⌈ʟᴇᴀɢᴜᴇ ᴏғ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅs⌋ 𝕎ɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ℝᴇᴍᴏʀsᴇ || ƒᴇʀᴀʟ x ᴇʀᴇʙᴜs

ƒeral · Oct 6, 2022

I trail my finger up your spine
I'll bite your lip and make you mine
You'll cross your heart and hope to die
And never see it coming

It's delicate, a push and pull
I let you out and then take you home
Let you think your decisions are your own
Make you ill to be your tonic

@Erebus

[COLOR=#aef7f6]

Erebus · Oct 7, 2022

gfx by @ƒeral

it's our paradise
and it's our war zone.
- pillowtalk, zayn

ƒeral · Oct 7, 2022

The light flickered.

Not the incandescent glow of illusory spells, nor the phosphorescent radiancy of wyvern fire, but the soft, tangerine warmth of a single, quivering candle.

It was almost…romantic.

Shyvana blamed the ambience for the trail of adoring kisses she offered along the length of spine, a gentleness mirrored by her fingers - not claws, fingers, something she rarely showed outside these walls - tangling into lilac curls with indulgence. Or perhaps she faulted the sluggishness coursing through every fiber, growing slow and lethargic in the aftermath of passion, not unlike the way lesser reptiles stagnated in the cold.

The cold never bothered her. These days, beyond the foolishness of mankind, not many things did. For she was wyvern - half-wyvern, as her critics used to gleefully point out. Used to, because she ate them. And that, that entirely profane display of sprouting crimson and horrified screams cemented her place in Noxus. The whispers would never cease. Bastard. Half-breed. LeBlanc’s pet from the frozen wastes. But they were quieter and quieter with every stripe decorating her armor, with every life she mauled in the name of Noxus.

Half-wyvern and half…? She used to be half-human. Used to have hair as pristine as Frejordian ice and eyes as brilliant as the midday sky. Now, her hair was pale. Silken, but pallid. As ghastly as freshly extracted bone. Her eyes were a shade of green so intense, so inhuman, that they were nearly white at the center, swallowing those basilisk-like pupils. They glowed in the relative dark, like something radioactive crawling out of Singed’s lab. The only constant was that smuttering of indigo scales dusting her cheekbones, running along her biceps, her hips, down the sides of her thighs. And then there was that scar in her sternum, that emblem. Magic. Chemistry. Technology. It was proof that in a gambit not only to survive, but to thrive, she had stopped at nothing in augmenting herself. That the nail marks LeBlanc clawed into her back minutes prior had already utterly vanished was proof of the same.

Shyvana settled her weight down, her warmth subtle on account of her lineage, breasts contouring against back. And sigh. Because now that sex had reached a temporary conclusion, it was time for business. Because it was always time for business with LeBlanc. The way she kept the pale woman pinned against the rumpled satin bedspread was almost vindictive. Or perhaps, though she would never admit it, she just preferred not seeing that calculated gaze so soon after her satisfaction. Not when her cum was still trickling down the juncture of her business partner’s thighs, besmirching Shyvana’s sheets.

“I leave for the warfront in three days.” It didn’t need to be said. LeBlanc must have already known, but Shyvana said it anyway. A lover might express concern. Swear oaths of fidelity or perhaps weep softly at the thought of her absence. They were not in love. “What do you want.” It was a question, but she ended it with the same finality of a statement. Because LeBlanc was here. Because Leblanc was underneath her. And therefore, LeBlanc must want something.

Erebus · Oct 7, 2022

In the very bowels of the Immortal Bastion bloomed a magic so ancient and terrible the stone walls were scorched black with it. Deep within the bowels oozed a heavy taste of alchemy and all manner of souls both lost and stolen railed against their illusory bonds. An unearthly mist of clashing colors collided with an array of pale miasma; a blue so cold it burned the throat and greens that sickened the gut. It was a place where wits and courage go to lay down and die, and it was a place where empty, deflated shells of great generals and tyrants laid down their lives for the good of the empire.

All for Her.

The Black Rose. Emilia. Evaine. Leblanc. The moniker was more than just a name, it was a symbol whence commoners bowed their necks in reverence. With such respect came prestige, and with that came all manner of privileges. A grand manor with three opulent towers that jutted up like iron spikes piercing the sky. To go wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted. There was gold aplenty, and when the coffers were sparse, she would be the first to drink her fill. Arguably her prized possession: a kennel of drake-hounds taken from the northernmost mountains of Noxus, where a group of elite soldiers met their fate for her avarice.

A dragon had been next, but they were wise and scarce. Leblanc had sent herself to the bowels of Freljord where mortal breaths frosted to ice. It had been a... difficult procedure. Months of planning and bribing the Troll King for access to the innermost caverns while skirting under the piercing eyes of the nomads and barbarians alike. It was a war she would revisit another day when the cold did not freeze their eyes in their sockets. Her goal was simple: to procure a dragon that she could call her own and reclaim the empire with its might.

The scene left behind was one forgotten. Mutilated bodies pockmarked with bullets infused with a deadly poison. Clutches of pure white eggs veined with blue crushed and stamped and burned. It was a difficult battle, but it was not a war. It was a massacre and the winged drakes lowed and bellowed their defeat as they died slowly. Leblanc had almost gone red with fury. It mattered not the color of the scales or hair, nor did she put much stock into the heft of the wing or the length of the tail. She hadn't wanted halfling, yet it fell into her hands all the same.

Orphaned through the fruits of her labor, Leblanc hardly thought to mention it when she brought the young wyvern back to Noxus swaddled in a blanket and sedatives powerful enough to bring one of the Trifarix to his knees just to soothe her hysteria. It was unfortunate, Leblanc had said, that the platoon accompanying her had all met their terrible end in the Freljordian snows. The rest, as they say, was history, and history was always penned by the triumphant.

Shyvana was her warm, poisonous cloud, proof that Zaun would stop at nothing to besmirch the laws of humanity. From untested chemicals pumped through those veins to the chemtech reinforcing her natural strength, her wyvern had become her best and most used asset. She also provided an excellent chaise to lounge back on and a perfect indulgence to carry her through the night. Warm lips brushed against the soft arch of her spine and she counted the kisses in tandem with every twitch of candle flame. Her tri-pointed crown lay by the lavish bedside table and next to it sat a dark band, an interlocking diadem of beaten obsidian.

A thin blanket had been thrown over the pair haphazardly and covered little to nothing. Her breasts rose and fell with each breath and were tender to the touch, having been clawed and pawed at from hell to back. There was a drowsy satisfaction to her that could only be achieved by an exceptionally good fuck, and Leblanc all but luxuriated in the sticky mess between her thighs, knowing the cooling inconvenience would come soon, and disregarded it all the same. Shyvana always liked to drape over her like a heavy rug, the density mildly discomfiting but she saw it more as a reward for a job well done.

As expected, Leblanc felt Shyvana's chest rumble before she heard the words, and her lashes fluttered in a mocking roll of her eyes. Either her pet adored the sound of her own voice, or she simply did not understand the benefits of silence.

War was a familiar dish; savory, bittersweet; equal parts metallic and radioactive.

"I don't like to talk about business in bed, darling," Leblanc said, her voice husky from misuse. "I did teach you this." She twitched her fingers once and the ephemeral chains that wrapped twice around her palm shimmered with a pale light so gold it was almost liquid silver. They were woven around Shyvana's forearm like wild ivy, possessive and unbreakable, but with a single gesture, vanished into nothing, leaving the flesh unmarred.

"I want a lot of things." Because Leblanc loved the sound of her own voice and so contrary to bedroom manners, continued. "I have a mission for you. An important mission, and one to be carried in utmost secrecy." She reached back and palmed Shyvana's cheek, her fingers sliding through loose white locks to the shell of a pointed ear. "I know, you're as subtle as a bull, but you'll do this for me."

ƒeral · Oct 7, 2022

Dragons, drakes, wyverns, they all made awful pets, and the proof was in the pudding. That light show and fancy magicks? The intent behind the same was unclear, but suffice to say, they failed to serve as any sort of reminder of alleged tutelage. Shyvana did not tug against the chains, not while they were discussing business. Although, in her opinion, any assumptions about how unbreakable those chains might be was certainly a most mistaken notion.

Leblanc spoke, and Shyvana kept quiet in turn, as was custom. She busied herself with the slope of shoulder, mouthing at the bruises she herself inflicted. Lips trailed from shoulder to neck, nudging hair aside to lap a wet trail along the oblique of the neck. That brought her some modicum of satisfaction, and her chest rumbled quietly, a muffled accompaniment to Leblanc’s articulation. She liked seeing her marks bloom all across the formerly pristine canvas. They didn’t mean anything, wouldn’t mean anything - she was hardly naïve - but her instincts couldn’t care less. Possess. Claim. Mine. Her wyvern could be so simple-minded at times. Shyvana knew better, but also didn’t see fit to deny herself such simple pleasures.

