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Arona seethes. She’s proven herself already, in bed and battle, and the Champion is hers. That some arrogant little upstart thinks—
There’s an easy way to solve that. Battle, until they’re all bruised and battered, enough to make Hashat give up, leave, accept her defeat.
The first time, Arona thinks it’s enough. She celebrates with the Champion, her champion, tracing her tongue over elven ears, holding the woman down beneath her until they’re both utterly spent.
It doesn’t last. There are other lands, but these are warm and fertile and filled with something her Champion is seeking. Arona asks more than twice, but the answers are vague and half-hearted.
Never in her life has Arona lacked direction, a clear path forward. But her path now is to accompany, to follow, to wield blade and armor in aid against the creatures that have crept into their world.
They drive Hashat off a second time, a third. It doesn’t phase the Champion; Arona notices that much. Why would it, when they’ve seen so many foes in repeat over these fields? Earned respect, perhaps even a little fear through their actions.
And still Hashat challenges them. Arona growls at her, the next time, hardly waiting for the challenge before diving into battle. And, afterward, Hashat doesn’t leave.
“You won,” Hashat says, with the sort of clarity Arona can ever so begrudgingly accept. “I’m yours, aren’t I.”
Arona wants to spit out all her angry words, the declarations of claims and dismissal, the urge to break this persistent foe beneath them and—
She knows what her Champion would say to that. It has a bitter taste; but hadn’t she given Arona the same honor after her defeat? Arona deserves it, she says to herself, deserved it for every fight won except the last.
And yet she can’t quite spill out those words upon her tongue.
“Prove it,” the Champion snarls. Her hair is torn loose, falling back around her pointed ears and forward over her face, half-hiding those bright green eyes. She sheathes her weapon, slowly, and her glare passes over Arona, then back to Hashat, then back again. “Both of you. We have more important battles to fight.”
Arona still thinks this one would be pretty good. Hashat’s mace is a hefty thing, true, but it’s slow. Predictable. Hardly difficult to avoid.
She almost says that when the Champion grabs her by her shoulder and pulls her down to eye level. “Both. Of. You.”
It’s not exactly the arena Arona had intended to shine at, but she has no intention of losing at this contest any more than the others. She doesn’t have anything to prove.
She has everything to prove.
“Never been one to argue with a cute little elf,” Hashat says, with a shrug, a heft of her mace. She slips off her skirt and lets it fall, undoes her top, useless though it might have been for containing her breasts.
It is an impressive sight. Arona can’t help the mixture of anger and admiration it stirs in her, and she strips off her own clothing with proud efficiency, baring her own variety of scars.
Hashat flares her nostrils at that, teeth bared before she catches herself. She’s braced for a fight as much as Arona is.
But it’s not a fight. Not this time.
The Champion takes her time removing her own clothing, the drape of a cloak, a shirt unbuttoned to reveal the pert breasts beneath, until everything is shed, even those simplest of undergarments.
Arona feels all too well the way the blood rushes from her thoughts, her mind, flowing down far lower. She’s never struggled with readiness here, never had any cause to question herself.
She’ll not let Hashat change that.
Arona tends to prefer a more straightforward approach, the Champion spread out beneath her, those delicate features overflowing with want and satisfaction in turn. But she is a warrior of many talents, as she intends to prove.
They seat the Champion on a bench, wood and leather covered with blankets until it’s so very soft. A bit narrow, still, but there’s no unpleasant pressure as Arona leans forward, pressing her breasts down beneath her, her tongue seeking the Champion’s clit, teasing it with a flick and pressure, every little way she knows to make someone gasp beneath her touch.
Hashat sits behind them both, horse cock against the Champion’s lower back, stiff and preening, while her hands reach down to cup the Champion’s breasts, each one easily cupped in a hand. With her thumb and forefinger she plucks at one nipple, the areola prominent, each touch eliciting a gasp, a shudder that makes Arona’s own task harder.
She’ll not be outdone. She lowers her head, her task clear, coming into focus with every second the Champion grows wetter, thighs glistening, head thrown back as she pushes against Hashat, against the pressure of Arona’s hands on her hips, and finally declares herself ready.
Hashat is first, if only by virtue of position. How easy for her to lift an elven body, to hold it up until the Champion is arranged so carefully above her cock, while Arona sits back up, proud, ready, pushed in so close that she almost thinks she can push Hashat back. Almost.
They thrust into that ready cunt together, shoving against each other, stretching the well-slicked opening wide, everything need and rough impatience between them.
It takes them longer to find the rhythm, to reach the pace where both their cocks slide smoothly up and in, pulling from either direction, ever meeting again and again inside.
The Champion throws her head back, eyes closed, one hand clasped around Arona’s hip. If it is a name she calls they cannot say whose it is, for sure. Both of them, perhaps, or neither.
And if Arona and Hashat spill themselves freely the moment after, filling the Champion, deflating both their strength at the same time, then it is not an apology, an acceptance, but merely an acknowledgment. Steel to sharpen steel. Hatred returned for hatred.
And yet neither of them will deny the Champion her pleasures.