another laugh. “So what’s your sister like? And why is she looking for a female knight, specifically?”

He slowed Lancer to a brisk trot, and Vika nudged Maggot up beside him, instinctively tugging the reins to one side when Maggot went to bite the destrier’s glossy, black rump on the way past.

“Ah, none of that,” she barked at the horse, and for once, the mare listened, plodding along like an aged plough horse.

“Elayne is…” Roland began, and then faltered, scrubbing his hand over his face. “She’s beautiful, educated, beloved…” he said, and Vika frowned. When he looked askance at her, he sighed and the weight of it dragged his shoulders down with it. “She’s miserable. Our father… well, he loved her more than anything, but he kept her penned in… like a bird in a cage. She can insult you in about fifteen different languages, but she’s got no experience of any of the places where they speak them. Not even of our own country, really.”

“Sounds lonely,” Vika offered, and not without some sympathy. She’d travelled, and she’d met her fair share of courtly folk before. It wasn’t all it was made out to be.

Roland nodded. “Yes. I think… now that father’s dead, she’d like to see something of the world.”

Vika raised her eyebrows. “And you want someone to go with her?”

“Precisely. We have contacts all across the land,” he said. “She’d never want for a place to stay, but it’s the in-between that worries me. There’s no disguising we’re a wealthy family, and if someone figured out who she is, she could be taken for ransom, or harmed, or… It doesn’t bear thinking about. I can’t go with her because someone would have to run our estates in her absence.”

“She manages that now then?” Vika asked and he nodded.

“Yes. Father taught her everything, and, to my shame, I never had much of a head for it; not the way she does. She’s a natural. I can manage though,” he added, cheeks heating. “It’s not like it’d fall apart completely without her, but… yes. She’s the one who manages the day to day of the castle and the estate finances.”

“I’m surprised she’s not got suitors lining up from the castle gates to Southport,” she snorted.

“Oh, she has,” he laughed.

“None of them good enough?”

Again, Roland barked a laugh. “Seemingly not. Look —” he said, and pointed with his gloved right hand as they rounded a bend in the road and the trees drew back a little way. “That’s Crow’s Nest.”

Vika followed his gesture and spotted the dark castle on the hill easily enough. “Impressive,” she murmured.

“Think your ugly mare can beat my Lancer to the courtyard from here?” he asked.

Maggot was already lurching forwards into a determined canter before Vika had processed the question. “What did I tell you about knights and challenges?” she yelled over her shoulder at him as they took off with an ungainly jolt.

Lancer, of course, was off like a hound after a hare a second later, his silky tail held high as an officer’s plume, but after a mile, he began to slow while Maggot just thundered on like a boulder down a mountain. Vika just sat forward a little in the saddle and gave the mare her head to set her own pace. They overtook Lancer on a corner by an oak on the last stretch and Vika yelled, “I hope they let us in without you, Prancer!”

“You’d just batter down the gates anyway!” he roared back, laughing.

Maggot won by a country mile, though mostly through grim determination and grit than anything else. Her sides heaved by the time she got to the barbican gate, and Vika was forced to sit back and ease her into a trot before the archers on the gate started to shoot at her.

Lancer appeared a few minutes later, his deep, black chest rimed with foam and his nostrils flared wide while Vika was still walking Maggot in a lazy circle just out of bow shot, and Roland shook his head. “Damn,” he laughed. “I’d love to see Maggot race Crocus.”

“Crocus?”

“My sister’s gelding. Don’t ask about the name — something to do with saffron and the fact that he’s probably the most orange horse you’ll ever lay eyes on. Open the gate!” he added in the same breath, and the portcullis rumbled up.

“Bit extreme, isn't it? We’re not exactly at war…” Vika muttered as the ironwood frame ground upwards into the bastion above and Lancer ambled in like he was the lord of the castle, not Roland. Maggot eyed the murder-holes with deep suspicion, and then followed the palfrey inside.

Roland shrugged. “There’s already been one attempt on both my sister’s life and my own since our father’s death,” he said, and all the jollity of the race evaporated from his handsome, boyish features. “Can’t be too careful.”