Besides, she needed some form of entertainment, given Leblanc’s tendency to wax eloquent regardless of time or place. March. Rend. Kill. Embellishments were superfluous. There was little that could not be conveyed by a simple subject-verb-object combination, or, when Shyvana was feeling particularly reticent, an irritated growl. However much she disagreed with all that unnecessary adornments, she listened, because there was no voice underneath the skies, whether above the clouds or within the earth's bowels, that she relished quite as much. The quiet rumblings ramped at the affectionate touch, only to abruptly cease at those final few words.

Shyvana reared back, huffing audibly, her offense needing no words to be communicated. But she said them anyway. “Wyverns are nothing like bulls.” The clipped tone was accompanied by a stubborn dip of her chin, causing fingers to slip from ear to horn. She was old enough to know better, but young enough in wyvern years that her pride and appetite guided much of her decision making. These were the years when the young wyverns often challenged the old, when they tested the hierarchy of the flight and, after some trials and tribulations, established nests of their own.

Plucked from the natural order and artificially injected into the brutal grinder that is Noxus, Shyvana lacked any sort of mentorship from older wyverns. On manners. On acceptable boundary pushing. On impulses and what they meant. That same restlessness that pushed the newer generation to flourish and strengthen the flight was further compounded by the impurity of her blood. Shimmer was docile compared to what she put herself through. Had she been human, she surely would have already bled from every socket and passed prematurely. But, wyvern, remember?

Shyvana wouldn’t say no, never did, but that she was no longer content being a weighted blanket spoke volumes of her impetuous temper. “I am plenty subtle.” Her blatant displeasure disagreed, but if nothing else was true about the imposing and ornery beasts from which she derived half of her heredity, it was their incredible egoism. The idea that she was anything other than terrific at everything ruffled her mane entirely the wrong way.

Erebus · Oct 8, 2022

"Did I say wyverns are like bulls - no, don't answer that, it's rhetorical." Leblanc's hand fell away from Shyvana's hair, not at all upset that the touch had been rebuffed, though not entirely forgetting either. Her arm snaked beneath her own cheek to pillow her head, mouth contemplative. "You never did quite learn the purpose of similitudes." It was not with disappointment that she said this, sounding more like an absent observer if nothing else. It was just another note to be filed away for the future in her endless palace of opportunities.

Like Shyvana, the diadem was borne from reimagining the impossible. Her wyvern would blaze into war roaring pale green fire and poisonous ice. Her armor would be painted in the Noxian colors of black and red and she would follow Noxian commands to rip and tear. But she would have a voice in her ear, a pale little fae crooning orders oceans away to flush out a particularly slippery rat. Mute excitement bloomed in her chest at the thought and she was much more receptive to the heavy drapery on her back.

"We're past that now," she reached out to touch the jagged tips of the circlet, careful not to cut her fingers. It thrummed with the same magic that soaked these tower walls. "There is a... woman. Traitor. Defector." For every word, Leblanc tapped her index finger lightly, an act of punctuation. "More importantly, she has taken something that belongs to me. I would very much like it back." Her violet eyes were made richer still by the lack of light, the way they were half-lidded and framed with dark lashes gave her a predatory look and she glanced at Shyvana now in her peripheral.

Leblanc could think of a few other things that frustrated her more than having things taken from her. It was the reason why she had her personal mark branded on the inside of Shyvana's armor, right where the heart was. Never let it be said that the Enchantress did not take pride in what she claimed.

Before Shyvana could move or react, her conjured chains quickly made a reappearance around the wyvern's wrists and ankles and held her firm. They might have burned; Leblanc paid no heed to such consequences. She said, "You're heavy, get off." At last, the satisfaction had worn off and Shyvana's insistence on making asinine comments and bringing up the future clearly had some lasting effect. She slipped out from beneath the other woman, leaving her to battle with the silver-gold links at her own leisure.

Leblanc turned and bowed at the waist to grab Shyvana's chin roughly, guiding her face up to force eye contact, thumb rolling over her lower lip as she leaned closer. "You will go and win this war for us, and then you will bring home what belongs to me." Shadows embraced the elegant curve of her neck, shielding the soft curve of her shoulders s ruined with smatterings of marks birthed from madness and lust. Her hair brushed against her collarbone when Leblanc dipped down to kiss - then bite, hard enough to taste the tang of corrupted copper spreading on her tongue.

Leblanc murmured against the blood: "I won't tolerate any other outcome." And it was not a threat, but a promise. It was the voice of someone who had tasted defeat and sent it back a smoldering mess.

ƒeral · Oct 11, 2022

A fortnight. That was how bloody long Shyvana spent on the Noxian man-o-war, with nothing but her thoughts for company. By night, she often stretched out her wings amidst the schools of clouds, diving in and out of those white velvet veils until her scales glistened with frost. And by day, she ate, trained, and slumbered. Her meals were always delivered to her cabin. A small mercy for herself and for the soldiers aboard the same vessel, because a grumpy dragon was a vicious dragon. Luckily for them, socializing was the last thing on her mind.

She missed home, home being the Immortal Bastion. She missed scarfing down the kabobs from the Zagayah Enclave, sneaking into Valdimir’s garden to admire the nightbloom, and watching the games at the Fleshing Arena. Watching, never gambling - as it turned out, Shyvana was the epitome of a sore loser, and one loss and a fistbrawl with the bookkeeper’s bodyguards later, she found herself on every dealer’s black list. But most of all, she missed Leblanc, and it was that sentiment she bellowed into the night sky, setting the dense, rolling clouds ablaze with phosphorescent fire. It was an unwanted sentiment, and one entirely beyond her control. It was foolhardy, juvenile, a festered wound that ought to be scraped and cauterized. It was instincts and indoctrination coalesced into a potent draught. It was feelings she would not voice and words she would not name.

Instead, she spent those sleepless nights anticipating her destination, which was itself a troubling notion. Shyvana had never been to Ionia before, and that foreignness was both exciting and nerve-racking. Exciting, because she was young in wyvern years, and longed to map the boundaries of the world - known and unknown - with the downstrokes of her wings. Nerve-racking, because no wyvern liked change. There was a perfectly good reason why the Frost Wyverns never left Freljord and why the Sand Wyverns confined themselves to the desert. Centuries of adaptation aside, the fact was that each was perfectly capable of surviving in the other’s climate. They simply didn’t want to. It was said that once a wyvern had decided upon a territory, it was more difficult to convince that wyvern to leave than to bathe a drake-hound. And Shyvana, consciously or unconsciously, had marked those Center Tri-Towers as hers.

She knew what to expect - had served at Swain’s beckon enough times by now to understand the core tenets of his strategy. The footsoldiers hailed him as the Master Tactician, and even the common street vendor sang praises of his Vision. Swain was a return to the old Noxus, to the true Noxus, to those days unplagued by the countless, oft unwinnable wars of Boram Darkwill. Or so they said. Shyvana wasn’t around for the first Noxian-Ionian War, and she had never been a particularly good student of history. What she did know was that Swain was hungry. She detested his company; something about his presence and that infernal scarlet macaw of his always set her every nerve on edge. He was hungry, but patient. She would not make the comparison, because that thought turned her stomach, but the cold calculation in the well-spoken Grand General was far, far too familiar. And so, she would watch herself, because Jericho Swain was the last person to whom she would entrust her back to.

And finally, day-fall, and land-ho. Shyvana nearly careened before she steadied herself. The ocean did not suit her. She was immediately assaulted by a barrage of different smells. Southwest Ionia had remained under Noxian control after the first war, and that fact was made amply abundant by the sloping ramparts and black-red fortress. From here, they would push inland into Navori, with the Placidium of Navori as their ultimate goal. Ostensibly, Shyvana would support the Vanguard, and press her aerial advantage against the grounded Ionian Resistance.

Surveying the scene, she kept to herself, having already received her orders and being entirely uninterested in whatever rallying speeches the Hand was giving to the troops. And besides…

A clawed digit - emerald verging on turquoise - tapped at the jagged crown, as if to jolt it into functionality.

"So, where do I begin by looking for this defector of yours? Your sources must have gathered some intel by now."

She hadn’t bothered Leblanc for the entire fortnight, despite inclinations to the contrary. Because Shyvana refused to be clingy, regardless of what her heritage decreed. But now, she had a perfectly valid reason. This was business. Just business.

Erebus · Oct 12, 2022

Without Shyvana hounding her heels, Leblanc saw her productivity increase with startling results. With her own crown inextricably linked to the one Shyvana now bore on her brow, she could perform all sorts of miraculous experiments by placing it, instead, on a duplicate. The Black Rose was once again under prodding suspicion and the harbor was being swept regardless of crest or ship name. They were looking for bodies, mostly breathing and generally unwilling, to take into custody. Such bodies were destined for the Shadow Isles where one of Leblanc's more contentious allies built their web of secrets. It was also not an ally she was willing to forgo.

