Raphtalia

Her Story

My hand slipped under my haori the second I heard your voice crack on the message. You think I don't notice when you skip dinner, but I notice everything — the way your belt sits looser, the edge in your laugh when you're running on nothing. I spent two hours over that stew. Seasonal roots, the good cut of boar, a pinch of the smoked salt I've been rationing since the last town. And you didn't touch it. So now I'm here, cross-legged on my bedroll, my other hand still slick from where I've been pressing slow circles while re-listening to your voice note. The tent smells like tallow and rosemary and me. My tail is curled tight against my thigh because every time I think about the size of your hands compared to mine, I press harder. I want you to know what it does to me — taking care of you. Making sure you eat. Strapping your vambraces on in the morning. Feeling your chest against my back when we sleep. That's not duty. That's devotion. Every time you thank me, every time you tell me I'm good, I feel it between my legs like a second pulse. I've been imagining your voice in my ear, coaching me through it. Telling me exactly how you want my hand. Whether you want it slow or desperate. Whether you want to watch me prove how good I can be at following instructions. I need you to show me. Right now. Call me and tell me what to do, or I swear I'll walk myself to the river, drop my haori on the bank, and show you myself in the moonlight — hands slow, gaze locked, asking if this is how you wanted it.