“Shit,” she hissed. “I can see why you’re not celebrating the Equinox here,” she commented, looking around and finding the castle bailey empty of all the accoutrements of celebration like a mummers’ platform and festive stalls.

“Not this year. We’re funding the festivities in the town though,” he said, “To make up for it. But we’re not hosting anything here. Elayne is devastated,” he added as he sprang lightly down from Lancer’s saddle and loosened the girth while a stable hand strode over to greet them. “And very angry with me.”

“Careful,” Vika advised as a second stable hand approached her. “She’s… not the friendliest.”

“Right…” the young man chirped, faltering. “Uh… you want to lead her in then?”

Vika saw her mare settled and rubbed down, and when the stable hand promised to feed her in an hour’s time, after the strain of the race had faded from her body, Vika relaxed a little. He did know what he was doing after all. “Don’t shut yourself in there with her though,” she advised him while the mare rolled her red eyes at them, and the young man nodded.

She hooked her saddle bags over one arm and strode after Roland to meet him at the castle entrance.

The next few hours passed in a blur, but after she’d bathed and been given a new set of clothes, which not only fitted her but actually suited her, by a tailor who seemed to have magicked them out of thin fucking air, Vika meandered down towards the great hall.

A massive wolfhound lay sprawled across the doorway ahead of her, and just as the sole of her boot touched the marble entrance hall floor at the base of the stairs, a young woman emerged from a doorway on the other side, and the wolfhound looked up. His shaggy, bull whip tail began to wag and he whined and wriggled on the floor like a puppy as the woman approached, unaware of Vika’s presence behind her on the stairs.

“Oh, Muffin!” she giggled, kneeling beside him and playing with his ears and his bearded chin.

Her dress — a silvery, iridescent blue that shifted as Vika stared at it — pooled around her like a cloud on a summer day, and Vika watched as the dog floundered into a sitting position and tried to lick the woman’s face. She leaned back, laughing, and then caught sight of Vika as she turned her face away.

Vika, a woman who rarely found herself without retort or reposte, stood speechless as the young lady looked up at her and parted her lips in a soft ‘oh’ of surprise.

Vika was no stranger to beauty. From milk maids to marquesses, she’d seen it all, but this woman, with her smooth skin and warm, honey-coloured hair coiled up in pearl-studded waves, her flowing silk dress and bright, blue-grey eyes, gave new meaning to the concept of beauty. “Fuck,” she breathed, too quite for the lady to hear.

“Hello,” the lady smiled. The dog had gone still and was staring at Vika as though he was still deciding whether to launch himself at her or let her approach. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” And with that, she rose like a dancer and crossed to her.

Standing in front of her, she was a foot shorter than Vika, but as she looked up into Vika’s face, the urge to kneel, to bow her head and give every shred of her soul to the woman surged so strongly in her chest she almost wept. Swallowing thickly, she managed, “Dame Vika. Of Sharkshoal Point.”

Something cleared in the woman’s face and she smiled so delightedly that Vika felt lightheaded. “You’re the knight my brother found!” she beamed.

Unable to do aught else, Vika bowed her head. “I am, Lady. If you’ll have me.”

“That remains to be seen,” she grinned, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I hear you beat my brother in a race today,” she added and turned towards the great hall behind her. “Perhaps you’d care to spar with him tomorrow?”

“Will you be there to judge us?” Vika asked before she could stop herself.

“I suppose I should be, shouldn’t I?” Elayne said, pausing and looking back over her bare shoulder. “If you’re to be my knight,” she added, and as her dark eyes raked the length of Vika’s body from boot to crown of head, Vika shivered.

“I’ll be your knight, Lady,” she promised.

Elayne smiled brilliantly, and Vika bit her lip.

___

I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please consider reblogging to show your support as well as leaving a like and/or a comment.