Bodies were replaced with sacks of nightbloom and naaps, by mercenaries and pirates rolling gold coins over their knuckles and wedging hefty barrels of premium Noxian wine between their legs. Money and alcohol would always remain the most ancient of currencies, and these men were more than willing to sit cheerily whilst the Bilgewater rats scurried from boat to boat, eager for crumbs of information to bring back to their masters with fat pockets. It was this fact and the ever-persistent knowledge that she could be achieving more than just transoceanic communication that had the sorceress up past the witching hours.

Suffice it to say, Leblanc had more than enough on her plate without also having to think about General Swain's mounting insolence. Unfortunately, Shyvana was not yet ready to take out an army so familiar with the inner machinations of wyvern augmentation. More than just Swain, it was the exiled warrior that had her seething. Suppose they did know what Singed was capable of and just how much blood he was willing to spill all in the name of chemtech, there was no stopping it. The bombs had been deployed and instead of dying, Riven decided instead to abandon her nation without having the forethought to return the blade.

If Shyvana was a technological marvel, Riven's blade was the prototype for advancement. Those runestones had too much potential to be left alone. Days went by without so much as a buzz or cough, which did not bother Leblanc too much in the first 72 hours. It was when the 74th crested did Leblanc stare at her own crown with bemusement, not quite thinking that something had gone wrong on her end; that the fault lay entirely in the claws of her obedient wyvern. Perhaps the device had been dropped straight into the ocean, perhaps a scallywag had filched it in the dead of night. The first possibility was not improbable, but extremely unlikely. The second was a near impossibility. The third option was that Shyvana simply had nothing to say.

Which was an actual impossibility. Why, Leblanc recalled having a conversation about pillow talk more than once, and table manners at least three times. The Frost Wyvern may act the disgruntled soldier, but lord she did have a tongue. It did not annoy her, but she would rather drive a rusty nail into her own palm than ignite the first candle. She would rather charter her own vessel to chase down the great warship and break down Shyvana's cabin door than so readily admit that she almost missed what had been her constant companion's chatter. Silence was only ever so exciting in isolation, and she could never stand the titter from the castle help.

As it so happened, Leblanc was perched on her desk with an indulgent glass of wine staring down at the endless column of paperwork when the crackle came, sudden and loud enough to catch her by surprise. While she did not spill a single drop, she nearly knocked over the tower. "Don't tap it," she said, glee masked by her disgruntled murmur. No, she had not told Shyvana how to use it. Yes, she expected there to be some delays and difficulties. Did she care? Not a whit. "Think about it, what use would you be without your hands free."

She would muscle over whatever complaints Shyvana had boiling in that brain of hers. "Have you won the war already? You must be so eager to please." She did not miss a beat. Slipping off the desk, Leblanc sauntered her way to the still figure of her lookalike standing expressionless by the windowsill. The figure wore her crown, a beautiful golden thing unadorned by jewels and glam. There would be time enough for decor. She smiled at her clone, her long fingers carding through pale purple locks as silky as her own. Mirrors were her fourth favorite.

Leblanc tilted the flute back and drank deep. The wine left a marichismo stain on her lips. "Did you not miss me?" The sultry purr was unmistakable, their connection crystal clear like a voice pressed right against the ear. "If you confess, I might say I missed you too."

ƒeral · Oct 16, 2022

“What am I supposed to do with this then? Just think really hard?” Because obviously, the shiny gizmo - magical artifact, Shyvana could almost hear the unamused correction - didn’t pick up every sound. But whatever it was she did, it appeared to have worked, because Leblanc did not fail to respond to her dry quip. Instantly - she noted with no small amount of satisfaction. Her tail - just like the claws, she chose to display an overabundance of her wyvern heritage when out and about in public - curled at the tip, as pleased as the proverbial cat.

She continued to walk even as Leblanc talked, eschewing the direction of the fort in favor of exploring the nearby forest. Some of the flora she recognized, and others were entirely foreign. The world smelled different. Felt different. There was something in the air, something electrifying. Or perhaps that was just Leblanc’s voice in her ears. “Must you be so sardonic all the time? We just landed an hour ago.” Although Shyvana complained, there was no bite there. Instead, a deep seated satisfaction settled into her bones, contentment and excitement in equal measures.

Rationally, she did not appreciate the way she reacted in the same manner a domestic companion might upon its human’s return at the end of the day, but there was no suppressing that spark, that elation. At the very least, she could take solace in the fact that her voice maintained picture-perfect neutrality and a requisite amount of grumpiness. “I can certainly multitask. And besides, are you not the one who constantly reminds me that my life is yours?” And there, the reason, the only reason - she would insist this to the end of her days - that she put up with the Enchantress’ constant prodding. A wyvern always paid her debts.

Shyvana was in the process of palming the bark of a particularly large tree when Leblanc spoke again, changing subjects so rapidly that it was enough to make a lesser drake’s head spin. The words were one thing, but that tone! A low growl boiled at the back of her throat before she could think better of it, reacting as surely as a hextech crystal. With the same volatility too, for it was her claws now serrating ancient wood, tearing five jagged gashes into it deep enough to be heard. Sap bled from the wound, a precursor to the Ionian blood that would soon coat her claws. Her nostrils flared, and she debated on the answer. Because she hated losing, and might was such a loaded word. But at the same time, she had absolutely missed Leblanc, and that yearning had long grown from a nagging irritation to a visceral need.

Thoughts churned, and seconds passed before she answered. Instead, Leblanc would be greeted with the sound of rushing air and rustling leaves as those powerful wings unfurled and beat against the once still forest. A single flap cleared enough height to reach a sturdy branch, and she tucked herself against the trunk, wings half furled in an imitation of bedding, tail hanging off to the side. “I did miss you, do, rather,” Shyvana huffed, finally, quiet and sincere.

But this was verging dangerously close to something sentimental, and so, she was quick to steer towards less complicated and suitably base territory. “I miss counting the marks I left on you with teeth and tongue.” Straightforward and to the point, such was her way. So different they were, in that regard. “I miss your sharp inhale when I bite down.” A bull she absolutely was not. But, deny it she might, subtlety was also far from her list of strong points. Another might have opted for something suitably syrupy, a drizzle of honey to loosen resistances, for ambience. But Shyvana simply pressed her head back against the tree, the bottom edge of her horns gouging against wood, and bulldozed forward with all the subtlety of a wyvern. “I miss you under me, around me,” she swore then, more of a hiss than a word, “you did not tell me I would spend two weeks stuck in a poorly soundproofed wooden box.”

Erebus · Oct 17, 2022

"A task you take no issue with, I hope."

Being that she was on her own and deciding that squirreling out one of the maids would prove too boorish a task, Leblanc had no qualms filling her own glass. The wine was simple and expensive, the aging process kick-started by one of Piltover's finest vintners meaning they only waited two years instead of ten and paid thrice as much for it. It spilled from neck to cup in one smooth stream, brash scarlet turning into a rich mauve until the sloshing liquid hit the midway mark. It was in this task she amused herself with as Shyvana prattled on, knowing full well that the wyvern was acting sore because she could.

The crown she took from her double and the clone shimmered away into nothing with a careless flick of her fingers. "A whole hour and you did not think to contact me, why, I am astounded." She sounded anything but, her mischief on full display through the musical lilt that laced her tone. Because on Leblanc's end, she could hear the faint bells of her own voice ringing back. It was a miscellaneous feature she landed on upon the earlier iterations of this device and really, only she could see the echoing feedback as a positive thing.

Leblanc was fully relaxed now on her plush chaise, reclining on royal purple velvet lined with Noxian red and black. There were about four pillows to an arm and, from experience, very easy to doze off on. But the sorceress was not going to sleep. Her body was pleasantly thrilled, her skin prickling warm from a liquor base. The fluffy bathrobe she wore was the only modest thing on her. Her brassiere was similarly red, black, and Noxian but there was nothing else. The ends of the sash hung like languid snakes over the edge, leaving the middle very much parted, exposing her belly to the watchful eyes of nobody.

The contrast was unusual, she imagined.

Shyvana would be off gallivanting in lush Ionian forests abundant with exotic flora. She would have no thoughts in her handsome head save for the ones Leblanc personally put in there. Fan-tailed birds would sit on branches infused with runic magic and warble their songs while her castle drank deep from a corrupted source. It was such a pity Ionia had to be so stubborn: war did such terrible things to so beautiful a land. She was of the opinion that sometimes it would be better just to roll over. Submit or die, or else with your own strength forge a new path. Shyvana would be there to carve out a piece ripe for the taking.

The telling scrrrrrrape of sharp talons ripping into some poor tree brought Leblanc away from her imagination and back to the present. Planted in her gut was the slow-growing seed of excitement, fertilized entirely by the sudden display of careless violence. She did not need to answer, they both knew it. But not needing to was worlds apart from not wanting to. Leblanc was absolutely pleased and toasted herself with a modest sip from her goblet. She shifted her legs up and folded them onto the chaise; slender, long, and burnished silver by soft lamplight, Leblanc sorely wished Shyvana could see what she could. Maybe in the next war.

