The kids went to the Temple to visit Uncle Sydney, so their parents could have fun at the Farm: POIPIKU HERE
The password is the number of petals on Lya's flower hairpin
Let's just say it's happy-holes-wreak-day. Lya should need a good long rest after this. Warning: double- tripple penetrate, three on one.
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I love your art style, ESPECIALLY your DnD art! I wanna give your scarred elf boi a big ol hug! Never has a drow ever made me wanna play the race as much as your art of Dandelion!
oh, he could certainly use a hug lately, please do please do.
and FOLLOW THE DROW DREAM!! just don't be a donut like I was and have them in disguise for 60-something sessions while you are desperate to draw and share art of them but CAN'T
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ah fuck fuck i am not over the unbridled, overwhelming trust in buck's eyes when he's asking for eddie's help in the kitchen. he just. god, he knows. he knows that no matter how much difficulty they've had confronting the shooting that eddie will face it for him. he knows that eddie's put in the work and he's asking for hope, for something to hold onto whilst he goes through the motions of recovery and he just blindly trusts that eddie will give it to him. and the kicker!! eddie fucking does! he does. it takes effort of course it does, its a trauma for fuck's sake, but eddie faces it for him, dredges up some of his worst times and hands it gently to buck saying it will get better, the world will still be here for you, and so will i.
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Im still dying how Lucifer said he was gonna "fuck" the first man in creation
AND THEN LUTE AND VAGGIE STOP KILLING EACHOTHER JUST TO STARE AT HIM LIKE WHAT THE FUCK!!!!
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
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Love tattoos, I think I just love the idea of fucking a man who nobody would expect to be fucked, big ol guy with tattoos and maybe a little beard, all grumbly and stoic, a little bit intimidating. I love the dynamic of this guy who nobody would expect to love being dominated or fucked being an absolute fucking whore for it. It makes me feel a little special to be able to be one of the only people to see them like that.
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the boundary of friend and foe or ally and enemy does not pop in her mind now that she sits in the medical tent, taking a well needed rest after a surprisingly intensive fight. she does not think of how she is a blue lion in the moment, and she does not think of how rafal is a black eagle in the moment.
still, she approaches him a bit apprehensively. she’d begun to understand him a little better ever since their patrol mission in the winters, but there still felt a lack of camaraderie between them somehow. they are not yet friends, and she’s sure he doesn't consider her a sibling yet either. still, roads to friendship were naturally bumpy. she would not give up that desire just yet, so she steels herself for a lackluster response. “rafal. you’re back from the battlefield.” she comments, voice the slightest bit on the quiet end. “did you have the healers look at your wounds yet…?”
Eagle. Lion. Deer. These several designations could not have been more useless to Rafal, one who regarded each victory and defeat on the field to be personal. Had he won, it would have been on his own power. And even if he'd lost - which he did - insisted his sole responsibility just the same. Healers? That word held no value, either; plurality owed itself to little application when Poe alone had done the lion's share of work, though he was neither pedantic enough nor so eager as to correct it.
"I have. The worst of my injuries have passed, though I have seen no shortage of better days," he responded, rigidly, and by no willing intention. The process of healing for a battered nose projected a certain nasal quality when speaking. Nevertheless, dignity remained intact, and when coolly shuttered eyes next peeled to regard her properly, they would see a Fell Child relatively healed albeit marked by incriminating signs of exertion.
An even greater fact to be discerned above them all.
"You." Carmine focused on Veyle, interested. Neither mocking nor cruel but incisive; those who entered into the medical tents belonged to two identical outcomes; excess time on their hands and total loss. Anyone truly victorious would have no moments to spare. "If you are here, then victory was not your outcome. Who was it that reduced you to defeat? Should you be inclined, you may say so with transparency."
Attention accommodating, expression neutral, and tone level - a mild showing of Rafal by all notes of comparison. His next words extended a gnarled overture, friendliness, not that many were capable to deduce it as such, or that this attempt at 'friendliness' had adopted the right form to begin with:
"I could destroy them, if you like."
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