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[fromtheseventhhell]

People erasing Asha's attraction to/relationships with men because she's a non-conforming woman is very weird (i.e. homophobic and misogynistic)

[realasslesbian]

It's just wild to me how That Study about lesbian domestic violence literally just said that lesbians are more likely to be victims of it & somehow everyone took that to mean lesbians are the main perpetrators of it🤔

[skullhaver]

genuinely has somebody made a video essay about the phenomenon of queer women enjoying fictional mlm?

sarah z gets close to this topic on multiple occasions. natalie wynn talked about it in her latest tangent and brought up some good points on identification and desire, but i still feel like it could be examined in a larger way. ppl complain about straight women fetishisizing mlm, which does occasionally happen, but in my experience the vast majority of non-dude slash enjoyers are queer women who on some level identify with one or both of the men in the relationship. over and over when people survey fan-centric sites like AO3 and Tumblr, they find that the vast majority of users are queer women.

[redditreceipts]

the state of r/actuallesbians, part I

"What is cool about being a lesbian?" "they know where the clitoris is" "well, I, a man, have bad news for you, because I most definitely do not know where the clitoris is"

I love how she apologized to trans women even beforehand, but this person couldn't stop himself from talking about his "tummy ache" and being sad because "people are so dismissive of it"

[vesperadreamer]

Siren NSFW Headcanons Part 1

“My precious pearl, I come from an all female species. We’re all beautiful women.”

Siren like the rest of her species is hermaphroditic but all refer to themselves as female. They very much can impregnate and be impregnated. They also all have a prehensile cock that can slide out of them so they can fuck their darling mate.

“Oh my dear pearl… I doubt you could dominate me even if you tried…”

She is a pure dom, more specifically a Sado-Dom but she can suppress her more sadistic tendencies quite easily for a behaved darling. She can also take on a more submissive role if her darling is very good and obedient, but that requires so much trust on her side.

“My pearl… Don’t anger me, I’m not afraid to break you or teach you your place… You know I want to be gentle and loving, right?”

She will actually drown you several times and withhold air from you until you’re near death if you’re disobedient. She also isn’t afraid to shove her cock down your throat and into your airway, threatening to drown your lungs in her cum if she is angered enough. However, she’d rather be gentle and loving with her darling and not have to fuck them whether they consent or not. She truly doesn’t care for consent unless her darling is being good, nor does she care for their preferences or wants. She can however be more gentle if her darling gives in during a non-consensual session which not only calms her, but makes her much more caring about consent until the next outburst.

“I’m happy to wait a year or more, I can wait until you’re ready.”

She will TRY to initiate sex as soon as she can with her darling, but if she is denied then she will not initiate until her darling initiates and asks for sex. She can wait as long as it takes.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need me to hunt for you?”

She will constantly check in during consensual sex and you can expect a break/consent check at least every 5 minutes. She wants to make sure you’re enjoying yourself and is more than happy to stop at any time. Not only that but she is always going to be cuddling while she sings to you after sex, she’ll grab you some food as well if its nearby enough.

“Come here my dear pearl, let me help you experience the pleasures of the deep.”

[moonlightsapphic]

... called out

[chubbybelliesuwu]

feeling full :)

[feedeebabyx]

Am I The Asshole? NIGHT: FAT EDITION❗️ @sapphicfeedismsanctuary

Join us at the SAPPHIC FEEDISM DISCORD for our upcoming ‘AITA NIGHT: FAT EDITION’ 🎉 💖

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Not only will you be able to meet other fellow sapphic feedists but you’ll be helping our community grow. We have loadsss of different channels and a few competitions running with a 10$ Gift Card prize 🎁 🏆 💖

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Please donate or boost the server if you can❕ THE SERVER IS FREE FOR ALL TO USE, all donations from you are highly appreciated.

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[the-crow-binary]

Today I learned about "female sodomy" (female penetrating female) in medieval times. Of course it wasn't accepted back then, and punishable by law, because gender and sexual norms and sexism and all that jazz.

The fun fact is, when a woman would be accused of female sodomy, it would be accompanied by accusations of deviancy, hermaphrodism (why is this even a crime, i have no idea), and... witchcraft.

Now remember who was executed for witchcraft and who I like to imagine pegged Dracula?

Yeah. Lisa. ;)