Then, the telling snap of Shyvana's wings meant she had taken flight to perch on a branch or just to take in the scenery before it would be decimated. Noxus didn't have many forests. Or it was to set the tone, and Shyvana's admission had Leblanc smiling. It was not a soft smile, but a smile of one preening with victory. She did not think her companion to be so pliant and tried to say as much, which she only managed half of before Shyvana quickly amended herself. Now that was what she was after. Not quite word-for-word, but it was there and it had potential.

The wine was finished. Leblanc poured herself another. "You love my mouth. Do you miss my mouth? I miss yours." She was prodding for more, wanting to know just how much Shyvana missed her, how much she encompassed all aspects of her wyvern, in body, soul, and mind. It was the suggestion that Leblanc was all Shyvana could think about in those days. "Why would I have to tell you? I know you would suffer it, just for me. However..."

Her golden crown was nestled comfortably on her head and this time, rather than imagine, she saw.

"A fortnight in my absence. I do pity you your misfortune."

ƒeral · Oct 22, 2022

Only Leblanc would manage to infer devotion from Shyvana’s griping. Honestly, that took talent. Talent and enough egomania to choke out all notions of good sense. Sometimes, she wondered why Leblanc even bothered staffing the tower full of servants; the woman had enough self-worship to put tyrants to shame. A question she would never voice; she already knew the answer - because moving that clone required a thought and sometimes even a snap of fingers, far, far too much effort. It was almost enough to make her roll her eyes, which was a feat in and of itself. Why, to strike a wyvern, a notoriously vainglorious creature, as narcissistic, now that must be unprecedented.

Another day, another time, and perhaps Shyvana might have had something to say about that. But right now, she was far too distracted by a more pressing issue to jeer. It was almost embarrassing how easily she allowed Leblanc to affect herself. That low purr, the licentious suggestion - they were the ember and tinder to the overabundance of kindling that was her memories. “My mouth, or the length of my tongue?” She offered, letting the suggestion hang, quite aware that her draconic features were often the main attraction. Something that, being the proud wyvern she was, Shyvana took absolutely no issue with.

“You presume too much, same as always.” There was a bit of a hmph there, pride warring with lust. Her devotedness to Leblanc was sort of like an open secret. In the sense that it really wasn’t camouflaged at all, but that she didn’t like it poked at, much less flaunted in the open. She was the premier murder machine of Noxus, bar none. Even the reawakened Sion could, at most, claim to be her equal. Except Sion couldn’t fly, and those who soared above would forever behold the pathetic landlocked creatures as less than. The idea that she would suffer any sort of inconvenience for anything, anyone, offended her. Because whereas Leblanc was exceptionally arrogant for a mortal (or maybe not so mortal, as it has been nine long years and Shyvana still hasn't seen any signs of aging), arrogance was the birthright of all drake-kind.

But she was also very much in her prime, and two weeks seemed like an impossibly long stretch of time. The thick rump of her tail collided against the trunk in a thud thud thud, like fingers drumming against table in deliberation, only far more violently. She was surly. Irritable. And absolutely horny. The third of which likely fueled one and two. But she would neither ask nor offer, because surly, remember? Her great reluctance towards clear and open communication notwithstanding, Shyvana was never one to deny herself what she wanted. Besides, why entreat, why even suggest, when she could simply act? And so, she eased some of the gruffness from her voice, though nothing would ever temper the natural rasp from her heritage.

“I'm glad we agree on something, it is very unfortunate.” A hand - how seamlessly she could switch between the two forms now, such is the power of her blood - rumpled the toughened fabric trailing from her modified chestplate, and palmed at the unsubtle swell stretching her suddenly too tight pants. She swallowed the hiss, deriving a certain delinquent satisfaction at simply taking her pleasure like this. Because, as far as she was concerned, the shiny gizmo was basically some sort of extra long-distant Piltovian communication stone. A shame, but also amusement in and of itself. Shyvana had no real intentions of disguising her present activities, but simply figured that she would get caught later rather than sooner. Licking at a fang, she parted her legs upon the sturdy branch for easier access, and loosened the hidden clasps securing the extra bit of chemtech to her hips. Even this much had her straining against the fabric. Two weeks without Leblanc’s mouth - or anything else, really, she wasn’t picky - truly was a travesty.

“But don’t pretend like the misfortune is all mine.” There was that flare of pride again. “You missed me.” It wasn’t a question, not even an assertion, but an ironclad fact. As absolute as the strength of her wings and the frigidity of her ice. “I want to hear you say how much.” There was more of a suggestion there, less authoritarianism and more invitation. Her breathing picked up a notch, and her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her pants, squeezing. That had her buck up and against, horns gouging more viciously into wood. She was exceptionally sensitive after so long. Fuck boats, seriously. "And in what ways." Her voice husked with more of a growl, unable and unwilling to keep her ramping excitement out of her inflection. Because, whether Shyvana admitted it or not, there was an obvious reason why she wasn’t all that interested in some harmless self-indulgence whilst stuck on the warship, but flew up into the first tree reasonably far from Noxian encampment. It was entirely to be blamed upon that missing element, not the what, but the who, though she would sooner burn this forest to the ground than profess the same.

“Whisper it to me, for my ears only, all the ways you want me.”

Erebus · Oct 23, 2022

"And you, my dear, seem to be operating under some misguided belief that you can say what you will."

Under Leblanc's sickly sweet veneer, there was a cautionary tale. Watch yourself, take note of the hanging vines and metal teeth prowling the jungle floor. It was not all perfumed performances and shimmering fog. There was something inherently dangerous about the Mistress of the Black Rose, and Shyvana would know this well. Yet, only the audacious wyvern would continue to poke arrogantly at the viper's nest and step over the line defined for her over and over again.

Under her thumb, Leblanc would have stripped Shyvana bare, having already invested a not-so-insignificant amount of time to discipline an angry fledgling into a potent, temperamental beast for both business and pleasure. It seemed a fortnight on a lonely ship made one rather forgetful, and she would be remiss to ignore this slight. Whether Shyvana felt penitent or not was irrelevant in the here and now. Waiting with diminishing patience, the silence stretched forever until it was broken by a grudging compromise to which she never would have consented.

She banished the empty chalice to her little rattan table and lounged back, one plush pillow propping up her neck. From the crown's vantage point, she was peering over Shyvana's skull, able to see sections of the other's horns when she moved. She touched the jut of her own sternum, the thin skin sensitive against a surprisingly burning touch as Shyvana's short breaths rattled about her ears. The telling click of a buckle being undone coaxed her imagination from the fog, her mouth equal parts dry and watering on which she blamed the innocent liquor.

The environment Leblanc was privy to was a mishmash of succulent green and brown edging her vision, the shape of distant flora blurred to the point of inconvenience. Shyvana's hand disappeared and Leblanc allowed an audible sigh to filter through. Her fingertips were caressing the sinfully soft fabric of her robe, rubbing the material between two digits appreciatively. "Now look who is being presumptuous." It was not a question, but a comment loaded with practiced disbelief and jeer. The trinket had its uses, and neither had any disillusions to the potential.

In fact, Leblanc was sorely tempted to cut the line and leave Shyvana wanting. The wyvern's rasping tone warmed her, though, and she had missed her. Her thighs were proof of that, sticky beneath the purple and still slow to heal from their last meeting. She could spin sweet words from nothing but rarely was it done without purpose. There was always a caveat. Fine print even beneath a magnifying glass. Scrawled signatures on napkins smudged with lipstick. This time, it was her Noxian warmachine with her hands plunging desperately down her pants, all while huddled up high in an Ionian tree.

Leblanc laughed smoothly. She palmed a clothed breast, her thumb rolling gently over a rapidly stiffening nub. "Whisper?" Oh, she longed to punish such impudence with chains and teeth and nails. She hated to be corralled into action, and no amount of leagues away would change this. But she was also two weeks away from her wyvern and what looked to be an impressive amount of pent-up desire. Her eyes were critical even beneath closed lashes.

"Did you think of me when you pumped your own cock in wild desperation? Did you have the courage to touch yourself in the confines of your cabin, or were you too occupied with thoughts of any wet and eager hole to fill?" It was not a whisper, but a cool murmur that belayed a hidden suspicion. Leblanc knew Shyvana would never settle for less, but she enjoyed lording ownership over the chemtech wyvern. She dragged her nails languidly over her own belly, the robe coming apart inch by inch.

She licked her lips. "I know you've been good."

ƒeral · Oct 27, 2022

What, she was already caught? That surprised, but Shyvana responded with insouciance. Shy was not a word that existed in her vocabulary, especially not in this. For one, clothing was something that inherently did not make sense to wyverns. And, though she did not scorn her human half, it was no secret that she took great pride in her wyvern blood. Mating, in wyvern culture, was largely decreed by biology. It was purpose-driven and seasonal; loud, messy affairs that commenced with bloody duels for mating rights and aerial chases. The sex that followed were often not so different.

Those instincts were amply abundant in her usual habits, in the way she approached bedroom ventures with enough voracity to fall small nations, and never seemed satisfied until she had branded and decorated every available inch. But, and she would blame this entirely upon her human genes, the intensity of that biological imperative had never been limited to the warm months for her as it was for the rest of her kin. All of that was to say, she really didn’t care if Leblanc knew what she was up to or not, so long as the selfsame woman kept talking.

Because by Avarosa’s tits, Shyvana couldn’t even profess to care that Leblanc had taken the prompt and ran in a completely different direction. In the same way a plain piece of rye bread was infinitely more delicious to the starved than the most luxurious of meals to the well-nourished, Leblanc could probably read aloud one of those incredibly dry and dusty arcane tomes and Shyvana would still be very much into it. The insinuations ruffled her mane the wrong way, and she complained with a rumbling, subvocal grumble. “You know that it has nothing to do with courage, or lack thereof.” Because of course she had to start there. Her pride as a wyvern could never stand for a slight against her valor. With that swiftly out of the way, her tone grew more agreeable when she next spoke. “I have no interest in any. You are doubtlessly already aware of that fact. If you wish for me to profess in such a way, I will.”

Even through her shallow breathing, Shyvana did not miss the extremely minute sounds of shifting fabrics, nor the unmistakable clink of a crystal glass being set upon rattan vines. Fixating on the imagery conjured thereof, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut and allowed her imagination to run wild. The proof that she had in fact not saw fit to spend herself like a common conscript in a cramped hammock to the unpredictable rhythm of the sea shuddered against her palm, like an inconsolable pet demanding to be petted all better. Patience was so far from her list of virtues that it was laughable. However, at least when she was in Noxus, she was capable of some degree of finesse and temperance when the same was demanded of her. Not so much out of a willingness to please, but because she had learned the hard way that, even when flushed with desire and dripping with slick, Leblanc absolutely would cut the encounter short if Shyvana proved too disagreeable. And at present, with the way that her thoughts fogged and her breath labored, the idea that she might be left to fend for herself in these strange and foreign lands was unbearable.

And so, borne upon the lust-roughened timbre of that distinctively draconic rasp, her concession continued to spill. “I did not reach out sooner because I do not share.” The notion that another soul might be privy to their conversation, to the delight of that melodic purr echoing in her pointed ears, offended her so much that she growled a warning to the innocent ambiance. “My thoughts were only of you, is that what you want to hear?” Her choice of words could have been sweeter, but coarse as it were, it was honest. As always, Shyvana was the most forthright, the most malleable, when she was caught in the grip of that primordial want, more wyvern than man.

The confines of her pants became intolerable, and she half-clawed, half-fumbled, until she loosened it enough to free the attestment of her desire. Sighing with relief, she eschewed all notions of pacing or restraint, handled herself with enough roughness that she could almost pretend that she was burying herself somewhere else entirely. “I would destroy Ionia." Words that, rightfully, had no place in an intimate tête-à-tête, a convention she would trample the same as the beautiful landscape all around. "I would raze every bastion, sunder every monument, and herald death until there exists no one left to reap if it would mean a swifter return.” The nearness of impending violence excited her, and that was obvious in the agitated lurching of her tail, impossible to miss in the way it mercilessly pummeled the unfortunate hardwood. “The things I would do to you…”

Erebus · Oct 28, 2022

It would have been all too typical, all too characteristic really, for Leblanc to latch onto the mumbling protests and give them substance, to redirect attention to something so innocuous. She could have ignored Shyvana, which was the natural course. Like turning her nose away from a grumbling mutt pawing at their bowl until it was not from sympathy that the dish was filled, but borne out of exasperation.

Uncharacteristically, she did not ignore Shyvana; she simply chuckled. Shyvana's courage could never be called into question by any other - Leblanc would have their tongue out before the wyvern could unsheathe her claws. It was not out of pride. There were too many things that it was not, it would be far simpler to list what it was. And there was a plain and easy truth to that.

It was complicated.

"Darling, that would be the last thing I'd wish for," Leblanc said, waving her hand flippantly in the air. The chill was a relief on her warm palms. It also sent a message, a message that would go undelivered but a message nevertheless. She was always eager to look at her own limbs, her own body, the youth that remained. But above all, she had no use for wishes.

Because wishing for something she already had would be intentionally stabbing her own back. But she could not begrudge her wyvern the truth -- she was doubtlessly, irrevocably, already aware of the fact. There was no realm or city-state that could convince her otherwise. Leblanc was utterly consumed in her confidence that her hold over Shyvana's psyche would extend beyond death. In fact, that was in the works with one Renata Glasc and her wonderful ability to push the limits of chemtech to the extreme. In fact, they were long overdue for a meet and greet, just the three of them.

She treated herself to a moment's blindness, she abstained from watching over Shyvana's head. Leblanc focused on herself instead, latching onto the fleeting image of eyes burning radioactive and emerald fire commingled with the faintest hint of azure rolling in waspish waves over a muscular frame. Her hand inched beneath her robe and a hiss accompanied the jolt of electrifying pleasure that rushed through her when her fingers made direct contact. Her nipples were rosy and puffy from neglect; Leblanc did miss Shyvana's talented tongue laving hot wet stripes over her breasts.

She thought of Shyvana clad in her armor, sweaty not from the Ionian sun but the unrelenting lust that had her thick and hot beneath all that reinforced metal. The absolute boredom her sweet wyvern must have endured... why it almost moved the Enchantress to mercy! Such mercy came in the form of heavy breaths transmitted clearly through the diadem interspersed with short groans closed at the throat. More fabric rustling, and now one leg was dangling over the chaise while the other she bent at the knee.

Mercy, mercy. "Yes," and it may have been her only honest answer of the week. Leblanc knew where Shyvana's loyalties lay, and it was utter bliss to hear it vocalized with that rumbling growl. She could have played along now, but distance made the heart... softer? No, not quite. She opened her eyes to divert her attention away from that unhealthy line of questioning. Oh my, and what a diversion it was.

It was not the sight of Shyvana's proven arousal that had her cunt clenching around nothing, but her professed question. Leblanc did not seek the true destruction of Ionia, but she adored such reckless showboating. It was the sort of confidence and naivete that Leblanc sought. It was a massacre in the woods, she saw stray shrapnels of bark shooting this way and that courtesy of an overly enthusiastic tail.

She saw Shyvana's excited hand wrap around her cock, deliciously fat and angry.

"Oh?" Leblanc gasped softly as she tweaked her nipples roughly. She maintained her wits and unmistakable ego in the throes of her rapidly burgeoning desire. Shyvana pricked her pride, assuming control and autonomy when both were but a placebo. Even now, in the throes of passion and two weeks pent up, she simply could not let it go without proper fanfare.

"Will you tell me, or shall I tell you?" Leblanc did not wait for an answer. "You want your teeth against my throat, you want to mark me as yours though you are mine. You want my mouth on your cock, you want permission to move, to rut and claim, but I will take you as I please."

ƒeral · Oct 30, 2022

Shyvana did not expect Leblanc to join her. Or, perhaps it was more accurate to say, she did not know what to expect at all. This was new - they haven’t bothered with such trinkets on her various deployments to the outskirts of Demacia. Whether because Leblanc did not care for what laid in Demacia, or because that disgustingly sanctimonious city-state wasn’t as far away; either way, it was not the sort of thing Shyvana concerned herself with.

And so, that unmistakable hiss, one she was so intimately familiar with, came as a pleasant surprise. The notion of what might have prompted such a response had her mind reeling. She licked lengthwise along a fang, huffing low and heavy, breath stuttering with want. The lack of sight was less of an issue than the lack of scent, and she could not help the way that she inhaled deep, filling her lungs with autumn leaves, damp moss, and pine resin. All notes seldom found in Noxus, notes she otherwise enjoyed, and yet, her growl came forlorn and irritated.

It was wrong.

She missed the musk, the sweat, the faint copper of blood, and the lingering dredges of expensive wine that clung stubbornly to Leblanc’s breath. She missed the stifled air, the thrum of ancient magic permeating the walls, and the press of cool, silken sheets against her skin. This, on her back, in a tree, desperately fisting at herself, was so far from what she wanted that she had half a mind to take flight and torch her immediate vicinity. Might have too, if she weren’t preoccupied panting, spine taut with tension and cock throbbing to the tune of those familiar labored breaths and airy gasps.

Now, if it were just that, it wouldn’t have been perfect, but it would have been enough. Unfortunately, that was never the case with Leblanc. That dulcet voice served as a double-edged sword, crystal clear like Shyvana’s ice, and just as jagged. Because almost nothing irked Shyvana as much as those particular reminders. The who was whose. The word permission. She hated that near admonition, and hated herself even more so for the guilty pleasure that had her pulverizing fang against fang and desperately swallowing back a moan. There were a great deal of texts written of wyverns. On their territorial nature. On their fanged visage and fearsome wingspan. On their terrifying howls, imposing horns, bladed tails, and wicked talons. The exact habits of wyverns were less known, but scholars could all generally agree that wyverns were, above all else, creatures of the sky. Wild, and free. Except with Leblanc, freedom was the one thing Shyvana never truly felt like she had.

But still, she could not deny the effects Leblanc had on her, on the particular memories those words elicited. On her back, like she was now, wrists bound overhead by those shimmering, ethereal chains. High enough to strain her shoulders, on purpose, doubtlessly. The tight grip in the blunted middle section of her horn, the same grip mirror further south, stroking unhurriedly until she dripped onto the sheet. And then there was Leblanc, hovering over her lap. That intoxicating scent, the quirk of those violet lips, the visible slick glistening. How she herself had keened and growled to be sheathed within, and how Leblanc had done exactly as she promised. Taken her not as Shyvana demanded, but as she pleased. It enraged every fiber of her being. It clenched her abs, shortened her breath, and caused pre to leak and slicken her grip.

She hated it. She loved it.

It was…complicated.

Shyvana could not boast of any level of clarity where desires were concerned, and it showed in the temporary lapse that followed Leblanc’s words. Not silence, because she was incapable of silence, but the continuous rumbling and those noises she choked back served as a poor retort. She was ramping far too quickly on account of their long sojourn. Temperance was exacting, but she forced herself to slow down a fraction, for some semblance of pacing. Because now that Leblanc had demonstrated a proclivity to join her in this, it was all she could think about. Several monikers competed for the tip of her tongue, and she was torn between asserting her autonomy or playing along. “Ma’am,” she finally offered, acquiescence spelled out in a single word. It was something Leblanc liked betwixt the sheets, and the honorific seemed awfully out of place in an open forest, more than a thousand miles away from the Immortal Bastion. But Shyvana managed it, because she wanted, and lust had a nasty habit of winning over ego.

“I am yours.” This was the closest she would come to being agreeable. Agreeable and conciliatory. As conciliatory as something gritted out between clenched teeth could hope to sound. And, if she were capable of stopping there, perhaps it wouldn’t be so complicated at all. Unfortunately, ego was never far behind, and so she barreled forward with a declarative growl. “But you are also mine.” The thunk of her bladed tail colliding into wood punctuated that sentence. “You love when I mark you, and if they should fade before my return, know that I will refresh them thrice more.” The lack of something to grip, to sink her teeth into, bothered her in a way hard to articulate. She settled for further violence against the tree trunk, as if carving her frustration into bark. “I would take you for hours, and then double that. I would cover every inch of your breasts with the proof of my passion and rake my claim into your thighs. And if anyone, anyone, dares to touch you while I am away, they would rue the day they coveted what is mine.”

Erebus · Nov 1, 2022

Leblanc had no interest in the lingering past. She conjured new ideas and adorable blueprints for the future, the intensity only exacerbated by their time away. Utterly devoid of shame, her thoughts wandered as Shyvana's breaths huffed and puffed hotly in her ear. The wyvern proved a pretty picture trussed up, made all the more brutish by the use of simple hemp rope. They were easy to break, making it all the more exciting. The telling strain of all that power bundled in that tight, muscled frame sculpted for the sole purpose of obedience. Claws gripping and ripping into the mahogany headboard with a violence so singular, it only served to fan the roaring flames.

There was that unmissable yearning, the tips of her fingers tracing over the soft skin below her breasts. It was easier to admit that she missed Shyvana's mouth on her, ramming at the boundaries whenever she scraped a nipple with her long fangs. The feeling was not easy to replicate, but the same could be said for her poor wyvern with only a fist for company. Those poor, spiritually-inclined Ionian trees! It was close to irony. Perhaps, if her pet said please, Leblanc might have granted her blessing to find some fae creature to share her frustrations with.

And that was the beauty of it - Shyvana would never entertain the thought. And if she did, well, something had gone terribly wrong down the line and Leblanc would sourly mourn the time wasted. Procuring an ice drake in these hostile times was nigh on impossible, and it might have made a lucrative business had money been on her mind. But the Enchantress was hungry for other milestones, the most recent being right before her very eyes: a jutting, rutting beast yearning for another back.

Leblanc's eyes were half-open slits, muted violet staring at the lightly decorated ceiling, bereft of the mirror she sought to install so long ago. This happened, that happened, and now she could only look down and see the way her hands played her stomach, coursing up and down her ribs smoothly. Her body was luminescent in the dim light and the liquor warmed her from the inside out. She fascinated herself with the way the shadows jumped at odd angles when she moved her body, offering Shyvana the opportunity to build her case in the absence of her voice.

Mm.

"Oh, but you were so close," she murmured, and the disappointment was back even as she palmed over those stiff nubs over and over with increasing fondness. Her tone was the lick of a soft leather whip despite the swiftness in which her hand traveled to her hipbones. Her fingers framed her pelvis, her manicured nails running delicate lines up her own thighs. Shyvana's teeth had been there too, mouthing and marking without thought. Shyvana had her claws there, too. So vicious on the bedframe yet careful not to draw blood. Not unless Leblanc dug her own nails into that wild, snowy mane.

She gripped her thighs.

"Had you stopped talking after the first word... ah, then you would not be Shyvana." Leblanc had the extraordinary ability to swap tones at the drop of a hat. What started as doubt transformed into teasing delight. The way she enunciated her wyvern's name was almost wispy, the way one might call for her lover after arranging scattered roses on the bedspread. If she was affected, Shyvana could not see, and that suited the mage just fine. Leblanc's current view could only be improved by a very large mirror. Alas, she shut her eyes and concentrated on the desperation reeking from the sight transmitted to the back of her eyelids.

Another gasp marked when her fingertips dipped into the velvet heat between her legs, wet enough to smear along her inner thighs. It had been a long time since she had used her own fingers, but not so long ago that she had pleasured herself in front of Shyvana. Keeping her bound and straddling her face, there was a simple satisfaction to letting the slick fall in slow, steady strands into that frustrated mouth. Alas, again. Leblanc could only ruminate on the possibilities and on Shyvana's bold claims and call utter bullshit.

"What about me?" Leblanc asked without really asking. "Can I touch myself without inciting your anger?" There was a grin muddled into that sudden sigh of anticipation. Repetition was key. "Tell me, darling, will you fuck me until I forget my name, when you cannot even get yourself off without the sound of my voice?"

ƒeral · Nov 4, 2022

It was easier when the focus wasn’t on her. Which was just ironic, because wyverns had no qualms showing off to potential mates, undaunted and entirely unsubtle when giving chase. But it was equally true that mating amongst wyverns were a savage affair - male, female, it didn’t matter. No wyvern would willingly present its back without being wrestled into doing so, a skirmishing that was only playful half the time. Concepts like patience, restraint, and teasing were virtually unheard of, much less practiced. And, being a half-blood with a chip on her shoulder, it went without saying that Shyvana sought to embody every facet of what it meant to be a wyvern at every turn.

And it was precisely that want for dominance that so often got her in trouble. She was a sore loser, without a doubt, and that Leblanc could never hope to match her physically made it worse. Wyverns glorified power, much as Noxus revered strength, a parallel that expedited her integration into her host city-state. Only power to a wyvern was a simple concept - the brawn of the flight shoulder, the size of fangs, the heft of tail, and more importantly, one’s prowess in combat. It was not…whatever Leblanc was.

And yet, power was power, whether she admitted it or not. Because there were no chains here. No sorcery. No trickery. Nothing but that smooth, titillating lilt. And yet, Shyvana slowed without being asked to do so, voice raising into nearly a whine before she forcibly twisted it into a growl. Because it was her duty and her right to satisfy Leblanc. Because of her pride and… She would never admit any other reasons. Her chest heaved with the mounting tension, and she was thankful for the shade of the tree sheltering her from the sweltering sun. Even without those overbearing rays, she ran far too hot beneath her armor, something the Frost Wyvern in her absolutely detested.

The source of all that heat pulsed against her palm, weeping and protesting the dawdling pacing. The broad head, the ridged underbelly, the columns of pea-sized protrusion lining the shaft; all of it was distinctively inhuman. Inhuman and impatient. Unlike the barely noticeable lavender hue tinting her skin, her heavy girth were several shades darker, blushing and nearly violet in her zeal. Like every other part of her, Shyvana could choose a more human appearance, but more often than not, found that notion offensive. As offensive as she found the idea of being unable to achieve pretty much anything.

“Do you want to incite my anger?” Because this, focusing on what she would and have done to her business partner slash bedmate, was infinitely easier than trying to puzzle out the perplexing and muddled strands of desire. “Do you fantasize of me pinning you down, forcibly spreading your thighs with my tail, and squeezing a mulberry garter into your skin?” Her breath hitched, and that she very much liked the idea was obvious in the way that lustful appendage twitched against her hold. Maintaining coherency was a challenge, and it was no secret that she favored venting her appetite with continuous growls. Words were a far cry from her preferred arena to spar in, but still, she was wyvern, and there was nothing she could not do.

Shyvana widened her posture, a leg curled upon the branch and the other hanging off to join the havoc-wrecking tail. Her once near browbeating pace slowed to a crawl, hips bucking up and into, contradictory inclinations warring against one another. Call it ego, but whether it mattered or not in this instance, the idea that she might appear lacking in stamina in any shape or form was not something she would stand for. But still, self-control was trying, and it showed in the cord of her throat, in the jerky way the incandescent crown shifted minutely from her grinding her horns back against the tree.

“I will have you forget every single one of them.” She was too far gone for manners, not that she was particularly good at manners in the first place. “You’ll remember mine though.” And there was that possessive streak, that flare of ego which swelled the same way as her cock. “You’ll moan it to me, for me,” goddammit how long was this woman going to take? Shyvana could almost visualize her patience being swallowed by flame, in the same way she could picture this entire nation burning. But she was as stubborn as she was desperate, and so she abused her lip with her fangs and grounded out. “So fuck yourself, Evaine.”

Erebus · Nov 6, 2022

That Leblanc thrived on the unforeseen was to put it lightly - her moniker made this obvious. The Deceiver. The Pale Sorceress. Pure white on a blank canvas made up of names and names and names. Telling all on its own that Leblanc sought power at the bastion of strength, the fabled dragons of old, and despite the mongrel status of her new acquisition, she still saw the half-wyvern fit to parade about as a show of pedigree. So, exerting her will was not as monumental a task as third parties thought it to be.

Much more was said and whispered about the day when Shyvana would come to her senses and simply part Leblanc's head from her shoulders. It needn't even be conscious or ceremonious. All that needed to be done was Shyvana simply scenting blood in the water and clamp down tightly upon her jugular and thus end the life of Evaine Leblanc and unwittingly pave the way for the new matriarch - and one that might not be so merciful to the whimsical nature of dragons.

But she was no fool. Among the various implants and experiments, Leblanc had a failsafe. A mental switch that could be utilized at a mere whim, provided Shyvana could still see sense. No amount of magic or chemtech could get through the bloodlusted fugue state of a dragon, but in throes of passion where the wyvern had unfettered access to Leblanc's softer, more mortal parts, it was a stop measure. She has never had to use it, and she never intended to if only to keep Shyvana unaware of its existence. New functions were always more entertaining when brought out on a whim.

Shyvana was, at the moment, doing an extremely poor job at dissuading Leblanc from it. She could see the flushed plum-purple flesh under duress, the pleasuring hand slowing even as the sorceress's own quick fingers delved between her lower lips, dipping far enough to soak them to the first knuckle. The tree was a creaking, groaning distraction in the background. A number of singing birds had come and gone without a preamble. Leblanc had no such reservations with her own dalliances. She touched herself openly, letting the rustle of silk and cotton paint a vivid story as she twisted her body into comfier positions.

Turning to her side, with one arm pressed against her ribs and the chaise, her palm was quick to seek the warmth of a plump breast, rolling the sensitive flesh against the syrup-smooth pads of her fingertips. Nectar painted up the distinct dip of her belly, making a cross at her sternum in thanks for the meal as those sweet digits slipped between her lips, imparting the sweet essence of her on the tongue. "Have I incited it?" Leblanc said as she sucked on her coated fingers, the irregular moans and telltale breaths adding further to the auditory experience.

"That is your fantasy, my dear. You want to pin me down, so bestial you are in your desire. You want my thighs to part for you, and it is your want leaving this mulberry garter on my skin." Leblanc shifted her gaze down to her thigh, the only mark there made on her own. The smile was there, floating no doubt in front of Shyvana. Her fingers pulled away from her mouth with a soft pop. All that power with nowhere to go, only the poor tree taking the brunt of the damage. Shyvana was being so polite, so obedient despite her serpent tongue. There was all that bark with some bite, but the bite was not in the here and now, and the bark was a symphony to her ears. Her hand once again delved betwixt her thighs.

Evaine.

Absolutely not.

Her breathy laugh pierced through the onyx diadem. "Careful now; you forget yourself." Leblanc knew Shyvana had no substantial hold on her, that only through mercy would the wyvern be rewarded. And the Enchantress was not known for being open-handed with such compliments. In a single stroke, the key to the lock, she conjured a phantom hand around the base of Shyvana's dripping cock; the warmth was almost palpable, but Leblanc did not need so vivid a feeling to cinch her chains like a belt.

"Your permission is not needed," she said, even as she fucked herself. Two fingers plunged to the knuckle, scissoring the viscous liquid there, the residue coating her skin like a layer of lewd varnish. Her pleasure was palpable through the chains, vocal in the way her groan hitched when her digits curled up against the sweet, spongy spot that made her clench her legs together to stave off the cresting wave. Nothing could compare to her poor wyvern, but chains around Shyvana's shaft, chains snaking up those broad shoulders to that gulping neck; to the horns gouging tally marks into the trunk.

ƒeral · Nov 9, 2022

“Wyvern,” the unhappy grumble was delivered in-line, snapping at the heels of that unfortunate descriptor. Some people might say that wyverns were in fact beasts, just bigger, smarter, and far more vicious. Those same people deserved a lashing, only not with whips, but with the brunt of her tail. And if they happened to suffer broken ribs and fractured femurs in the process, that seemed entirely like their own fault. After all, temperamental was only half of the equation. The other half was pure, unmitigated lethality.

And not just with claws and fangs - Shyvana was quite proud of that fact. She could rain death from above in the form of fire and frost, or hurl an icicle across the entire practice field with greater precision than a masterclass Noxian archer. What she could not do, however much it irked her, was project power across an entire ocean, a distance measured in innumerable sleepless nights. And that Leblanc could was, well.

Shyvana swallowed.

There was that familiar prickle at the back of her neck, instinctually apprehensive, regardless of how her conscious mind felt about it. She stared with almost morbid curiosity at the telltale shimmer, tracing over that familiar shade not quite blue and not quite green, reminiscent of the off color hue of her own eyes. In the relative dark within the tri towers, those chains shone far brighter. But under the midday sun, they were dimmer, like the color had been washed from them. She might even chalk the mirage up as her own imagination if she couldn’t feel them encircling her neck in a way that was hauntingly familiar. For a moment, Shyvana faltered, freezing entirely until all that remained was the sound of her heavy breathing. Because this was impossible. She scanned her peripherals, half waiting for that aha moment when Leblanc might materialize out of thin air. But no, that was equally impossible, not with the continued serenade that sounded like they were groaned directly next to her ears.

“How?” she began, haltingly, far too brusque to conceal her surprise. “Ev--” The tightening cinch around her throat ripped a whine from her, before she gritted out the rest of that word, “even.” A huff followed, as if offended, and she might have protested, but found enough good sense to refrain from doing so. “Even the most pure-blooded dragon could not do this.” Magic was not a talent she possessed beyond the fact that wyverns were more attuned to the hum of magic than most creatures. But a wyrm, ancient and elusive, might as well have been gods to mankind. And yet, she had never heard of such a feat even in the wildest tales shared by her former flight. That gave her pause, because power was arousing, and, if she were being honest, humbling.

The discontented throb of her neglected shaft distracted her from her meandering thoughts, and Shyvana groaned, bowing her proud head in wonderment. “And I suppose I have incited your anger now?” Contrite was not an inflection she was capable of, but she molded her voice into something more…agreeable. “I’m just…can’t I simply wish for the refrain of your pleasured moans?” She could hear more than that, with her keen hearing and all. The rustles of fabric and, more importantly, that distinctive wet schlick that Leblanc did not bother masking occupied her consciousness like a spur in a horse’s hide. Her hand felt good - she dimly registered that she had resumed her earlier activities, only this time, it was keyed to the best approximation she could manage to Leblanc’s rhythm. But she knew what felt better. That constant reminder of what she was missing out on had her snarling, but also groaning, because she could not, and would not, deny the illicit thrill inspired by the same.

“Leblanc,” she managed, sucking down a breath and attempting her utmost to see this through. That was a challenge in and of itself, with the unsteady way her abs clenched and her cock pulsed. Her tail forewent decimating any more of this tree to wrapping around the end of the branch, squeezing tightly, as if the application of force could somehow further Leblanc along and free herself from this self-inflicted limbo. With every heaving breath, she could feel her jugulars pushing against the chains, like she was some sort of… Shyvana gnashed her fangs and refused to finish that particular thought, changing course instead with another plaintive moan. “Please?” What exactly was she asking for? Even she wasn’t sure. But as always, she could only guess at what Leblanc wanted with the same degree of certainty as oracles of the old divined upon constellations and wishbones.

Erebus · Nov 12, 2022

Leblanc hummed inquisitively when she saw Shyvana's movements still, her vast curiosity and suspicion transmitted so clearly it was near absurd. She let the chains twist and writhe like a harmless snake, threatening to coil tight without ever pulling the trigger. It was adorable, the way the other woman suspected foul play when all she was doing was lending a hand - so to speak. Letting those molasses thoughts sink in, she crooked her fingers and stroked against that rough, spongy spot that made her gasp with uncharacteristic sweetness.

Yes, a dragon could not accomplish this. The sorceress's nails sunk into the soft swell of her breast so hard it almost hurt, that simple declaration driving a sharp spike of arousal through her gut. Leblanc could not even take offense to it, for they both knew the ancient magic a dragon could tap into on a whim. That magic was old beyond age, inscribed in stone tablets and buried deep in the Shuriman desert. And the old must find ways to come eye-to-eye with the new, or else suffer a grand erasure. That was inevitable. But she did not wish to linger on the far future when the present was so much richer.

"I have never truly been angry with you," Leblanc soothed with a quiet laugh, as if Shyvana's sudden remorse incited mercy, or near enough that it did not matter. "Ever near-sighted, sweetling, you have always had it." And like the wyvern, she too began to match the movements she could see plain as day. The branch was not of wood, but a large bed with fine silk sheets sprinkled with lavender. Instead of dense green foliage, there were warm lamps hanging from a dark ceiling. Those crystal links would instead be clamped around Shyvana's pale thighs to keep her still, around her neck in lieu of a proper collar, a purple sash emblazoned with a black rose wrapped around those gorgeous viridescent eyes.

She lifted her hips and turned, her nose between the crook of the arm and the back of the chaise. The warmth was familiar, and her breaths grew shorter. The heel of her palm pressed insistently against her clit as she tested another finger at her entrance. Leblanc muffled a smile against the fabric, allowing the liberal use of her moniker. Sometimes they dallied with other sobriquets, but she doubted Shyvana was mindful enough to look in that direction. But she was holding the reins, not her begging pet. The wine made her pliable, the distance made her sour and she was chasing the ghost of satisfaction; three was not enough.

"Indulge me," and here, her voice almost seemed to break. It was muffled, as if she had her teeth and tongue around something that, for a moment, made every exhale potent with sheer lust. She could summon more chains, wrench the other's hand from her cock, and lash them to the tree, leaving her to leak and pulse through the night. But Leblanc would gift Shyvana the one favor. Instead of telling her to stop, she spoke of the way her cunt squeezed hot and tight around her fingers, yet yearned for more, bemoaning how empty she felt; how her wrist and forearm were slippery with slick, how her thighs trembled for want of comfort.

Above all, Leblanc wanted Shyvana to slow down. "Wrap your hand around yourself... not too tight, there we go... poor thing, you can't keep this up, can you? Clean up just a little, use your thumb, like that..." and those chains would tighten if things did not go her way, and they would loosen when things did. She directed Shyvana as a conductor would an orchestra, commanding the speed and strength in which the wyvern could pleasure herself until, sinking all three digits to the last knuckle, she fucked herself in earnest. It was dizzying, satisfying, and nowhere near conclusive enough. Shyvana's rough moans only added to her mounting arousal, dancing on the pale edge.

"Do you want my permission to come?" Leblanc growled and gasped at the same time, her legs crossing at the ankles as her chains tightened irresponsibly, almost cutting off Shyvana's windpipe and the resulting hitch of breath had the sorceress coming blindingly hard and fast, desperate in the sharp cry held back only by a shuddering hiss. She did not bother to wait. Her other hand was already delving between her thighs, catching her clit and welcoming the overstimulation with open arms. A mighty wyvern an ocean away was dragged down to mere pleading by a sultry voice and a mere crown. "Like this, pumping into your own hand?"

Her chains fell away; grey powder and transient. "Come, then. Just for me."

ƒeral · Nov 20, 2022

Shyvana could not even take offense to the insult. Her eyesight was perfectly fine - spectacular, even. And though she was accustomed to humans enough by now to understand the nonsense that was ‘a figure of speech’, she still didn’t see anything wrong with this ‘near-sightedness’. A hunt is most enjoyable when hungry, because then the reward is that much sweeter. Waiting for wine to age is an opportunity wasted, when she could instead sample the sweetness of grapes fresh off the vines. And so on and so forth. In her not so humble opinion, overplanning is a complete waste of energy. She much rather devote herself to the here and now. And, though their current arrangements were less than optimal, those compressed puffs of air were definitely still enough to nudge her along the right direction.

“Mm,” a contemplative hum was her only verbal response. Neither a yes nor a no, but that she hadn’t refused said it all. Eloquence had never been Shyvana’s strong suit, especially not now, not when she was dripping and needy. Every inch of her thrummed with restless energy, and she punctuated Leblanc’s titillating narration with primal utterances. “I miss your mouth.” The declaration she refused earlier, she voiced now, far too caught up to care about technicalities like who missed who. “More than that, I miss your cunt. Miss you around me…hff,” there was a lapse then on account of her being too busy groaning, the vivid imagery conjured by an overabundance of memories doing as much for her as that lascivious tone. Where her voice faltered, she filled in the gaps with rasping growls. The branch groaned in warning from how hard her tail squeezed.

When more explicit directions came, the patronizing choice of words had her rolling her eyes. Bossy. She knew better - shockingly enough - than to voice the near accusation, and instead cooperated as she was bid. A cooperation that lasted all of ten seconds before she was being chastised by the squeeze of those ethereal chains, as though she were the branch in this particular equation. “You are not serious.” Fangs dug into her own lip, biting back a whimper, before she complained in that throaty timbre which was hoarser than even before. She could scarcely stop herself from bucking up and upsetting her balance, and Leblanc wanted her to ease up her grip? But though Shyvana was far from a good student, this was a familiar course. Her bullheaded nature craved defiance, but she had been down that path too many times before, and it never ended well. The tightening restraint seized around the root of her much more single-minded appendage, reminding her of those potentially dire consequences, and she grumbled, but acquiesced.

“Your idea of indulgence is so…” she searched for a word, a process made far more difficult by the devastating distraction. “dril ethimir.” Or, loosely: ‘reason-burning.’ Draconic was a language few spoke nowadays, and even Shyvana could only recall the elder wyverns conversing in it over the more common tongues. But she liked how the harsh hissing syllables felt scraping past her vocal cords, and, in her opinion, it was far more fitting for her declaration of ‘grievances’ than any other language could convey.

As the transmitted sounds grew more intense, she arched forward, gasping. The glowing crown, partially muted by her heavy horns, created a fascinating lightshow upon the obsidian of her armor. “That’s-” the word permission offended, as might be expected, but her protest was cut off by a sharp whine. The capricious display of power was irresistible, and she might have followed immediately upon Leblanc’s heels had those chains not wrung her so. As it were, her motions grew frantic, and her impossibly hard cock shuddered against her grip, swelling obscenely and leaking.

For once, she had no retort of any sort, not even a growl, too busy gasping from how readily she rushed beyond the pale. Her pleasure was so intense that all she could do was groan and pant, her release near declaratory in the way it jetted high into the air. Shyvana was dimly aware that she might have made a mistake when pale white obeyed gravity’s beckon, streaking the once pristine obsidian. But what was done was done, and so, beyond a grimace, she didn’t stop, languidly milking the convulsing shaft against her armor-encased abs until she made a complete mess of her plate. “Hm,” in the aftermath of passion, she turned a critical eye to her abhorrent good behavior, but was too comfortable and lazy to make anything of it. Instead, she rushed after semblances of control. Despite her voice being quite a bit huskier, it was suitably self-satisfied when she added. “Not bad - your shiny little gizmo, that is. When shall I expect the encore?”

In a distance, the unmistakable bellow of the Noxian warhorn bayed, and the tip of her ears twitched towards the direction of the sound. Shyvana regarded her armor, scowling. There was a telling inhale, before she blasted her entire midsection with fire. It wasn’t as good as a proper bath, but smelling vaguely charred was an acceptable compromise. Satisfied with her makeshift ablution, she adjusted herself until she was decent, before rolling off of the trees. Freefall wrenched her gut enjoyably, before she unfurled her wings in a showy display and broke her fall with a single powerful beat.

It occurred to her then that much as she had no idea how to turn the crown ‘on’ (other than tapping, she would swear by tapping), she hadn’t the faintest clue whether it was ‘off’ either. “Leblanc?” Not one to feel any sort of shame due to that lack of knowledge, she simply barreled forward. “Have you been to Ionia before?” With only a few strokes of those powerful wings, she tore through and soared above the canopy of trees. The gorgeous view of rolling green and pink (why are Ionian trees pink?) pleased her immensely, and she briefly considered setting fire to it in celebration, but decided that the forest deserved to see another day on account of having served as an excellent hideaway. “Hypothetically, which wildlife tastes good?”

⌈ʟᴇᴀɢᴜᴇ ᴏғ ʟᴇɢᴇɴᴅs⌋ 𝕎ɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ℝᴇᴍᴏʀsᴇ || ƒᴇʀᴀʟ x ᴇʀᴇʙᴜs

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤

show me

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤

show me

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤

show me

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤

show me

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤

show me

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤

show me

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤

show me

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤

show me

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤

show me

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤

show me

𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝔀𝓲𝓵𝓭 𝕚𝕟 𝕞𝕪 𝕧𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕤